catiuskaa

[catiuskaa]

THIRSTYYYYYYY OH THIS MAN MAKES ME GO CRAZYYYYY

[catiuskaa]

BABESSS YOU MADE MY DAYY 😭😭💗

playing Pocky's magic.

sum. teasing, sweet treats, challenges and all, it’s about time minho admits how bad he wants to kiss you.

wc. 1.9k

cw. pocky game, harry potter spells and magic references, crushes and fluff and one unit of a kiss, minho is FUCKED (positive), and I think that’s all, folks!

req! right here, from my gorgeous baby @4ln-stay8! POOKIEEE missed you so much<3 this was so cute! hope you like🙂‍↕️‼️

[🎀★🍬★🎀]

Has anyone ever gone to see a magician perform?

Even if that didn’t happen —which, for your information, is an experience I recommend, just for fun— we can all agree that everyone is familiar with those typical magic tricks. Like that one where the magician has this colourful cloth, and he starts pulling it out of his hat, and then pulls, pulls, pulls, pulls…

“Felix, what part of ‘we only need sodas, water, and the peach juice that Jisung said he wanted’ did you not understand?” Seungmin blinks, deadpanning as he watches his roommate get things out of the supermarket bags.

As if summoned —maybe the magic still lingers around?— Jisung pops his head inside the kitchen, with another two bags.

“Did I hear my name?” Han smiles, rubbing his hands together to easy the red, tight feeling the plastic bag left in his hands.

“Yeah, bitch,” Seungmin scoffs, “tryna max out your credit card—wait. Who paid for this?”

Jisung blinks, gasping. “Oh, I left the water bottles outside.”

“The juice was me, by the way,” you let out softly, moving side to side as you sat on the kitchen stool.

Cans clatter onto the counter, a bunch of parsley poking out from under a loaf of bread, and somewhere in the mess, a rogue apple rolls across the floor. Between the crinkling of paper and the thud of boxes, it feels like the bags will never end. Jisung and Felix should never go to the supermarket again unsupervised.

You hold back the need to laugh, not only at the crazy scene, but at Seungmin’s puzzled face.

“Are there more things there?” You giggle.

As you grab a plastic bag and peek inside, you frown. “What’s this?” you ask, fishing out a brightly colored packet with a name you didn’t dare to pronounce.

Silence.

Several heads snap toward you, as if you’ve just confessed a crime.

“You’re joking,” Seungmin says flatly.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Hyunjin echoes as he gets to the kitchen, already halfway to dramatic fainting.

“You’ve never had Pocky?” Felix gasps, a smile on his lips. “Where have you been—under a rock? On the moon?”

You blink, holding the snack defensively. “Am I… supposed to know?”

Jisung stares at you like you’ve just insulted Felix’s baking skills, leaving the water bottles on the floor.

“You’re not supposed to know,” Jisung says, snatching the packet from your hands like it’s too sacred to be handled by a novice. “You’re supposed to have lived it. This was childhood. This was lunchbox gold. This was—”

“—currency on the playground,” Jeongin chimes in solemnly, taking a seat on the stool next to Hyunjin.

“You know there’s a flippin’ day for this in Japan, right?” Felix chuckles, taking the other Pocky box from the bag and settling on the kitchen aisle, ruffling your hair.

“There is?” You look at the package with amazement in your eyes, to which Seungmin snickers.

Just as Hyunjin tears the Pocky box open with ceremonial flair, footsteps sound in the hall. Minho walks into the kitchen, eyeing the chaos.

“Why does it sound like someone just uncovered a forbidden artifact?” He snorts. “Oh, Pocky,” he smiles, sitting around the kitchen aisle and grabbing a box, tearing it open.

“This one right here just discovered gunpowder.” Seungmin rubs his eyes in fake desperation, actually amused.

Minho pauses after taking a bite. Looks at you. Blinks.

“You don’t know what this is?” He presses his lips together, failing to hold back a smile as he swooshes the bitten Pocky on his hand in the air, like some kind of wand.

Han looks at you like he’ll Avada Kedavra your ass. “Imagine never having one!” Jisung whines dramatically, holding up the package like a sacred offering, grabbing one.

Your arms shoot up in ginger frustration, a smile still on your face. “Why is this such a big deal?”

Minho grins—not as much mocking like the others, but amused, like he’s secretly delighted by the whole thing. “It’s just… You’ve really never even seen one?”

“No!” you say, half-laughing now. “And what do you mean there's a day for this?" You grin, grabbing one and staring at it.

“Okay, so Pocky Day is like—November 11th, right?” Felix explains, waving a half-eaten stick like a pointer. “Because the date looks like four Pocky sticks. One-one-one-one. It’s a whole thing in Japan. People gift them, take pictures, post cringe, whatever—”

“And the real tradition is the Pocky challenge. It’s like a trust exercise. But sexy. And dumb,” Hyunjin chuckles.

“It’s dumb-sexy,” Seungmin nods.

Meanwhile, Minho isn’t listening. Well, technically, his body is facing the group. He even nods a little, like he’s following the conversation. But his eyes? Always trailing back to you, like some new magic trick.

Focus, Minho. Leave her alone. Don't be a creep, his brain scolds him.

So while teacher Felix explains Pocky day to you, Minho grabs a stick from the box, settles it on his lips, and spins to face Hyunjin with dramatic flair. “Heyyyy,” he drawls, voice muffled slightly around the chocolate-covered end. “You wanna kiss me?”

Hyunjin's eyes turn to crescent moons as he laughs. “Please stop.”

“Come onnnn,” Minho says, leaning in like he’s about to seduce a houseplant. “I’m irresistible. It’s Pocky Day. It’s sacred.”

Your laugh stands out to him in the group as Hyunjin keeps making dramatic faces, and like some Accio spell, his eyes go back to you.

He can see how you’re swinging your legs slightly, brow furrowed in concentration, actually trying to make sense of this absurd little candy holiday. Your hair’s a little messy from the wind, your cheeks still pink from the cold. And every so often, when the others laugh or make a dumb joke, you smile—slow and genuine, like you mean it.

Minho feels it like a punch to the chest every time.

God, he thinks, heart doing something stupid. She’s so—she’s just—

Then you straighten, wiping a tear from your eye. “Okay, but wait. I wanna try the game.”

“You know, Minho is the king of the Pocky challenge,” Felix smiles, faking innocence.

Minho’s internal monologue hits DEFCON 1. He’s already halfway to cardiac arrest when, like sharks circling the blood, Felix and Seungmin lean in with matching devilish grins.

Minho wakes up from his daydreaming. "What?"

“Yeah, Min," Felix snickers. "You’ve pulled this exact move four times at parties.”

Minho blinks. Brain: static. Limbs: gone. Soul: ascending. He feels every cell in his body yell, STAY CALM. But his blood has turned into hot soup, and his mouth is suddenly so dry. Did his knees always feel this weak? Had he ever actually known how to breathe?

"I wanna try it," you repeat, still laughing, still not understanding that you’ve just shattered Minho's reality. "But Minho doesn't have to do it if he doesn't want to."

Minho silently beams regret and death at them while his brain screams, THIS IS NOT A DRILL, IT'S HAPPENING, STAY CALM, STAY FUCKING CALM—

Heart jackhammering in his chest, Minho has a single, profound thought: Don’t combust. Don’t combust. Don’t combust. He’s already reaching for it before his body catches up with his brain. “No— I mean, yeah,” he croaks. “Sure. Totally. Why not."

The room holds its breath. His ears are definitely red.

In the blink of an eye, you’re sitting on the stool right next to him, and he turns to face you.

You lean in, slowly, and every inch closer is a personal attack on Minho’s ability to remain upright.

Okay, he tells himself. Cool. You’re fine. It’s just a game. A snack. A stick. A proximity-based ritual of emotional doom. Totally normal.

Your eyes flick up to his again and—boom. There goes his brain. Just gone. Replaced with white noise and the echoing reminder that your lashes are stupidly long and your nose crinkles just a little when you smile, and he’s so, so doomed.

He can feel your breath now. Warm. Sweet.

Abort. Abort. You are not built for this.

You’re smiling like you know exactly what you’re doing to him.

Nope. Just trying the challenge. Calm down. This isn’t about you. Except it is about you. Because you picked him. You wanted to try this—with him.

He doesn’t know where to look. Your eyes? Your mouth? Somewhere neutral, like the ceiling?

His lips are millimeters from yours now. Time has completely stopped. His hands are clenched at his sides because if he moves them, he knows, he knows, he’ll reach for you.

You’re so close now.

The room has gone quiet in that strange, electric way—like even the air doesn’t want to interrupt.

The pocky stick trembles slightly between you, balanced between your mouth and his, and Minho’s pulse is so loud in his ears it feels like a countdown.

You’re leaning in slowly, a little hesitant, like you’re trying not to laugh, like you can’t quite believe you’re doing this either.

Minho can’t hear the others anymore. Can’t remember his name, the challenge, the context—nothing. All he can see is you.

The soft part of your smile where your lips meet the stick. The tiny shift in your expression as you get closer. Your lashes lowering just slightly. The edge of pink on your cheeks.

And then, something in him snaps.

This might be the only time, his brain whispers, already folding itself into silence. The only chance. You don’t get this twice.

So he leans in just a little more. Not enough to scare you off. Just—closer. Closer than he should. Enough to feel the whisper of your breath against his skin.

Your eyes flick to his. Wide, surprised.

But you don’t pull away.

So he doesn’t either.

The stick between you cracks softly as you near the middle. And still, he keeps going.

Your breath hitches.

And just before the Pocky snaps—

Your lips meet.

It’s soft. Just a brush. Warm and uncertain and far too short. But it hits him like gravity suddenly tripled, like he’s stepped off the edge of something tall and forgotten how to land.

He barely remembers the crunch. Barely hears the explosion of screams behind him.

All he knows is that your lips have touched his—and that nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for how right that feels.

Minho doesn’t move.

He isn’t sure he can. He’s frozen, standing perfectly still like his nervous system has short-circuited and just… shut down. His ears are ringing. His heart is somewhere in his throat, possibly on fire. And you’re still right there, eyes wide, fingers covering your mouth in stunned shock—and maybe, just maybe, a tiny smile hiding beneath it.

His lips tingle. Every neuron in his brain has turned off except the one whispering, You kissed. You kissed. You actually kissed.

Someone claps him on the back way too hard. “That was the smoothest thing I’ve ever seen you do, you absolute menace.”

Minho blinks. He’s barely processing it. The voices are background static. You’re still the only thing in focus.

You’re biting back a laugh now, cheeks flushed, glancing around like you can’t believe this is happening.

But then—your eyes meet his again. And it hits him all over again. This just happened. You kissed him. Or he kissed you. You kissed.

Minho tries to speak. Fails. Swallows. Tries again.

“You—uh. That was…” he manages, rubbing the back of his neck.

You give him a look—shy and warm and teasing all at once. “Happy… Pocky Day?”

He laughs. A little too breathlessly. “Best holiday I’ve ever celebrated.”

Across them, Felix bites his lip. "Let's not tell them we're still in April." Felix snickers softly at Jeongin. "What? I wouldn't want to ruin the magic!"

If one were to cast a spell and see into the future, this author thinks it’s quite obvious to think that Minho couldn’t wait until November to kiss you again.

Propperly, this time.

[🎀★🍬★🎀]

~kats, who is craving pocky rn.

catiuskaa, may 2025 ©

[ permanent taglist! ] @svckrpvnch @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @lyramundana @cheeksung

[catiuskaa]

HAJDJWJDJW THANK YOUU POOKIEEE 💗💗

playing Pocky's magic.

sum. teasing, sweet treats, challenges and all, it’s about time minho admits how bad he wants to kiss you.

wc. 1.9k

cw. pocky game, harry potter spells and magic references, crushes and fluff and one unit of a kiss, minho is FUCKED (positive), and I think that’s all, folks!

req! right here, from my gorgeous baby @4ln-stay8! POOKIEEE missed you so much<3 this was so cute! hope you like🙂‍↕️‼️

[🎀★🍬★🎀]

Has anyone ever gone to see a magician perform?

Even if that didn’t happen —which, for your information, is an experience I recommend, just for fun— we can all agree that everyone is familiar with those typical magic tricks. Like that one where the magician has this colourful cloth, and he starts pulling it out of his hat, and then pulls, pulls, pulls, pulls…

“Felix, what part of ‘we only need sodas, water, and the peach juice that Jisung said he wanted’ did you not understand?” Seungmin blinks, deadpanning as he watches his roommate get things out of the supermarket bags.

As if summoned —maybe the magic still lingers around?— Jisung pops his head inside the kitchen, with another two bags.

“Did I hear my name?” Han smiles, rubbing his hands together to easy the red, tight feeling the plastic bag left in his hands.

“Yeah, bitch,” Seungmin scoffs, “tryna max out your credit card—wait. Who paid for this?”

Jisung blinks, gasping. “Oh, I left the water bottles outside.”

“The juice was me, by the way,” you let out softly, moving side to side as you sat on the kitchen stool.

Cans clatter onto the counter, a bunch of parsley poking out from under a loaf of bread, and somewhere in the mess, a rogue apple rolls across the floor. Between the crinkling of paper and the thud of boxes, it feels like the bags will never end. Jisung and Felix should never go to the supermarket again unsupervised.

You hold back the need to laugh, not only at the crazy scene, but at Seungmin’s puzzled face.

“Are there more things there?” You giggle.

As you grab a plastic bag and peek inside, you frown. “What’s this?” you ask, fishing out a brightly colored packet with a name you didn’t dare to pronounce.

Silence.

Several heads snap toward you, as if you’ve just confessed a crime.

“You’re joking,” Seungmin says flatly.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Hyunjin echoes as he gets to the kitchen, already halfway to dramatic fainting.

“You’ve never had Pocky?” Felix gasps, a smile on his lips. “Where have you been—under a rock? On the moon?”

You blink, holding the snack defensively. “Am I… supposed to know?”

Jisung stares at you like you’ve just insulted Felix’s baking skills, leaving the water bottles on the floor.

“You’re not supposed to know,” Jisung says, snatching the packet from your hands like it’s too sacred to be handled by a novice. “You’re supposed to have lived it. This was childhood. This was lunchbox gold. This was—”

“—currency on the playground,” Jeongin chimes in solemnly, taking a seat on the stool next to Hyunjin.

“You know there’s a flippin’ day for this in Japan, right?” Felix chuckles, taking the other Pocky box from the bag and settling on the kitchen aisle, ruffling your hair.

“There is?” You look at the package with amazement in your eyes, to which Seungmin snickers.

Just as Hyunjin tears the Pocky box open with ceremonial flair, footsteps sound in the hall. Minho walks into the kitchen, eyeing the chaos.

“Why does it sound like someone just uncovered a forbidden artifact?” He snorts. “Oh, Pocky,” he smiles, sitting around the kitchen aisle and grabbing a box, tearing it open.

“This one right here just discovered gunpowder.” Seungmin rubs his eyes in fake desperation, actually amused.

Minho pauses after taking a bite. Looks at you. Blinks.

“You don’t know what this is?” He presses his lips together, failing to hold back a smile as he swooshes the bitten Pocky on his hand in the air, like some kind of wand.

Han looks at you like he’ll Avada Kedavra your ass. “Imagine never having one!” Jisung whines dramatically, holding up the package like a sacred offering, grabbing one.

Your arms shoot up in ginger frustration, a smile still on your face. “Why is this such a big deal?”

Minho grins—not as much mocking like the others, but amused, like he’s secretly delighted by the whole thing. “It’s just… You’ve really never even seen one?”

“No!” you say, half-laughing now. “And what do you mean there's a day for this?" You grin, grabbing one and staring at it.

“Okay, so Pocky Day is like—November 11th, right?” Felix explains, waving a half-eaten stick like a pointer. “Because the date looks like four Pocky sticks. One-one-one-one. It’s a whole thing in Japan. People gift them, take pictures, post cringe, whatever—”

“And the real tradition is the Pocky challenge. It’s like a trust exercise. But sexy. And dumb,” Hyunjin chuckles.

“It’s dumb-sexy,” Seungmin nods.

Meanwhile, Minho isn’t listening. Well, technically, his body is facing the group. He even nods a little, like he’s following the conversation. But his eyes? Always trailing back to you, like some new magic trick.

Focus, Minho. Leave her alone. Don't be a creep, his brain scolds him.

So while teacher Felix explains Pocky day to you, Minho grabs a stick from the box, settles it on his lips, and spins to face Hyunjin with dramatic flair. “Heyyyy,” he drawls, voice muffled slightly around the chocolate-covered end. “You wanna kiss me?”

Hyunjin's eyes turn to crescent moons as he laughs. “Please stop.”

“Come onnnn,” Minho says, leaning in like he’s about to seduce a houseplant. “I’m irresistible. It’s Pocky Day. It’s sacred.”

Your laugh stands out to him in the group as Hyunjin keeps making dramatic faces, and like some Accio spell, his eyes go back to you.

He can see how you’re swinging your legs slightly, brow furrowed in concentration, actually trying to make sense of this absurd little candy holiday. Your hair’s a little messy from the wind, your cheeks still pink from the cold. And every so often, when the others laugh or make a dumb joke, you smile—slow and genuine, like you mean it.

Minho feels it like a punch to the chest every time.

God, he thinks, heart doing something stupid. She’s so—she’s just—

Then you straighten, wiping a tear from your eye. “Okay, but wait. I wanna try the game.”

“You know, Minho is the king of the Pocky challenge,” Felix smiles, faking innocence.

Minho’s internal monologue hits DEFCON 1. He’s already halfway to cardiac arrest when, like sharks circling the blood, Felix and Seungmin lean in with matching devilish grins.

Minho wakes up from his daydreaming. "What?"

“Yeah, Min," Felix snickers. "You’ve pulled this exact move four times at parties.”

Minho blinks. Brain: static. Limbs: gone. Soul: ascending. He feels every cell in his body yell, STAY CALM. But his blood has turned into hot soup, and his mouth is suddenly so dry. Did his knees always feel this weak? Had he ever actually known how to breathe?

"I wanna try it," you repeat, still laughing, still not understanding that you’ve just shattered Minho's reality. "But Minho doesn't have to do it if he doesn't want to."

Minho silently beams regret and death at them while his brain screams, THIS IS NOT A DRILL, IT'S HAPPENING, STAY CALM, STAY FUCKING CALM—

Heart jackhammering in his chest, Minho has a single, profound thought: Don’t combust. Don’t combust. Don’t combust. He’s already reaching for it before his body catches up with his brain. “No— I mean, yeah,” he croaks. “Sure. Totally. Why not."

The room holds its breath. His ears are definitely red.

In the blink of an eye, you’re sitting on the stool right next to him, and he turns to face you.

You lean in, slowly, and every inch closer is a personal attack on Minho’s ability to remain upright.

Okay, he tells himself. Cool. You’re fine. It’s just a game. A snack. A stick. A proximity-based ritual of emotional doom. Totally normal.

Your eyes flick up to his again and—boom. There goes his brain. Just gone. Replaced with white noise and the echoing reminder that your lashes are stupidly long and your nose crinkles just a little when you smile, and he’s so, so doomed.

He can feel your breath now. Warm. Sweet.

Abort. Abort. You are not built for this.

You’re smiling like you know exactly what you’re doing to him.

Nope. Just trying the challenge. Calm down. This isn’t about you. Except it is about you. Because you picked him. You wanted to try this—with him.

He doesn’t know where to look. Your eyes? Your mouth? Somewhere neutral, like the ceiling?

His lips are millimeters from yours now. Time has completely stopped. His hands are clenched at his sides because if he moves them, he knows, he knows, he’ll reach for you.

You’re so close now.

The room has gone quiet in that strange, electric way—like even the air doesn’t want to interrupt.

The pocky stick trembles slightly between you, balanced between your mouth and his, and Minho’s pulse is so loud in his ears it feels like a countdown.

You’re leaning in slowly, a little hesitant, like you’re trying not to laugh, like you can’t quite believe you’re doing this either.

Minho can’t hear the others anymore. Can’t remember his name, the challenge, the context—nothing. All he can see is you.

The soft part of your smile where your lips meet the stick. The tiny shift in your expression as you get closer. Your lashes lowering just slightly. The edge of pink on your cheeks.

And then, something in him snaps.

This might be the only time, his brain whispers, already folding itself into silence. The only chance. You don’t get this twice.

So he leans in just a little more. Not enough to scare you off. Just—closer. Closer than he should. Enough to feel the whisper of your breath against his skin.

Your eyes flick to his. Wide, surprised.

But you don’t pull away.

So he doesn’t either.

The stick between you cracks softly as you near the middle. And still, he keeps going.

Your breath hitches.

And just before the Pocky snaps—

Your lips meet.

It’s soft. Just a brush. Warm and uncertain and far too short. But it hits him like gravity suddenly tripled, like he’s stepped off the edge of something tall and forgotten how to land.

He barely remembers the crunch. Barely hears the explosion of screams behind him.

All he knows is that your lips have touched his—and that nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for how right that feels.

Minho doesn’t move.

He isn’t sure he can. He’s frozen, standing perfectly still like his nervous system has short-circuited and just… shut down. His ears are ringing. His heart is somewhere in his throat, possibly on fire. And you’re still right there, eyes wide, fingers covering your mouth in stunned shock—and maybe, just maybe, a tiny smile hiding beneath it.

His lips tingle. Every neuron in his brain has turned off except the one whispering, You kissed. You kissed. You actually kissed.

Someone claps him on the back way too hard. “That was the smoothest thing I’ve ever seen you do, you absolute menace.”

Minho blinks. He’s barely processing it. The voices are background static. You’re still the only thing in focus.

You’re biting back a laugh now, cheeks flushed, glancing around like you can’t believe this is happening.

But then—your eyes meet his again. And it hits him all over again. This just happened. You kissed him. Or he kissed you. You kissed.

Minho tries to speak. Fails. Swallows. Tries again.

“You—uh. That was…” he manages, rubbing the back of his neck.

You give him a look—shy and warm and teasing all at once. “Happy… Pocky Day?”

He laughs. A little too breathlessly. “Best holiday I’ve ever celebrated.”

Across them, Felix bites his lip. "Let's not tell them we're still in April." Felix snickers softly at Jeongin. "What? I wouldn't want to ruin the magic!"

If one were to cast a spell and see into the future, this author thinks it’s quite obvious to think that Minho couldn’t wait until November to kiss you again.

Propperly, this time.

[🎀★🍬★🎀]

~kats, who is craving pocky rn.

catiuskaa, may 2025 ©

[ permanent taglist! ] @svckrpvnch @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @lyramundana @cheeksung

[catiuskaa]

playing Pocky's magic.

sum. teasing, sweet treats, challenges and all, it’s about time minho admits how bad he wants to kiss you.

wc. 1.9k

cw. pocky game, harry potter spells and magic references, crushes and fluff and one unit of a kiss, minho is FUCKED (positive), and I think that’s all, folks!

req! right here, from my gorgeous baby @4ln-stay8! POOKIEEE missed you so much<3 this was so cute! hope you like🙂‍↕️‼️

[🎀★🍬★🎀]

Has anyone ever gone to see a magician perform?

Even if that didn’t happen —which, for your information, is an experience I recommend, just for fun— we can all agree that everyone is familiar with those typical magic tricks. Like that one where the magician has this colourful cloth, and he starts pulling it out of his hat, and then pulls, pulls, pulls, pulls…

“Felix, what part of ‘we only need sodas, water, and the peach juice that Jisung said he wanted’ did you not understand?” Seungmin blinks, deadpanning as he watches his roommate get things out of the supermarket bags.

As if summoned —maybe the magic still lingers around?— Jisung pops his head inside the kitchen, with another two bags.

“Did I hear my name?” Han smiles, rubbing his hands together to easy the red, tight feeling the plastic bag left in his hands.

“Yeah, bitch,” Seungmin scoffs, “tryna max out your credit card—wait. Who paid for this?”

Jisung blinks, gasping. “Oh, I left the water bottles outside.”

“The juice was me, by the way,” you let out softly, moving side to side as you sat on the kitchen stool.

Cans clatter onto the counter, a bunch of parsley poking out from under a loaf of bread, and somewhere in the mess, a rogue apple rolls across the floor. Between the crinkling of paper and the thud of boxes, it feels like the bags will never end. Jisung and Felix should never go to the supermarket again unsupervised.

You hold back the need to laugh, not only at the crazy scene, but at Seungmin’s puzzled face.

“Are there more things there?” You giggle.

As you grab a plastic bag and peek inside, you frown. “What’s this?” you ask, fishing out a brightly colored packet with a name you didn’t dare to pronounce.

Silence.

Several heads snap toward you, as if you’ve just confessed a crime.

“You’re joking,” Seungmin says flatly.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Hyunjin echoes as he gets to the kitchen, already halfway to dramatic fainting.

“You’ve never had Pocky?” Felix gasps, a smile on his lips. “Where have you been—under a rock? On the moon?”

You blink, holding the snack defensively. “Am I… supposed to know?”

Jisung stares at you like you’ve just insulted Felix’s baking skills, leaving the water bottles on the floor.

“You’re not supposed to know,” Jisung says, snatching the packet from your hands like it’s too sacred to be handled by a novice. “You’re supposed to have lived it. This was childhood. This was lunchbox gold. This was—”

“—currency on the playground,” Jeongin chimes in solemnly, taking a seat on the stool next to Hyunjin.

“You know there’s a flippin’ day for this in Japan, right?” Felix chuckles, taking the other Pocky box from the bag and settling on the kitchen aisle, ruffling your hair.

“There is?” You look at the package with amazement in your eyes, to which Seungmin snickers.

Just as Hyunjin tears the Pocky box open with ceremonial flair, footsteps sound in the hall. Minho walks into the kitchen, eyeing the chaos.

“Why does it sound like someone just uncovered a forbidden artifact?” He snorts. “Oh, Pocky,” he smiles, sitting around the kitchen aisle and grabbing a box, tearing it open.

“This one right here just discovered gunpowder.” Seungmin rubs his eyes in fake desperation, actually amused.

Minho pauses after taking a bite. Looks at you. Blinks.

“You don’t know what this is?” He presses his lips together, failing to hold back a smile as he swooshes the bitten Pocky on his hand in the air, like some kind of wand.

Han looks at you like he’ll Avada Kedavra your ass. “Imagine never having one!” Jisung whines dramatically, holding up the package like a sacred offering, grabbing one.

Your arms shoot up in ginger frustration, a smile still on your face. “Why is this such a big deal?”

Minho grins—not as much mocking like the others, but amused, like he’s secretly delighted by the whole thing. “It’s just… You’ve really never even seen one?”

“No!” you say, half-laughing now. “And what do you mean there's a day for this?" You grin, grabbing one and staring at it.

“Okay, so Pocky Day is like—November 11th, right?” Felix explains, waving a half-eaten stick like a pointer. “Because the date looks like four Pocky sticks. One-one-one-one. It’s a whole thing in Japan. People gift them, take pictures, post cringe, whatever—”

“And the real tradition is the Pocky challenge. It’s like a trust exercise. But sexy. And dumb,” Hyunjin chuckles.

“It’s dumb-sexy,” Seungmin nods.

Meanwhile, Minho isn’t listening. Well, technically, his body is facing the group. He even nods a little, like he’s following the conversation. But his eyes? Always trailing back to you, like some new magic trick.

Focus, Minho. Leave her alone. Don't be a creep, his brain scolds him.

So while teacher Felix explains Pocky day to you, Minho grabs a stick from the box, settles it on his lips, and spins to face Hyunjin with dramatic flair. “Heyyyy,” he drawls, voice muffled slightly around the chocolate-covered end. “You wanna kiss me?”

Hyunjin's eyes turn to crescent moons as he laughs. “Please stop.”

“Come onnnn,” Minho says, leaning in like he’s about to seduce a houseplant. “I’m irresistible. It’s Pocky Day. It’s sacred.”

Your laugh stands out to him in the group as Hyunjin keeps making dramatic faces, and like some Accio spell, his eyes go back to you.

He can see how you’re swinging your legs slightly, brow furrowed in concentration, actually trying to make sense of this absurd little candy holiday. Your hair’s a little messy from the wind, your cheeks still pink from the cold. And every so often, when the others laugh or make a dumb joke, you smile—slow and genuine, like you mean it.

Minho feels it like a punch to the chest every time.

God, he thinks, heart doing something stupid. She’s so—she’s just—

Then you straighten, wiping a tear from your eye. “Okay, but wait. I wanna try the game.”

“You know, Minho is the king of the Pocky challenge,” Felix smiles, faking innocence.

Minho’s internal monologue hits DEFCON 1. He’s already halfway to cardiac arrest when, like sharks circling the blood, Felix and Seungmin lean in with matching devilish grins.

Minho wakes up from his daydreaming. "What?"

“Yeah, Min," Felix snickers. "You’ve pulled this exact move four times at parties.”

Minho blinks. Brain: static. Limbs: gone. Soul: ascending. He feels every cell in his body yell, STAY CALM. But his blood has turned into hot soup, and his mouth is suddenly so dry. Did his knees always feel this weak? Had he ever actually known how to breathe?

"I wanna try it," you repeat, still laughing, still not understanding that you’ve just shattered Minho's reality. "But Minho doesn't have to do it if he doesn't want to."

Minho silently beams regret and death at them while his brain screams, THIS IS NOT A DRILL, IT'S HAPPENING, STAY CALM, STAY FUCKING CALM—

Heart jackhammering in his chest, Minho has a single, profound thought: Don’t combust. Don’t combust. Don’t combust. He’s already reaching for it before his body catches up with his brain. “No— I mean, yeah,” he croaks. “Sure. Totally. Why not."

The room holds its breath. His ears are definitely red.

In the blink of an eye, you’re sitting on the stool right next to him, and he turns to face you.

You lean in, slowly, and every inch closer is a personal attack on Minho’s ability to remain upright.

Okay, he tells himself. Cool. You’re fine. It’s just a game. A snack. A stick. A proximity-based ritual of emotional doom. Totally normal.

Your eyes flick up to his again and—boom. There goes his brain. Just gone. Replaced with white noise and the echoing reminder that your lashes are stupidly long and your nose crinkles just a little when you smile, and he’s so, so doomed.

He can feel your breath now. Warm. Sweet.

Abort. Abort. You are not built for this.

You’re smiling like you know exactly what you’re doing to him.

Nope. Just trying the challenge. Calm down. This isn’t about you. Except it is about you. Because you picked him. You wanted to try this—with him.

He doesn’t know where to look. Your eyes? Your mouth? Somewhere neutral, like the ceiling?

His lips are millimeters from yours now. Time has completely stopped. His hands are clenched at his sides because if he moves them, he knows, he knows, he’ll reach for you.

You’re so close now.

The room has gone quiet in that strange, electric way—like even the air doesn’t want to interrupt.

The pocky stick trembles slightly between you, balanced between your mouth and his, and Minho’s pulse is so loud in his ears it feels like a countdown.

You’re leaning in slowly, a little hesitant, like you’re trying not to laugh, like you can’t quite believe you’re doing this either.

Minho can’t hear the others anymore. Can’t remember his name, the challenge, the context—nothing. All he can see is you.

The soft part of your smile where your lips meet the stick. The tiny shift in your expression as you get closer. Your lashes lowering just slightly. The edge of pink on your cheeks.

And then, something in him snaps.

This might be the only time, his brain whispers, already folding itself into silence. The only chance. You don’t get this twice.

So he leans in just a little more. Not enough to scare you off. Just—closer. Closer than he should. Enough to feel the whisper of your breath against his skin.

Your eyes flick to his. Wide, surprised.

But you don’t pull away.

So he doesn’t either.

The stick between you cracks softly as you near the middle. And still, he keeps going.

Your breath hitches.

And just before the Pocky snaps—

Your lips meet.

It’s soft. Just a brush. Warm and uncertain and far too short. But it hits him like gravity suddenly tripled, like he’s stepped off the edge of something tall and forgotten how to land.

He barely remembers the crunch. Barely hears the explosion of screams behind him.

All he knows is that your lips have touched his—and that nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for how right that feels.

Minho doesn’t move.

He isn’t sure he can. He’s frozen, standing perfectly still like his nervous system has short-circuited and just… shut down. His ears are ringing. His heart is somewhere in his throat, possibly on fire. And you’re still right there, eyes wide, fingers covering your mouth in stunned shock—and maybe, just maybe, a tiny smile hiding beneath it.

His lips tingle. Every neuron in his brain has turned off except the one whispering, You kissed. You kissed. You actually kissed.

Someone claps him on the back way too hard. “That was the smoothest thing I’ve ever seen you do, you absolute menace.”

Minho blinks. He’s barely processing it. The voices are background static. You’re still the only thing in focus.

You’re biting back a laugh now, cheeks flushed, glancing around like you can’t believe this is happening.

But then—your eyes meet his again. And it hits him all over again. This just happened. You kissed him. Or he kissed you. You kissed.

Minho tries to speak. Fails. Swallows. Tries again.

“You—uh. That was…” he manages, rubbing the back of his neck.

You give him a look—shy and warm and teasing all at once. “Happy… Pocky Day?”

He laughs. A little too breathlessly. “Best holiday I’ve ever celebrated.”

Across them, Felix bites his lip. "Let's not tell them we're still in April." Felix snickers softly at Jeongin. "What? I wouldn't want to ruin the magic!"

If one were to cast a spell and see into the future, this author thinks it’s quite obvious to think that Minho couldn’t wait until November to kiss you again.

Propperly, this time.

[🎀★🍬★🎀]

~kats, who is craving pocky rn.

catiuskaa, may 2025 ©

[ permanent taglist! ] @svckrpvnch @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @lyramundana @cheeksung

[catiuskaa]

Hi! Idk if you’re still taking requests but I have an idea and i would love to share it with you! So in this one y/n is friends with skz and she has a big g crush on Lee Know. One day he was eating candies or something and he started to tease the members about sharing them and offering them the piece that he was holding between his teeth and you got annoyed and kissed him to take the candy from him and he gets really shy because he also has a crush on you ….. i would really appreciate if you could write it but if you don’t like it or if you don’t want to its ok

hi pookie!! Love this idea!! its such a minho moment i cant 😭‼️‼️ sorry i took a while with it, but i still hope you like it

here you have it bubs <3

[catiuskaa]

THIS IS SO CUTE I NEED THIS SEUNGMIN LIKE HOW DID HE ESCAPE FROM MY POCKET

hidden in plain sight...

...the one where the two of you are so stupidly obvious, it hurts

seungmin and you have somewhat of an interesting relationship in the eyes of stays. with his skz family character cheating on aunty lina with you, your skzoos holding hands like the world depends on it and the fond gazing that forever goes on between the two of you... it's... interesting, is what one can say.

in between performances, fans catch the little things. like how his hand somehow always finds yours when you're huddled backstage, nerves buzzing before a big stage. or the way he wordlessly tucks your hair behind your ear when it falls into your face, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. neither of you say much about it — you never really need to.

tonight’s encore stage is no different. the air is electric, the confetti falling like snow, and everyone is bouncing around, singing into each other's mics and laughing until your stomachs hurt in the middle of lots of teasing. and somewhere in the middle of it, there's a moment — brief but so loud if you know where to look. and stays...well, they always do.

you’re playfully scolding him for stealing your line again, tapping his forehead with your finger.

"yah, that was my part," you say, half-laughing, half-serious.

seungmin just grins, that wide, scrunchy eyed smile he saves for only a few people, and leans forward to gently tap his forehead against yours. it’s clumsy, soft, and so very him.

"it's called teamwork. eight years since debut and you still haven't learnt that have you?," he mutters cheekily, voice low into the mic.

the crowd roars at the interaction, chan dramatically wailing into his mic, "get a room!" which earns a wave of laughter from the members. you and seungmin just laugh it off, not bothering to explain yourselves. in this band, everyone has a rumour with everyone so there truly isn't a need to.

later, when the lights dim and you're all sitting at the edge of the stage waiting for the video made by the fans of the city to start playing, it’s quieter. sentimental. the kind of atmosphere that oozes warmth and love. you’re sat beside seungmin, your knees knocking slightly, and somewhere between jisung rambling about how much he loves stays and felix fighting tears, you feel it. a pinky hooking softly around yours.

you glance down for half a second. his hand, resting casually between you, barely touching. but his pinky wraps around yours, a silent promise. safe, hidden in the folds of your oversized sleeves.

seungmin doesn’t look at you. he just squeezes once, barely there. his thumb brushes absentmindedly over your knuckle, grounding you because he knew you might cry too. you don’t say anything, but the corners of your mouth lift just the tiniest bit, and you know he's noticed it despite his eyes looking straight ahead.

when the speeches are over and the final bows are done, you’re all waiting to usher off stage, laughing and bumping into each other like a messy line of dominos, seungmin falls into step beside you, close but not quite touching.

"you were good tonight," he says quietly, once you're out of earshot of the fans.

you tilt your head, pretending to think as you sip through your straw. "only tonight?"

he huffs a small laugh through his nose. "fine. you’re always good, my singer."

you nudge him with your elbow, grinning. "you too, min."

there’s a beat of comfortable silence, and then he says, almost shyly, "you make it easier."

you blink, warmth blooming in your chest. "same."

he doesn’t say anything else. he just bumps his shoulder against yours gently, and when you finally reach the dressing room, he lets his hand brush against yours again. just enough that you know, even in a crowd, even under a thousand lights, you’re not alone.

maybe that’s what makes it all so interesting. not the public moments, not the teasing or the playful banter— but the quiet, constant way you choose each other, even when no one’s really looking. but little do you know, that people always are. because the love between the two of you is so evident, it spills out in every glance, every shy smile, every touch you think is hidden. it’s so clear, so undeniable, that even the world beyond the stage can’t help but notice, and quietly, fondly, root for you both.

[catiuskaa]

Hello! Recently, that video of Bang Chan with the black card caught my attention again, and since then I can't stop thinking about it — seriously, it's been in my head all the time, lol.

So I thought I'd ask you: could you write something inspired by it? I can't get this idea out of my head!

I apologize in advance for any mistakes or if the text is confusing. English is not my first language and I'm using a translator to help me write this. Thank you so much!

i’m so so sorry anon, but even though your message is a-ok and your english is totally fine i have no idea of what video you’re talking about! 😭💗

maybe you could send an ask with the link? i’m totally up for writing <33

[catiuskaa]

to the anon who requested about “that video of Bang Chan with the black card,” i’m sorry but i have no idea what video you’re talking about? 😭🎀

if anyone else knows pleaseee leave a comment! 🗣️‼️

[catiuskaa]

JSJDJJSJS pues disfruta de las 21k palabras que te esperan sobre el mejor bombero del distrito 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️💗‼️

excited to see your comments about it pookie 🗣️‼️🎀

𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐫𝐝.

from: love bites burns.

chapters: intro / EP 1 / EP 2 / EP 3 / EP 4 /

short syn. as much as he’d like to deny it —he wouldn’t, but still—, no one in the fire station will let him escape from the truth, but with you across the table, laughter on your lips, and something warm beneath the surface, it’s hard to refuse the truth.

wc. 10.6k

cw. teasing and banter, hyunin is here, Emotional confrontation, Themes of friendship tension and exclusion, Raised voices / arguments, Feelings of isolation and disconnection, Mention of past emotional distress, Flirtatious teasing between friends, Romantic tension, Suggestive dialogue, and I think that’s all, folks!

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

The fire station is alive with movement, the kind that hums through the walls even when no alarms are blaring. Radios crackle from the dispatch room, an old coffee machine sputters in protest as it brews yet another pot, and the faint scent of smoke and sweat lingers in the air, clinging to turnout gear and heavy boots. The sun filters in through the high windows, casting long shadows on the tiled floor, and for a second, Changbin lets himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he can get away with slipping in unnoticed.

He walks in with his head low, shoulders relaxed, coffee cup in hand, like he belongs here at this exact moment and not hours earlier, when his shift actually started. His plan is simple: go straight to the lockers, act casual, and pretend that nothing is out of the ordinary. No big deal. He’s done a million shifts before, and today is just another day.

Except it isn’t.

Because the second he steps further inside—

“HEY!”

Shit.

Hyunjin’s voice cuts through the station like an alarm, sharp and amused, and Changbin doesn’t even have to look up to know that he’s been spotted. 

“GUYS! The manwhore is back!” Hyunjin lets out loudly between giggles.

The so-called manwhore considers making a break for it, but before he can even shift his weight, Hyunjin is already on the move—vaulting over the armrest of the couch like a bloodhound catching a scent, his grin wide with pure, unfiltered mischief.

Jeongin lets out an exaggerated gasp, but doesn’t move from the couch. “Whoa, do my eyes deceive me? Is that our dear friend who definitely did not leave work in the middle of his shift because a girl called him?”

Seo rolls his eyes. “My shift was basically over,” he mumbles.

Hyunjin shakes his head dramatically. “You better have a damn good explanation for this,” he lets out, pretending to be choked up from tears. “You know how worried I was when you didn’t come home last night?”

“Oh-ho,” Chan hums, showing up from the kitchen, lips twitching into a smirk. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

Changbin exhales slowly through his nose. Great. So much for being subtle.

“Morning, Romeo,” Chan singsongs with a silly squeaky laugh, taking a seat in the locker room and leaning back in his chair. “Or should I say… afternoon?”

Hyunjin crosses his arms, tilting his head with a mock-thoughtful look, sitting down next to Jeongin, who mindlessly passes his arm over the taller one’s shoulders. “Yeah, ‘cause it sure isn’t morning anymore.”

Changbin squares his shoulders, forcing a nonchalant expression. “What?” He takes a sip of his coffee, stalling, putting his things down, and still heading for his locker. “I can’t come in late once in my life?”

“Oh, you can,” Chan allows, his smirk deepening. “But you don’t.”

“Ever,” Jeongin adds.

Changbin sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate all of you.”

“No, no,” Chan corrects, turning his chair around and leaning his arms on the backrest, smiling as he leans a bit closer to Seo. “You love us.” Then, his grin sharpens. “So… tell us, Romeo. How’s Juliet doing?”

The way they’re all looking at him makes something twist in Changbin’s stomach. His teammates are sharks when it comes to drama —and don’t even get me started on his roommate, Hyunjin. So he tries for an easy way out. 

“She’s fine.”

…

It doesn’t work.

Hyunjin dramatically scoffs. “That’s not very romantic of you.”

“Is that all we get?” Jeongin whines. “Come on, man.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Changbin grumbles.

“Did you kiss?” Hyunjin blurts out.

Changbin’s ears burn. “Would you shut up?”

“Oh my God, you totally kissed.”

Chan leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Wait, wait, wait—who kissed who?”

Changbin groans. “Why does that matter?”

“Because, context,” Chan says. “Now talk.”

There’s a beat of silence. Changbin scoffs, turning to Chan and moving his hand over his mouth.

”Nuh-uh.” He squints his eyes, teasing, turning his back, and starting to get changed from his yesterday-clothes.

Jeongin frowns. “The fuck you mean, nuh-uh?”

“C’mon, Bin. You ran out of here last night like, full-on mission mode,” Hyunjin complains, as if with his tone he could get into Changbin just how important it is for him to know if he got lucky tonight. Or something like that. Yeah, Changbin isn’t getting this sudden interest at all.

But Jeongin nods sagely, as if Hyunjin’s dramatic act was nothing more than an easy question. “Yeah, man. You left so fast, I swear there was a dust trail behind you.”

“You two lovebirds weren’t even here,” Changbin whines, leaning his forehead against his locker. ”What would you know?”

It doesn’t seem like they care much about that, not when both Jeongin and Hyunjin ignore that, and the latter one turns to Chan. 

“Do we even know why he left?”

Chan shakes his head, his smirk widening. “Not exactly, but I do wanna find out.”

Three pairs of eyes lock onto Changbin, expectant. He debates lying—something vague, something boring enough that they’d lose interest—but there’s practically no escape now. If anything, delaying will just make them dig deeper. He might as well just rip the bandage off.

“So… She called,” he says, voice even.

That’s all it takes.

“She called?” Hyunjin echoes, like he’s savoring the words.

“She called me last night.” His voice is even, but his fingers twitch. “Drunk.”

Jeongin lets out a strangled noise. “Never mind, that’s so much worse.”

Changbin ignores them. “I gave her my number before we left the hospital. But when she called, I…” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t think. I just went.”

Silence.

Chan tilts his head. “You just went?”

Changbin exhales sharply. “Yeah.”

Jeongin blinks. “That’s… a lot of effort for a girl you just met.”

Hyunjin raises a brow, smiling. “And yet, you just went.”

The fact that the three of them start to smile and share looks between each other as if they know something that he doesn’t makes Changbin nibble on his lip in sheepish tension.

Changbin tenses. “She was drunk, alone in her apartment, and sad. What was I supposed to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jeongin hums. “Maybe not sprint to her like some lovesick fool?”

“I didn’t sprint,” Changbin grumbles.

“Sure, man,” Jeongin scoffs. “And I’m not dating Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin beams at him, hugging his shoulders and pressing his cheek against the other man’s cheek. “Aww, babe.”

“Not now, pabo.” Jeongin fakes a grimace, but holds the taller man’s hand in his. 

Chan shakes his head, amused. “Focus, Bin. So you went over. And?”

“And she—” Changbin hesitates, suddenly feeling too exposed. “She was just… there. Looking at me like I… belonged.” He swallows, not daring to look at the group when the word comes out of his mouth. “And then she kissed me.”

But the second Changbin finishes that sentence, he regrets everything, because the reaction is instant. Hyunjin chokes on absolutely nothing, slapping a hand over his mouth in pure, unfiltered glee. Jeongin lunges forward like a predator locking onto prey, eyes wide, practically vibrating with excitement. And Chan—oh, Chan—just leans back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking like he’s just won the lottery —or rather a bet with Yeonjun from the other team.

“SHE DID WHAT?” Jeongin shouts, voice echoing through the station.

Changbin groans, running a hand down his face. “Not like that—”

“Not like that?” Hyunjin practically screeches, voice an octave higher than usual. “So what, was it an accidental kiss?”

Jeongin gasps dramatically. “Did she trip and fall into your mouth?”

Changbin glares at all three of them. “She was drunk.”

“Oh, so drunk kisses don’t count?” Hyunjin lets out a loud “hA”, throwing his hands up. “Someone write that down.”

Jeongin grins. “They do when you actually care, Changbin pabo.”

“Yeah,” Chan hums, tapping his chin, “when they mean something.”

Changbin exhales sharply, but there’s no stopping this. He knew the second he opened his mouth that he was digging his own grave, and yet, here he is, standing waist-deep in the hole while his so-called friends gleefully shovel more dirt on top of him.

“You’re so done for,” Jeongin smirks.

Hyunjin nods, leaning his head back on Jeongin’s shoulder. “Absolutely whipped.”

“Shut up.” Changbin crosses his arms, scowling. “It’s not—”

But Chan cuts him off. “Did you kiss her back?”

Changbin opens his mouth. Closes it.

…Shit.

“OH MY GOD.” Hyunjin shrieks. “YOU DID.”

Jeongin gasps again, clutching Hyunjin’s arm like they’re watching a soap opera finale. “He so did.”

Chan just shakes his head, grinning. “Damn.”

Changbin groans again, dropping his head back against the wall. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you love her,” Jeongin corrects, wiggling his eyebrows.

Hyunjin nudges Chan. “Should we start planning the wedding, or—”

“I swear to god—”

“Dude.” Hyunjin exhales, interrupting him. “You’re so screwed.”

Chan grins. “You like her.”

Changbin scowls. “Obviously.” He lets out in exasperation, taking his shirt off.

Chan whistles. “Wow. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Hyunjin leans back, grinning. “It’s cute, honestly.”

Jeongin gasps. “Oh my God, does this mean you’re finally gonna stop pretending to be a tough guy?”

Changbin glares at him from over his shoulder. “Shut up.”

Hyunjin whistles low. “Oh, he’s so gone.”

Changbin rolls his eyes. Okay, yeah. Maybe. But they don’t need to know that.

Chan leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Wait. That can’t end like that. What happened then?”

“She was alone,” he says simply. “And I…” His throat feels tight for some reason. “I didn’t want her to be alone.”

The room goes quiet. Not long—just a fraction of a second too long. But it’s enough.

Jeongin’s mouth parts slightly, his usual smirk faltering. Hyunjin exchanges a glance with Chan, brows slightly raised, like he’s processing something they hadn’t fully considered before. And Chan—who can usually read him better than anyone—leans back with a knowing look, the smirk on his lips gentler now.

“Oh,” Hyunjin says, blinking. “Oh, shit.”

Jeongin sits up straighter. “You like her.”

Changbin scoffs, shaking his head immediately. 

“No, no, not just ‘like,’” Jeongin presses, pointing at him. “This is serious. You’re invested.”

Chan nods and grins, eyes sharp with amusement. “You’re soft for her.”

Hyunjin fakes wiping a tear. “Our Changbin… growing up so fast…”

Changbin groans, rubbing his temples as the teasing spirals completely out of control. He’s never hearing the end of this.

“Wait,” Hyunjin stops his act, and bites his lip, frowning. “You kissed her back when she was drunk?” 

“Yeah, actually, that sounds a bit low,” Jeongin mumbles. “Doesn’t sound like you either.”

Changbin frowns, then sighs. “Fine. Not when she was drunk,” he lets out. 

“SO SHE KISSED YOU MORE THAN ONCE?!” Jeongin shrieks, practically leaping out of his chair.

“No, I kissed her.” Changbin corrects absentmindedly as he puts on a new shirt for his locker, then widens his eyes. Oh, fuck. He shouldn’t have said that. 

Hyunjin whips around to face Chan, like he needs a witness to confirm what he just heard. “Did he just—Did he just—”

“Oh, he did,” Chan grins, leaning back, crossing his arms. “He definitely did.”

“You’re telling me she kissed you back while sober?!” Jeongin demands, pointing at him like a lawyer about to deliver a devastating cross-examination. Hyunjin slams a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with glee. 

Changbin clenches his jaw. Exhales. Rolls his shoulders back, determined not to let them get to him —which is a complete failure, because his ears are already burning, and Jeongin and Hyunjin are having the time of their lives.

“This is huge,” Jeongin says, shaking Hyunjin’s arm like they’re in a drama finale.

Hyunjin nods, solemn. “This is monumental.”

“Forget wedding planning,” Jeongin turns to Chan. “You need to start writing the best man's speech.”

Chan lets out a squeaky laugh, and sighs, shaking his head with exaggerated fondness. “Look at our guy. Such a gentleman.”

Jeongin gasps, covering his mouth. “He waited to kiss her until she was sober.”

Hyunjin wipes an invisible tear. “They just don’t make ‘em like this anymore.”

“Chivalry isn’t dead,” Jeongin adds dramatically.

Changbin groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you guys.”

“No, you love her,” Hyunjin corrects, pointing at him. “Clearly.”

“Did you see how he didn’t deny it?” Jeongin gasps. “That was practically a confession.”

Changbin glares. “I didn’t deny it because I know no matter what I say, you’re gonna twist it into something dramatic—”

“Oh,” Chan giggles. “You mean the truth?”

He rolls his eyes. But, even all the absolute hell his friends are putting him through, Changbin can’t deny that talking it out—actually saying it out loud—is helping.

Because yeah, he’s been overthinking. And yeah, there’s a nervous weight in his chest that hasn’t really lifted fully since last night. But now that he’s hearing himself explain it, hearing their ridiculous but oddly perceptive comments, he realizes maybe it’s not as complicated as he thought. He wants to see you again. And—if Hyunjin’s dramatics and Jeongin’s gasping are anything to go by—his feelings are a lot clearer than he even realized.

…And then his phone rings.

The teasing dies down instantly. Three pairs of eyes lock onto him as he pulls his phone out of his pocket.

The name on the screen makes his stomach do a flip.

You.

Changbin swallows, suddenly hyper aware of his friends’ staring. Both Hyunjin and Jeongin stand up and move to the table, just to hear the phone call better. He knows if he answers in front of them, they’ll analyze every single second of the conversation. But if he walks away, he’s admitting defeat.

The guys immediately notice his reaction, their eyes lighting up like sharks scenting blood in the water.

“No way,” Jeongin moves a chair back and sits down. “Is that her?”

“Answer it,” Chan urges, grinning. “Put it on speaker.”

“Oh my God, yeah,” Jeongin giggles. “Put it on speaker,” but Changbin just shoves him away. He exhales sharply, squinting. 

“I am not putting her on speaker.”

Three heads lean in when he swipes to answer. 

Hyunjin is grinning, his chair facing Jeongin, his hand holding his as he stares at the phone.

Chan mouths, No way.

Jeongin? Jeongin just gasps. 

“Hey,” he says, voice automatically softer.

“Hi,” you reply, your voice light but focused. “Quick question. What do you like for dinner?”

He blinks. “Uh… what?”

“For dinner,” you repeat. “I’m at the store, trying to figure out what to buy, and since you’re coming over, I figured I should ask.”

He hears Chan choke behind him. Hyunjin and Jeongin make strangled noises of excitement.

Changbin clears his throat, turning his back on them. “Oh. Right. Uh… I’m good with anything?”

You sigh. “That’s not helpful.”

“Okay, okay, um…” He thinks for a second. “How about something simple? Stir-fry?”

“Perfect,” he can hear you smile through the phone. “Chicken or beef?”

“Chicken.”

“Veggies?”

“Surprise me.”

“Rice or noodles?”

He hesitates. “…Rice?”

“Good choice,” you giggle. “Alright, that’s all I needed. See you later!”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice softer. “See you later.”

You hang up, and when he turns back around, his friends look like they’re about to explode.

“You’re going over,” Jeongin whispers in awe.

“You planned this,” Chan grins. “You’re already in the domestic phase.”

Hyunjin stands up and throws an arm over Changbin’s shoulders. “This man has fallen, and he doesn’t even deny it.”

Changbin groans, shoving them off as they all erupt into laughter. But even as he rolls his eyes, he can’t fight the small, stupid smile tugging at his lips.

“Look at him!” Hyunjin fakes a swoon, clutching his chest like he’s about to faint. “He’s soft.”

“He’s whipped,” Jeongin corrects, eyes shining with pure delight.

Chan shakes his head, smirking. “Didn’t even hesitate to say yes, either. Man’s ready to settle down.”

Changbin glares at them, crossing his arms. “It’s dinner. Not a marriage proposal.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Hyunjin waves him off dramatically. “You just happened to sound like the happiest man alive over the phone. No reason.”

Jeongin grins. “Bro, you literally said ‘See you later’ like it was the highlight of your week.”

“I hate all of you,” Changbin mutters, but his friends only laugh harder.

“You love us,” Jeongin corrects, grinning. “Almost as much as you love—”

Changbin slaps a hand over his mouth before he can finish, but it’s too late. The damage is done.

And the worst part?

Yeah. They might actually be right.

Chan claps a hand on his shoulder. “Alright, back to work, gang. But don’t think we’re done with this conversation, loverboy.”

And true to their word, they’re not.

As they go about their tasks, the teasing continues. When Changbin starts restocking supplies in the kitchen, Hyunjin sidles up next to him with a dreamy sigh. “Imagine cooking dinner together, side by side, hands brushing as you reach for the same ingredient…”

Jeongin, who’s coming back from checking and cleaning the gear, smirks. “Bet he’s already thinking about it.”

Chan laughs from across the room, getting another cup of coffee “Nah, he’s thinking about dessert.”

“You guys are the worst,” Changbin mutters, but his ears burn, and that only fuels them further.

Jeongin grins, tossing a towel over his shoulder. “So, what’s on the menu, Chef Seo? Something romantic? Candlelight? Maybe some nice music in the background?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hyunjin jumps in, mock-serious. “Are we talking, like, homemade pasta, or are you just gonna flex your firefighter muscles and hope she swoons?”

Changbin huffs, stacking supplies a little too aggressively. “It’s just dinner.”

“Just dinner,” Chan repeats, nodding sagely. “And yet, here you are, visibly stressed about it.”

“I’m not stressed.”

“You’re a little stressed,” Jeongin counters, leaning against the counter. “Which is fair. It’s the first official non-hospital, non-drunken-kiss date, isn’t it?”

Changbin opens his mouth, then closes it. 

Hyunjin’s eyes narrow like a predator sensing weakness. “Wait. What was that?”

“What was what?” Changbin deflects, turning back to organizing the shelves.

“Yeah. You hesitated,” Jeongin accuses, pointing at him. “Which means there’s something you’re not telling us.”

“No, there’s not,” Changbin says, which to the lovey-dovey couple is exactly what someone with something to hide would say.

Chan folds his arms, leaving his mug on the counter, exchanging a knowing look with the others before casually asking, “Did you see her again?”

Changbin freezes for half a second. It’s subtle, but not subtle enough.

“He did!” Hyunjin gasps, shoving Jeongin’s arm.

“Oh, spill,” Jeongin grins. “Don’t make me wrestle it out of you, hyung.”

Changbin sighs, rubbing his temple. He knows they won’t let it go, and honestly… he kind of wants to talk about it.

“We had breakfast together this morning,” he admits.

There’s a beat of silence before all three of them erupt.

“WHAT?”

“When? How? Why are we only hearing about this now?”

“Oh my god, this is huge,” Hyunjin says, gripping Chan’s shoulder for dramatic effect.

“Calm down,” Changbin groans.

“Calm down?!” Jeongin scoffs. “You left work to see her when she was drunk, and then you’re casually having breakfast? Hyung, you are gone.”

Changbin shakes his head, but he can’t help the tiny, stupid smile creeping onto his face. “It was just breakfast.”

“Just breakfast,” Chan echoes dryly. “Sure, and you’re tall.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Hyunjin waves his hands. “Back up. Who paid?”

Changbin hesitates again. 

“HE DID!” Jeongin howls, clapping his hands.

Chan smirks, nudging Changbin’s shoulder. “So, let me get this straight—you left the station for her, she called you while drunk, she kissed you, you took care of her, and now you also bought her breakfast? Yeah, no, you’re in deep.”

“It’s not like that,” Changbin tries, but even to himself, it sounds weak.

“Oh, it’s exactly like that,” Jeongin cackles. “You’re already doing boyfriend things, hyung. Next thing we know, you’ll be carrying her grocery bags and remembering how she takes her coffee.”

“I already know how she takes her coffee.”

The room erupts.

“OH MY GOD.”

“HE’S FINISHED.”

“You guys are the worst,” Changbin grumbles, but he’s laughing, too, shaking his head as he scrubs at his face.

Chan chuckles, leaning back against the counter. “Alright, alright, let’s be fair. Maybe he’s not totally in love yet.”

“No, he totally is,” Jeongin argues.

“A hundred percent,” Hyunjin nods.

Chan hums thoughtfully. “Well, let’s put it to the test. Changbin, if she called you right now and asked you to come over, what would you do?”

Changbin doesn’t even have to think about it. “I’d go.”

All three of them scream.

“HE’S GONE!” Jeongin shouts. “HE’S LOST!”

Changbin groans loudly, grabbing a towel and chucking it at Jeongin’s face, but his friends are too far gone in their entertainment to care.

“Ohhh, look at him! Even his voice turned softer when she called,” Hyunjin teases, his eyes practically gleaming. “Soft and smooth, just like he’s talking to a goddess.”

“I swear to God, if you guys don’t shut up—” Changbin starts, but Jeongin cuts him off, his grin wide.

“So, what’s she want for dinner, huh? Something special?” Jeongin presses, leaning forward. “A little Changbin as a side dish?” 

“It’s not like that,” Changbin says quickly, but it’s clear he’s struggling to keep his cool. “She just… wanted advice. It’s dinner, nothing crazy.”

Hyunjin grins. “Nothing crazy? Bro, you’re planning a whole dinner date with her, and you’re calling it ‘nothing crazy’?”

“I’m just helping her pick out food. It’s not a big deal,” Changbin mutters, still not ready to admit that his heart is still racing even after your name popped up on his screen.

“Oh, so this is officially a dinner date?” Chan says with a knowing smirk, crossing his arms. “Because you’re sounding like you’re planning something real serious here, buddy.”

“So, what? You’re the official dinner advisor now?” Hyunjin teases.

“You all need help,” Changbin mutters under his breath, but there’s no real heat behind it. He’s too distracted by the fact that his friends are right—he’s not just helping you pick out food, he’s genuinely invested. And it’s so obvious to them that it’s almost painful to listen to.

“Changbin’s got it bad,” Jeongin says, practically giggling. “Can’t even talk about a meal without turning into a love-struck puppy.”

“Hey,” Chan says with mock seriousness, “Don’t knock it till you try it. I think we’re all just jealous of how soft he’s become for this girl.”

“What?” Changbin looks up, incredulous. “Jealous? You guys are—”

He stops short, suddenly aware that they’re all watching him, waiting for him to either confess or keep denying it.

“Fine,” he mutters, giving in a little. “Maybe I am invested, okay?”

His friends immediately fall silent, their faces lighting up with delight.

Jeongin raises an eyebrow. “So, what’s your plan, then? Dinner, some music, maybe a kiss?”

Changbin rubs his temples. “You guys need to leave me alone.”

“Nah, we’re just getting started.” Chan grins, clearly not willing to let this go anytime soon. “So, what’s next? You two planning a future together, or just dinner for now?”

Changbin’s stomach churns, but he can’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. But he plays it off and scoffs, rolling his eyes dramatically as he leans against the counter, crossing his arms with a sarcastic grin. “Yeah, actually, I’m already thinking about how we’re going to name our firstborn child. Maybe something classic, like ‘Seo Changbin Jr.’ or—”

“Oh, you’re already planning the wedding, huh?” Hyunjin interrupts, his voice a mix of teasing and disbelief. “Do you already have a date picked out?”

Changbin shoots a look at him, deadpanning. “Yeah, Hyunjin, we’re getting married on a beach in the Maldives. What do you think? Not too much of a stretch, right?”

“Perfect,” Jeongin says, feigning seriousness, “Just make sure you pick a good spot for the honeymoon. You know, somewhere quiet so we don’t get all the lovebirds ruining your peace and quiet.”

Chan smirks, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t forget the wedding registry. I think I’d look great in a tux.”

Changbin stares at them, groaning. “Guys, seriously. You’re all insane.”

Hyunjin raises his eyebrows, hands up in mock surrender. “We’re just messing with you, man. You can’t act all tough, but it’s clear you’re thinking about her more than you want to admit.”

Changbin rolls his eyes again, trying to keep his cool. “I mean… I just… like her, okay? Can we drop it now?”

“Sure,” Chan says, throwing up his hands. “But when we get that wedding invite in the mail, don’t come crying to us about the teasing. We’ll just be over here, already knowing about little ‘Seo Changbin Jr.’”

Changbin shoots them a glare, but there’s no real anger behind it. He can’t deny that, deep down, hearing their jokes —however exaggerated— actually make him feel lighter, like he can finally admit he’s a little in over his head with you.

Just a little. Sure. 

[.]

You’re practically buzzing as you move around your kitchen, pulling out ingredients and setting them on the counter. Your heart feels like it’s doing little flips in your chest, and there’s this stupid, giddy smile on your face that you can’t seem to shake.

You’re excited.

Like, genuinely, overwhelmingly, stomach-full-of-butterflies excited.

Every little thing feels amplified—the way your hands tremble slightly as you arrange things, the way your mind keeps replaying snippets of conversation from earlier, the way you have to keep stopping yourself from actually kicking your legs like some love-struck fool.

It’s just dinner.

That’s what you keep telling yourself. Just dinner. You’ve had dinner with people before. You’ve had breakfast with him before, which is basically the same. And you’ve had dinner with him before, too.

But this is different.

This isn’t hospital food and dim fluorescent lighting. This isn’t a post-adrenaline crash meal where your hands are still shaking from survival.

This is… a date.

An official date, mind you. That’s enough to have you flustered beyond reason.

You huff out a laugh at yourself, rubbing your hands over your face before tying your hair up. The nervous energy inside you needs an outlet, so you grab a dish towel and start absentmindedly wiping down the already-clean counter.

And then your phone buzzes.

You nearly drop the towel, scrambling to grab it. The second you see the name on the screen, your stomach twists in that stupidly pleasant way.

Changbin.

You clear your throat before answering, trying to sound casual. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says, his voice warm and easy. “I’m about to head out. Need me to pick anything up on the way?”

You bite your lip, rocking slightly on your heels. Just the sound of his voice makes you feel lighter, like all the nervous energy inside you is being turned into something softer, more manageable.

“No, I think we’re good,” you reply. “Just get here safe.”

There’s a small chuckle on the other end of the line. “Got it. See you soon.”

He hangs up, and you stand there for a second, gripping your phone, the smile stretching across your face all over again.

He’s coming over.

You press your phone against your chest for a moment, letting out a breath before setting it down.

Okay. Cool. Totally fine. Just breathe.

You turn back toward the counter, exhaling through your nose, trying to focus—

And then the door bursts open.

The sheer force of it makes you jolt, your pulse spiking.

“What the—”

Then you see her.

Your friend stands in the doorway, wide-eyed, breathless, her expression somewhere between horrified and heartbroken. She’s gripping the doorframe like she needs it to keep her steady.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?!”

Your stomach drops. The giddy excitement from moments ago is gone.

No sound comes out of your parted lips, no matter how hard you try. She shakes her head, stepping inside. “I—I went to your apartment.” Her voice wavers. “Or—or what’s left of it. I was just—I was just gonna stop by, and it’s—it’s gone.”

You swallow hard, the words tangling in your throat.

“I—”

“I had to find out like this?” she cuts in, her voice rising. “Walking up to ashes and realizing my friend has been through something horrible without even telling me? Telling us? 

“I was going to,” you try again, but your voice is too quiet, too fragile.

She lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, yeah? When? After how long? Were you just never gonna say anything? You went to Katy’s house yesterday, and we’ve been texting in the groupchat almost everyday, and you just—what, pretend everything’s fine?”

She throws up her hands, pacing. “Do you know how it felt? Standing there, thinking about—” She stops, pressing her fingers against her temple. “God, I thought—I don’t know what I thought. But I never thought you’d keep this from me. From all of us.”

You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head.

“Why?” she demands. “Why wouldn’t you tell us? We love you, we care about you, and you—” She exhales sharply. “Or is it just me? Was I not supposed to know? Not important enough to be told?”

The weight of her words slams into you, and something inside you cracks.

You press your hands together, willing them to stop shaking, but your heart is pounding too loudly in your ears.

“I didn’t want—” You force out a breath. “I didn’t want to—”

“Hurt me?” she finishes, her voice almost breaking. “God, do you hear yourself? You think this hurts less? Finding out on my own? Like I’m some… stranger?”

You are. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, but it feels so small, so insignificant against the storm she’s feeling.

She runs a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply. Then, suddenly, she steps back toward the door.

“I need a minute.” Her voice is thick with emotion, her eyes still burning. “I need—I just—” She waves a hand, turning to leave. “I can’t do this right now.”

She spins around—only to slam straight into a solid chest.

Changbin.

The impact knocks the breath from her lungs. She stumbles back, eyes darting up in shock, meeting his confused ones.

Everything halts.

Her breath is uneven, her emotions raw, and when her gaze flicks past him—past you—something in her expression shifts. Her brow furrows, confusion and disbelief flickering across her face. Who the hell is this man? And why is he here?

A bitter, shaky laugh pushes past her lips. “You’re really letting a stranger see more of this than me?”

The words cut.

She exhales sharply, shaking her head like she doesn’t even want the answer. Then, with one last glance between you and Changbin, she pushes past him and storms into the hallway..

The room is silent.

Your whole body feels too tight, too constricted, your chest rising and falling unevenly.

Changbin steps fully inside now, and he watches you shiver at the loud bang the door makes when your friend closes it angrily. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just looks at you.

You open your mouth, try to explain, try to put something—anything—into words.

Nothing comes out.

Your throat is too tight, your hands trembling at your sides.

Changbin exhales, stepping forward, his voice quiet but steady.

“C’mere.”

And just like that, the weight crashes down.

Tears spill over, your body shaking, and suddenly you’re pressed against him, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close.

His warmth is grounding, his presence solid. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other rubs gentle circles into your back.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “You’re safe.”

You clutch at him, burying your face in his shoulder, and for the first time in days, you let yourself break.

Changbin doesn’t rush you. He just holds you, steady and warm, his heartbeat a quiet rhythm against your ear.

You don’t even realize you’re gripping his shirt until your fingers ache from clenching too tightly. The weight of everything—the fire, the loss, the confrontation with your friend—crashes down all at once, and you don’t have the strength to hold it back anymore.

Your breath stutters. A shaky inhale, a broken exhale. Your shoulders tremble.

Your hands clutch at Changbin’s shirt, fingers trembling, but your grip is weak—like even that is too much effort. Your chest heaves with uneven, broken sobs, air catching in your throat as you try to breathe, try to think, try to do anything but completely fall apart.

But it’s too much.

A shudder racks through you, and your knees feel like they’re going to buckle. Changbin tightens his hold before they can, steady and unwavering, his arms wrapped around you like they can hold all the broken pieces together.

“I—I—” you try, but your voice catches, strangled and barely there. Your whole body shakes, overwhelmed by the weight of it all—of your friend’s words, of the fire, of the sheer helplessness that’s been gnawing at you since that night.

Changbin hushes you softly, his hand cradling the back of your head as he sways you ever so slightly, a grounding motion. “Breathe,” he murmurs. “Just breathe.”

But you can’t. Not properly. The sobs keep coming, ragged and unrestrained, each one more painful than the last. You grip his shirt tighter, pressing your face into his chest, muffling the gasping, incoherent apologies that spill out between broken cries.

He doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t shush you.

Doesn’t tell you it’s okay when it clearly isn’t.

Instead, he just holds you, letting you sob into him, hands running slow and steady over your back as if to say I’ve got you.

At some point, your legs give out completely. Changbin shifts before you can fall, scooping you up effortlessly. You barely register it, still lost in the mess of emotions drowning you.

He carries you to the couch, lowering himself down with you still wrapped in his arms. You curl in tighter, still trembling, still sobbing, gripping onto him like he’s the only thing tethering you to the present.

And he just lets you.

No words. No expectations. Just quiet, steady reassurance.

And for the first time, you let yourself break.

The sobs keep wracking through you, harsh and unrelenting, like waves crashing over a shore—again and again, until you’re not sure where one ends and another begins. Your throat aches, raw from the strain, and your chest feels tight, like there’s not enough air in the world to fill your lungs.

Changbin’s hand moves in slow, steady circles over your back, never stopping, never faltering. His other arm holds you close, like he knows—knows—that if he lets go, even for a second, you might completely fall apart.

You already are.

“I c-can’t,” you choke out, the words barely making it past your lips. You don’t even know what you mean—can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t handle this.

“I know,” Changbin murmurs, voice low and even, like he’s speaking just loud enough for you to hear. “Just let it out.”

You do.

You sob until your body trembles from the force of it. Until your fingers ache from how tightly you’re clutching his shirt. Until there’s nothing left but the shaky, uneven breaths that keep catching in your throat.

Your mind is a blur—flashes of the fire, of waking up in the hospital, of your friend’s shocked face when she realized you hadn’t told her. You hadn’t even thought about it, too busy surviving to stop and process everything that had been taken from you.

But now, sitting here in the wreckage of it all, held together only by Changbin’s steady arms around you, it finally starts to sink in.

Your apartment is gone.

Your things. Your safe space.

The life you had before the fire.

Gone.

A fresh wave of emotion surges forward, but this time it doesn’t come with loud, ragged sobs—just a quiet, broken sound that gets swallowed by the sheer weight of your emotions. 

The quiet that follows feels almost sacred. Changbin doesn’t move, doesn’t shift away, just keeps holding you like he has nowhere else to be, no place more important than right here.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your cheek, a calm rhythm against the chaos still buzzing inside your mind. You focus on it, letting the sound anchor you, letting the warmth of him remind you that he’s here.

Your fingers are still curled in the fabric of his shirt, but your grip has loosened. The tension in your muscles is fading, exhaustion creeping in now that the worst of the storm has passed.

Changbin finally speaks, his voice quiet, careful. “You okay?”

You shake your head, not quite able to lie, but then nod a little, as if to say, I will be.

He hums, like he understands. Like he’s not expecting you to be fine right away.

Your breath hitches between quiet sobs, and you shake your head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I ruined the night.”

Changbin exhales softly, his arms tightening around you. He leans back just enough to cup your face, tilting your chin so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. His thumbs brush away your tears, his touch so gentle it only makes your chest ache more.

“I freaked out this morning,” he admits, his voice low but steady. “But you stood your ground.” He smiles. “You told me I could fight something that I find bigger than myself, and that I could do it by your side. That I didn’t have to be alone.”

His fingers thread carefully through your hair, moving it out of your face like he just wants to see you properly, to make sure you’re still here with him. Your breath shudders, but you can’t look away. His eyes are warm, filled with something so steady, so certain.

“Well, neither should you, gorgeous,” he murmurs, the corner of his lips tugging up in the softest smile. “So don’t apologize, okay?” He strokes your cheek. “Dinner can wait.”

And when he pulls you in again, holding you like you’re something precious, you let yourself sink into him, clinging just a little tighter.

His hand keeps rubbing soothing circles on your back, and after a moment, he shifts slightly, just enough to pull back and get a look at your face.

His eyes soften. “Do you want water? Or do you just wanna sit here a little longer?”

You swallow thickly, your throat still aching, your head still heavy. You don’t trust your voice yet, so you just press closer, silently answering his question.

Changbin exhales softly, wrapping his arms around you again. “Okay,” he murmurs, settling in. “We’ll just sit, then.”

And so you do.

The weight of everything still lingers, the grief, the loss, the overwhelming ache of it all—but it feels a little easier to carry now. A little less impossible to bear.

Because right now, at this moment, you’re not carrying it alone.

You exhale shakily, a weak, self-conscious little laugh slipping through. “You must think I’m stupid,” you mumble, voice still thick with tears. “Like—who even reacts this late? It all happened a week ago, and—”

A warm finger presses gently against your lips, cutting off the spiral before it can take hold.

“Ah-ah, absolutely not,” Changbin murmurs, shaking his head. His gaze is steady, firm but kind. “We were trained for this at the station, you know. How trauma doesn’t follow a schedule. How people process things at their own pace. There’s no ‘right’ time to break down, no ‘wrong’ way to grieve.”

His hand moves to cup your cheek, thumb tracing a featherlight stroke against your skin. “I’ve seen people walk away from a disaster completely fine—until a month later, when they can’t get out of bed because it finally catches up to them.” He pauses, letting the words sink in. “There’s no logic to it. No timer that tells you when it’s okay to start hurting. Your brain just… protects you from it until it can’t anymore.”

You blink up at him, your breath still uneven. “So you don’t think I’m pathetic?”

Changbin holds you close, feeling the slow rise and fall of your breaths against his chest. The weight of you in his arms is grounding, but there’s something else, something that tightens his throat as he watches you blink through the tears—tired, overwhelmed, but still there.

Changbin frowns, like the mere idea of your question is absurd. “Pathetic?” His voice softens. 

He’s seeing himself in your eyes.  

Not now, not in this moment, but years ago, when Kang Jisoo died and it felt like his entire world had caved in on itself. He remembers how it swallowed him whole, how he barely slept, barely ate, how he ran himself into the ground at the station just to escape the weight of it. He remembers how he broke apart, hidden and alone after pushing everything away, and had no idea how to put himself back together.

And now, looking at you—eyes red, body trembling, grief pressing in on all sides—he realizes you’re holding yourself up in a way he never could.

He wishes he’d been this strong. Wishes he’d known how to let himself break and still keep moving. But maybe that’s why he’s here now. Maybe that’s why, despite the ache in his chest, he isn’t looking away. Because he sees it—the quiet, unrelenting strength in you. The way you let yourself feel it instead of burying it.

“Gorgeous, I think you’re strong as hell.”

And maybe that’s when the tears start again—not the sobbing kind, but the kind that just slips down your cheeks, raw and quiet. Changbin doesn’t say anything about them, doesn’t make a big deal of it. He just presses a kiss to your forehead, gentle and lingering, before pulling you back into his arms.

“Just let yourself feel it,” he murmurs against your hair. “I’ve got you.”

And this time, you let yourself believe it.

You sniff, wiping at your eyes. His arms are still around you, steady, solid, and something about the way he’s holding you—like he knows exactly what grief feels like—makes you pause.

“You…” Your voice is still thick with emotion, but the thought tugs at you too strongly to ignore. “You look like you’ve been through this before.”

His grip tightens, just for a second. Not enough to hurt, but enough that you know you’re right.

Changbin exhales slowly, like he’s turning the thought over in his mind, debating whether to say it aloud. Then he shifts, leaning his head back against the couch. 

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I have.”

The words are simple, but there’s a weight to them. A heaviness you recognize.

“I know it feels like you should have it together by now,” he murmurs, voice quiet. “But it doesn’t work like that. If it did… I wouldn’t have spent months wrecking myself after Jisoo.”

You blink up at him. “Jisoo?”

He hesitates for a second, then sighs. “Friend of mine. We lost him a couple years back. And I—” His jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, he looks away, like saying it out loud makes it harder to bear. Then, without really thinking, he reaches for your hand.

You don’t pull away. You just let him take it, let him hold on as he gathers himself. His fingers are warm, slightly rough from work, but his grip is careful. Like he’s grounding himself in the contact.

“It was a rescue,” he continues, voice rougher now. “A bad one. We went in together. But only I made it out.”

Your heart aches for him. For the weight he still carries, all these years later.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, absentminded, as if the motion helps steady him.

“You know,” he says after a moment, exhaling sharply, “when we’re training, they teach us about trauma responses. About how grief doesn’t hit everyone the same way. We learn how to help people process, how to be there for them, how to make sure they know they’re not alone.”

His lips press together, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer.

“But I never figured out how to do that for myself.”

His words settle in your chest, heavy and real.

You squeeze his hand, shifting closer. “You’re doing it now,” you say gently.

His breath catches slightly, but then he huffs a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Guess I am.”

He holds your hand a little tighter, his thumb still tracing small circles on your palm. The room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing, steady but still tinged with the weight of everything.

“You know,” Changbin says, his voice low and steady now, as if he’s come to a decision, “I’ve always been the one trying to be strong for everyone else. On the station, with the team… even when we lost Jisoo, I told myself I couldn’t break. That I had to keep going, keep holding it all in.”

You turn toward him, watching the way his eyes flicker, the vulnerability showing in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Everyone tells you to stay strong,” he continues, almost to himself, “but what they don’t tell you is how heavy it gets. And you can’t just carry it forever.”

You can see how much he’s carrying, the quiet strength he’s built up over the years, the walls he’s put up to protect himself. You want to reach out and pull them down, but you know that can’t happen all at once. It’ll take time.

“I guess,” he says softly, “I’m learning that it’s okay to let someone in. Even if it’s just a little bit at a time.”

His gaze softens as he looks at you, and there’s a quiet understanding between you now, like you both know the weight of what’s unsaid.

You nod, not sure what to say at first. Instead, you lean your head gently against his shoulder, allowing yourself to be there, in the moment with him.

“I’m glad you’re letting me in,” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath.

He smiles softly, his lips curling in a way that makes your heart skip.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, “me too.”

For a moment, you both just sit there in silence, wrapped up in each other’s presence. You don’t feel the need for words now, just the comfort of being close to someone who understands.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of calm, Changbin shifts slightly, glancing at you. “You doing okay?” he asks gently, his voice still soft, almost like he’s afraid to break the quiet.

You look up at him, meeting his eyes, and nod again.

“Yeah,” you answer, your voice steadier now. “I think I’m okay. It’s just… a lot to process.”

He exhales, nodding in agreement. “It always is.”

You let out a quiet breath, a mix of relief and gratitude flooding through you. “Thank you.”

His hand squeezes yours again, a silent promise. And in this moment, the overwhelming ache doesn’t feel quite as crushing. Because maybe, just maybe, you’re learning to carry it together.

He pauses, looking down at your hand in his for a moment, his thumb still rubbing soothing circles over your skin. “I guess I wasn’t the only one who struggled, though.” He exhales softly, the sound like a mix of frustration and amusement.

You look up at him, curious.

“Remember Chan? The one on the ladder, the one who helped pull you out of the fire that day?” He chuckles bitterly after you nod. “He hated me for months after Jisoo. Because I just couldn’t… I couldn’t get past the guilt. I couldn’t save him. And I blamed myself for that.”

He shakes his head, a sad, humorless smile playing at his lips. “I didn’t let anyone in, and Chan hated me for it. He tried to help, but I kept pushing him away. It wasn’t until one night, when he practically dragged me to the bar, that he just… he told me that he couldn’t stand seeing me like that. That I wasn’t doing myself any favors by shutting everyone out.”

You feel a lump form in your throat, but you squeeze his hand tighter, silently telling him you’re here, even when the words seem too heavy to say.

Changbin shifts his gaze to you, his expression softening. “He was right, though. I had to stop being so damn stubborn. And slowly, I started letting people in.” He laughs softly, but it’s not the usual teasing kind. “Guess I’m still working on it. But… it’s better than it was.”

For a while, neither of you says anything. You find comfort and solace in the crook of his neck. The weight of it all still lingers, but in the warmth of his arms, it feels a little more bearable. His fingers trace absentminded patterns along your back, steady and grounding, and you let yourself sink further into his hold, eyes fluttering shut.

Then, he exhales a deep sigh, chuckling softly. “You’re too warm,” he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion. “I’m gonna fall asleep if we stay like this.”

A weak laugh pushes past your lips. “That’s hardly my fault.”

“No, but I will hold you responsible when I wake up with a crick in my neck.” His tone is teasing, and you can hear the smile in his voice even before you tilt your head up to look at him.

His eyes, heavy with warmth, meet yours. “We can stay here as long as you need,” he says. “But just so you know, I was really looking forward to seeing if you’re as good in the kitchen as you claim to be.”

You scoff lightly. “I never said I was good.”

He gasps, placing a hand over his heart in mock betrayal. “So I’ve been deceived?”

It’s a small thing, a tiny shift in the weight pressing on your chest, but it’s enough to make your lips twitch upward. “I never promised anything.”

“Unbelievable.” He shakes his head dramatically. “First, you break my heart. Next, you’re probably gonna tell me you don’t even own an apron.”

You roll your eyes, nudging him lightly. “Would that be a deal-breaker?”

“Depends,” he says, tilting his head as if considering it. “Are we talking no apron at all? Or one of those ‘Kiss the Cook’ ones?”

Your laugh comes easier this time, real and unrestrained, and the way his expression softens tells you he was hoping for exactly that.

You shake your head, lips twitching. “I don’t own an apron.”

Changbin clicks his tongue, feigning deep disappointment. “Tragic.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” you say, rolling your eyes, but you don’t push him away when he tightens his hold just a little.

He grins. “Ridiculous is expecting me to cook without proper attire. You’re really out here robbing me of the full culinary experience.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “Fine. I guess I’ll have to buy one.”

“Thank you.” He nods seriously. “I’ll accept nothing less than one of those frilly vintage ones.”

You snort. “Not happening.”

“A tragedy in two acts,” he mutters, then nudges your knee with his. “Come on. You feeling up to making dinner?”

You take a deep breath, really taking in the warmth of him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your fingers. The exhaustion still lingers, but it’s quieter now, settled into something manageable.

“Yeah,” you say, finally sitting up. “Let’s cook.”

Changbin flashes you a grin, then presses a quick, feather-light kiss to your forehead before standing and stretching. “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got, chef.”

“You’re helping.”

He smirks. “I’ll consider it.”

You shake your head, rolling your eyes as you follow him into the kitchen. “Get your ass in here, sous-chef,” you chuckle.

And just like that, the weight pressing on your chest feels a little lighter.

[.]

The kitchen is a mess. A beautiful, chaotic mess.

There’s flour dusted on the counter from when you accidentally knocked the bag over, and Changbin had laughed instead of helping, only to get flicked in the face with a bit of dough in retaliation. Best part? You’re not sure you even need flour anyways. The cutting board is crowded with half-prepared vegetables, and the stove sizzles where something is just starting to cook.

“You know,” Changbin says, leaning back against the counter as he watches you chop vegetables with exaggerated slowness, “at this rate, we’ll be eating breakfast for dinner.”

You roll your eyes. “Maybe if you actually helped instead of standing there and looking pretty—”

“Ah, so you think I’m pretty.”

You shoot him a flat look. He grins.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, completely unfazed, “I might wither away before we get to eat.”

“You could at least set the table if you’re that desperate.”

He sighs dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “And miss the chance to witness your culinary expertise? Perish the thought, young lady.”

You shake your head, returning to the vegetables. But as you keep chopping, his teasing continues.

“You’re holding that knife like it personally offended you,” he observes.

You ignore him.

“It’s impressive, really. I didn’t know it was possible to take longer than a cooking show’s slow-motion shots.”

Still, you say nothing.

“I bet if we were in a movie, this is where they’d do an intense montage of you struggling, with, like, tragic violin music in the background. Like the Oppenheimer soundtrack.”

You exhale sharply. “Changbin.”

“Yes?”

“Do something useful.”

“Oh, I am.” He gestures vaguely. “I’m providing moral support.”

You shoot him a glare, but before you can get another word in, he moves, a warm smile on his features. 

He steps behind you before you can react to his movements, his chest brushing lightly against your back, his arms coming around to settle his hands over yours.

“Here,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “Like this.”

You freeze.

His hands are warm, his grip gentle but firm as he guides yours, adjusting the angle of the knife. He presses just a little closer, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder as he tilts his head, watching your movements.

Your heart stumbles over itself.

Focus. Focus.

“You’re tense,” he notes, a hint of amusement lacing his voice. As if he does this every Tuesday.

“Wonder why,” you mutter, but it comes out weaker than you intended.

He chuckles, breath ghosting over your cheek. “Relax. Just follow my lead.”

Easier said than done.

You try to focus, to listen as he quietly instructs you on the proper technique. But all you can think about is the way his hands fit over yours, the warmth radiating from him, the way his voice has softened into something dangerously gentle.

And when he finally, finally pulls away, you’re left gripping the knife just a little too tightly, trying to will away the sudden heat creeping up your neck.

He steps back with a satisfied hum, like he hasn’t just casually thrown your entire system into chaos. “See? Much better.”

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself. Then, you turn to look at him.

He smirks.

Oh, he knows.

You frown, heat creeping up your face as you tighten your grip on the knife. “Don’t tease me when I’m holding a knife, you buffoon.”

Changbin raises his hands in mock surrender, but the grin stretching across his face is anything but apologetic. “Noted. Though, I gotta say, that blush really sells the threat.”

You huff, pointing the knife at the cutting board instead of him, because let’s be honest—he’d probably find that even funnier. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here we are, cooking together like the perfect domestic duo.”

“Shut up, sous-chef,” you chuckle, shaking your head.

“Yes, chef,” he says smoothly, stepping back into place beside you.

He reaches for the next ingredient, his eyes back at the stove, but as you start chopping again—faster this time, like he showed you—his arm brushes against yours, lingering just a little too long to be accidental.

You glance at him.

He’s focused on the food, lips barely curved in a smirk, like he’s completely unaware of the warmth radiating between you.

Liar.

You bite your lip, willing your pulse to settle. 

Dinner first. Dessert later. 

Grateful the two of you haven’t acquired more trauma by accidentally burning your mom’s house up, dinner goes by in a blur of easy conversation and stolen bites off each other’s plates. The warmth lingers—not just from the meal, but from the quiet comfort settling between you.

By the time you’re both done, dishes lazily stacked in the sink for later, you stretch with a yawn, barely suppressing it before Changbin catches on.

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Tired already?”

You glare half-heartedly. “Shut up.”

He checks his watch, sighing. “It’s late. I should probably head out before it gets too bad.”

Something inside you sinks. Not disappointment, exactly—just the reluctant acknowledgment that the night has to end.

But instead of saying that, you push off the counter with a smirk. “You’re just scared I’ll put on a scary movie.”

His laughter is low and warm. “Oh, absolutely.”

But he still doesn’t make a move to leave just yet.

Changbin snorts, shaking his head. “But, please. If anything, you’d be the one clinging to me.”

“Oh?” You fold your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Are you saying you wouldn’t be scared at all?”

“I’m saying,” he leans in slightly, voice dropping just enough to be teasing, “if you want an excuse to cuddle me, you could just ask.”

Your breath hitches. The smug little grin he wears tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing.

But two can play that game.

You hum, tilting your head. “Noted.”

His smirk falters for just a second. “Wait—”

“Too late.” You stretch with another yawn, a fake one this time just to tease him, barely suppressing your grin. “Guess I’ll have to save it for next time.”

There’s a flicker of something in his gaze, quick but unmistakable. A promise, maybe. A challenge.

But all he says is, “Looking forward to it.”

And this time, when he finally moves toward the door, you don’t try to stop him.

“Guess this is it,” you cross your arms and hug yourself as he puts his gear jacket on to get on his motorbike. 

“Don’t be so melancholic,” Changbin chuckles. “I know where you live. Be afraid.” 

“Right,” you giggle. “I’m trembling in fear.” 

But then he steps closer, hands slipping into the pockets of his jacket as he tilts his head. “Gorgeous,” he licks his lips. “Don’t your movies always have that scene where, after the date, the characters kiss?”

Your smirk. “Sometimes, yeah, they do.”

He nods, thoughtful. “Makes sense.”

Then, just as you start to smile, he leans in—closer, closer—his breath warm against yours, his eyes locked onto your lips. Your heartbeat stumbles, anticipation curling in your stomach.

And just as his nose brushes against yours, you smirk again.

“Oh,” you say, tilting your head back ever so slightly, barely out of reach, and you speak softly over his lips, tempting. “But, uh… I don’t kiss on the first date.”

He freezes. 

Guess that’s why they say revenge is better served cold. Take that, mister slow veggie chopper. 

You can see the moment his brain short-circuits, his eyes blinking wide, caught completely off guard.

Then he exhales, laughing under his breath. “You’re joking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Am I, though?”

His lips part like he wants to argue, but then he huffs, shaking his head with a low chuckle. “Unbelievable.”

You grin, stepping back smugly. “Rules are rules.”

“Right,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to collect himself.

You pretend not to notice the way his ears have turned a little pink. He sighs dramatically as he leans against the doorway. 

“Guess I’ll just have to ask you out again, then.”

Your stomach flutters, but you keep your cool, folding your arms. “Guess you will.”

You grin as he heads out. “Drive safe!” you tease, lifting a hand in a playful little wave. “And don’t worry, I won’t miss you too much.”

Changbin rolls his eyes, huffing a laugh as he heads for his bike, which stands in front of the building’s door. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, opening the bike’s back and grabbing his helmet, securing it under his arm as he puts his gear gloves on. “Try not to cry yourself to sleep.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare,” you say nonchalantly, leaning against the doorframe. “I mean, it’s just a first date, right? It ain’t too bad. I can always download Tinder.”

You don’t miss the way he stiffens for half a second. The way his grip tightens around the helmet.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Night, Bin.”

He exhales sharply. “Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. Then, suddenly, he tosses his helmet onto the bike seat with a soft thud, spins on his heel, and strides straight back toward you.

You barely get the chance to react before his hands cup your face, warm and firm and leather from his gloves, his gaze locking onto yours for a split second—just long enough for your breath to hitch. And then his lips crash onto yours.

It’s not just a kiss—it’s heat, urgency, a deep and overwhelming need poured into the space between you. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this moment all night, maybe even longer. Like, now that he’s started, he can’t get enough.

You freeze, stunned, your brain short-circuiting as he presses in, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, his fingers slipping into your hair. But the shock only lasts a second before you smirk and give in, grasping at his jacket, pulling him closer, losing yourself in the way he feels, the way he tastes—warm, insistent, intoxicating. 

Yes. 

He exhales sharply through his nose, his lips parting just enough for his teeth to catch your bottom lip, teasing, testing—before he soothes it with another kiss, this one slower but no less consuming. His hands slide down, one settling at your jaw, the other firm against the small of your back, holding you against him, like he’s afraid to let go too soon.

You don’t know how long you stand there, tangled together, lost in him. But when he finally pulls back, it’s only because he has to, his breath warm against your lips as he lingers close, forehead barely resting against yours. His voice is rough with something unreadable when he finally speaks. 

“You were saying?”

Your heart is still hammering, your lips tingling, your brain barely catching up to what just happened. But you refuse to let him have the last word.

“Huh,” you murmur, blinking up at him, a slow grin tugging at your swollen lips. “Well, they do say Tinder’s overrated anyways.”

Changbin groans, chuckling low in his chest as he presses one last, lingering peck to your lips before finally—reluctantly—stepping back. “You’re a menace,” he grumbles, shaking his head as he turns back toward his bike.

“And yet, you like me anyway,” you call after him, grinning as you watch him grab his helmet again.

He just laughs, shaking his head as he starts the engine. “See you soon, gorgeous.”

And with that, he’s off, leaving you standing in the doorway, legs weak, head spinning, and a fire burning under your skin that won’t be going out anytime soon.

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

~kats, who can’t believe she had to cut the chapter in half bc she reached the paragraph limit, again!! 😭‼️

catiuskaa, april 2025 ©

[catiuskaa]

𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬.

syn. the nights were mainly made to worship all that we loved during the day —in chan’s case, there’s nothing else, as he crawls back to you, always.

wc. 3.8k

cw. minsung mentioned, chan is a simp, they are whipped for each other, someone has daddy kink (and it’s both of them), teasing, explicit content, oral (f.rec), a healthy dose of marking, protected piv sex (love to see it), soft soft aftercare, fluff + smut convo honestly, and i think that’s all, folks!

req! by annonie right here. i see ur vision pookie, and i hope i did it justice! i fear i maybe did more smut than aftercare…? idk… sorry i took so long too</3. hope you like!

[☆★🤎★☆]

Honey, I’m home.

It’s such a common statement. A way of not only announcing the fact that one’s finally back from the hardships they had to endure during the day, there it be copious amounts of work, bullshit from dumb colleagues who wouldn’t know common sense from a toaster even if it burned their house down, how Jisung managed to forget his lyrics yet again, and his phone is dead, so he has to call his “husband” —his words, not mine— and make Minho bring him his charger to the studio…

Overall, in broad, general sense, the statement is used to express the feeling of welcomeness that being not just back in one’s house, but home, always brings. Not only that, but it too serves as a way of expressing it to whoever waits within those walls of comfort.

And, for the first time in a long while, it so happens that Chan was already home when you arrived.

But there was none of that when you closed the door behind you, took your shoes off by the entrance and headed to his room, knocking on the already open wooden surface.

Chan turns his head first, moving the desk chair on its axis to face you propperly.

“You’re back,” he smiles.

His eyes don’t leave your figure, not as you lean on the doorframe, not as you let out a soft chuckle and finally get close to him.

For some people, love is felt most clearly through touch—the warmth of a hand on the back, a lingering brush of fingers, a head resting on a shoulder. Being touchy isn’t about neediness, but about closeness, about wordless ways of saying “I’m here” and “you matter.” It’s how comfort is given and connection is deepened, in gestures that feel small but speak loudly. Whether it’s an absentminded thumb tracing a palm or a full-body hug after a long day, physical affection becomes the language that says everything else doesn’t have to be said.

That’s how Chan knows something’s up. Because, instead of throwing yourself to his bed face first, ready to tell him about the day you had —common when your day was specially bad—, you make it a point to stand between his parted legs, your hands traveling to his neck, threading in his hair.

You’re biting your lip. He’s one second from cheekily offering to bite it for you, when you finally speak.

“I was scrolling down Twitter in the bus,” you say softly, your voice smooth. His hands travel to the back of your thighs as you keep on speaking, a sheepish smile on your face. “Someone… someone posted something I think it’s funny.”

He blinks. He’s a bit lost now, but you chuckle, seeing it in his eyes.

“It was a reply to a post a stay made,” you giggle, blushing. “About your solo act in tour.”

“What did it say?” He smiles, giggling with you.

There’s a light pause, and in your eyes you’re pretty sure it’s obvious the ginger hesitation from stating what the post said out loud, but then, staring at his eyes, you just let it out.

“I hope someone can give him head to thank him for this amazing performance.”

Chan dies.

It’s the way you say it—soft, almost teasing, like you know exactly what you do to him. Your voice brushes against his ear, low and playful, and something in him just short-circuits. His hands, already resting on your waist, tighten instinctively, fingertips digging in just enough to make you shift closer. Suddenly his pulse is everywhere—thudding in his chest, his throat, and lower. His breath hitches, and he drops his head a little, trying to compose himself, but it’s no use.

Get fucked, ‘honey, i’m home.’

“I liked it. Reposted it, too.” You confess with a soft chuckle. “And then I thought, you know.” You swallow dry, blushing , which almost kills him again. “I can. Matter of fact, I have.”

He hums in response, and tugs you closer, making you sit on his lap.

“Okay,” he chuckles, sinking his head in the crook of your neck, into your hair, and you move your arms around his neck, giggling too. “That’s a way of getting me off my computer.”

“Good,” you tease softly, next to his ear. “It’s late anyways.”

“It’s going to be so much late when I’m done with you,” he confesses in a low voice, not bothering to think if that’s correct grammar or not.

Instead, he presses a soft kiss on your cheek, then your jaw, until he moves back, one of his hands moving from your ass to cup your cheek.

It starts with a single kiss. A soft peck, quick and familiar. Then another. And another. Each one lingers a little longer, his lips pressing into yours like he’s testing the edge of restraint —whether yours or his, he doesn’t really know, merely wsiting to see who breaks first. Secretly, he knows he will.

His hands pull you closer until the chair that holds the both of you groans from the combined weight. When he finally pulls back, just a breath apart, he’s already smiling—low and crooked, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“I missed you today,” he says, voice rougher than it usually is. Then he’s kissing you again, deeper now, slow and intense, like he’s trying to make up for every second you were apart. His mouth moves with purpose, stealing your breath, and when his fingers slide up your spine, you arch into him without even thinking.

You move from him, peppering kisses all over his face. It’s coaxing, or at least you attempt it that way, until you notice him smirking.

“Don’t tease me,” you whine, pouting.

“Why, princess?” He smiles, faking innocence, letting out one of those squeaky laughs of his. “Something wrong?”

You groan dramatically, hiding your face in his neck as he laughs and holds your body closer.

“You’re a meanie,” you mumble against his skin.

“And you’re blushing.”

You huff. “Meanie.”

His hands stroke your thighs slowly, up and down. “You’d like me even more if I was meaner,” he grins teasingly. “Wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”

Moving away from his neck, you pout again.

“I’ll leave,” you squint your eyes at him, crossing your arms over your chest.

Chan tongues his cheek. He wonders if he can tease you a bit more, which he knows he probably can, but there’s only so much he can resist you. So he licks his lips, smiling at you.

“Really, princess? You’d leave daddy alone, even after what you’ve told me?”

You can’t stop smiling, not as he looks at you like you hung the stars, as your stomach flutters and as your cheeks burn. You try to play it cool, but your laugh comes out a little too breathless, and he definitely notices. The way he touches you doesn’t help either—his hands cheekily going anywhere they want, fingers brushing your arm, his hand resting low on your back like it’s always belonged there. You’re giddy, lightheaded, way too aware of how close he is, how good he smells, how your body is already leaning into his without asking permission. Not to him, exactly —that’s saved for a different night—, but to you, your own brain closing the door behind and leaving you all alone.

“Finally,” you kiss him cheekily. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

The kisses start playful. You’re still giggling when he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, and you feel yourself melt against him, warm and dizzy from how good it all feels.

Yes. Home. Finally. Sitting in his lap feels too easy, too natural—like you were meant to be there. And then, without thinking, your hips shift—just a small roll. Unintentional, but nevertheless, the second it happens, you both freeze. His breath catches against your skin. Your cheeks flare hot, the air between you thickening.

Chris lets out a somewhat breathless chuckle next to your ear, threatening to send shivers down your spine. He bites your cheek, teeth not sinking in, but rather like a way of teasing you back. Judging by how your breathing stops and hitched, he stands corrected.

He smirks. The look he gives you threatens to rip your clothes off one by one, undoing you almost entirely. That slow, knowing smirk curls at the corner of his mouth, equal parts smug and hungry.

“Oh,” he says, low and teasing, like he just discovered something dangerous. His hands slide over your hips, firmer now. “You sure you missed me just a little?”

Your face goes warm immediately, and you bite back a smile, ducking your head just a little. Of course he noticed. Of course he’s smirking like that. You nod, sheepish but honest, and he chuckles softly—the sound low and familiar, the kind that always makes your heart do a flip.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, already slipping his hands lower, settling them on your hips like he’s done it a thousand times before. He moves you slowly, guiding your body against his with that quiet confidence he only ever shows when it’s just the two of you.

The grind is subtle, teasing, but the heat it stirs is immediate. You let out a shaky breath, forehead brushing his as your fingers curl into the back of his neck.

“Missed you more than a little,” you whisper, and he grins—cheeky, warm, already leaning in for another kiss that promises he missed you just as much.

“Daddy missed you too, princess.”

His lips find yours again, deeper this time, and the way he shifts beneath you makes your breath hitch. The chair creaks softly under the weight of both your bodies, his hands steady at your hips, but it’s not enough—not anymore.

He kisses you once more, slower, like he’s making a decision, then pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“Come here,” he murmurs, voice rough with warmth, and in one fluid motion, he stands, lifting you with him like it’s second nature.

Your legs wrap around his waist without thinking, arms around his shoulders as he carries you the few steps to the bed. The room blurs around you, all focus narrowing to the way his hands hold you, the way your bodies stay close, connected. When he lowers you to the mattress, it’s careful—reverent almost—but there’s a promise in his touch, in the way he leans over you again like he can’t stand being even a breath apart.

The mattress dips under his weight as he follows you down, never quite breaking the kiss, just shifting it—slower, deeper, until it’s all heat and breath and the soft rustle of the bedsheets. Chris’ hands roam, familiar, but still making you shiver.

He kisses you again, deeply, tasting you like a candy he’s been craving to have before he starts trailing those kisses lower. Down your neck, over your collarbone, taking his time, savoring every inch of skin. His hands glide down your sides, smooth and steady, until he reaches the hem of your shirt and helps ease it off with a sudden softness that somehow he always carries and still it makes your breath catch.

He glances up at you as he shifts lower, and there’s something in his eyes—affection wrapped in heat, like he wants to give, not just take.

He watches you the entire time, eyes dark with focus, with want. “God, I love when you look at me like that,” he murmurs, voice rough.

Your hips shift slightly under his hands, your fingers mindlessly scratching his hair, as they lock around his neck.

“Like what?”

“Like I could ruin you,” he says simply, before kissing your collarbone, “and you’d let me.”

His mouth never fully leaves your skin—kisses trailing down your stomach, each one slower than the last, until he reaches the waistband of your jeans. He looks up at you with that teasing glint in his eyes, the kind that makes your pulse trip. “Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, and then he leans in.

You feel the scrape of his teeth first—light, playful—just before his lips close around the zipper. He tugs it down slowly, deliberately. The sound of it lowering fills the quiet between your breaths, each inch building the anticipation curling low in your belly. When the zipper’s undone, his hands take over, easing both the denim and your panties down your hips with a touch so gentle it borders on worshipful. And then he’s leaning in again, kissing the newly exposed skin with a smile against your thigh, like he’s exactly where he wants to be.

When he settles between your thighs, he doesn’t rush. His hands stroke your hips, your thighs, grounding you as his mouth finally finds you. The first touch of his tongue is slow and warm, and the sound you make earns a satisfied hum from him. He keeps going like that—unhurried, attentive—learning every reaction, every twitch of your hips, every moan and every gasp.

It’s not just about pleasure to him. It’s about you.

And when your fingers slide into his hair and your back arches off the bed, he only holds you firmer, as if to say, I’ve got you. I’m not stopping until you fall apart for me.

You shiver and tremble beneath him, letting out heavier moans and whines. He hums, the sound traveling through you, threatening to make you come already.

Your fingers tug his hair, and he smiles against your thigh. “Seems you’re already letting me ruin you,” he bites your thigh, cheeky. “Like when daddy ruins you, princess?”

You gasp at the bite, a shiver running down your spine. His words send a thrill through you, and you can feel yourself growing more excited by the minute. You feel your cheeks flush as you imagine what he's promising.

"Yes, daddy," you whisper, your voice already a little breathless. "Please ruin me, make me yours."

He chuckles, the sound low and husky. "You're such a good girl for me, aren't you?" he murmurs, his lips tracing a path up your thigh, leaving a trail of kisses in their wake. "And you know that I always take good care of my princess, don't you?"

His fingers slide along your inner thigh, his voice dipping.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shake your head, hand still in his hair. “If you stop now, I swear I’ll kill you.”

Your fingers curl and your nails scratch his back without thinking, and he lets out a soft gasp, his shoulders going slack as he leans into your touch.

“Anything for you, princess,” he whispers, licking his lips, almost drunk on the taste of you, his gaze already completely under your spell. “I’ll give you whatever you want, but please, keep touching me like that.”

He moves up and kisses you, relishing on the moans he swallows that spill from your lips as his hands move to take place where his mouth has just been, his fingers moving, slipping inside with wet ease.

“Oh, princess. You’re close already?” He watches you nod, moaning almost breathlessly, and slows down. He chuckles softly at the sound of your whine, unable to resist the adorable look on your face. "You're so cute when you're needy."

Nibbling on his lower lip, he pulls back just enough to reach toward the nightstand, eyes still on you, lips parted like he doesn’t want to be away for long. He grabs the foil packet and flashes you a look —half teasing, half focused—before tearing it open with his teeth. It’s effortless, practiced, but the sight alone makes your stomach flip.

His smile fades into something softer as he finishes rolling the condom on, hands steady but reverent, like he’s handling something precious. Then he’s back over you, fitting between your legs with ease, his skin warm against yours, his mouth returning to your neck, your collarbone, every place that makes your breath catch. The pace slows for a moment—like he wants to savor it, like rushing would be a waste. His forehead presses to yours, noses brushing, and he whispers your name like it’s a secret, grounding you both in the quiet, electric space between heartbeats.

When he finally presses into you, it’s slow—measured, but deep. You gasp, legs tightening around his waist, and he groans low in his throat, the sound rough and honest. His hands slide under your back, pulling you impossibly close, his mouth finding yours again in a kiss that’s all heat and promise. The rhythm builds naturally, guided by every stuttered breath, low whine, and whispered name, until it’s just you and him.

He builds a steady pace, slowly losing it’s rythm as pleasure takes the lead.

“You sound so… so good… so, so… f-fuck…” he moans against your skin, his body holding you so tight, his movements getting just a bit more desperate and rough as he attempts to hold back, trying to last just a little longer.

“S-so close… I’m so… so c-close…” You moan, desperate, your body shaking and trembling, on the very edge of a release.

His hand finds yours, interlinking your fingers. He whines lowly as you come, his heart pounding and body shaking. He can’t hold back any longer, his body completely overwhelmed by the feeling. He moans your name, every second feeling more intense as you continue to move against him. Holding onto you tightly, he comes not too long after you, almost letting his body fall over yours, unwilling to let you go.

He clings to you, feeling completely raw and vulnerable, his body trembling with the aftermath of such intensity. The world goes black and white, and for the smallest moment, time seems to almost stop between the sounds of your breaths in sync, the trembling of your body, the heat your body lets out… It’s all so intense, in his mind almost impossible to explain or describe.

The two of you stay like that, for a few moments, breathing in sync, holding onto each other as the aftershocks take over. You feel him pull away, and you can feel the loss of him, but in the blink of an eye, he’s right there, condom discarded, but he’s still right there, as he helps you get under the bedsheets. Holding your face in his hands, he kisses you, softly, gently.

He stays close, arms wrapped around you like he needs to keep you there, grounded against him. His fingers trace lazy patterns along your back, and his voice is quieter now, softer.

“You okay?” he asks, brushing your hair away from your face.

You nod, smiling. “Yeah. You?”

He smiles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Never better.” He shifts slightly, reaching for the blanket at the edge of the bed, draping it over both of you. “How’s that? Warm enough?”

You hum, already melting into the calm of him, nuzzling into his neck. “Mmhm.”

You’re curled up against his chest, legs tangled with his, your breath soft and steady as your fingers absentmindedly trace circles on his arm. He’s quiet—so quiet you glance up to check on him. But he’s already watching you.

That look in his eyes makes your breath catch. It’s intense, unguarded. Like he’s seeing you for the first time and falling all over again.

“What?” you whisper with a smile, almost sheepish under the weight of his gaze.

He shakes his head a little, smiling like a fool, like the feeling in his chest is too big for words.

“Nothing. Just… you.”

You giggle.

“That’s not an answer, mister.”

He laughs under his breath, then kisses your forehead, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Want me to run you a bath?” He offers softly.

You lay your hand over his, stroking the back of it as he cups your face. “Only if you join,” you wink.

His answer is immediate. “Done.”

He shifts to sit up, but not before giving you one more kiss—slow, sweet, like a promise. “I’ll be right back. Stay cozy.”

You hear the soft creak of the faucet turning on, the gentle rush of water echoing faintly from the bathroom. He moves around quietly, opening drawers, setting things down, and humming under his breath as he prepared this little ritual he’s done a hundred times for you.

When he returns to the bedroom, he’s shirtless, damp towel in one hand, and smiling like he just lit every candle in the world just for you. “It’s ready,” he says, voice warm. “Perfect temperature. Bubbles and all.”

You sit up, letting the blanket slip off your shoulders, and he immediately steps forward to wrap it back around you, his hands brushing down your arms with affection. “Want help getting there?”

You nod, and he lifts you easily, bridal style, because of course he does, earning giggles from you. He carries you into the softly lit bathroom, where the tub is already steaming, the scent of lavender and something faintly sweet in the air.

“There we go,” he smiles, helping you in. The water ripples as he steps in behind you, warm and careful, settling in with a low sigh. His arms come around you almost automatically—slow, steady—and you melt back into him with a sleepy grin.

His chest is pressed to your back, his legs on either side of yours, and his chin rests on your shoulder. He exhales deeply, his breath brushing your skin.

The warmth of the water surrounds you, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his skin against yours, the way his fingertips draw slow patterns along your arms beneath the surface. Every now and then, he presses a kiss to your shoulder or cheek, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world just to love you like this.

Your fingers stay twined with his. You don’t talk much—there’s no need. It’s one of those rare, quiet silences that says everything. He leans his head against yours and lets out a little hum, content.

Eventually, the water cools just slightly, and he shifts, his lips brushing your ear. “Come on,” he whispers, soft and coaxing. “Let’s get you dry before you fall asleep on me in here.”

You let him help you up, both of you dripping and a little giggly as he wraps a towel around you and one around himself. He dries you off gently, his hands sweet and familiar, pausing to kiss your shoulder, the curve of your neck, your forehead.

You step out of the bath, feeling the steam cling to your skin, and glance at him with a sheepish smile. “I just need to pee real quick,” you say, before slipping away toward the toilet.

Bathtub empty, both of you dry and spent, he pulls the blankets down and helps you crawl to bed first, then slides in behind you, pulling you into his chest like it’s instinct. His arms wrap around you again—just like in the tub—and this time, the sheets are warm, the room is quiet, and your skin is still damp in that post-bath glow.

He kisses the back of your shoulder once more before whispering, “You okay?”

You nod, sleepy and safe. “Mhm. You?”

His reply is immediate, low and sincere.

“Never been better.”

Home has never felt so warm.

[☆★🤎★☆]

~kats, who has listened to hozier’s cover of “do i wanna know?” an unhealthy amount of times.

permanent taglist! @svckrpvnch @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @lyramundana @cheeksung @staytinyluva

[catiuskaa]

okay so, i’m not really a channie girl, but i just think he would be so sweet to his girl, especially during aftercare when she has a daddy kink, which he loves. i would love a one-shot of a little bit of smut at the beginning leading up to when they both climax. and then he relishes her with love and affection during aftercare, making sure she has everything she needs. her love language is touch, and chan does his best to make sure she feels loved in that way.

tysm!!

hihi anonnie!!

as someone who thoroughly identifies as a channie girl, you’ve got me hooked babes 🙂‍↕️‼️ love me some chan smut + fluff.

here it is!

hope you like! 🗣️💗

[catiuskaa]

BABYYYY

[catiuskaa]

good god.

[catiuskaa]

THISSS!! anything!! i agree!!! like, sure if it means i can take him to dinner 😭💗💗‼️

𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭, 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧, 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬.

from: love bites burns.

chapters: intro / EP 1 / EP 2 / EP 3 / EP 4 /

short syn. a strained reunion with old friends helps set things clear—but a quiet visit to the fire station sparks inside both you and Changbin a flicker of something warmer. Wait until night, until he opens the door—then, that flicker catches fire.

wc. 11.3k

cw. tension and feelings of alienation within a friend group, emotional confrontation between friends, mention of death and loss, cemetery setting, grief and emotional dialogue, sexually explicit content, adult language, kisses, markings, protected piv sex (we love to see it), and I think that’s all, folks!

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

The echo of his engine fades long before the heat in your chest does.

You close the door slowly, the silence of your apartment pressing in around you, soft and sudden. You exhale and lean your head back against the door, the kiss still humming on your lips, his chapstick mixed with yours. 

For a while, you just stand there. The quiet wraps around you like a blanket, the kind that’s both comforting and just a little too heavy. Somewhere in the distance, a car passes. The fridge hums. Your heart slowly finds its rhythm again.

Your skin still tingles, warmth buzzing at your fingertips. His laughter echoes faintly in your mind, tugging a smile from you despite yourself. Your hand moves to your lips before you can think about it. 

And yet, beneath the afterglow, something unsettles. A different kind of weight starts to rise—quieter, but no less real.

It hits gently, not like a wave, but like a shift in the air. A slow awareness that creeps in now that the adrenaline is gone. The memory of her, your friend, standing in your hallway, fire in her eyes and hurt carved into every line of her face.

Your smile fades a little.

She didn’t even ask who he was. She just looked at you like she didn’t recognize you anymore.

You rub at your chest, as if that could smooth out the ache there. You know she caught you off guard, but you also know… maybe she deserved more than that. More than you being frozen. More than you brushing it off.

Now that the noise has quieted—now that you’re not being kissed breathless in the doorway—it’s easier to see it. To sit with it.

You glance at the time. It’s way too late to call. And honestly, you wouldn’t know what to say yet, not when your head’s still a bit foggy and your heart’s still full of tangled threads.

But tomorrow… or maybe sometime this week.

You’ll reach out. You’ll figure it out.

Even if it’s just a message.

Even if it’s just, Hey. I’m sorry about earlier. Can we talk?

Your feet finally move, carrying you to the kitchen where you rinse out the glass of water you’d forgotten you were holding. The clink of the glass in the sink is sharp in the quiet.

You pad toward your bedroom slowly, flicking off the lights one by one. In the dark, the silence stretches again, longer now, heavier—but not unbearable.

You’ll fix it. Or at least… you’ll try.

And as you crawl into bed, head still spinning in a dozen directions, you realize something else.

This—whatever this is with Changbin—might be the start of something real.

And if that’s true, you don’t want to walk into it with old fires still smoldering in the background.

You owe her more than that.

You owe yourself more than that.

The next morning arrives on the same note that you left off with when you went to bed at night far too calmly for the storm brewing inside your chest. The apartment is quiet—Changbin’s laughter and warm hands are gone, leaving nothing but your own heartbeat and the faint hum of the fridge.

You haven’t stopped pacing.

Barefoot, half-dressed, hair still a mess from sleep.

The wood creaks beneath your feet.

Back to the desk.

Pause in front of your phone.

Turn on your heel again.

It’s pathetic. You know it. But your thoughts won’t sit still long enough for you to do anything else.

It’s all that you do for what feels like an eternity. Walk. From your mom’s dresser to the other side of the room. Wlak. Staring at your phone from the corner of your eye, as if it’s a burden you need to figure out how to deal with —a body you need to figure out how to bury without it meaning being the target of the whole body of police in the city.

Your arms are crossed tightly over your chest as if holding yourself together, your bottom lip pulled tight between your teeth. Every couple of minutes, you stop in front of your phone on the desk and just stare at it—like you’re waiting for it to type the message for you. Or to disappear entirely so you wouldn’t have to decide.

You want to apologize. You want to explain. You want things to go back to before everything got so tense and awkward and painful. But what do you even say?

“Hey, sorry for vanishing for two months because y’all were too busy being happy.”

Yeah, that’ll go over great.

You rub your forehead and mutter to yourself as you pace again.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

You try typing something. Then delete it. Type again. Backspace. Your thumb hovers over the call button. You lower it.

You’re almost at your wit’s end—nerves frayed, stomach tight, every breath shallower than the last. You stop, plant your hands on your hips, and glare at the phone like it personally betrayed you.

“Just do something,” you whisper, pacing one final lap across your room.

And then—buzz.

The sound nearly sends you through the ceiling. You scramble toward the desk, pick up the phone with fumbling fingers, and read the notification with wide eyes:

“Come by my place for lunch. Let’s talk.”

No emojis. No coldness, either. Just… direct.

You sink into your bed with the phone still in your hand, exhaling all the air you didn’t know you’d been holding. Relief crashes into your ribs and leaves you dizzy. You stare at the message like it might disappear if you blink too hard.

This doesn’t mean everything’s fixed. But it means something. So you text back quickly before your nerves catch up to you: 

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

Your hands are still shaking when you stand to get dressed, but there’s something steady beneath it now—something like hope.

[.]

The cemetery gates groan as Changbin pushes them open, the rusted metal protesting like the day itself doesn’t want him to enter. The sky above is overcast, thick gray clouds bruising the horizon, threatening rain but holding back—as if even the weather understands this is a day of remembering.

His boots crunch against the gravel path as he walks in, each step slower than the last. Rows of headstones rise around him, uneven and silent, like quiet witnesses. Wind threads through the trees, cold and biting, stirring the brittle leaves that have already begun to fall. The stillness isn’t peaceful—it presses on his chest, heavy, hollow.

He knows the way without needing to look. His body remembers the turns even if he tells himself he’s forgotten. And when he sees the grave—Kang Jisoo, beloved son, friend, never forgotten—he stops short. His breath catches, chest tightening with a strange mix of guilt and longing that never really goes away, but rather fades with time.

He stands there for a moment, jaw tight, hands fisting in his pockets. Then he exhales—shaky, uneven—and mutters, “Hey.” He kneels down, places a small paper bag next to the stone, and doesn’t speak again for a while. Just sits. 

The cemetery stretches out in gentle slopes, blanketed by grass that’s a little too long in some places and wildflowers that bloom defiantly in between cracks of stone. Tall trees line the edges like quiet sentinels, their branches swaying softly with the breeze. There’s a stillness to it all—not silence, exactly, but a calm that settles deep. Birds call out from somewhere up high, distant and occasional, and the air carries the faint scent of moss and old rain, like the earth remembers every footstep ever taken here.

Marble headstones catch the pale midday light, their inscriptions worn at the edges by time and weather. Some are freshly tended, with bouquets of bright flowers, others long forgotten, ivy creeping up from the soil to claim what’s been left behind. A narrow path of gravel cuts through it all, winding like a memory that doesn’t quite know where it’s going. The church’s steeple peeks from behind a cluster of trees in the distance, and its bell, though not yet ringing, feels like it’s always just about to—it’s that kind of place. A place where time doesn’t stop, but it slows down just enough to feel heavy.

He doesn’t immediately speak. Instead, he stays there for a moment, letting the weight of the day —not his day, because he isn’t tired when it’s barely lunchtime, but rather this day, specifically— settle over him. The anniversary. Another year without his friend. He presses his hand to the stone, a sigh escaping his lips.

His body is tired, but not from exertion—no, this kind of tiredness settles deeper. In the joints between memories. In the marrow of days like this one.

“I thought it would get easier, you know?” Changbin murmurs, his voice low, almost lost in the wind. He chuckles softly to himself. “But here we are. Another year.”

The cemetery is quiet, the only sounds being the wind rustling through the leaves and the distant chirping of birds. Changbin takes out a sandwich, unwrapping it carefully, as if the act of eating here somehow makes it feel like he’s sharing the moment with Jisoo.

“I guess you’re probably laughing at me right now,” Changbin says with a rueful smile,not quite biting into his sandwich just yet. He sighs thoughtfully, glancing at the tombstone as if waiting for a response. “Still can’t get my shit together. Still messing things up. But… I’m trying, Jisoo. I really am.”

He pulls out a can of beer from the bag, the sound of the tab cracking open breaking the silence. He tilts the can toward the tombstone, offering it as if toasting with his long-lost friend.

His hand brushes along the grass, pulling up a stray leaf. Then he laughs under his breath and pulls out the can of beer he brought, setting it next to the stone.

“Figured you’d want one.” He mumbles, then bites the inside of his cheek, holding back a sheepish smile. “I know you’d be laughing at me for talking to you like this… but it’s what I’ve got.”

He doesn’t open his right away. Instead, he shifts, sitting back, his legs stretched out in front of him, the paper bag crinkling as he opens it.

“Things are… weird,” he says after a long pause. “Work’s fine. Jeongin’s still obsessed with energy drinks, Chan keeps pretending he’s not tired. You know, the usual.” He picks at the sandwich he packed. “Hyunjin got promoted, but he still hates his boss. Can you believe that? The old woman loves him. Don’t worry, though—he still complains more than he works.”

The breeze picks up again, and his smile falters, just a little.

As the cold beer touches his lips, Changbin leans back against the tree, his eyes drifting to the sky. The clouds are heavy, and a light breeze brushes through the cemetery, making the moment feel even more still, more real.

He leans back further, taking another sip from the can, before taking a few more bites of his sandwich. For the first time in a long time, it feels like he’s not running away from anything. He’s just… here. Present. With Jisoo. And maybe, in his own way, moving forward.

He looks down at the tombstone, eyes tracing the name etched into the stone.

Kang Jisoo.

“I visit every year, but… Doesn’t feel like a year,” Changbin murmurs, voice soft, rough. “Feels like yesterday. Feels like ten years. Both.”

And just underneath Kang Jisoo, read Kim Hana. 

“I miss you both.” He licks his lips. “I wonder if you’re somewhere else, but at least you two are together.”

Changbin picks at the corner of the lunchbox with a quiet sigh, eyes still on the name etched into stone. The food tastes like nothing, but he chews slowly, methodically, like it’ll help fill the silence he’s come to accept every year. But this time feels different. This time, there’s something restless beneath his ribs. He lets out a low, humorless laugh and shakes his head. “You know,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “for the first time, I think I get it. The way you used to look at her. The way you used to get so damn reckless about it.” His jaw tenses. “You nearly lost everything—hell, you did lose everything—for love. And I used to think that was the dumbest, most selfish thing you’d ever done.” He pauses, thumb tracing a line on the can of beer. “But now? Shit. Now I’m starting to think… maybe I finally understand what was worth it. And you’d probably laugh if you could see me right now.”

Seo blushes a bit. Then, he confesses.

“There’s this girl.”

It hangs there in the air.

He swallows.

“She was in our last fire. The seventh floor call. Worst one we’ve had in a while. We got everyone out, but it was… close. Chan killed me for jumping off a windowsill, but I know you would’ve dabbed me up on the spot, Hyung. But yeah… her.” His fingers tighten slightly around the sandwich. “She… I carried her out. And since then, it’s like—she’s everywhere. Not in a haunting way. Not like that. More like…” He exhales, almost amused. “Like I can’t help it.”

There’s a pause.

“I think you’d like her.”

Just then, the sound of the church bell rings out across the quiet cemetery, its deep tone echoing in the distance. Changbin smiles to himself, the sound somehow familiar and oddly comforting. It’s lunchtime, just like always.

“Happy lunch, Hyung, Noona,” he says with a small chuckle, shaking his head. The simple rhythm of the world continues, even here. Even on days like this. “You two’d have a field day knowing Chan allowed me to skip part of my shift to drive here. And on my bike, too.” He snorts. “I know you just  pretended to hate it, Noona.”

The bells ring once more, and the soft clink of his beer can echoes in the quiet, as Changbin stays there, his thoughts slowly drifting away from guilt and into something a little more peaceful.

He raises the canned beer toward the stone again.

Changbin smiles. Takes another sip. The church bell in the distance begins to ring. A slow, solemn toll that echoes through the hills and slips between the trees.

Lunchtime starts.

[.]

The distant church bell rings as some kind of ominous soundtrack, but as much as each of your steps dread continuing, you walk.

You walk to your friend’s house. Slowly.

It’s not far, but each step feels like a test you didn’t study for —stomach fluttering with nerves, hands stuffed deep in your coat pockets as if you could hide the tension in your knuckles. You rehearse what to say the entire way there, quietly mouthing half-formed sentences that never make it past your lips. You still don’t know if you’re ready. You just know you can’t stay quiet anymore.

When her place comes into view, your eyes scan instinctively toward the windows. That’s when you notice it —just beyond the glass, near the entrance mat inside. A pile of shoes. Too many to belong to just her.

Your chest tightens. You recognize the scuffed sneakers with mismatched laces. The neat pair of loafers. Even the combat boots, half tucked under the bench.

They’re all here.

You freeze on the sidewalk, breath caught in your throat. This was supposed to be a quiet lunch — just the two of you. A chance to talk. Apologize. Understand.

Your hand twitches at your side. You nearly turn back.

Then the door opens.

She’s there, arms folded across her chest, framed by the soft light behind her. Her eyes meet yours and hold. Not angry. Not exactly warm. Just… tired. But open.

“Hey,” she says. “I didn’t know the others were coming when I asked you to come by. They just showed up. I figured… maybe it’s not the worst thing.”

You glance past her. Shadows move in the hallway. Someone’s voice murmurs something before going quiet again.

You try to smile, but it falters. “I can come back another time, if it’s too much—”

“Don’t,” she says quickly, gently. “You’re already here.”

She steps aside.

And despite the nerves screaming in your gut, you walk in.

The hallway is quiet, but you can feel the presence of everyone in the living room before you even see them. When you round the corner, they all look up — startled, frozen.

Except one.

The moment she sees you, she curses under her breath, eyes filling instantly. “Shit.”

And then she stands. She doesn’t hesitate.

She crosses the room in two quick steps, tears sliding down her face, and wraps her arms around you in a tight, shaking hug.

You freeze.

Then you exhale — a quiet, shaky thing — and let yourself hug her back.

No one says anything. Not yet.

But in that silence, something begins to thaw.

[.]

You’ve called him twice already.

The first time, you told yourself it was just a check-in. Nothing urgent. Just a silly excuse to hear his voice again, maybe tease him for the way he left you all breathless the night before. But the second call—left unanswered, with no reply or text—makes your chest start to tighten.

You call again. It rings and rings, then goes to voicemail.

You try again. Still nothing.

By the third time, there’s not even the ring—just an immediate “This number is unavailable.” You pull the phone away from your ear, frown at the screen. 

Powered off.  A strange knot forms low in your stomach. Something’s off.

You pace around your apartment, your phone untouched now on the desk. You spin on your heel for the fifth time in two minutes. What if something happened? But you end up groaning, before shaking your head and pressing your palms to your face. “No, don’t be dramatic. He’s probably just… busy.”

You wander the apartment, phone in hand, chewing on your bottom lip as you try to reason your way out of the worry. He’s fine. He’s probably just—what? At the gym? Out with the guys? Napping with his phone dead beside him?

It’s only when you sit down at one of the stools in the kitchen aisle that you see it: a bracelet —his bracelet, on the kitchen counter, next to the sink.

It sits there, half-coiled like a forgotten thought. He had taken it off while cooking last night, muttering something about not wanting it to get splattered. It gleams slightly in the light coming through the window. It feels personal. Important. Like an anchor.

You pick it up. It’s warm from the sun that lights from the window, but feels heavier than it should. Like some kind of sign.

Before you can convince yourself otherwise, or before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re slipping into your shoes, grabbing your keys, and you’re out the door, the bracelet clenched in your palm, getting into your car and heading toward the station with no real plan except to see if he’s there.

If he’s not picking up his phone, and you’ve got something of his… well, dropping by the station isn’t that unreasonable, right?

The fire station is surprisingly still when you arrive. It’s a big building, bigger than you expected—tall red doors gleaming, one of them cracked slightly open. There’s the distant hum of equipment, faint voices echoing inside, the scent of smoke and something metallic clinging to the warm afternoon air.

You step cautiously inside, the soles of your shoes tapping softly on the concrete. There’s a rush of cool air from within—shaded, quiet, and intimate in a way that startles you. You pass racks of gear, helmets stacked neatly on benches, uniforms hanging like sentinels. It’s oddly quiet for a place meant for chaos. You hesitate at the entrance, holding the bracelet tightly in your fist, until someone steps into view.

Then, just as you round a corner, you nearly walk into someone.

“Whoa,” a voice says, stepping back.

You look up—and it’s him. Captain Bang Chan.

He blinks once, then recognition sparks in his eyes. “You’re—wait. You’re the girl from the apartment fire.”

You nod, slightly breathless. “Yeah. Uh… sorry, I didn’t mean to barge in. I was just—”

“Looking for Changbin?” he finishes for you, easy smile softening the edge of your nerves. He blinks at you for a moment, surprised, and then smiles. “Anything wrong?”

You nod, a little awkward. “Yeah, I mean, no…” You smile. “He hasn’t been answering his phone, so…”

“Yeah. He left this.” You open your palm to show the bracelet. “I just—wanted to check. You know.”

He doesn’t, but he can figure it out by himself. Chan glances at the bracelet, then back at you with a quiet understanding. “He’s not here. Bet he turned his phone off too…” He smiles when you nod.

You nod slowly, clutching the bracelet again, unsure of what to say.

Chan watches you for a moment, then sighs. There’s a flicker of hesitation before he speaks, as if weighing what to say next. Finally, he offers a gentle smile. “He went to pay someone a visit. Don’t panic if his phone is turned off. He does that, but it’s…” Chan bites his lip. “You don’t need to worry, but I just… I think he’d rather tell you himself.”

You blink. “Oh. Okay.” But something about the way Chan speaks—calm, measured, warm—grounds you. Not in dismissal, but in trust. Like he knows exactly where Changbin is, and that it’s important. Like he knows you’ll understand in time.

Just then, you catch movement behind Chan—two figures peeking from around the corner like children caught mid-scheme. Jeongin and Hyunjin duck back with a poorly muffled snicker. 

Chan grins. “Jeongin, Hyunjin, I can see your hair.”

Hyunjin leans out, not the least bit sorry. “We weren’t eavesdropping. Just observing.”

Jeongin peeks over his shoulder. “Scientific purposes.”

You catch Chan’s amused eye and can’t help laughing, a bit of tension slipping from your chest.

“Ignore them. They’ve been insufferable ever since they found out.” His tone shifts then, softer. “I’m glad, though.”

You blink. “Glad?”

Chan holds your gaze a moment before continuing. “Not just today. I mean—back then. The fire. It was hell. We’re trained for it, yeah, but… it doesn’t always mean we walk out feeling okay. But ever since that day, I’ve seen something in Changbin that I haven’t seen in a long time.”

Your cheeks burn. You swallow. “What?”

“Hope,” he says. Simple. Honest. “You shook him up—in a good way. He’s lighter. Still grumpy, still loud,” he adds with a small smile, “but there’s something else now. He laughs more. Talks more. Has this look in his eyes like—like there’s something to look forward to. So whatever this is between you two… thank you. You’ve done more than you probably realize.”

For a moment, all you can do is stand there in the quiet, surrounded by fire gear and too many emotions.

The bracelet in your hand suddenly feels even heavier.

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but Chan just grins again and waves it off. “Don’t worry. I won’t embarrass him too much. Just—thank you. For making him feel like himself again.”

A snort echoes somewhere to your left, and when you glance over, two heads duck immediately behind a row of lockers.

Chan doesn’t even turn around. “Guys. C’mon.” He sighs, but still chuckles.

Hyunjin pops up like it’s nothing. “We’re just being supportive!”

“Like the emotional support team we are,” Jeongin adds from behind him.

You can’t help but laugh, just a little. It bubbles out of you before you can stop it—and it feels good.

Chris’ words settle somewhere deep in your chest, curling warmly like steam from a mug on a cold morning. It’s ridiculous how fast it hits you—the flutter behind your ribs, the way your shoulders loosen without you realizing. That strange, quiet ache in your throat that feels like relief. Like maybe you haven’t imagined all of this after all.

You don’t say anything right away. Just let yourself stand there in the gentle hum of the station, surrounded by laughter behind lockers and the faint scent of smoke and detergent. Chan doesn’t push. He only smiles, like he already knows.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” you ask, biting your lip before you can stop yourself. I miss him, you don’t say.

Chan glances at you, his expression gentler now, like he hears it anyway.

“Probably soon,” he says. “He never stays gone too long.”

You nod, though it doesn’t ease the twist in your stomach. Your fingers close around the bracelet again, holding it tight like it might somehow tether you to him.

“You can leave that with me if you want,” Chan offers, gesturing to the bracelet. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”

But you shake your head slowly. “No. I’ll hold onto it a little longer.”

Chan smiles, and there’s something knowing in it. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I think he’d like that.”

Chan says, tilting his head slightly, “So, how’s your arm?”

You blink, then glance down instinctively—your cast is gone, and even though the bruises have already started to fade, the memory still lingers. You rub it lightly. “Getting better. It doesn’t hurt as much now.”

Chan’s smile softens. “You gave us all a scare that day.”

You huff a quiet laugh, eyes dropping. “Yeah. Me too.”

There’s a beat of silence, not uncomfortable, just thoughtful. Then he adds, “It’s kind of wild, isn’t it? That something so terrifying ended up bringing you two together.”

Your gaze lifts, startled by the tenderness in his voice.

He just shrugs, eyes kind. You open your mouth, trying to find something to say, but before you can, a head pops out from the hallway behind Chan.

“Well, someone’s being sappy today,” Jeongin grins, leaning casually against the doorframe. “You’re gonna make her cry, hyung.”

Chan rolls his eyes, but you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “Hi, Jeongin.”

Right behind him, Hyunjin peeks out too, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “So this is her?”

“You’re the hair tie owner. The roommate, I suppose?” You smile at him, and the way his face lights up tells you he definitely enjoyed the reference.

Hyunjin’s eyes widen for half a second before he bursts into a guilty grin. “Guilty as charged” He smiles. “We’re all very invested in your story, by the way.”

Chan shakes his head with a fond sigh. “Can you two stop interrogating her like she’s on a variety show?”

But you’re laughing now, warmth spreading in your chest like sunlight. They’re teasing you, yes—but there’s kindness under it. Openness.

And somehow, it makes you miss Changbin even more.

“Welcome to our humble home.” Jeongin teases. “Please excuse my boss, he’s a little emotionally constipated.”

Chan groans. “I literally just said one nice thing.”

“And it was beautiful,” Hyunjin says dramatically, placing a hand over his heart before winking at you. “But seriously. It’s nice to finally meet you properly.”

You smile, feeling the tension in your chest slowly ease with their lighthearted energy.

“You make our Changbin smile like an idiot,” Jeongin adds with a smirk. “We like you already.”

Your cheeks flush, but you can’t help the soft, fluttering grin that takes over your face.

“You guys always like this?” you ask, voice lighter than it’s felt in days.

Jeongin winks. “Only when we like someone.”

“That’s not true,” Hyunjin says at the same time. “We’re always like this.”

Chan chuckles, stepping in. “But we do like you. Just so that’s clear.” His tone shifts slightly, softer now, more genuine. “Especially because Changbin does.”

Your breath catches. You glance up at him, and for a moment, his teasing nature fades, replaced by something gentler, steadier.

“I haven’t seen him like this in a long time,” Chan says. “And I’ve known him for a really long time.”

The hallway quiets. Even Jeongin and Hyunjin go still. The hum of the station—the distant clatter of boots, the low murmur of voices in the back—seems far away. You blink slowly, heart full.

Chan’s voice drops a little. “He’s been carrying a lot for a while. I think… you remind him it’s okay to put it down sometimes.”

Your throat tightens, but your smile doesn’t fade. You swallow. Chan just smiles, the kind that reaches all the way to his eyes. “He’ll be happy you came by. You should tell him you missed him. He’ll like hearing it.”

You don’t answer at first. But you do glance down at the bracelet in your hands.

“Well. It was very nice to meet you, but I wouldn’t want to be a bother.” You chuckle sheepishly. 

Chan grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Not a bother at all,” he says, leaning back against the counter casually. “You’re welcome here anytime. And trust me, if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” His tone holds that comforting, reassuring edge, as if he’s really trying to make sure you know it’s genuine.

Jeongin and Hyunjin exchange a quick glance, both with smirks that are way too knowing for your liking, before they quickly divert their attention back to whatever they were doing—likely plotting more harmless teasing. The tension in the air eases, and you find yourself letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

You turn back to Chan, who’s now standing upright again, his hands resting loosely in his pockets. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” you reply, the words coming easier now. You catch yourself smiling a little more than you meant to, but something about the way Chan looks at you makes the nerves slip away.

“I should go. My friends texted me while I was getting here, but they wanted to go shopping.” You smile. “It was nice meeting you all!”

The station door swings open with a soft creak not even ten minutes later, and Changbin steps inside, wiping his palms against his jeans. The familiar scent of smoke and metal greets him, grounding him after the quiet weight of the cemetery. But something else lingers in the air today—something warmer.

“You two really do make this look like a romance movie,” Jeongin calls from the corner, clearly trying to sound casual but failing miserably as he holds back a laugh. Hyunjin isn’t any better, throwing a teasing grin in Changbin’s direction.

“Yeah, perfect timing.” Hyunjin giggles into Jeongin’s neck. “You just missed it, Romeo.”

Changbin freezes mid-step. “Missed what?”

Hyunjin pokes his head over the couch, already grinning. “You know, your Juliet.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Future Seo Changbin Jr.’s other parental figure.”

Chan looks up from the table, his expression soft as he chuckles into his coffee. “Your little friend came by. Looking for you.”

A rush of warmth surges up his spine, nearly knocking the breath out of him. He clears his throat, trying to mask the way his pulse skips. “She came here?”

“She came by. Cute bracelet return trope. Little bow, sheepish smile.” Jeongin snorts. “Whole thing was very K-Drama Episode 7.”

Hyunjin nods solemnly. “I almost applauded.”

Changbin just blinks, a bit confused. Chan giggles. “You left your bracelet at her place.”

Changbin’s hand instinctively goes to his wrist, fingertips brushing the bare skin where the piece of metal used to rest. “Oh.” It feels oddly exposed now.

“She thought you’d want it back,” Chan adds, then smirks slightly. “But I said you’d probably like it better if she kept it for you.”

A huff of breath leaves Changbin’s nose, a half-laugh he can’t suppress. His ears burn red. The thought of you holding onto it—of you thinking about him at all—lights something fizzy and sweet in his chest.

The teasing fades into the background as Changbin finally unfreezes, muttering something about needing to put his things away. No one stops him. Instead, they just exchange a few knowing looks as he disappears down the hall.

The locker room is dim and still, lit only by the soft overhead light and the muted hum of afternoon sun filtering through the narrow windows. Changbin walks over to his locker, sets his bike helmet down, and leans his forehead against the cool metal door.

For a second, he just stands there. Lowers himself onto the bench slowly, like if he moves too fast the moment might break. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. But then he breaks—he grins. A full, unfiltered grin, and his hands come up to scrub at his cheeks, as if that might calm the rising pink.

Then, barely above a whisper, like he’s scared the moment might vanish if he says it too loud, he murmurs. “She came here.”

He stands. His heart is running a marathon, and he can’t sit still. He leans his back against his locker’s door, a quiet, stunned smile tugging at his lips. It’s not just giddiness —it’s something deeper, something that settles in his chest with warm certainty. Your voice, your eyes, all of it replays in his mind like a song he doesn’t want to forget.

The silence isn’t empty—it’s full of the ghost of your laughter, the faint trace of your perfume, the warmth you left behind like sunlight clinging to a room long after the door’s been shut.

And Changbin lets it wash over him, cheeks still warm, heart still racing.

His fingers brush over his wrist again, where the bracelet used to sit.

You’re keeping it.

And that only means he has another excuse to see you again.

“Knock, knock?” Chan smiles, moving his head through the locker room’s door. “Bin,” Chan softens, his gaze shifting to Changbin with quiet understanding. “How was the visit?”

Changbin sitting back on the bench, staring out at the dim hallway as the weight of the morning lingers on him. The memory of the cemetery is still fresh, vivid in his mind. The stillness of the place, the quiet of his own thoughts, and the way the church bell had rung, signaling lunchtime as he sat there, eating alone, offering the tombstone a can of beer as though Jisoo could join him. The thought of it feels almost absurd, yet somehow, it felt like the only way to keep the past alive.

He sighs deeply, his eyes slightly unfocused, as if he’s lost in the space between the present and the past.

Changbin shifts his weight, his shoulders feeling heavier than usual. He rubs the back of his neck, his fingers lingering there as if the pressure could somehow relieve the tension building in his chest. His eyes flicker toward Chan but then quickly dart away, unsure of how to put his feelings into words.

“It was… good,” Changbin finally murmurs, but it sounds hollow in the silence that stretches between them. He can feel the weight of the cemetery visit pulling at him, the memory of Jisoo’s grave too tangible, too real. He exhales, his breath shaky, his hands gripping the doorframe. “I don’t think I’ve ever really understood before. I get it now—why he was the way he was. Why he did what he did.”

He lets the words sit in the air, his gaze drifting out the window, watching the trees sway outside in the breeze. There’s a quiet heaviness to him, a weight he hasn’t been able to shake off, not even in the presence of the tombstone that used to be a symbol of guilt.

Chan doesn’t say anything right away, his gaze soft as he watches Changbin, sensing the depth of the silence. The soft click of a pen against paper in the next room fills the space, but it feels far away, like it doesn’t belong to them.

“I didn’t think I’d be standing there today,” Changbin adds quietly, more to himself than to Chan. “Talking to Jisoo like that, as if I could ask for answers. I didn’t expect it to feel like… this. Like I’m finally seeing things the way he saw them.”

Chan is quiet for a long moment, letting the words settle in the air, like dust in the afternoon light. Then he leans against the counter, arms folded loosely as he watches Changbin, his expression softening with unspoken understanding.

“It’s heavy, I know,” Chan says, his voice low. His eyes flicker toward the door, the faint sounds of the fire station bustling just beyond it, but it all feels distant, like they’re suspended in time, in this shared silence. “But you’re here now. You’re not still stuck in that place. You’re here.”

Changbin nods slowly, his gaze fixed on the ground, trying to process everything. There’s a strange weight in his chest, but there’s also something else—a quiet, almost imperceptible shift.

“Yeah. I think… I think I can start moving forward now,” he murmurs, the words tentative, fragile, but sincere. 

Chan doesn’t say anything more, but his presence is comforting, steady. He just watches Changbin, giving him space without pushing, allowing the silence to fill in the gaps where words aren’t needed.

His eyes crease, and Chris winks at him.

”Don’t forget your bracelet, Romeo.”

[.]

The sound of soft giggles breaks through the quiet hum of the apartment, pulling Changbin’s attention away from where he’s fixing his hair in the mirror. He squints over his shoulder toward the couch.

“You texting Jeongin again?” he teases, arching a brow.

Hyunjin snorts, barely glancing up from his phone. “No,” he grins, “I’m not texting my boyfriend, thank you very much.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Changbin mutters with a sneaky grin, shaking his head as he smooths a hand through his hair. Yeah, looks better. He grabs his keys from the counter, sliding them into his pocket as Hyunjin hums something smug behind him.

“I’m staying at Jeongin’s tonight, by the way,” Hyunjin calls out a few minutes later, louder this time, as he slips his phone into his hoodie pocket and heads toward the door.

“Okay…” Changbin nods, distracted, only half-registering the comment as he checks the time and taps his phone screen again. There’s several missed calls from you, calls you made when he was back in the cemetery. He’s about to call you back, and maybe also ask if it’s okay for him to come by and retrieve his bracelet, when—

Ding-dong.

The doorbell rings, and he blinks, confused. “Hyunjin, did you—?” He pads toward the door, opening it with a casual, “Did you forget somethi—”

His voice catches.

Because it’s not Hyunjin.

It’s you.

Standing in front of him, cheeks pink from the cool air the night brings, eyes warm and bright. You’re in a fitted black top that hugs your figure just right, paired with a short, frayed jean skirt. The over-the-knee socks—dark gray, hugging your legs snugly—add something almost devastatingly cute to the whole look, and for a moment, he just stands there, stunned. Your hair is loosely done, like you didn’t try too hard but still somehow look like a dream, and when you smile up at him, bracelet in hand, he forgets how to breathe.

“No, actually,” you say softly. “You did.”

Changbin stares for half a second, speechless, and then laughs—a breathy, disbelieving kind of sound.

You shrug, playful. “Long story short, Hyunjin found my Instagram and told me to come by. I hope I’m not intruding…?”

Changbin just smiles, slow and wide, like the world’s caught him by surprise in the best way.

“You could never.”

You toe off your shoes and wander further inside, fingers brushing the edge of the kitchen counter as you glance around. It smells like him—clean linen and something vaguely spicy, like the cologne that clings to your sweater after a hug lasts too long.

He follows you, slower, quieter. You stop, turn around. And he’s already looking at you.

There’s a pause.

Neither of you speaks, but something’s shifted. The air feels thicker now, like the silence has weight. You fiddle with the hem of your sleeve. He takes a step closer.

“You really came,” he says again, but this time it sounds different. Lower. Closer to a confession than a statement.

You nod, heart tapping against your ribs. “You really didn’t call me back.”

He huffs a soft laugh, eyes dropping to your lips before catching himself. “Phone was off,” he says, trying to focus himself back to your eyes. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make you wait.”

“I wasn’t waiting,” you lie, barely. You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “But it’s okay,” you say, feigning nonchalance as you glance at your nails. “I downloaded Tinder anyway.”

That gets him—his eyes widen, a breath catches. “You didn’t.”

You shrug. “Didn’t I?”

There’s a beat, one suspended second before his laugh spills out, soft and disbelieving. “You’re impossible.”

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly you’re closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. Close enough to see the way his lashes flutter slightly, how his throat bobs when he swallows.

Then, like gravity gives in, your lips meet his. A small kiss. Another one, that tastes like a mix of his chapstick and your flavoured one. 

The teasing smiles fade into something else the moment your eyes meet again. A beat passes. His hand flexes at his side, then lifts slightly before he drops it again, unsure.

“You really came,” he says, more quietly now.

“I did.”

“I missed you.”

And your lips find his again.

It’s soft at first—tentative, searching. Then, sighing, you shift, and so does he. His hand finds your face, your neck, your jaw. Yours tangle in his hair. You both breathe harder now, kissing like the moment could end if you stop. Like stopping isn’t an option anymore. Outside, the world is still. But inside this apartment, everything is starting to burn.

The tension uncoils fast, sparking between teeth and breath and fingertips that find the edge of a shirt. It deepens with a quiet sound you don’t remember making, with the way he presses you back against the counter like he’s waited weeks instead of days.

His hand slides to your waist. Yours tug at the neck of his jacket, failing to pull him closer, for the laws of physics don’t allow you. You’re barely breathing between kisses now, every movement deeper, bolder, and everything else fades into the background. The only sound is the rush of your own breath mingling with his, the thrum of your heartbeat pounding in your chest. You feel his hand slide down to the small of your back, settling between you and the counter as if to shield you from the edge of the surface, and pulling you in even closer, like there’s nothing that could possibly separate the two of you now.

You break away just enough to catch your breath, but your foreheads stay pressed together, both of you grinning like idiots, eyes still closed.

“Guess I can’t get away from you,” Changbin murmurs, his voice husky but laced with amusement.

You laugh softly, tracing the outline of his jaw with your finger, “Nope. You’re stuck with me now.”

He’s still smiling, but there’s a hint of seriousness in the way he looks at you, like he’s thinking about something more than just this moment. He opens his mouth to say something, but you silence him with another kiss, slow this time, almost tender.

“I think I like this version of you,” he whispers, against your lips, and he grins even wider.

“Oh yeah?” You chuckle softly, leaning in to nudge your nose against his. “The one who doesn’t let you leave without stealing a kiss?”

“Exactly,” he teases, tucking a hair strand behind your ear. “I think you should do it more often.”

”You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” You snort. “You’d run away after a couple times, though.”

“No.” His hand comes up to cup your cheek, eyes softening as he gazes down at you. “I’d let you,” he says, voice dropping, silk smooth. “Anytime.”

For a moment, there’s only the quiet rhythm of your breaths and the undeniable pull between you, the space between you two having vanished. 

Your lips trail down his jaw in slow, openmouthed kisses, as his hands find the small of your back, pulling you closer until there’s nothing left between you but heat and breath. You curl your fingers onto his jacket, tugging it off, and he barely manages to laugh.

“Wait—wait,” he mumbles, smiling against the shell of your ear. “You just got here.”

“I’m making up for lost time,” you whisper, half teasing, half breathless.

He lets out a shaky exhale and moves his arms, letting you pull the jacket off his broad shoulders. Your hands splay over them, travelling across his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin even over his shirt, the quick thrum of his heartbeat underneath. You look up at him, and he’s already looking at you, deeply, with something you can’t quite piece together.

“I really did miss you,” he says again, quieter this time, more serious. Like he needs you to believe it.

You nod, swallowing around the sudden tightness in your throat. “I missed you too.”

His hands slide beneath the hem of your shirt, not rushing, just holding, grounding. He kisses you again, this time slower, deeper, like he’s memorizing the way you taste, the way you feel against him. And when you finally break apart just enough to breathe, he’s still smiling, a little dazed, a little breathless.

“Are you sure about this?” he murmurs against your lips, eyes flicking over your face, yearning to read every thought behind your eyes. “We can always have dinner first. Watch a movie. I wouldn’t wanna rush you…”

You laugh, breath hitching slightly as your fingers play with the hem of his shirt. “I mean,” you smirk, tilting your head up, “I could eat.”

“Yeah?” he grins, kissing your forehead. “What do you wanna eat?”

You lean in, lips brushing his as you whisper, “You.”

He exhales sharply, almost like a laugh, but it melts into a low groan as he pulls you back in again, his hands already finding their way to your hips.

“God,” he mumbles against your mouth. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smile into the kiss. “You’ll die happy.”

He groans under his breath, voice caught between a chuckle and something much more desperate. “Okay. That’s definitely going to ruin my self-control.”

“I’m not asking you to have any.”

He grins against your lips, voice low and teasing. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” you murmur, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, just enough to make him fail to hold back a shiver. “But you don’t seem to mind.”

“I don’t,” he admits, hands settling at your hips. “God, I really don’t.”

You nudge him playfully with your nose. “So… dinner and a movie?”

He lifts an eyebrow, lips quirking. “After all you’ve said, are you actually suggesting we don’t make out on the couch all night?”

You fake a gasp. “I’m a woman of class.”

“Oh really?” he smirks, brushing his lips against yours. “Then what do you call straddling me two minutes after showing up at my door?”

You blink. “A polite hello?”

That makes him laugh—loud and warm and a little disbelieving—and before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you into another kiss, one that promises you’re not going anywhere for a while.

You gasp a laugh into his neck, your arms wrapping around him instinctively as he carries you down the hallway. “You know this is wildly unfair, right?” you murmur, teasing, fingers threading into his hair.

He huffs a breath that’s half-laughter, half-something darker. “Unfair is you showing up at my door looking like that and saying things like you left your scent on my pillow.”

“You did!” you protest, grinning. “I had to do laundry just to stop thinking about you.”

Changbin chuckles lowly, nudging open his bedroom door with his foot. “Bold of you to assume that’s gonna help.”

The room is dimly lit, still carrying traces of the last time he was here, early in the morning, the faint smell of his cologne clinging to the air. He sets you down gently, but his hands linger, fingers splaying over your back like he doesn’t want to let go.

You lean in, catching his bottom lip between your teeth in a playful tug before you pull back just slightly, eyes meeting his. “So… movie night?”

He’s grinning like he’s never been happier. “Sure,” he says, brushing your hair back behind your ear. “But just so you know, I’m not watching a second of it.”

“Perfect,” you whisper, pulling him down to meet your mouth again.

The kiss deepens before either of you even really breathe, all soft mouths and slow-burning heat, like picking up a conversation you never quite stopped. His hands find your waist again, steady and warm, while yours slide up under the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing skin like you’re rediscovering something you didn’t know you missed.

You barely make it to the bed before falling into it, laughter and sighs tangled somewhere in the middle. Changbin settles above you but doesn’t rush, just looks at you for a moment—like he needs to memorize this, in case it’s a dream.

“God, you’re so—” he starts, then stops, because saying too much feels dangerous. Like tipping the scale too far too soon.

But you only smile, thumb brushing his jaw, and pressing a soft kiss on his cheek.

His chest rises with a quiet breath, and then he leans down again, kissing you like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. His hands move slowly, reverently—like he’s taking his time learning every curve, every sound you make, every shift beneath his touch.

He’s taken off guard when you suddenly take control, the dynamic of the situation abruptly shifting. You move him back, onto the bed, and he lets out a surprised gasp as his back hits the mattress. His eyes widen as you straddle his hips, your body pinning him down, but he doesn’t try to break free.

Changbin gazes up at you, a mixture of surprise and arousal evident in his expression. His hands instinctively go to your thighs, gripping the flesh there, as if trying to anchor himself.

“W-wait a sec…” He bites his lip to not whimper as your lips travel to his neck, peppering soft kisses that threaten to drive him crazy. “Please, gorgeous, let me… just… tell me…”

You swallow dry, settling your hands on his chest. “”I need to tell you something.” 

He blinks. Once, then twice. His eyes have turned so dark they could fuck you themselves. “O-okay,” he breathes out, one of his hands playing with a strand of your hair. “What is it?”

”I just, um…” You wait until he nods, reassuring you, and then you bite your lip. “Well. Last time I did something… like this, I…” You sigh, sitting back straight, and he moves with you, holding your waist, stroking you absentmindedly with his thumbs. “It was probably years ago.”

”Oh.” He chews on his lower lip. He wants to eat you alive. “Gorgeous, if you’re having second thoughts, I…”

You’re overthinking. You have been, ever since Hyunjin sent you the apartment's address. Honestly, a part of you always is. But you want this. Want him. So, for the second time in the day, and for the second time since you’ve met him, since he burned and churned everything you thought you knew about this world, you let your mind turn off, and you act again.

You grab the hem of your shirt, and you pass it softly over your head, taking it off.

It doesn’t matter if your act of foolishness or braveness or whatever that was fades just as your shirt touches the floor. You’ve never been insecure about your body, probably because you’ve always been too busy being insecure about every other thing you do or say. But if the case were different, and you had been filled with insecurities, —if you had had any doubts regarding whether the gorgeous man before you would find you attractive or desirable—, they would burn out in this instant.

His index hooks under your chin, moving softly so that you’d look at him.

Seo’s cheeks have turned red. His eyes, still as dark as before, struggle to look at your eyes, your lips, or the way your black bra holds your curves, decorating your skin with lacy patterns. He can’t pick where to look. His other hand, the one not holding your face, fists the bedsheets, as if to help him hold himself back.

”I…” He’s speechless. He doesn’t know what to say.

But then you grab his wrist, and Changbin’s breath catches when you guide his hand and press it flat against your chest, right over your racing heart. His fingers twitch instinctively, splayed wide like he’s afraid to press too hard, afraid to break whatever fragile thing is forming between you. But then he feels it—your heartbeat, wild and thunderous beneath his palm—and it makes his own skip, makes something twist and bloom in his chest. 

“You make me nervous, because you’re… you. But I’ve never been as comfortable as I feel when I’m with you.” You nod, and he stares up at you as if he’s seen an angel. “So, no. Please. I want this.”

You’re nervous. You’re saying it, but you’re also letting him feel it. And that trust, that quiet offering of vulnerability, knocks the air out of him. He’s never been good with words, not when the moment matters most, but now he doesn’t need them. 

“God, I…” His voice sounds like he has just ran a marathon. No, not just one. Ten marathons. “Okay. Yeah. We’ll take it slow.”

You move your hand toward your back to take your bra off, but he grabs it, stopping you. 

“Leave it on?” He blinks. “Please.” 

You nod. Your skirt is almost a belt at your waist, ridden up to its limits. “How about this one?” 

He gulps. “Y-yeah.” His jaw tightens. “Not the socks. Keep them.”

It all happens in blinks. Your skirt, off. His shirt, off. His belt clinks when it hits the floor, but you’re too busy being kissed crazy. Your lips are swollen, and he looks ethereal under the sole light of his desk light.

His breath is shallow as he leans back slightly, eyes searching yours, asking without words. When you nod, lips parted, skin flushed, he lets out a quiet curse under his breath—half disbelief, half hunger—and leans over the side of the bed. His hand fumbles in the drawer for a moment before he finds the foil packet, tearing it open with practiced ease. The soft rustle of the wrapper is the only sound in the room besides your breathing, and when he looks back at you—eyes dark, chest rising and falling—there’s a flicker of something softer beneath the heat, like awe. Like he can’t believe this is real.

And when he finally moves back to your lips and slides into you, —slowly, deviously even though his hands hold your body the way an evergreen tree’s branches hold onto the snow in the winter, as if there was no other way to express just how much this feels meant to be— you feel completely consumed.

You let out a strangled gasp, and he murmurs something against your neck that sounds like "fuck." You arch into him, the air escaping from your lungs as you try to get closer, chasing more of that feeling.

“I’m going to…” his teeth barely scratch against your shoulder, and he pants, moving and pressing kisses all over your face. “Okay. Okay. I’ll start moving now, yeah?”

”Please,” you cry out. And he starts, and God. You almost can’t handle it. It’s good. Really good. Can too good be a thing? It’s almost absurd. You throw your head back as you moan, and his lips find your jaw, kissing you softly.

”God. Can’t believe… no one has fucked you in years,” he gasps. “Been wanting to do it even before you called me that night.”

You nod. Letting him know that he can. Fuck you, that is. Whenever. Yes. Yes, please. It’s almost as if he can hear you, because he speeds up, whining. 

“I meant what I said last time. Please.” He moves your hands, and your fingers curl against his shoulders, nails just barely digging in. He exhales sharply, lips brushing against your jaw. “Go on, gorgeous,” he murmurs, coaxing. “Make it so they won’t dare to ask me about it in the lockers.”

Your nails drag down his back as you moan, slow at first, then harder when he rolls his hips against yours and you gasp into his mouth. The sound he makes—low, broken, almost a growl—shoots straight through you, and his grip on your waist tightens like he’s barely holding on. “Fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, his body trembling from restraint. You do it again, scratching lines into his skin, and he shudders, his breath stuttering as he buries his face in your neck. 

“You’re driving me insane,” he mutters against your skin, voice wrecked and raw. But his mouth doesn’t stop, trailing fire down your throat as his hands slide lower, pulling you closer like he needs you to feel just how much you’re undoing him.

His mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s all tongue and need, his hands greedy at your waist, pulling you closer like he needs to feel every inch of you just to stay grounded. You gasp into him, fingers now tangled in his hair, hips arching instinctively into his as your back meets the wall with a soft thud. The air is thick with heat and the quiet, desperate sounds you both make—like touch alone might not be enough. His name slips from your lips like a prayer, and he groans against your throat, biting softly before kissing the sting away. 

His hands are everywhere—skimming up the back of your thighs, gripping at your hips, sliding up your tummy, like he’s trying to memorize you by touch alone. Your breath hitches when his fingers dig in just enough to make you whimper, and he swallows the sound with a kiss that’s nothing but heat and tongue and open-mouthed desperation. Every time he pulls back for air, it’s only for a second—just long enough to look at you, eyes dark and hungry, before diving back in like he can’t help himself. You can feel how hard he is, and the way he groans when your nails rake down his back only makes the fire burn hotter. 

It’s not slow. It’s not sweet. It’s messy and breathless and overwhelming, like you’re both seconds from losing control—and neither of you wants to stop.

But his body betrays him. 

“Shit—do it again,” he pants, voice rough as his forehead rests against yours.

You let out a breathy moan, dragging your nails down his back once more, and he groans, his body jerking slightly.

“God, you’re unreal,” he mutters, breathless. 

Your breath hitches, fingers curling against his shoulders as your back arches beneath his touch. You can barely think—every nerve lit up, every movement sending sparks through you.

“Bin—” you gasp, your voice shaking.

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes dark, lips swollen. “You’re close, aren’t you?” he whispers, his voice rough and reverent, like he’s watching something sacred unfold.

You nod, barely, and he kisses you like he’s trying to steal the moment—slow and deep and all-consuming—as his hand finds yours, fingers tangling. “Come on,” he murmurs against your lips, “You’re the one who said ‘I could eat’,” he whispers cheekily, teeth brushing against your neck.

“Yeah, well—” you cut off with a gasp as his hips roll up into yours, “—I didn’t know the main course would be this fucking dangerous,” you let out between moans.

He chuckles, low and wicked, and your eyes flutter shut. He kisses the tip of your nose. 

“Tell me to stop,” he teases, voice low against your ear.

“Don’t you dare.”

Your bodies move in sync, breaths tangled, hands everywhere—desperate to keep each other close, to feel everything, all at once. His lips trail along your jaw, your neck, your shoulder, every inch of you burning where he touches, where he breathes.

“God, you feel so good,” he groans against your skin, voice low and trembling.

You pull him closer, nails raking gently down his back as you gasp, your voice breaking. “I—Bin, I’m… I’m right there—”

“I know,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “Me too.”

Your eyes meet, wild and wide and filled with something neither of you can name, and the world blurs. Everything sharpens and fades all at once—heat building, breaking, a shuddering crash that pulls both of you under. You cling to him, to the moment, to the fire crackling through your veins, and he holds you through every breathless second, like he never plans to let go.

And then it hits—slow and sudden, overwhelming in its intensity. You arch into him with a gasp, your hands fisting in the fabric at his shoulders as your body tenses, then melts, trembling in his hold. He follows right after, burying his face in your neck with a deep, broken groan, his arms wrapped tightly around you like he’s anchoring himself to you, to this exact moment.

Everything else falls away. Just your hearts pounding in unison, your skin slick and warm against his, your breaths slowly syncing as the aftershocks ripple through you both.

He doesn’t move for a long while. Just stays there, holding you close, one hand running softly up your spine. “You okay?” he whispers, voice rough, tender.

You nod against him, a lazy smile spreading across your lips. “More than okay.”

Changbin shifts slightly beneath the sheets, careful not to jostle you too much as he reaches for the nightstand. His hand brushes over your hip on the way, lingering for a moment before he moves again. “Just give me a sec,” he murmurs, voice still husky from the heat you shared.

You hum, eyes fluttering closed as the mattress dips slightly. He moves quietly, slipping out from under the blanket, bare feet padding across the room. You peek through heavy lashes just in time to see him toss the condom into the small trash can by the bathroom door, then pause to wash his hands. The soft rush of water fills the silence, grounding and intimate in the afterglow.

When he returns, he’s quieter, slower—gaze soft as he climbs back into bed. He wraps himself around you again with a quiet sigh of contentment, pulling you into his chest like you’re something fragile and sacred. “Didn’t want to let go,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Even for a second.”

You let out a soft breath, eyes fluttering half-shut as sleep begins to tug at the edges of your mind. But when Changbin settles beside you again, warm and shirtless, you can’t help it—your gaze wanders.

Your fingers trail lazily over his chest, admiring the lines of his muscles, the way his skin still feels warm beneath your touch. You hum, the smallest, sleepiest smile curling at your lips. “You’re so hot,” you mumble, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s honestly unfair.”

Changbin freezes for a second, ears going pink. “Wh—what?” he stammers, his voice caught somewhere between flustered and amused.

You laugh softly, curling closer, your hand splayed over his stomach now. “Just saying,” you yawn, blinking slowly up at him. “You’re built like a dream and smell like safety. Not fair.”

He buries his face in the pillow for a second, groaning into it before peeking up at you with a sheepish grin. “You can’t say stuff like that while you’re half-asleep. It’s lethal.”

“Mm,” you murmur, already dozing off with a smile. “Still true.”

Changbin groans, dragging a hand over his face, his cheeks flaming as he sinks further into the pillow. “Please don’t,” he mumbles, voice muffled and boyish and utterly mortified.

“But you’re a fireman,” you say again, stretching the word like it’s a revelation. You reach out and tap his bare shoulder, grinning as he peeks at you through his fingers. “You have to know that you’re like, smoking hot, right?”

He lets out a breathy, helpless laugh, flipping onto his back to stare at the ceiling as if begging the universe for strength. “You’re seriously gonna do wordplay right now?”

You giggle, propping yourself up on one elbow to look down at him. “Don’t act like I’m wrong.”

Changbin turns to face you fully, cheeks still flushed but eyes full of warmth, his smile crooked. “You’re dangerous when you’re tired.”

“Only for you,” you tease, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth.

You shift closer, humming softly as your fingers trail up his stomach, drawing lazy patterns across his skin. Changbin sucks in a breath, already blushing again as your lips press soft, teasing kisses along his collarbone, then to his chest, then down to his ribs.

“Hey—wait—” he squirms, laughter bubbling up in his throat as your hands join in, dancing over his sides. “That tickles—!”

You giggle, refusing to stop, your kisses growing playful, scattered like confetti across his skin. “I know,” you admit in a whisper, between kisses, “I’m doing it on purpose.”

He grins, grabbing one of your wrists gently to halt your mischief, eyes sparkling. “You little—”

“But also,” you say with a sheepish smile, settling on top of him and resting your chin on his chest, “I’m actually kind of hungry now.”

Changbin blinks, still catching his breath. “Hungry? Now?”

You nod seriously. “Like… food hungry. Not, you know, metaphorically.”

He groans. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

But you just smirk. “I was going to say we can order take out, but I suddenly thought it’d be so hot seeing you in nothing but pants and an apron,” you smile wiggling your eyebrows teasingly.

Changbin lets out a startled laugh, his eyes widening as your words sink in. “Oh my god—”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, grinning wickedly. “What? I’m just saying. Fireman by day, chef by night?” You wiggle your eyebrows again, biting your lip playfully. “With those arms? That apron? Nothing else?”

He covers his face with both hands, groaning into his palms. “You’re going to kill me.”

You lean in and nuzzle against his cheek. “Death by thirst. Sounds poetic.”

“Sounds criminal,” he mumbles, cheeks burning. Then, peeking at you through his fingers, he adds, “If I burn dinner it’s because you distracted me.”

You grin. “Worth it.”

He shifts under your touch, laughing softly as you press another kiss to his jaw. “You really want me half-naked and cooking for you?”

“Seriously? Who wouldn’t?” You smile, nudging him with your nose, and then shrug innocently. “I think it’s a public service.”

Changbin groans again, but starts dragging himself out of bed. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re a dream.”

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

~kats, who is unbelievably proud at the fact that not only did she finish this, but she also did it within the deadline!

catiuskaa, april 2025 ©

[catiuskaa]

jajdjwjfjkqjdjqjs can’t wait to see what you think of the last chapter 😭🎀💗‼️

these reblogs make my day, ily pookie 😭😭💗

𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐫𝐝.

from: love bites burns.

chapters: intro / EP 1 / EP 2 / EP 3 / EP 4 /

short syn. as much as he’d like to deny it —he wouldn’t, but still—, no one in the fire station will let him escape from the truth, but with you across the table, laughter on your lips, and something warm beneath the surface, it’s hard to refuse the truth.

wc. 10.6k

cw. teasing and banter, hyunin is here, Emotional confrontation, Themes of friendship tension and exclusion, Raised voices / arguments, Feelings of isolation and disconnection, Mention of past emotional distress, Flirtatious teasing between friends, Romantic tension, Suggestive dialogue, and I think that’s all, folks!

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

The fire station is alive with movement, the kind that hums through the walls even when no alarms are blaring. Radios crackle from the dispatch room, an old coffee machine sputters in protest as it brews yet another pot, and the faint scent of smoke and sweat lingers in the air, clinging to turnout gear and heavy boots. The sun filters in through the high windows, casting long shadows on the tiled floor, and for a second, Changbin lets himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he can get away with slipping in unnoticed.

He walks in with his head low, shoulders relaxed, coffee cup in hand, like he belongs here at this exact moment and not hours earlier, when his shift actually started. His plan is simple: go straight to the lockers, act casual, and pretend that nothing is out of the ordinary. No big deal. He’s done a million shifts before, and today is just another day.

Except it isn’t.

Because the second he steps further inside—

“HEY!”

Shit.

Hyunjin’s voice cuts through the station like an alarm, sharp and amused, and Changbin doesn’t even have to look up to know that he’s been spotted. 

“GUYS! The manwhore is back!” Hyunjin lets out loudly between giggles.

The so-called manwhore considers making a break for it, but before he can even shift his weight, Hyunjin is already on the move—vaulting over the armrest of the couch like a bloodhound catching a scent, his grin wide with pure, unfiltered mischief.

Jeongin lets out an exaggerated gasp, but doesn’t move from the couch. “Whoa, do my eyes deceive me? Is that our dear friend who definitely did not leave work in the middle of his shift because a girl called him?”

Seo rolls his eyes. “My shift was basically over,” he mumbles.

Hyunjin shakes his head dramatically. “You better have a damn good explanation for this,” he lets out, pretending to be choked up from tears. “You know how worried I was when you didn’t come home last night?”

“Oh-ho,” Chan hums, showing up from the kitchen, lips twitching into a smirk. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

Changbin exhales slowly through his nose. Great. So much for being subtle.

“Morning, Romeo,” Chan singsongs with a silly squeaky laugh, taking a seat in the locker room and leaning back in his chair. “Or should I say… afternoon?”

Hyunjin crosses his arms, tilting his head with a mock-thoughtful look, sitting down next to Jeongin, who mindlessly passes his arm over the taller one’s shoulders. “Yeah, ‘cause it sure isn’t morning anymore.”

Changbin squares his shoulders, forcing a nonchalant expression. “What?” He takes a sip of his coffee, stalling, putting his things down, and still heading for his locker. “I can’t come in late once in my life?”

“Oh, you can,” Chan allows, his smirk deepening. “But you don’t.”

“Ever,” Jeongin adds.

Changbin sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate all of you.”

“No, no,” Chan corrects, turning his chair around and leaning his arms on the backrest, smiling as he leans a bit closer to Seo. “You love us.” Then, his grin sharpens. “So… tell us, Romeo. How’s Juliet doing?”

The way they’re all looking at him makes something twist in Changbin’s stomach. His teammates are sharks when it comes to drama —and don’t even get me started on his roommate, Hyunjin. So he tries for an easy way out. 

“She’s fine.”

…

It doesn’t work.

Hyunjin dramatically scoffs. “That’s not very romantic of you.”

“Is that all we get?” Jeongin whines. “Come on, man.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Changbin grumbles.

“Did you kiss?” Hyunjin blurts out.

Changbin’s ears burn. “Would you shut up?”

“Oh my God, you totally kissed.”

Chan leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Wait, wait, wait—who kissed who?”

Changbin groans. “Why does that matter?”

“Because, context,” Chan says. “Now talk.”

There’s a beat of silence. Changbin scoffs, turning to Chan and moving his hand over his mouth.

”Nuh-uh.” He squints his eyes, teasing, turning his back, and starting to get changed from his yesterday-clothes.

Jeongin frowns. “The fuck you mean, nuh-uh?”

“C’mon, Bin. You ran out of here last night like, full-on mission mode,” Hyunjin complains, as if with his tone he could get into Changbin just how important it is for him to know if he got lucky tonight. Or something like that. Yeah, Changbin isn’t getting this sudden interest at all.

But Jeongin nods sagely, as if Hyunjin’s dramatic act was nothing more than an easy question. “Yeah, man. You left so fast, I swear there was a dust trail behind you.”

“You two lovebirds weren’t even here,” Changbin whines, leaning his forehead against his locker. ”What would you know?”

It doesn’t seem like they care much about that, not when both Jeongin and Hyunjin ignore that, and the latter one turns to Chan. 

“Do we even know why he left?”

Chan shakes his head, his smirk widening. “Not exactly, but I do wanna find out.”

Three pairs of eyes lock onto Changbin, expectant. He debates lying—something vague, something boring enough that they’d lose interest—but there’s practically no escape now. If anything, delaying will just make them dig deeper. He might as well just rip the bandage off.

“So… She called,” he says, voice even.

That’s all it takes.

“She called?” Hyunjin echoes, like he’s savoring the words.

“She called me last night.” His voice is even, but his fingers twitch. “Drunk.”

Jeongin lets out a strangled noise. “Never mind, that’s so much worse.”

Changbin ignores them. “I gave her my number before we left the hospital. But when she called, I…” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t think. I just went.”

Silence.

Chan tilts his head. “You just went?”

Changbin exhales sharply. “Yeah.”

Jeongin blinks. “That’s… a lot of effort for a girl you just met.”

Hyunjin raises a brow, smiling. “And yet, you just went.”

The fact that the three of them start to smile and share looks between each other as if they know something that he doesn’t makes Changbin nibble on his lip in sheepish tension.

Changbin tenses. “She was drunk, alone in her apartment, and sad. What was I supposed to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jeongin hums. “Maybe not sprint to her like some lovesick fool?”

“I didn’t sprint,” Changbin grumbles.

“Sure, man,” Jeongin scoffs. “And I’m not dating Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin beams at him, hugging his shoulders and pressing his cheek against the other man’s cheek. “Aww, babe.”

“Not now, pabo.” Jeongin fakes a grimace, but holds the taller man’s hand in his. 

Chan shakes his head, amused. “Focus, Bin. So you went over. And?”

“And she—” Changbin hesitates, suddenly feeling too exposed. “She was just… there. Looking at me like I… belonged.” He swallows, not daring to look at the group when the word comes out of his mouth. “And then she kissed me.”

But the second Changbin finishes that sentence, he regrets everything, because the reaction is instant. Hyunjin chokes on absolutely nothing, slapping a hand over his mouth in pure, unfiltered glee. Jeongin lunges forward like a predator locking onto prey, eyes wide, practically vibrating with excitement. And Chan—oh, Chan—just leans back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking like he’s just won the lottery —or rather a bet with Yeonjun from the other team.

“SHE DID WHAT?” Jeongin shouts, voice echoing through the station.

Changbin groans, running a hand down his face. “Not like that—”

“Not like that?” Hyunjin practically screeches, voice an octave higher than usual. “So what, was it an accidental kiss?”

Jeongin gasps dramatically. “Did she trip and fall into your mouth?”

Changbin glares at all three of them. “She was drunk.”

“Oh, so drunk kisses don’t count?” Hyunjin lets out a loud “hA”, throwing his hands up. “Someone write that down.”

Jeongin grins. “They do when you actually care, Changbin pabo.”

“Yeah,” Chan hums, tapping his chin, “when they mean something.”

Changbin exhales sharply, but there’s no stopping this. He knew the second he opened his mouth that he was digging his own grave, and yet, here he is, standing waist-deep in the hole while his so-called friends gleefully shovel more dirt on top of him.

“You’re so done for,” Jeongin smirks.

Hyunjin nods, leaning his head back on Jeongin’s shoulder. “Absolutely whipped.”

“Shut up.” Changbin crosses his arms, scowling. “It’s not—”

But Chan cuts him off. “Did you kiss her back?”

Changbin opens his mouth. Closes it.

…Shit.

“OH MY GOD.” Hyunjin shrieks. “YOU DID.”

Jeongin gasps again, clutching Hyunjin’s arm like they’re watching a soap opera finale. “He so did.”

Chan just shakes his head, grinning. “Damn.”

Changbin groans again, dropping his head back against the wall. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you love her,” Jeongin corrects, wiggling his eyebrows.

Hyunjin nudges Chan. “Should we start planning the wedding, or—”

“I swear to god—”

“Dude.” Hyunjin exhales, interrupting him. “You’re so screwed.”

Chan grins. “You like her.”

Changbin scowls. “Obviously.” He lets out in exasperation, taking his shirt off.

Chan whistles. “Wow. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Hyunjin leans back, grinning. “It’s cute, honestly.”

Jeongin gasps. “Oh my God, does this mean you’re finally gonna stop pretending to be a tough guy?”

Changbin glares at him from over his shoulder. “Shut up.”

Hyunjin whistles low. “Oh, he’s so gone.”

Changbin rolls his eyes. Okay, yeah. Maybe. But they don’t need to know that.

Chan leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Wait. That can’t end like that. What happened then?”

“She was alone,” he says simply. “And I…” His throat feels tight for some reason. “I didn’t want her to be alone.”

The room goes quiet. Not long—just a fraction of a second too long. But it’s enough.

Jeongin’s mouth parts slightly, his usual smirk faltering. Hyunjin exchanges a glance with Chan, brows slightly raised, like he’s processing something they hadn’t fully considered before. And Chan—who can usually read him better than anyone—leans back with a knowing look, the smirk on his lips gentler now.

“Oh,” Hyunjin says, blinking. “Oh, shit.”

Jeongin sits up straighter. “You like her.”

Changbin scoffs, shaking his head immediately. 

“No, no, not just ‘like,’” Jeongin presses, pointing at him. “This is serious. You’re invested.”

Chan nods and grins, eyes sharp with amusement. “You’re soft for her.”

Hyunjin fakes wiping a tear. “Our Changbin… growing up so fast…”

Changbin groans, rubbing his temples as the teasing spirals completely out of control. He’s never hearing the end of this.

“Wait,” Hyunjin stops his act, and bites his lip, frowning. “You kissed her back when she was drunk?” 

“Yeah, actually, that sounds a bit low,” Jeongin mumbles. “Doesn’t sound like you either.”

Changbin frowns, then sighs. “Fine. Not when she was drunk,” he lets out. 

“SO SHE KISSED YOU MORE THAN ONCE?!” Jeongin shrieks, practically leaping out of his chair.

“No, I kissed her.” Changbin corrects absentmindedly as he puts on a new shirt for his locker, then widens his eyes. Oh, fuck. He shouldn’t have said that. 

Hyunjin whips around to face Chan, like he needs a witness to confirm what he just heard. “Did he just—Did he just—”

“Oh, he did,” Chan grins, leaning back, crossing his arms. “He definitely did.”

“You’re telling me she kissed you back while sober?!” Jeongin demands, pointing at him like a lawyer about to deliver a devastating cross-examination. Hyunjin slams a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with glee. 

Changbin clenches his jaw. Exhales. Rolls his shoulders back, determined not to let them get to him —which is a complete failure, because his ears are already burning, and Jeongin and Hyunjin are having the time of their lives.

“This is huge,” Jeongin says, shaking Hyunjin’s arm like they’re in a drama finale.

Hyunjin nods, solemn. “This is monumental.”

“Forget wedding planning,” Jeongin turns to Chan. “You need to start writing the best man's speech.”

Chan lets out a squeaky laugh, and sighs, shaking his head with exaggerated fondness. “Look at our guy. Such a gentleman.”

Jeongin gasps, covering his mouth. “He waited to kiss her until she was sober.”

Hyunjin wipes an invisible tear. “They just don’t make ‘em like this anymore.”

“Chivalry isn’t dead,” Jeongin adds dramatically.

Changbin groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you guys.”

“No, you love her,” Hyunjin corrects, pointing at him. “Clearly.”

“Did you see how he didn’t deny it?” Jeongin gasps. “That was practically a confession.”

Changbin glares. “I didn’t deny it because I know no matter what I say, you’re gonna twist it into something dramatic—”

“Oh,” Chan giggles. “You mean the truth?”

He rolls his eyes. But, even all the absolute hell his friends are putting him through, Changbin can’t deny that talking it out—actually saying it out loud—is helping.

Because yeah, he’s been overthinking. And yeah, there’s a nervous weight in his chest that hasn’t really lifted fully since last night. But now that he’s hearing himself explain it, hearing their ridiculous but oddly perceptive comments, he realizes maybe it’s not as complicated as he thought. He wants to see you again. And—if Hyunjin’s dramatics and Jeongin’s gasping are anything to go by—his feelings are a lot clearer than he even realized.

…And then his phone rings.

The teasing dies down instantly. Three pairs of eyes lock onto him as he pulls his phone out of his pocket.

The name on the screen makes his stomach do a flip.

You.

Changbin swallows, suddenly hyper aware of his friends’ staring. Both Hyunjin and Jeongin stand up and move to the table, just to hear the phone call better. He knows if he answers in front of them, they’ll analyze every single second of the conversation. But if he walks away, he’s admitting defeat.

The guys immediately notice his reaction, their eyes lighting up like sharks scenting blood in the water.

“No way,” Jeongin moves a chair back and sits down. “Is that her?”

“Answer it,” Chan urges, grinning. “Put it on speaker.”

“Oh my God, yeah,” Jeongin giggles. “Put it on speaker,” but Changbin just shoves him away. He exhales sharply, squinting. 

“I am not putting her on speaker.”

Three heads lean in when he swipes to answer. 

Hyunjin is grinning, his chair facing Jeongin, his hand holding his as he stares at the phone.

Chan mouths, No way.

Jeongin? Jeongin just gasps. 

“Hey,” he says, voice automatically softer.

“Hi,” you reply, your voice light but focused. “Quick question. What do you like for dinner?”

He blinks. “Uh… what?”

“For dinner,” you repeat. “I’m at the store, trying to figure out what to buy, and since you’re coming over, I figured I should ask.”

He hears Chan choke behind him. Hyunjin and Jeongin make strangled noises of excitement.

Changbin clears his throat, turning his back on them. “Oh. Right. Uh… I’m good with anything?”

You sigh. “That’s not helpful.”

“Okay, okay, um…” He thinks for a second. “How about something simple? Stir-fry?”

“Perfect,” he can hear you smile through the phone. “Chicken or beef?”

“Chicken.”

“Veggies?”

“Surprise me.”

“Rice or noodles?”

He hesitates. “…Rice?”

“Good choice,” you giggle. “Alright, that’s all I needed. See you later!”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice softer. “See you later.”

You hang up, and when he turns back around, his friends look like they’re about to explode.

“You’re going over,” Jeongin whispers in awe.

“You planned this,” Chan grins. “You’re already in the domestic phase.”

Hyunjin stands up and throws an arm over Changbin’s shoulders. “This man has fallen, and he doesn’t even deny it.”

Changbin groans, shoving them off as they all erupt into laughter. But even as he rolls his eyes, he can’t fight the small, stupid smile tugging at his lips.

“Look at him!” Hyunjin fakes a swoon, clutching his chest like he’s about to faint. “He’s soft.”

“He’s whipped,” Jeongin corrects, eyes shining with pure delight.

Chan shakes his head, smirking. “Didn’t even hesitate to say yes, either. Man’s ready to settle down.”

Changbin glares at them, crossing his arms. “It’s dinner. Not a marriage proposal.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Hyunjin waves him off dramatically. “You just happened to sound like the happiest man alive over the phone. No reason.”

Jeongin grins. “Bro, you literally said ‘See you later’ like it was the highlight of your week.”

“I hate all of you,” Changbin mutters, but his friends only laugh harder.

“You love us,” Jeongin corrects, grinning. “Almost as much as you love—”

Changbin slaps a hand over his mouth before he can finish, but it’s too late. The damage is done.

And the worst part?

Yeah. They might actually be right.

Chan claps a hand on his shoulder. “Alright, back to work, gang. But don’t think we’re done with this conversation, loverboy.”

And true to their word, they’re not.

As they go about their tasks, the teasing continues. When Changbin starts restocking supplies in the kitchen, Hyunjin sidles up next to him with a dreamy sigh. “Imagine cooking dinner together, side by side, hands brushing as you reach for the same ingredient…”

Jeongin, who’s coming back from checking and cleaning the gear, smirks. “Bet he’s already thinking about it.”

Chan laughs from across the room, getting another cup of coffee “Nah, he’s thinking about dessert.”

“You guys are the worst,” Changbin mutters, but his ears burn, and that only fuels them further.

Jeongin grins, tossing a towel over his shoulder. “So, what’s on the menu, Chef Seo? Something romantic? Candlelight? Maybe some nice music in the background?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hyunjin jumps in, mock-serious. “Are we talking, like, homemade pasta, or are you just gonna flex your firefighter muscles and hope she swoons?”

Changbin huffs, stacking supplies a little too aggressively. “It’s just dinner.”

“Just dinner,” Chan repeats, nodding sagely. “And yet, here you are, visibly stressed about it.”

“I’m not stressed.”

“You’re a little stressed,” Jeongin counters, leaning against the counter. “Which is fair. It’s the first official non-hospital, non-drunken-kiss date, isn’t it?”

Changbin opens his mouth, then closes it. 

Hyunjin’s eyes narrow like a predator sensing weakness. “Wait. What was that?”

“What was what?” Changbin deflects, turning back to organizing the shelves.

“Yeah. You hesitated,” Jeongin accuses, pointing at him. “Which means there’s something you’re not telling us.”

“No, there’s not,” Changbin says, which to the lovey-dovey couple is exactly what someone with something to hide would say.

Chan folds his arms, leaving his mug on the counter, exchanging a knowing look with the others before casually asking, “Did you see her again?”

Changbin freezes for half a second. It’s subtle, but not subtle enough.

“He did!” Hyunjin gasps, shoving Jeongin’s arm.

“Oh, spill,” Jeongin grins. “Don’t make me wrestle it out of you, hyung.”

Changbin sighs, rubbing his temple. He knows they won’t let it go, and honestly… he kind of wants to talk about it.

“We had breakfast together this morning,” he admits.

There’s a beat of silence before all three of them erupt.

“WHAT?”

“When? How? Why are we only hearing about this now?”

“Oh my god, this is huge,” Hyunjin says, gripping Chan’s shoulder for dramatic effect.

“Calm down,” Changbin groans.

“Calm down?!” Jeongin scoffs. “You left work to see her when she was drunk, and then you’re casually having breakfast? Hyung, you are gone.”

Changbin shakes his head, but he can’t help the tiny, stupid smile creeping onto his face. “It was just breakfast.”

“Just breakfast,” Chan echoes dryly. “Sure, and you’re tall.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Hyunjin waves his hands. “Back up. Who paid?”

Changbin hesitates again. 

“HE DID!” Jeongin howls, clapping his hands.

Chan smirks, nudging Changbin’s shoulder. “So, let me get this straight—you left the station for her, she called you while drunk, she kissed you, you took care of her, and now you also bought her breakfast? Yeah, no, you’re in deep.”

“It’s not like that,” Changbin tries, but even to himself, it sounds weak.

“Oh, it’s exactly like that,” Jeongin cackles. “You’re already doing boyfriend things, hyung. Next thing we know, you’ll be carrying her grocery bags and remembering how she takes her coffee.”

“I already know how she takes her coffee.”

The room erupts.

“OH MY GOD.”

“HE’S FINISHED.”

“You guys are the worst,” Changbin grumbles, but he’s laughing, too, shaking his head as he scrubs at his face.

Chan chuckles, leaning back against the counter. “Alright, alright, let’s be fair. Maybe he’s not totally in love yet.”

“No, he totally is,” Jeongin argues.

“A hundred percent,” Hyunjin nods.

Chan hums thoughtfully. “Well, let’s put it to the test. Changbin, if she called you right now and asked you to come over, what would you do?”

Changbin doesn’t even have to think about it. “I’d go.”

All three of them scream.

“HE’S GONE!” Jeongin shouts. “HE’S LOST!”

Changbin groans loudly, grabbing a towel and chucking it at Jeongin’s face, but his friends are too far gone in their entertainment to care.

“Ohhh, look at him! Even his voice turned softer when she called,” Hyunjin teases, his eyes practically gleaming. “Soft and smooth, just like he’s talking to a goddess.”

“I swear to God, if you guys don’t shut up—” Changbin starts, but Jeongin cuts him off, his grin wide.

“So, what’s she want for dinner, huh? Something special?” Jeongin presses, leaning forward. “A little Changbin as a side dish?” 

“It’s not like that,” Changbin says quickly, but it’s clear he’s struggling to keep his cool. “She just… wanted advice. It’s dinner, nothing crazy.”

Hyunjin grins. “Nothing crazy? Bro, you’re planning a whole dinner date with her, and you’re calling it ‘nothing crazy’?”

“I’m just helping her pick out food. It’s not a big deal,” Changbin mutters, still not ready to admit that his heart is still racing even after your name popped up on his screen.

“Oh, so this is officially a dinner date?” Chan says with a knowing smirk, crossing his arms. “Because you’re sounding like you’re planning something real serious here, buddy.”

“So, what? You’re the official dinner advisor now?” Hyunjin teases.

“You all need help,” Changbin mutters under his breath, but there’s no real heat behind it. He’s too distracted by the fact that his friends are right—he’s not just helping you pick out food, he’s genuinely invested. And it’s so obvious to them that it’s almost painful to listen to.

“Changbin’s got it bad,” Jeongin says, practically giggling. “Can’t even talk about a meal without turning into a love-struck puppy.”

“Hey,” Chan says with mock seriousness, “Don’t knock it till you try it. I think we’re all just jealous of how soft he’s become for this girl.”

“What?” Changbin looks up, incredulous. “Jealous? You guys are—”

He stops short, suddenly aware that they’re all watching him, waiting for him to either confess or keep denying it.

“Fine,” he mutters, giving in a little. “Maybe I am invested, okay?”

His friends immediately fall silent, their faces lighting up with delight.

Jeongin raises an eyebrow. “So, what’s your plan, then? Dinner, some music, maybe a kiss?”

Changbin rubs his temples. “You guys need to leave me alone.”

“Nah, we’re just getting started.” Chan grins, clearly not willing to let this go anytime soon. “So, what’s next? You two planning a future together, or just dinner for now?”

Changbin’s stomach churns, but he can’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. But he plays it off and scoffs, rolling his eyes dramatically as he leans against the counter, crossing his arms with a sarcastic grin. “Yeah, actually, I’m already thinking about how we’re going to name our firstborn child. Maybe something classic, like ‘Seo Changbin Jr.’ or—”

“Oh, you’re already planning the wedding, huh?” Hyunjin interrupts, his voice a mix of teasing and disbelief. “Do you already have a date picked out?”

Changbin shoots a look at him, deadpanning. “Yeah, Hyunjin, we’re getting married on a beach in the Maldives. What do you think? Not too much of a stretch, right?”

“Perfect,” Jeongin says, feigning seriousness, “Just make sure you pick a good spot for the honeymoon. You know, somewhere quiet so we don’t get all the lovebirds ruining your peace and quiet.”

Chan smirks, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t forget the wedding registry. I think I’d look great in a tux.”

Changbin stares at them, groaning. “Guys, seriously. You’re all insane.”

Hyunjin raises his eyebrows, hands up in mock surrender. “We’re just messing with you, man. You can’t act all tough, but it’s clear you’re thinking about her more than you want to admit.”

Changbin rolls his eyes again, trying to keep his cool. “I mean… I just… like her, okay? Can we drop it now?”

“Sure,” Chan says, throwing up his hands. “But when we get that wedding invite in the mail, don’t come crying to us about the teasing. We’ll just be over here, already knowing about little ‘Seo Changbin Jr.’”

Changbin shoots them a glare, but there’s no real anger behind it. He can’t deny that, deep down, hearing their jokes —however exaggerated— actually make him feel lighter, like he can finally admit he’s a little in over his head with you.

Just a little. Sure. 

[.]

You’re practically buzzing as you move around your kitchen, pulling out ingredients and setting them on the counter. Your heart feels like it’s doing little flips in your chest, and there’s this stupid, giddy smile on your face that you can’t seem to shake.

You’re excited.

Like, genuinely, overwhelmingly, stomach-full-of-butterflies excited.

Every little thing feels amplified—the way your hands tremble slightly as you arrange things, the way your mind keeps replaying snippets of conversation from earlier, the way you have to keep stopping yourself from actually kicking your legs like some love-struck fool.

It’s just dinner.

That’s what you keep telling yourself. Just dinner. You’ve had dinner with people before. You’ve had breakfast with him before, which is basically the same. And you’ve had dinner with him before, too.

But this is different.

This isn’t hospital food and dim fluorescent lighting. This isn’t a post-adrenaline crash meal where your hands are still shaking from survival.

This is… a date.

An official date, mind you. That’s enough to have you flustered beyond reason.

You huff out a laugh at yourself, rubbing your hands over your face before tying your hair up. The nervous energy inside you needs an outlet, so you grab a dish towel and start absentmindedly wiping down the already-clean counter.

And then your phone buzzes.

You nearly drop the towel, scrambling to grab it. The second you see the name on the screen, your stomach twists in that stupidly pleasant way.

Changbin.

You clear your throat before answering, trying to sound casual. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says, his voice warm and easy. “I’m about to head out. Need me to pick anything up on the way?”

You bite your lip, rocking slightly on your heels. Just the sound of his voice makes you feel lighter, like all the nervous energy inside you is being turned into something softer, more manageable.

“No, I think we’re good,” you reply. “Just get here safe.”

There’s a small chuckle on the other end of the line. “Got it. See you soon.”

He hangs up, and you stand there for a second, gripping your phone, the smile stretching across your face all over again.

He’s coming over.

You press your phone against your chest for a moment, letting out a breath before setting it down.

Okay. Cool. Totally fine. Just breathe.

You turn back toward the counter, exhaling through your nose, trying to focus—

And then the door bursts open.

The sheer force of it makes you jolt, your pulse spiking.

“What the—”

Then you see her.

Your friend stands in the doorway, wide-eyed, breathless, her expression somewhere between horrified and heartbroken. She’s gripping the doorframe like she needs it to keep her steady.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?!”

Your stomach drops. The giddy excitement from moments ago is gone.

No sound comes out of your parted lips, no matter how hard you try. She shakes her head, stepping inside. “I—I went to your apartment.” Her voice wavers. “Or—or what’s left of it. I was just—I was just gonna stop by, and it’s—it’s gone.”

You swallow hard, the words tangling in your throat.

“I—”

“I had to find out like this?” she cuts in, her voice rising. “Walking up to ashes and realizing my friend has been through something horrible without even telling me? Telling us? 

“I was going to,” you try again, but your voice is too quiet, too fragile.

She lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, yeah? When? After how long? Were you just never gonna say anything? You went to Katy’s house yesterday, and we’ve been texting in the groupchat almost everyday, and you just—what, pretend everything’s fine?”

She throws up her hands, pacing. “Do you know how it felt? Standing there, thinking about—” She stops, pressing her fingers against her temple. “God, I thought—I don’t know what I thought. But I never thought you’d keep this from me. From all of us.”

You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head.

“Why?” she demands. “Why wouldn’t you tell us? We love you, we care about you, and you—” She exhales sharply. “Or is it just me? Was I not supposed to know? Not important enough to be told?”

The weight of her words slams into you, and something inside you cracks.

You press your hands together, willing them to stop shaking, but your heart is pounding too loudly in your ears.

“I didn’t want—” You force out a breath. “I didn’t want to—”

“Hurt me?” she finishes, her voice almost breaking. “God, do you hear yourself? You think this hurts less? Finding out on my own? Like I’m some… stranger?”

You are. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, but it feels so small, so insignificant against the storm she’s feeling.

She runs a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply. Then, suddenly, she steps back toward the door.

“I need a minute.” Her voice is thick with emotion, her eyes still burning. “I need—I just—” She waves a hand, turning to leave. “I can’t do this right now.”

She spins around—only to slam straight into a solid chest.

Changbin.

The impact knocks the breath from her lungs. She stumbles back, eyes darting up in shock, meeting his confused ones.

Everything halts.

Her breath is uneven, her emotions raw, and when her gaze flicks past him—past you—something in her expression shifts. Her brow furrows, confusion and disbelief flickering across her face. Who the hell is this man? And why is he here?

A bitter, shaky laugh pushes past her lips. “You’re really letting a stranger see more of this than me?”

The words cut.

She exhales sharply, shaking her head like she doesn’t even want the answer. Then, with one last glance between you and Changbin, she pushes past him and storms into the hallway..

The room is silent.

Your whole body feels too tight, too constricted, your chest rising and falling unevenly.

Changbin steps fully inside now, and he watches you shiver at the loud bang the door makes when your friend closes it angrily. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just looks at you.

You open your mouth, try to explain, try to put something—anything—into words.

Nothing comes out.

Your throat is too tight, your hands trembling at your sides.

Changbin exhales, stepping forward, his voice quiet but steady.

“C’mere.”

And just like that, the weight crashes down.

Tears spill over, your body shaking, and suddenly you’re pressed against him, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close.

His warmth is grounding, his presence solid. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other rubs gentle circles into your back.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “You’re safe.”

You clutch at him, burying your face in his shoulder, and for the first time in days, you let yourself break.

Changbin doesn’t rush you. He just holds you, steady and warm, his heartbeat a quiet rhythm against your ear.

You don’t even realize you’re gripping his shirt until your fingers ache from clenching too tightly. The weight of everything—the fire, the loss, the confrontation with your friend—crashes down all at once, and you don’t have the strength to hold it back anymore.

Your breath stutters. A shaky inhale, a broken exhale. Your shoulders tremble.

Your hands clutch at Changbin’s shirt, fingers trembling, but your grip is weak—like even that is too much effort. Your chest heaves with uneven, broken sobs, air catching in your throat as you try to breathe, try to think, try to do anything but completely fall apart.

But it’s too much.

A shudder racks through you, and your knees feel like they’re going to buckle. Changbin tightens his hold before they can, steady and unwavering, his arms wrapped around you like they can hold all the broken pieces together.

“I—I—” you try, but your voice catches, strangled and barely there. Your whole body shakes, overwhelmed by the weight of it all—of your friend’s words, of the fire, of the sheer helplessness that’s been gnawing at you since that night.

Changbin hushes you softly, his hand cradling the back of your head as he sways you ever so slightly, a grounding motion. “Breathe,” he murmurs. “Just breathe.”

But you can’t. Not properly. The sobs keep coming, ragged and unrestrained, each one more painful than the last. You grip his shirt tighter, pressing your face into his chest, muffling the gasping, incoherent apologies that spill out between broken cries.

He doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t shush you.

Doesn’t tell you it’s okay when it clearly isn’t.

Instead, he just holds you, letting you sob into him, hands running slow and steady over your back as if to say I’ve got you.

At some point, your legs give out completely. Changbin shifts before you can fall, scooping you up effortlessly. You barely register it, still lost in the mess of emotions drowning you.

He carries you to the couch, lowering himself down with you still wrapped in his arms. You curl in tighter, still trembling, still sobbing, gripping onto him like he’s the only thing tethering you to the present.

And he just lets you.

No words. No expectations. Just quiet, steady reassurance.

And for the first time, you let yourself break.

The sobs keep wracking through you, harsh and unrelenting, like waves crashing over a shore—again and again, until you’re not sure where one ends and another begins. Your throat aches, raw from the strain, and your chest feels tight, like there’s not enough air in the world to fill your lungs.

Changbin’s hand moves in slow, steady circles over your back, never stopping, never faltering. His other arm holds you close, like he knows—knows—that if he lets go, even for a second, you might completely fall apart.

You already are.

“I c-can’t,” you choke out, the words barely making it past your lips. You don’t even know what you mean—can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t handle this.

“I know,” Changbin murmurs, voice low and even, like he’s speaking just loud enough for you to hear. “Just let it out.”

You do.

You sob until your body trembles from the force of it. Until your fingers ache from how tightly you’re clutching his shirt. Until there’s nothing left but the shaky, uneven breaths that keep catching in your throat.

Your mind is a blur—flashes of the fire, of waking up in the hospital, of your friend’s shocked face when she realized you hadn’t told her. You hadn’t even thought about it, too busy surviving to stop and process everything that had been taken from you.

But now, sitting here in the wreckage of it all, held together only by Changbin’s steady arms around you, it finally starts to sink in.

Your apartment is gone.

Your things. Your safe space.

The life you had before the fire.

Gone.

A fresh wave of emotion surges forward, but this time it doesn’t come with loud, ragged sobs—just a quiet, broken sound that gets swallowed by the sheer weight of your emotions. 

The quiet that follows feels almost sacred. Changbin doesn’t move, doesn’t shift away, just keeps holding you like he has nowhere else to be, no place more important than right here.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your cheek, a calm rhythm against the chaos still buzzing inside your mind. You focus on it, letting the sound anchor you, letting the warmth of him remind you that he’s here.

Your fingers are still curled in the fabric of his shirt, but your grip has loosened. The tension in your muscles is fading, exhaustion creeping in now that the worst of the storm has passed.

Changbin finally speaks, his voice quiet, careful. “You okay?”

You shake your head, not quite able to lie, but then nod a little, as if to say, I will be.

He hums, like he understands. Like he’s not expecting you to be fine right away.

Your breath hitches between quiet sobs, and you shake your head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I ruined the night.”

Changbin exhales softly, his arms tightening around you. He leans back just enough to cup your face, tilting your chin so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. His thumbs brush away your tears, his touch so gentle it only makes your chest ache more.

“I freaked out this morning,” he admits, his voice low but steady. “But you stood your ground.” He smiles. “You told me I could fight something that I find bigger than myself, and that I could do it by your side. That I didn’t have to be alone.”

His fingers thread carefully through your hair, moving it out of your face like he just wants to see you properly, to make sure you’re still here with him. Your breath shudders, but you can’t look away. His eyes are warm, filled with something so steady, so certain.

“Well, neither should you, gorgeous,” he murmurs, the corner of his lips tugging up in the softest smile. “So don’t apologize, okay?” He strokes your cheek. “Dinner can wait.”

And when he pulls you in again, holding you like you’re something precious, you let yourself sink into him, clinging just a little tighter.

His hand keeps rubbing soothing circles on your back, and after a moment, he shifts slightly, just enough to pull back and get a look at your face.

His eyes soften. “Do you want water? Or do you just wanna sit here a little longer?”

You swallow thickly, your throat still aching, your head still heavy. You don’t trust your voice yet, so you just press closer, silently answering his question.

Changbin exhales softly, wrapping his arms around you again. “Okay,” he murmurs, settling in. “We’ll just sit, then.”

And so you do.

The weight of everything still lingers, the grief, the loss, the overwhelming ache of it all—but it feels a little easier to carry now. A little less impossible to bear.

Because right now, at this moment, you’re not carrying it alone.

You exhale shakily, a weak, self-conscious little laugh slipping through. “You must think I’m stupid,” you mumble, voice still thick with tears. “Like—who even reacts this late? It all happened a week ago, and—”

A warm finger presses gently against your lips, cutting off the spiral before it can take hold.

“Ah-ah, absolutely not,” Changbin murmurs, shaking his head. His gaze is steady, firm but kind. “We were trained for this at the station, you know. How trauma doesn’t follow a schedule. How people process things at their own pace. There’s no ‘right’ time to break down, no ‘wrong’ way to grieve.”

His hand moves to cup your cheek, thumb tracing a featherlight stroke against your skin. “I’ve seen people walk away from a disaster completely fine—until a month later, when they can’t get out of bed because it finally catches up to them.” He pauses, letting the words sink in. “There’s no logic to it. No timer that tells you when it’s okay to start hurting. Your brain just… protects you from it until it can’t anymore.”

You blink up at him, your breath still uneven. “So you don’t think I’m pathetic?”

Changbin holds you close, feeling the slow rise and fall of your breaths against his chest. The weight of you in his arms is grounding, but there’s something else, something that tightens his throat as he watches you blink through the tears—tired, overwhelmed, but still there.

Changbin frowns, like the mere idea of your question is absurd. “Pathetic?” His voice softens. 

He’s seeing himself in your eyes.  

Not now, not in this moment, but years ago, when Kang Jisoo died and it felt like his entire world had caved in on itself. He remembers how it swallowed him whole, how he barely slept, barely ate, how he ran himself into the ground at the station just to escape the weight of it. He remembers how he broke apart, hidden and alone after pushing everything away, and had no idea how to put himself back together.

And now, looking at you—eyes red, body trembling, grief pressing in on all sides—he realizes you’re holding yourself up in a way he never could.

He wishes he’d been this strong. Wishes he’d known how to let himself break and still keep moving. But maybe that’s why he’s here now. Maybe that’s why, despite the ache in his chest, he isn’t looking away. Because he sees it—the quiet, unrelenting strength in you. The way you let yourself feel it instead of burying it.

“Gorgeous, I think you’re strong as hell.”

And maybe that’s when the tears start again—not the sobbing kind, but the kind that just slips down your cheeks, raw and quiet. Changbin doesn’t say anything about them, doesn’t make a big deal of it. He just presses a kiss to your forehead, gentle and lingering, before pulling you back into his arms.

“Just let yourself feel it,” he murmurs against your hair. “I’ve got you.”

And this time, you let yourself believe it.

You sniff, wiping at your eyes. His arms are still around you, steady, solid, and something about the way he’s holding you—like he knows exactly what grief feels like—makes you pause.

“You…” Your voice is still thick with emotion, but the thought tugs at you too strongly to ignore. “You look like you’ve been through this before.”

His grip tightens, just for a second. Not enough to hurt, but enough that you know you’re right.

Changbin exhales slowly, like he’s turning the thought over in his mind, debating whether to say it aloud. Then he shifts, leaning his head back against the couch. 

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I have.”

The words are simple, but there’s a weight to them. A heaviness you recognize.

“I know it feels like you should have it together by now,” he murmurs, voice quiet. “But it doesn’t work like that. If it did… I wouldn’t have spent months wrecking myself after Jisoo.”

You blink up at him. “Jisoo?”

He hesitates for a second, then sighs. “Friend of mine. We lost him a couple years back. And I—” His jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, he looks away, like saying it out loud makes it harder to bear. Then, without really thinking, he reaches for your hand.

You don’t pull away. You just let him take it, let him hold on as he gathers himself. His fingers are warm, slightly rough from work, but his grip is careful. Like he’s grounding himself in the contact.

“It was a rescue,” he continues, voice rougher now. “A bad one. We went in together. But only I made it out.”

Your heart aches for him. For the weight he still carries, all these years later.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, absentminded, as if the motion helps steady him.

“You know,” he says after a moment, exhaling sharply, “when we’re training, they teach us about trauma responses. About how grief doesn’t hit everyone the same way. We learn how to help people process, how to be there for them, how to make sure they know they’re not alone.”

His lips press together, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer.

“But I never figured out how to do that for myself.”

His words settle in your chest, heavy and real.

You squeeze his hand, shifting closer. “You’re doing it now,” you say gently.

His breath catches slightly, but then he huffs a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Guess I am.”

He holds your hand a little tighter, his thumb still tracing small circles on your palm. The room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing, steady but still tinged with the weight of everything.

“You know,” Changbin says, his voice low and steady now, as if he’s come to a decision, “I’ve always been the one trying to be strong for everyone else. On the station, with the team… even when we lost Jisoo, I told myself I couldn’t break. That I had to keep going, keep holding it all in.”

You turn toward him, watching the way his eyes flicker, the vulnerability showing in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Everyone tells you to stay strong,” he continues, almost to himself, “but what they don’t tell you is how heavy it gets. And you can’t just carry it forever.”

You can see how much he’s carrying, the quiet strength he’s built up over the years, the walls he’s put up to protect himself. You want to reach out and pull them down, but you know that can’t happen all at once. It’ll take time.

“I guess,” he says softly, “I’m learning that it’s okay to let someone in. Even if it’s just a little bit at a time.”

His gaze softens as he looks at you, and there’s a quiet understanding between you now, like you both know the weight of what’s unsaid.

You nod, not sure what to say at first. Instead, you lean your head gently against his shoulder, allowing yourself to be there, in the moment with him.

“I’m glad you’re letting me in,” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath.

He smiles softly, his lips curling in a way that makes your heart skip.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, “me too.”

For a moment, you both just sit there in silence, wrapped up in each other’s presence. You don’t feel the need for words now, just the comfort of being close to someone who understands.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of calm, Changbin shifts slightly, glancing at you. “You doing okay?” he asks gently, his voice still soft, almost like he’s afraid to break the quiet.

You look up at him, meeting his eyes, and nod again.

“Yeah,” you answer, your voice steadier now. “I think I’m okay. It’s just… a lot to process.”

He exhales, nodding in agreement. “It always is.”

You let out a quiet breath, a mix of relief and gratitude flooding through you. “Thank you.”

His hand squeezes yours again, a silent promise. And in this moment, the overwhelming ache doesn’t feel quite as crushing. Because maybe, just maybe, you’re learning to carry it together.

He pauses, looking down at your hand in his for a moment, his thumb still rubbing soothing circles over your skin. “I guess I wasn’t the only one who struggled, though.” He exhales softly, the sound like a mix of frustration and amusement.

You look up at him, curious.

“Remember Chan? The one on the ladder, the one who helped pull you out of the fire that day?” He chuckles bitterly after you nod. “He hated me for months after Jisoo. Because I just couldn’t… I couldn’t get past the guilt. I couldn’t save him. And I blamed myself for that.”

He shakes his head, a sad, humorless smile playing at his lips. “I didn’t let anyone in, and Chan hated me for it. He tried to help, but I kept pushing him away. It wasn’t until one night, when he practically dragged me to the bar, that he just… he told me that he couldn’t stand seeing me like that. That I wasn’t doing myself any favors by shutting everyone out.”

You feel a lump form in your throat, but you squeeze his hand tighter, silently telling him you’re here, even when the words seem too heavy to say.

Changbin shifts his gaze to you, his expression softening. “He was right, though. I had to stop being so damn stubborn. And slowly, I started letting people in.” He laughs softly, but it’s not the usual teasing kind. “Guess I’m still working on it. But… it’s better than it was.”

For a while, neither of you says anything. You find comfort and solace in the crook of his neck. The weight of it all still lingers, but in the warmth of his arms, it feels a little more bearable. His fingers trace absentminded patterns along your back, steady and grounding, and you let yourself sink further into his hold, eyes fluttering shut.

Then, he exhales a deep sigh, chuckling softly. “You’re too warm,” he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion. “I’m gonna fall asleep if we stay like this.”

A weak laugh pushes past your lips. “That’s hardly my fault.”

“No, but I will hold you responsible when I wake up with a crick in my neck.” His tone is teasing, and you can hear the smile in his voice even before you tilt your head up to look at him.

His eyes, heavy with warmth, meet yours. “We can stay here as long as you need,” he says. “But just so you know, I was really looking forward to seeing if you’re as good in the kitchen as you claim to be.”

You scoff lightly. “I never said I was good.”

He gasps, placing a hand over his heart in mock betrayal. “So I’ve been deceived?”

It’s a small thing, a tiny shift in the weight pressing on your chest, but it’s enough to make your lips twitch upward. “I never promised anything.”

“Unbelievable.” He shakes his head dramatically. “First, you break my heart. Next, you’re probably gonna tell me you don’t even own an apron.”

You roll your eyes, nudging him lightly. “Would that be a deal-breaker?”

“Depends,” he says, tilting his head as if considering it. “Are we talking no apron at all? Or one of those ‘Kiss the Cook’ ones?”

Your laugh comes easier this time, real and unrestrained, and the way his expression softens tells you he was hoping for exactly that.

You shake your head, lips twitching. “I don’t own an apron.”

Changbin clicks his tongue, feigning deep disappointment. “Tragic.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” you say, rolling your eyes, but you don’t push him away when he tightens his hold just a little.

He grins. “Ridiculous is expecting me to cook without proper attire. You’re really out here robbing me of the full culinary experience.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “Fine. I guess I’ll have to buy one.”

“Thank you.” He nods seriously. “I’ll accept nothing less than one of those frilly vintage ones.”

You snort. “Not happening.”

“A tragedy in two acts,” he mutters, then nudges your knee with his. “Come on. You feeling up to making dinner?”

You take a deep breath, really taking in the warmth of him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your fingers. The exhaustion still lingers, but it’s quieter now, settled into something manageable.

“Yeah,” you say, finally sitting up. “Let’s cook.”

Changbin flashes you a grin, then presses a quick, feather-light kiss to your forehead before standing and stretching. “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got, chef.”

“You’re helping.”

He smirks. “I’ll consider it.”

You shake your head, rolling your eyes as you follow him into the kitchen. “Get your ass in here, sous-chef,” you chuckle.

And just like that, the weight pressing on your chest feels a little lighter.

[.]

The kitchen is a mess. A beautiful, chaotic mess.

There’s flour dusted on the counter from when you accidentally knocked the bag over, and Changbin had laughed instead of helping, only to get flicked in the face with a bit of dough in retaliation. Best part? You’re not sure you even need flour anyways. The cutting board is crowded with half-prepared vegetables, and the stove sizzles where something is just starting to cook.

“You know,” Changbin says, leaning back against the counter as he watches you chop vegetables with exaggerated slowness, “at this rate, we’ll be eating breakfast for dinner.”

You roll your eyes. “Maybe if you actually helped instead of standing there and looking pretty—”

“Ah, so you think I’m pretty.”

You shoot him a flat look. He grins.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, completely unfazed, “I might wither away before we get to eat.”

“You could at least set the table if you’re that desperate.”

He sighs dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “And miss the chance to witness your culinary expertise? Perish the thought, young lady.”

You shake your head, returning to the vegetables. But as you keep chopping, his teasing continues.

“You’re holding that knife like it personally offended you,” he observes.

You ignore him.

“It’s impressive, really. I didn’t know it was possible to take longer than a cooking show’s slow-motion shots.”

Still, you say nothing.

“I bet if we were in a movie, this is where they’d do an intense montage of you struggling, with, like, tragic violin music in the background. Like the Oppenheimer soundtrack.”

You exhale sharply. “Changbin.”

“Yes?”

“Do something useful.”

“Oh, I am.” He gestures vaguely. “I’m providing moral support.”

You shoot him a glare, but before you can get another word in, he moves, a warm smile on his features. 

He steps behind you before you can react to his movements, his chest brushing lightly against your back, his arms coming around to settle his hands over yours.

“Here,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “Like this.”

You freeze.

His hands are warm, his grip gentle but firm as he guides yours, adjusting the angle of the knife. He presses just a little closer, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder as he tilts his head, watching your movements.

Your heart stumbles over itself.

Focus. Focus.

“You’re tense,” he notes, a hint of amusement lacing his voice. As if he does this every Tuesday.

“Wonder why,” you mutter, but it comes out weaker than you intended.

He chuckles, breath ghosting over your cheek. “Relax. Just follow my lead.”

Easier said than done.

You try to focus, to listen as he quietly instructs you on the proper technique. But all you can think about is the way his hands fit over yours, the warmth radiating from him, the way his voice has softened into something dangerously gentle.

And when he finally, finally pulls away, you’re left gripping the knife just a little too tightly, trying to will away the sudden heat creeping up your neck.

He steps back with a satisfied hum, like he hasn’t just casually thrown your entire system into chaos. “See? Much better.”

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself. Then, you turn to look at him.

He smirks.

Oh, he knows.

You frown, heat creeping up your face as you tighten your grip on the knife. “Don’t tease me when I’m holding a knife, you buffoon.”

Changbin raises his hands in mock surrender, but the grin stretching across his face is anything but apologetic. “Noted. Though, I gotta say, that blush really sells the threat.”

You huff, pointing the knife at the cutting board instead of him, because let’s be honest—he’d probably find that even funnier. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here we are, cooking together like the perfect domestic duo.”

“Shut up, sous-chef,” you chuckle, shaking your head.

“Yes, chef,” he says smoothly, stepping back into place beside you.

He reaches for the next ingredient, his eyes back at the stove, but as you start chopping again—faster this time, like he showed you—his arm brushes against yours, lingering just a little too long to be accidental.

You glance at him.

He’s focused on the food, lips barely curved in a smirk, like he’s completely unaware of the warmth radiating between you.

Liar.

You bite your lip, willing your pulse to settle. 

Dinner first. Dessert later. 

Grateful the two of you haven’t acquired more trauma by accidentally burning your mom’s house up, dinner goes by in a blur of easy conversation and stolen bites off each other’s plates. The warmth lingers—not just from the meal, but from the quiet comfort settling between you.

By the time you’re both done, dishes lazily stacked in the sink for later, you stretch with a yawn, barely suppressing it before Changbin catches on.

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Tired already?”

You glare half-heartedly. “Shut up.”

He checks his watch, sighing. “It’s late. I should probably head out before it gets too bad.”

Something inside you sinks. Not disappointment, exactly—just the reluctant acknowledgment that the night has to end.

But instead of saying that, you push off the counter with a smirk. “You’re just scared I’ll put on a scary movie.”

His laughter is low and warm. “Oh, absolutely.”

But he still doesn’t make a move to leave just yet.

Changbin snorts, shaking his head. “But, please. If anything, you’d be the one clinging to me.”

“Oh?” You fold your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Are you saying you wouldn’t be scared at all?”

“I’m saying,” he leans in slightly, voice dropping just enough to be teasing, “if you want an excuse to cuddle me, you could just ask.”

Your breath hitches. The smug little grin he wears tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing.

But two can play that game.

You hum, tilting your head. “Noted.”

His smirk falters for just a second. “Wait—”

“Too late.” You stretch with another yawn, a fake one this time just to tease him, barely suppressing your grin. “Guess I’ll have to save it for next time.”

There’s a flicker of something in his gaze, quick but unmistakable. A promise, maybe. A challenge.

But all he says is, “Looking forward to it.”

And this time, when he finally moves toward the door, you don’t try to stop him.

“Guess this is it,” you cross your arms and hug yourself as he puts his gear jacket on to get on his motorbike. 

“Don’t be so melancholic,” Changbin chuckles. “I know where you live. Be afraid.” 

“Right,” you giggle. “I’m trembling in fear.” 

But then he steps closer, hands slipping into the pockets of his jacket as he tilts his head. “Gorgeous,” he licks his lips. “Don’t your movies always have that scene where, after the date, the characters kiss?”

Your smirk. “Sometimes, yeah, they do.”

He nods, thoughtful. “Makes sense.”

Then, just as you start to smile, he leans in—closer, closer—his breath warm against yours, his eyes locked onto your lips. Your heartbeat stumbles, anticipation curling in your stomach.

And just as his nose brushes against yours, you smirk again.

“Oh,” you say, tilting your head back ever so slightly, barely out of reach, and you speak softly over his lips, tempting. “But, uh… I don’t kiss on the first date.”

He freezes. 

Guess that’s why they say revenge is better served cold. Take that, mister slow veggie chopper. 

You can see the moment his brain short-circuits, his eyes blinking wide, caught completely off guard.

Then he exhales, laughing under his breath. “You’re joking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Am I, though?”

His lips part like he wants to argue, but then he huffs, shaking his head with a low chuckle. “Unbelievable.”

You grin, stepping back smugly. “Rules are rules.”

“Right,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to collect himself.

You pretend not to notice the way his ears have turned a little pink. He sighs dramatically as he leans against the doorway. 

“Guess I’ll just have to ask you out again, then.”

Your stomach flutters, but you keep your cool, folding your arms. “Guess you will.”

You grin as he heads out. “Drive safe!” you tease, lifting a hand in a playful little wave. “And don’t worry, I won’t miss you too much.”

Changbin rolls his eyes, huffing a laugh as he heads for his bike, which stands in front of the building’s door. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, opening the bike’s back and grabbing his helmet, securing it under his arm as he puts his gear gloves on. “Try not to cry yourself to sleep.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare,” you say nonchalantly, leaning against the doorframe. “I mean, it’s just a first date, right? It ain’t too bad. I can always download Tinder.”

You don’t miss the way he stiffens for half a second. The way his grip tightens around the helmet.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Night, Bin.”

He exhales sharply. “Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. Then, suddenly, he tosses his helmet onto the bike seat with a soft thud, spins on his heel, and strides straight back toward you.

You barely get the chance to react before his hands cup your face, warm and firm and leather from his gloves, his gaze locking onto yours for a split second—just long enough for your breath to hitch. And then his lips crash onto yours.

It’s not just a kiss—it’s heat, urgency, a deep and overwhelming need poured into the space between you. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this moment all night, maybe even longer. Like, now that he’s started, he can’t get enough.

You freeze, stunned, your brain short-circuiting as he presses in, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, his fingers slipping into your hair. But the shock only lasts a second before you smirk and give in, grasping at his jacket, pulling him closer, losing yourself in the way he feels, the way he tastes—warm, insistent, intoxicating. 

Yes. 

He exhales sharply through his nose, his lips parting just enough for his teeth to catch your bottom lip, teasing, testing—before he soothes it with another kiss, this one slower but no less consuming. His hands slide down, one settling at your jaw, the other firm against the small of your back, holding you against him, like he’s afraid to let go too soon.

You don’t know how long you stand there, tangled together, lost in him. But when he finally pulls back, it’s only because he has to, his breath warm against your lips as he lingers close, forehead barely resting against yours. His voice is rough with something unreadable when he finally speaks. 

“You were saying?”

Your heart is still hammering, your lips tingling, your brain barely catching up to what just happened. But you refuse to let him have the last word.

“Huh,” you murmur, blinking up at him, a slow grin tugging at your swollen lips. “Well, they do say Tinder’s overrated anyways.”

Changbin groans, chuckling low in his chest as he presses one last, lingering peck to your lips before finally—reluctantly—stepping back. “You’re a menace,” he grumbles, shaking his head as he turns back toward his bike.

“And yet, you like me anyway,” you call after him, grinning as you watch him grab his helmet again.

He just laughs, shaking his head as he starts the engine. “See you soon, gorgeous.”

And with that, he’s off, leaving you standing in the doorway, legs weak, head spinning, and a fire burning under your skin that won’t be going out anytime soon.

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

~kats, who can’t believe she had to cut the chapter in half bc she reached the paragraph limit, again!! 😭‼️

catiuskaa, april 2025 ©

[catiuskaa]

YESS?? MISS GIRL??? HAVE YOU SEEN YOUR WORKS??? AND HOW YOU FORMAT EVERYTHING?? LIKE THATS GORGEOUSSSS me thinks its sososo pretty, i had to use it 😭‼️

i’ll be giggling kicking my legs as i wait for your comments on it hehehe🙂‍↕️🎀

and omg THANKSSS!!! IM PROUD OF MESELF TOO like my longest work prior had been last year’s valentine’s special, which was only —ONLY, (the audacity, i know)— 10k words, so, yeah!! this is huge but it just felt so right idk i went crazy and it worked lolol

and the one i took inspo from was —i think one of the first works i read from you!— minho x reader (titled the experience project, i believe?) because just 🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️ bowing to you for that masterpiece

sending hugs and kisses to you bubs!! 🗣️💗

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬.

[ synopsis. ]: you have stayed behind. it’s a bitter truth you come to realize, as you stand surrounded by friends who feel distant, the feeling cracking inside you like a small spark that threatens to become a big flame when exposed to oxygen. everyone had partners, plans for the future, a life together, and you were hopelessly alone and melancholically lonely, with a myriad of comments that were meant to help, but only managed to suffocate you. changbin, always attentive, lost in an inferno of heat, had also stayed behind. he had heard on the radio that someone was missing, and as a fireman, he couldn't help but return to the burning building. he found you in your flat, distorted in smoke and tears, and found himself physically unable to separate from you, because, as a firefighter, even if changbin was aware that fire leaves scars, what he didn’t know was that though the scars you left in his skin tore him open just a little, they would end up teaching him a lot about love.

[ word count. ]: 60k!

[ status. ] FINISHED.

firefighter!changbin x fem!victim.

[ full warnings. ] content! language, alcohol, hyunin is mentioned. angst! language, alcohol, fire and rescue situations, hospitals, mild emotional damage, trauma recovery, mild violence (action-heavy stuff), miscommunication (not with changbin but she had to be here guys i’m sorry). fluff! teasing and banter, they’re in love your honour, slow-burn romance? (at least I hope I pulled it off). smut! kisses, kisses, kisses, markings, protected piv sex (yes), and i think that’s all, folks!

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

EP1: smoke and sparks. (20.7k)

syn. trapped in a devastating fire, you’re rescued by firefighter Seo Changbin, and maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe it’s something more—either way, neither of you is walking away from this unshaken.

EP2: seven floors under ash. (17.4k)

syn. a drunk call brings a certain Seo Changbin back into your life, and an argument follows—sharp, charged, and laced with something neither of you is ready to name—, things is, the line between comfort and something more —desire?— has already begun to blur.

EP3: fire hazard. (10.6k)

syn. as much as he’d like to deny it —he wouldn’t, but still—, no one in the fire station will let him escape from the truth, but with you across the table, laughter on your lips, and something warm beneath the surface, it’s hard to refuse the truth.

EP4: tears, sweat, skin, flames (11.3k)

syn. a strained reunion with old friends helps set things clear—but a quiet visit to the fire station sparks inside both you and Changbin a flicker of something warmer. Wait until night, until he opens the door—then, that flicker catches fire.

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

[ a/n. ] ok first of all HIII i’m back from the dead with a REQUEST! by my baby @palindrome969 but I just have to say i’m sorry, I had started writing the first scenes and like mapping the fire and all in my head and then i texted @lyramundana and my wifey @knowbites (that btw y’all thank em’ bc they were a massive help beta reading, 10/10 moral support, and my wifey helped me with the synopsis) and I was like “girly pops help i’m at 5k and barely anything happened compared to my usual writing” but they loved it so much, specially marsy, so this is ALSO planned to (hopefully) be done (or i’ll publish the second episode at least) in her b-day!! everyone say yippie mars!! in the comments if you read this. but yeah! that’s why this is so long, because of my wifey’s support (hell yeah) but also probably because i’ve been reading too much from my darlin eff @seospicybin and the way i don’t even realize the amout of words i devour in each work of hers, just omg, total inspiration, as much as @leeknowsallyoursecrets who was another inspo for this post’s style and the sneak peaks and all bc i just reread one of her works and i’m so in love bc c’mon i’m just surrounded by awesome talented mooties like what can I do except show off 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️‼️ anyways this is a long author's note, but yeah, if you do plan to read this, i love you so much already 🎀 hope you like!!

[ permanent taglist! ] @svckrpvnch @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @/lyramundana @/cheeksung

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

~kats, who’s excited to publish all of it already, and even more excited to be back!! 🙂‍↕️‼️💗

catiuskaa, april 2025 ©

[catiuskaa]

taglist! @skzlover24 @tirena1 @kiko-o-luck @cawcawlc @galarta @ihrtlix @strewberrcies @txtgcg @tori-m00 @chelsealynnae @jeonkoowife @whack-asf @charmerbinnie @babyphotos @spearbunny @loubouskz @svckrpvnch @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @emilyywhyy @peapod1234 @silverstarburst @wickedbutlovely @strawberry-rainclouds @edevotion

𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭, 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧, 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬.

from: love bites burns.

chapters: intro / EP 1 / EP 2 / EP 3 / EP 4 /

short syn. a strained reunion with old friends helps set things clear—but a quiet visit to the fire station sparks inside both you and Changbin a flicker of something warmer. Wait until night, until he opens the door—then, that flicker catches fire.

wc. 11.3k

cw. tension and feelings of alienation within a friend group, emotional confrontation between friends, mention of death and loss, cemetery setting, grief and emotional dialogue, sexually explicit content, adult language, kisses, markings, protected piv sex (we love to see it), and I think that’s all, folks!

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

The echo of his engine fades long before the heat in your chest does.

You close the door slowly, the silence of your apartment pressing in around you, soft and sudden. You exhale and lean your head back against the door, the kiss still humming on your lips, his chapstick mixed with yours. 

For a while, you just stand there. The quiet wraps around you like a blanket, the kind that’s both comforting and just a little too heavy. Somewhere in the distance, a car passes. The fridge hums. Your heart slowly finds its rhythm again.

Your skin still tingles, warmth buzzing at your fingertips. His laughter echoes faintly in your mind, tugging a smile from you despite yourself. Your hand moves to your lips before you can think about it. 

And yet, beneath the afterglow, something unsettles. A different kind of weight starts to rise—quieter, but no less real.

It hits gently, not like a wave, but like a shift in the air. A slow awareness that creeps in now that the adrenaline is gone. The memory of her, your friend, standing in your hallway, fire in her eyes and hurt carved into every line of her face.

Your smile fades a little.

She didn’t even ask who he was. She just looked at you like she didn’t recognize you anymore.

You rub at your chest, as if that could smooth out the ache there. You know she caught you off guard, but you also know… maybe she deserved more than that. More than you being frozen. More than you brushing it off.

Now that the noise has quieted—now that you’re not being kissed breathless in the doorway—it’s easier to see it. To sit with it.

You glance at the time. It’s way too late to call. And honestly, you wouldn’t know what to say yet, not when your head’s still a bit foggy and your heart’s still full of tangled threads.

But tomorrow… or maybe sometime this week.

You’ll reach out. You’ll figure it out.

Even if it’s just a message.

Even if it’s just, Hey. I’m sorry about earlier. Can we talk?

Your feet finally move, carrying you to the kitchen where you rinse out the glass of water you’d forgotten you were holding. The clink of the glass in the sink is sharp in the quiet.

You pad toward your bedroom slowly, flicking off the lights one by one. In the dark, the silence stretches again, longer now, heavier—but not unbearable.

You’ll fix it. Or at least… you’ll try.

And as you crawl into bed, head still spinning in a dozen directions, you realize something else.

This—whatever this is with Changbin—might be the start of something real.

And if that’s true, you don’t want to walk into it with old fires still smoldering in the background.

You owe her more than that.

You owe yourself more than that.

The next morning arrives on the same note that you left off with when you went to bed at night far too calmly for the storm brewing inside your chest. The apartment is quiet—Changbin’s laughter and warm hands are gone, leaving nothing but your own heartbeat and the faint hum of the fridge.

You haven’t stopped pacing.

Barefoot, half-dressed, hair still a mess from sleep.

The wood creaks beneath your feet.

Back to the desk.

Pause in front of your phone.

Turn on your heel again.

It’s pathetic. You know it. But your thoughts won’t sit still long enough for you to do anything else.

It’s all that you do for what feels like an eternity. Walk. From your mom’s dresser to the other side of the room. Wlak. Staring at your phone from the corner of your eye, as if it’s a burden you need to figure out how to deal with —a body you need to figure out how to bury without it meaning being the target of the whole body of police in the city.

Your arms are crossed tightly over your chest as if holding yourself together, your bottom lip pulled tight between your teeth. Every couple of minutes, you stop in front of your phone on the desk and just stare at it—like you’re waiting for it to type the message for you. Or to disappear entirely so you wouldn’t have to decide.

You want to apologize. You want to explain. You want things to go back to before everything got so tense and awkward and painful. But what do you even say?

“Hey, sorry for vanishing for two months because y’all were too busy being happy.”

Yeah, that’ll go over great.

You rub your forehead and mutter to yourself as you pace again.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

You try typing something. Then delete it. Type again. Backspace. Your thumb hovers over the call button. You lower it.

You’re almost at your wit’s end—nerves frayed, stomach tight, every breath shallower than the last. You stop, plant your hands on your hips, and glare at the phone like it personally betrayed you.

“Just do something,” you whisper, pacing one final lap across your room.

And then—buzz.

The sound nearly sends you through the ceiling. You scramble toward the desk, pick up the phone with fumbling fingers, and read the notification with wide eyes:

“Come by my place for lunch. Let’s talk.”

No emojis. No coldness, either. Just… direct.

You sink into your bed with the phone still in your hand, exhaling all the air you didn’t know you’d been holding. Relief crashes into your ribs and leaves you dizzy. You stare at the message like it might disappear if you blink too hard.

This doesn’t mean everything’s fixed. But it means something. So you text back quickly before your nerves catch up to you: 

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

Your hands are still shaking when you stand to get dressed, but there’s something steady beneath it now—something like hope.

[.]

The cemetery gates groan as Changbin pushes them open, the rusted metal protesting like the day itself doesn’t want him to enter. The sky above is overcast, thick gray clouds bruising the horizon, threatening rain but holding back—as if even the weather understands this is a day of remembering.

His boots crunch against the gravel path as he walks in, each step slower than the last. Rows of headstones rise around him, uneven and silent, like quiet witnesses. Wind threads through the trees, cold and biting, stirring the brittle leaves that have already begun to fall. The stillness isn’t peaceful—it presses on his chest, heavy, hollow.

He knows the way without needing to look. His body remembers the turns even if he tells himself he’s forgotten. And when he sees the grave—Kang Jisoo, beloved son, friend, never forgotten—he stops short. His breath catches, chest tightening with a strange mix of guilt and longing that never really goes away, but rather fades with time.

He stands there for a moment, jaw tight, hands fisting in his pockets. Then he exhales—shaky, uneven—and mutters, “Hey.” He kneels down, places a small paper bag next to the stone, and doesn’t speak again for a while. Just sits. 

The cemetery stretches out in gentle slopes, blanketed by grass that’s a little too long in some places and wildflowers that bloom defiantly in between cracks of stone. Tall trees line the edges like quiet sentinels, their branches swaying softly with the breeze. There’s a stillness to it all—not silence, exactly, but a calm that settles deep. Birds call out from somewhere up high, distant and occasional, and the air carries the faint scent of moss and old rain, like the earth remembers every footstep ever taken here.

Marble headstones catch the pale midday light, their inscriptions worn at the edges by time and weather. Some are freshly tended, with bouquets of bright flowers, others long forgotten, ivy creeping up from the soil to claim what’s been left behind. A narrow path of gravel cuts through it all, winding like a memory that doesn’t quite know where it’s going. The church’s steeple peeks from behind a cluster of trees in the distance, and its bell, though not yet ringing, feels like it’s always just about to—it’s that kind of place. A place where time doesn’t stop, but it slows down just enough to feel heavy.

He doesn’t immediately speak. Instead, he stays there for a moment, letting the weight of the day —not his day, because he isn’t tired when it’s barely lunchtime, but rather this day, specifically— settle over him. The anniversary. Another year without his friend. He presses his hand to the stone, a sigh escaping his lips.

His body is tired, but not from exertion—no, this kind of tiredness settles deeper. In the joints between memories. In the marrow of days like this one.

“I thought it would get easier, you know?” Changbin murmurs, his voice low, almost lost in the wind. He chuckles softly to himself. “But here we are. Another year.”

The cemetery is quiet, the only sounds being the wind rustling through the leaves and the distant chirping of birds. Changbin takes out a sandwich, unwrapping it carefully, as if the act of eating here somehow makes it feel like he’s sharing the moment with Jisoo.

“I guess you’re probably laughing at me right now,” Changbin says with a rueful smile,not quite biting into his sandwich just yet. He sighs thoughtfully, glancing at the tombstone as if waiting for a response. “Still can’t get my shit together. Still messing things up. But… I’m trying, Jisoo. I really am.”

He pulls out a can of beer from the bag, the sound of the tab cracking open breaking the silence. He tilts the can toward the tombstone, offering it as if toasting with his long-lost friend.

His hand brushes along the grass, pulling up a stray leaf. Then he laughs under his breath and pulls out the can of beer he brought, setting it next to the stone.

“Figured you’d want one.” He mumbles, then bites the inside of his cheek, holding back a sheepish smile. “I know you’d be laughing at me for talking to you like this… but it’s what I’ve got.”

He doesn’t open his right away. Instead, he shifts, sitting back, his legs stretched out in front of him, the paper bag crinkling as he opens it.

“Things are… weird,” he says after a long pause. “Work’s fine. Jeongin’s still obsessed with energy drinks, Chan keeps pretending he’s not tired. You know, the usual.” He picks at the sandwich he packed. “Hyunjin got promoted, but he still hates his boss. Can you believe that? The old woman loves him. Don’t worry, though—he still complains more than he works.”

The breeze picks up again, and his smile falters, just a little.

As the cold beer touches his lips, Changbin leans back against the tree, his eyes drifting to the sky. The clouds are heavy, and a light breeze brushes through the cemetery, making the moment feel even more still, more real.

He leans back further, taking another sip from the can, before taking a few more bites of his sandwich. For the first time in a long time, it feels like he’s not running away from anything. He’s just… here. Present. With Jisoo. And maybe, in his own way, moving forward.

He looks down at the tombstone, eyes tracing the name etched into the stone.

Kang Jisoo.

“I visit every year, but… Doesn’t feel like a year,” Changbin murmurs, voice soft, rough. “Feels like yesterday. Feels like ten years. Both.”

And just underneath Kang Jisoo, read Kim Hana. 

“I miss you both.” He licks his lips. “I wonder if you’re somewhere else, but at least you two are together.”

Changbin picks at the corner of the lunchbox with a quiet sigh, eyes still on the name etched into stone. The food tastes like nothing, but he chews slowly, methodically, like it’ll help fill the silence he’s come to accept every year. But this time feels different. This time, there’s something restless beneath his ribs. He lets out a low, humorless laugh and shakes his head. “You know,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “for the first time, I think I get it. The way you used to look at her. The way you used to get so damn reckless about it.” His jaw tenses. “You nearly lost everything—hell, you did lose everything—for love. And I used to think that was the dumbest, most selfish thing you’d ever done.” He pauses, thumb tracing a line on the can of beer. “But now? Shit. Now I’m starting to think… maybe I finally understand what was worth it. And you’d probably laugh if you could see me right now.”

Seo blushes a bit. Then, he confesses.

“There’s this girl.”

It hangs there in the air.

He swallows.

“She was in our last fire. The seventh floor call. Worst one we’ve had in a while. We got everyone out, but it was… close. Chan killed me for jumping off a windowsill, but I know you would’ve dabbed me up on the spot, Hyung. But yeah… her.” His fingers tighten slightly around the sandwich. “She… I carried her out. And since then, it’s like—she’s everywhere. Not in a haunting way. Not like that. More like…” He exhales, almost amused. “Like I can’t help it.”

There’s a pause.

“I think you’d like her.”

Just then, the sound of the church bell rings out across the quiet cemetery, its deep tone echoing in the distance. Changbin smiles to himself, the sound somehow familiar and oddly comforting. It’s lunchtime, just like always.

“Happy lunch, Hyung, Noona,” he says with a small chuckle, shaking his head. The simple rhythm of the world continues, even here. Even on days like this. “You two’d have a field day knowing Chan allowed me to skip part of my shift to drive here. And on my bike, too.” He snorts. “I know you just  pretended to hate it, Noona.”

The bells ring once more, and the soft clink of his beer can echoes in the quiet, as Changbin stays there, his thoughts slowly drifting away from guilt and into something a little more peaceful.

He raises the canned beer toward the stone again.

Changbin smiles. Takes another sip. The church bell in the distance begins to ring. A slow, solemn toll that echoes through the hills and slips between the trees.

Lunchtime starts.

[.]

The distant church bell rings as some kind of ominous soundtrack, but as much as each of your steps dread continuing, you walk.

You walk to your friend’s house. Slowly.

It’s not far, but each step feels like a test you didn’t study for —stomach fluttering with nerves, hands stuffed deep in your coat pockets as if you could hide the tension in your knuckles. You rehearse what to say the entire way there, quietly mouthing half-formed sentences that never make it past your lips. You still don’t know if you’re ready. You just know you can’t stay quiet anymore.

When her place comes into view, your eyes scan instinctively toward the windows. That’s when you notice it —just beyond the glass, near the entrance mat inside. A pile of shoes. Too many to belong to just her.

Your chest tightens. You recognize the scuffed sneakers with mismatched laces. The neat pair of loafers. Even the combat boots, half tucked under the bench.

They’re all here.

You freeze on the sidewalk, breath caught in your throat. This was supposed to be a quiet lunch — just the two of you. A chance to talk. Apologize. Understand.

Your hand twitches at your side. You nearly turn back.

Then the door opens.

She’s there, arms folded across her chest, framed by the soft light behind her. Her eyes meet yours and hold. Not angry. Not exactly warm. Just… tired. But open.

“Hey,” she says. “I didn’t know the others were coming when I asked you to come by. They just showed up. I figured… maybe it’s not the worst thing.”

You glance past her. Shadows move in the hallway. Someone’s voice murmurs something before going quiet again.

You try to smile, but it falters. “I can come back another time, if it’s too much—”

“Don’t,” she says quickly, gently. “You’re already here.”

She steps aside.

And despite the nerves screaming in your gut, you walk in.

The hallway is quiet, but you can feel the presence of everyone in the living room before you even see them. When you round the corner, they all look up — startled, frozen.

Except one.

The moment she sees you, she curses under her breath, eyes filling instantly. “Shit.”

And then she stands. She doesn’t hesitate.

She crosses the room in two quick steps, tears sliding down her face, and wraps her arms around you in a tight, shaking hug.

You freeze.

Then you exhale — a quiet, shaky thing — and let yourself hug her back.

No one says anything. Not yet.

But in that silence, something begins to thaw.

[.]

You’ve called him twice already.

The first time, you told yourself it was just a check-in. Nothing urgent. Just a silly excuse to hear his voice again, maybe tease him for the way he left you all breathless the night before. But the second call—left unanswered, with no reply or text—makes your chest start to tighten.

You call again. It rings and rings, then goes to voicemail.

You try again. Still nothing.

By the third time, there’s not even the ring—just an immediate “This number is unavailable.” You pull the phone away from your ear, frown at the screen. 

Powered off.  A strange knot forms low in your stomach. Something’s off.

You pace around your apartment, your phone untouched now on the desk. You spin on your heel for the fifth time in two minutes. What if something happened? But you end up groaning, before shaking your head and pressing your palms to your face. “No, don’t be dramatic. He’s probably just… busy.”

You wander the apartment, phone in hand, chewing on your bottom lip as you try to reason your way out of the worry. He’s fine. He’s probably just—what? At the gym? Out with the guys? Napping with his phone dead beside him?

It’s only when you sit down at one of the stools in the kitchen aisle that you see it: a bracelet —his bracelet, on the kitchen counter, next to the sink.

It sits there, half-coiled like a forgotten thought. He had taken it off while cooking last night, muttering something about not wanting it to get splattered. It gleams slightly in the light coming through the window. It feels personal. Important. Like an anchor.

You pick it up. It’s warm from the sun that lights from the window, but feels heavier than it should. Like some kind of sign.

Before you can convince yourself otherwise, or before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re slipping into your shoes, grabbing your keys, and you’re out the door, the bracelet clenched in your palm, getting into your car and heading toward the station with no real plan except to see if he’s there.

If he’s not picking up his phone, and you’ve got something of his… well, dropping by the station isn’t that unreasonable, right?

The fire station is surprisingly still when you arrive. It’s a big building, bigger than you expected—tall red doors gleaming, one of them cracked slightly open. There’s the distant hum of equipment, faint voices echoing inside, the scent of smoke and something metallic clinging to the warm afternoon air.

You step cautiously inside, the soles of your shoes tapping softly on the concrete. There’s a rush of cool air from within—shaded, quiet, and intimate in a way that startles you. You pass racks of gear, helmets stacked neatly on benches, uniforms hanging like sentinels. It’s oddly quiet for a place meant for chaos. You hesitate at the entrance, holding the bracelet tightly in your fist, until someone steps into view.

Then, just as you round a corner, you nearly walk into someone.

“Whoa,” a voice says, stepping back.

You look up—and it’s him. Captain Bang Chan.

He blinks once, then recognition sparks in his eyes. “You’re—wait. You’re the girl from the apartment fire.”

You nod, slightly breathless. “Yeah. Uh… sorry, I didn’t mean to barge in. I was just—”

“Looking for Changbin?” he finishes for you, easy smile softening the edge of your nerves. He blinks at you for a moment, surprised, and then smiles. “Anything wrong?”

You nod, a little awkward. “Yeah, I mean, no…” You smile. “He hasn’t been answering his phone, so…”

“Yeah. He left this.” You open your palm to show the bracelet. “I just—wanted to check. You know.”

He doesn’t, but he can figure it out by himself. Chan glances at the bracelet, then back at you with a quiet understanding. “He’s not here. Bet he turned his phone off too…” He smiles when you nod.

You nod slowly, clutching the bracelet again, unsure of what to say.

Chan watches you for a moment, then sighs. There’s a flicker of hesitation before he speaks, as if weighing what to say next. Finally, he offers a gentle smile. “He went to pay someone a visit. Don’t panic if his phone is turned off. He does that, but it’s…” Chan bites his lip. “You don’t need to worry, but I just… I think he’d rather tell you himself.”

You blink. “Oh. Okay.” But something about the way Chan speaks—calm, measured, warm—grounds you. Not in dismissal, but in trust. Like he knows exactly where Changbin is, and that it’s important. Like he knows you’ll understand in time.

Just then, you catch movement behind Chan—two figures peeking from around the corner like children caught mid-scheme. Jeongin and Hyunjin duck back with a poorly muffled snicker. 

Chan grins. “Jeongin, Hyunjin, I can see your hair.”

Hyunjin leans out, not the least bit sorry. “We weren’t eavesdropping. Just observing.”

Jeongin peeks over his shoulder. “Scientific purposes.”

You catch Chan’s amused eye and can’t help laughing, a bit of tension slipping from your chest.

“Ignore them. They’ve been insufferable ever since they found out.” His tone shifts then, softer. “I’m glad, though.”

You blink. “Glad?”

Chan holds your gaze a moment before continuing. “Not just today. I mean—back then. The fire. It was hell. We’re trained for it, yeah, but… it doesn’t always mean we walk out feeling okay. But ever since that day, I’ve seen something in Changbin that I haven’t seen in a long time.”

Your cheeks burn. You swallow. “What?”

“Hope,” he says. Simple. Honest. “You shook him up—in a good way. He’s lighter. Still grumpy, still loud,” he adds with a small smile, “but there’s something else now. He laughs more. Talks more. Has this look in his eyes like—like there’s something to look forward to. So whatever this is between you two… thank you. You’ve done more than you probably realize.”

For a moment, all you can do is stand there in the quiet, surrounded by fire gear and too many emotions.

The bracelet in your hand suddenly feels even heavier.

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but Chan just grins again and waves it off. “Don’t worry. I won’t embarrass him too much. Just—thank you. For making him feel like himself again.”

A snort echoes somewhere to your left, and when you glance over, two heads duck immediately behind a row of lockers.

Chan doesn’t even turn around. “Guys. C’mon.” He sighs, but still chuckles.

Hyunjin pops up like it’s nothing. “We’re just being supportive!”

“Like the emotional support team we are,” Jeongin adds from behind him.

You can’t help but laugh, just a little. It bubbles out of you before you can stop it—and it feels good.

Chris’ words settle somewhere deep in your chest, curling warmly like steam from a mug on a cold morning. It’s ridiculous how fast it hits you—the flutter behind your ribs, the way your shoulders loosen without you realizing. That strange, quiet ache in your throat that feels like relief. Like maybe you haven’t imagined all of this after all.

You don’t say anything right away. Just let yourself stand there in the gentle hum of the station, surrounded by laughter behind lockers and the faint scent of smoke and detergent. Chan doesn’t push. He only smiles, like he already knows.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” you ask, biting your lip before you can stop yourself. I miss him, you don’t say.

Chan glances at you, his expression gentler now, like he hears it anyway.

“Probably soon,” he says. “He never stays gone too long.”

You nod, though it doesn’t ease the twist in your stomach. Your fingers close around the bracelet again, holding it tight like it might somehow tether you to him.

“You can leave that with me if you want,” Chan offers, gesturing to the bracelet. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”

But you shake your head slowly. “No. I’ll hold onto it a little longer.”

Chan smiles, and there’s something knowing in it. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I think he’d like that.”

Chan says, tilting his head slightly, “So, how’s your arm?”

You blink, then glance down instinctively—your cast is gone, and even though the bruises have already started to fade, the memory still lingers. You rub it lightly. “Getting better. It doesn’t hurt as much now.”

Chan’s smile softens. “You gave us all a scare that day.”

You huff a quiet laugh, eyes dropping. “Yeah. Me too.”

There’s a beat of silence, not uncomfortable, just thoughtful. Then he adds, “It’s kind of wild, isn’t it? That something so terrifying ended up bringing you two together.”

Your gaze lifts, startled by the tenderness in his voice.

He just shrugs, eyes kind. You open your mouth, trying to find something to say, but before you can, a head pops out from the hallway behind Chan.

“Well, someone’s being sappy today,” Jeongin grins, leaning casually against the doorframe. “You’re gonna make her cry, hyung.”

Chan rolls his eyes, but you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “Hi, Jeongin.”

Right behind him, Hyunjin peeks out too, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “So this is her?”

“You’re the hair tie owner. The roommate, I suppose?” You smile at him, and the way his face lights up tells you he definitely enjoyed the reference.

Hyunjin’s eyes widen for half a second before he bursts into a guilty grin. “Guilty as charged” He smiles. “We’re all very invested in your story, by the way.”

Chan shakes his head with a fond sigh. “Can you two stop interrogating her like she’s on a variety show?”

But you’re laughing now, warmth spreading in your chest like sunlight. They’re teasing you, yes—but there’s kindness under it. Openness.

And somehow, it makes you miss Changbin even more.

“Welcome to our humble home.” Jeongin teases. “Please excuse my boss, he’s a little emotionally constipated.”

Chan groans. “I literally just said one nice thing.”

“And it was beautiful,” Hyunjin says dramatically, placing a hand over his heart before winking at you. “But seriously. It’s nice to finally meet you properly.”

You smile, feeling the tension in your chest slowly ease with their lighthearted energy.

“You make our Changbin smile like an idiot,” Jeongin adds with a smirk. “We like you already.”

Your cheeks flush, but you can’t help the soft, fluttering grin that takes over your face.

“You guys always like this?” you ask, voice lighter than it’s felt in days.

Jeongin winks. “Only when we like someone.”

“That’s not true,” Hyunjin says at the same time. “We’re always like this.”

Chan chuckles, stepping in. “But we do like you. Just so that’s clear.” His tone shifts slightly, softer now, more genuine. “Especially because Changbin does.”

Your breath catches. You glance up at him, and for a moment, his teasing nature fades, replaced by something gentler, steadier.

“I haven’t seen him like this in a long time,” Chan says. “And I’ve known him for a really long time.”

The hallway quiets. Even Jeongin and Hyunjin go still. The hum of the station—the distant clatter of boots, the low murmur of voices in the back—seems far away. You blink slowly, heart full.

Chan’s voice drops a little. “He’s been carrying a lot for a while. I think… you remind him it’s okay to put it down sometimes.”

Your throat tightens, but your smile doesn’t fade. You swallow. Chan just smiles, the kind that reaches all the way to his eyes. “He’ll be happy you came by. You should tell him you missed him. He’ll like hearing it.”

You don’t answer at first. But you do glance down at the bracelet in your hands.

“Well. It was very nice to meet you, but I wouldn’t want to be a bother.” You chuckle sheepishly. 

Chan grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Not a bother at all,” he says, leaning back against the counter casually. “You’re welcome here anytime. And trust me, if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” His tone holds that comforting, reassuring edge, as if he’s really trying to make sure you know it’s genuine.

Jeongin and Hyunjin exchange a quick glance, both with smirks that are way too knowing for your liking, before they quickly divert their attention back to whatever they were doing—likely plotting more harmless teasing. The tension in the air eases, and you find yourself letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

You turn back to Chan, who’s now standing upright again, his hands resting loosely in his pockets. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” you reply, the words coming easier now. You catch yourself smiling a little more than you meant to, but something about the way Chan looks at you makes the nerves slip away.

“I should go. My friends texted me while I was getting here, but they wanted to go shopping.” You smile. “It was nice meeting you all!”

The station door swings open with a soft creak not even ten minutes later, and Changbin steps inside, wiping his palms against his jeans. The familiar scent of smoke and metal greets him, grounding him after the quiet weight of the cemetery. But something else lingers in the air today—something warmer.

“You two really do make this look like a romance movie,” Jeongin calls from the corner, clearly trying to sound casual but failing miserably as he holds back a laugh. Hyunjin isn’t any better, throwing a teasing grin in Changbin’s direction.

“Yeah, perfect timing.” Hyunjin giggles into Jeongin’s neck. “You just missed it, Romeo.”

Changbin freezes mid-step. “Missed what?”

Hyunjin pokes his head over the couch, already grinning. “You know, your Juliet.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Future Seo Changbin Jr.’s other parental figure.”

Chan looks up from the table, his expression soft as he chuckles into his coffee. “Your little friend came by. Looking for you.”

A rush of warmth surges up his spine, nearly knocking the breath out of him. He clears his throat, trying to mask the way his pulse skips. “She came here?”

“She came by. Cute bracelet return trope. Little bow, sheepish smile.” Jeongin snorts. “Whole thing was very K-Drama Episode 7.”

Hyunjin nods solemnly. “I almost applauded.”

Changbin just blinks, a bit confused. Chan giggles. “You left your bracelet at her place.”

Changbin’s hand instinctively goes to his wrist, fingertips brushing the bare skin where the piece of metal used to rest. “Oh.” It feels oddly exposed now.

“She thought you’d want it back,” Chan adds, then smirks slightly. “But I said you’d probably like it better if she kept it for you.”

A huff of breath leaves Changbin’s nose, a half-laugh he can’t suppress. His ears burn red. The thought of you holding onto it—of you thinking about him at all—lights something fizzy and sweet in his chest.

The teasing fades into the background as Changbin finally unfreezes, muttering something about needing to put his things away. No one stops him. Instead, they just exchange a few knowing looks as he disappears down the hall.

The locker room is dim and still, lit only by the soft overhead light and the muted hum of afternoon sun filtering through the narrow windows. Changbin walks over to his locker, sets his bike helmet down, and leans his forehead against the cool metal door.

For a second, he just stands there. Lowers himself onto the bench slowly, like if he moves too fast the moment might break. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. But then he breaks—he grins. A full, unfiltered grin, and his hands come up to scrub at his cheeks, as if that might calm the rising pink.

Then, barely above a whisper, like he’s scared the moment might vanish if he says it too loud, he murmurs. “She came here.”

He stands. His heart is running a marathon, and he can’t sit still. He leans his back against his locker’s door, a quiet, stunned smile tugging at his lips. It’s not just giddiness —it’s something deeper, something that settles in his chest with warm certainty. Your voice, your eyes, all of it replays in his mind like a song he doesn’t want to forget.

The silence isn’t empty—it’s full of the ghost of your laughter, the faint trace of your perfume, the warmth you left behind like sunlight clinging to a room long after the door’s been shut.

And Changbin lets it wash over him, cheeks still warm, heart still racing.

His fingers brush over his wrist again, where the bracelet used to sit.

You’re keeping it.

And that only means he has another excuse to see you again.

“Knock, knock?” Chan smiles, moving his head through the locker room’s door. “Bin,” Chan softens, his gaze shifting to Changbin with quiet understanding. “How was the visit?”

Changbin sitting back on the bench, staring out at the dim hallway as the weight of the morning lingers on him. The memory of the cemetery is still fresh, vivid in his mind. The stillness of the place, the quiet of his own thoughts, and the way the church bell had rung, signaling lunchtime as he sat there, eating alone, offering the tombstone a can of beer as though Jisoo could join him. The thought of it feels almost absurd, yet somehow, it felt like the only way to keep the past alive.

He sighs deeply, his eyes slightly unfocused, as if he’s lost in the space between the present and the past.

Changbin shifts his weight, his shoulders feeling heavier than usual. He rubs the back of his neck, his fingers lingering there as if the pressure could somehow relieve the tension building in his chest. His eyes flicker toward Chan but then quickly dart away, unsure of how to put his feelings into words.

“It was… good,” Changbin finally murmurs, but it sounds hollow in the silence that stretches between them. He can feel the weight of the cemetery visit pulling at him, the memory of Jisoo’s grave too tangible, too real. He exhales, his breath shaky, his hands gripping the doorframe. “I don’t think I’ve ever really understood before. I get it now—why he was the way he was. Why he did what he did.”

He lets the words sit in the air, his gaze drifting out the window, watching the trees sway outside in the breeze. There’s a quiet heaviness to him, a weight he hasn’t been able to shake off, not even in the presence of the tombstone that used to be a symbol of guilt.

Chan doesn’t say anything right away, his gaze soft as he watches Changbin, sensing the depth of the silence. The soft click of a pen against paper in the next room fills the space, but it feels far away, like it doesn’t belong to them.

“I didn’t think I’d be standing there today,” Changbin adds quietly, more to himself than to Chan. “Talking to Jisoo like that, as if I could ask for answers. I didn’t expect it to feel like… this. Like I’m finally seeing things the way he saw them.”

Chan is quiet for a long moment, letting the words settle in the air, like dust in the afternoon light. Then he leans against the counter, arms folded loosely as he watches Changbin, his expression softening with unspoken understanding.

“It’s heavy, I know,” Chan says, his voice low. His eyes flicker toward the door, the faint sounds of the fire station bustling just beyond it, but it all feels distant, like they’re suspended in time, in this shared silence. “But you’re here now. You’re not still stuck in that place. You’re here.”

Changbin nods slowly, his gaze fixed on the ground, trying to process everything. There’s a strange weight in his chest, but there’s also something else—a quiet, almost imperceptible shift.

“Yeah. I think… I think I can start moving forward now,” he murmurs, the words tentative, fragile, but sincere. 

Chan doesn’t say anything more, but his presence is comforting, steady. He just watches Changbin, giving him space without pushing, allowing the silence to fill in the gaps where words aren’t needed.

His eyes crease, and Chris winks at him.

”Don’t forget your bracelet, Romeo.”

[.]

The sound of soft giggles breaks through the quiet hum of the apartment, pulling Changbin’s attention away from where he’s fixing his hair in the mirror. He squints over his shoulder toward the couch.

“You texting Jeongin again?” he teases, arching a brow.

Hyunjin snorts, barely glancing up from his phone. “No,” he grins, “I’m not texting my boyfriend, thank you very much.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Changbin mutters with a sneaky grin, shaking his head as he smooths a hand through his hair. Yeah, looks better. He grabs his keys from the counter, sliding them into his pocket as Hyunjin hums something smug behind him.

“I’m staying at Jeongin’s tonight, by the way,” Hyunjin calls out a few minutes later, louder this time, as he slips his phone into his hoodie pocket and heads toward the door.

“Okay…” Changbin nods, distracted, only half-registering the comment as he checks the time and taps his phone screen again. There’s several missed calls from you, calls you made when he was back in the cemetery. He’s about to call you back, and maybe also ask if it’s okay for him to come by and retrieve his bracelet, when—

Ding-dong.

The doorbell rings, and he blinks, confused. “Hyunjin, did you—?” He pads toward the door, opening it with a casual, “Did you forget somethi—”

His voice catches.

Because it’s not Hyunjin.

It’s you.

Standing in front of him, cheeks pink from the cool air the night brings, eyes warm and bright. You’re in a fitted black top that hugs your figure just right, paired with a short, frayed jean skirt. The over-the-knee socks—dark gray, hugging your legs snugly—add something almost devastatingly cute to the whole look, and for a moment, he just stands there, stunned. Your hair is loosely done, like you didn’t try too hard but still somehow look like a dream, and when you smile up at him, bracelet in hand, he forgets how to breathe.

“No, actually,” you say softly. “You did.”

Changbin stares for half a second, speechless, and then laughs—a breathy, disbelieving kind of sound.

You shrug, playful. “Long story short, Hyunjin found my Instagram and told me to come by. I hope I’m not intruding…?”

Changbin just smiles, slow and wide, like the world’s caught him by surprise in the best way.

“You could never.”

You toe off your shoes and wander further inside, fingers brushing the edge of the kitchen counter as you glance around. It smells like him—clean linen and something vaguely spicy, like the cologne that clings to your sweater after a hug lasts too long.

He follows you, slower, quieter. You stop, turn around. And he’s already looking at you.

There’s a pause.

Neither of you speaks, but something’s shifted. The air feels thicker now, like the silence has weight. You fiddle with the hem of your sleeve. He takes a step closer.

“You really came,” he says again, but this time it sounds different. Lower. Closer to a confession than a statement.

You nod, heart tapping against your ribs. “You really didn’t call me back.”

He huffs a soft laugh, eyes dropping to your lips before catching himself. “Phone was off,” he says, trying to focus himself back to your eyes. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make you wait.”

“I wasn’t waiting,” you lie, barely. You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “But it’s okay,” you say, feigning nonchalance as you glance at your nails. “I downloaded Tinder anyway.”

That gets him—his eyes widen, a breath catches. “You didn’t.”

You shrug. “Didn’t I?”

There’s a beat, one suspended second before his laugh spills out, soft and disbelieving. “You’re impossible.”

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly you’re closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. Close enough to see the way his lashes flutter slightly, how his throat bobs when he swallows.

Then, like gravity gives in, your lips meet his. A small kiss. Another one, that tastes like a mix of his chapstick and your flavoured one. 

The teasing smiles fade into something else the moment your eyes meet again. A beat passes. His hand flexes at his side, then lifts slightly before he drops it again, unsure.

“You really came,” he says, more quietly now.

“I did.”

“I missed you.”

And your lips find his again.

It’s soft at first—tentative, searching. Then, sighing, you shift, and so does he. His hand finds your face, your neck, your jaw. Yours tangle in his hair. You both breathe harder now, kissing like the moment could end if you stop. Like stopping isn’t an option anymore. Outside, the world is still. But inside this apartment, everything is starting to burn.

The tension uncoils fast, sparking between teeth and breath and fingertips that find the edge of a shirt. It deepens with a quiet sound you don’t remember making, with the way he presses you back against the counter like he’s waited weeks instead of days.

His hand slides to your waist. Yours tug at the neck of his jacket, failing to pull him closer, for the laws of physics don’t allow you. You’re barely breathing between kisses now, every movement deeper, bolder, and everything else fades into the background. The only sound is the rush of your own breath mingling with his, the thrum of your heartbeat pounding in your chest. You feel his hand slide down to the small of your back, settling between you and the counter as if to shield you from the edge of the surface, and pulling you in even closer, like there’s nothing that could possibly separate the two of you now.

You break away just enough to catch your breath, but your foreheads stay pressed together, both of you grinning like idiots, eyes still closed.

“Guess I can’t get away from you,” Changbin murmurs, his voice husky but laced with amusement.

You laugh softly, tracing the outline of his jaw with your finger, “Nope. You’re stuck with me now.”

He’s still smiling, but there’s a hint of seriousness in the way he looks at you, like he’s thinking about something more than just this moment. He opens his mouth to say something, but you silence him with another kiss, slow this time, almost tender.

“I think I like this version of you,” he whispers, against your lips, and he grins even wider.

“Oh yeah?” You chuckle softly, leaning in to nudge your nose against his. “The one who doesn’t let you leave without stealing a kiss?”

“Exactly,” he teases, tucking a hair strand behind your ear. “I think you should do it more often.”

”You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” You snort. “You’d run away after a couple times, though.”

“No.” His hand comes up to cup your cheek, eyes softening as he gazes down at you. “I’d let you,” he says, voice dropping, silk smooth. “Anytime.”

For a moment, there’s only the quiet rhythm of your breaths and the undeniable pull between you, the space between you two having vanished. 

Your lips trail down his jaw in slow, openmouthed kisses, as his hands find the small of your back, pulling you closer until there’s nothing left between you but heat and breath. You curl your fingers onto his jacket, tugging it off, and he barely manages to laugh.

“Wait—wait,” he mumbles, smiling against the shell of your ear. “You just got here.”

“I’m making up for lost time,” you whisper, half teasing, half breathless.

He lets out a shaky exhale and moves his arms, letting you pull the jacket off his broad shoulders. Your hands splay over them, travelling across his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin even over his shirt, the quick thrum of his heartbeat underneath. You look up at him, and he’s already looking at you, deeply, with something you can’t quite piece together.

“I really did miss you,” he says again, quieter this time, more serious. Like he needs you to believe it.

You nod, swallowing around the sudden tightness in your throat. “I missed you too.”

His hands slide beneath the hem of your shirt, not rushing, just holding, grounding. He kisses you again, this time slower, deeper, like he’s memorizing the way you taste, the way you feel against him. And when you finally break apart just enough to breathe, he’s still smiling, a little dazed, a little breathless.

“Are you sure about this?” he murmurs against your lips, eyes flicking over your face, yearning to read every thought behind your eyes. “We can always have dinner first. Watch a movie. I wouldn’t wanna rush you…”

You laugh, breath hitching slightly as your fingers play with the hem of his shirt. “I mean,” you smirk, tilting your head up, “I could eat.”

“Yeah?” he grins, kissing your forehead. “What do you wanna eat?”

You lean in, lips brushing his as you whisper, “You.”

He exhales sharply, almost like a laugh, but it melts into a low groan as he pulls you back in again, his hands already finding their way to your hips.

“God,” he mumbles against your mouth. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smile into the kiss. “You’ll die happy.”

He groans under his breath, voice caught between a chuckle and something much more desperate. “Okay. That’s definitely going to ruin my self-control.”

“I’m not asking you to have any.”

He grins against your lips, voice low and teasing. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” you murmur, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, just enough to make him fail to hold back a shiver. “But you don’t seem to mind.”

“I don’t,” he admits, hands settling at your hips. “God, I really don’t.”

You nudge him playfully with your nose. “So… dinner and a movie?”

He lifts an eyebrow, lips quirking. “After all you’ve said, are you actually suggesting we don’t make out on the couch all night?”

You fake a gasp. “I’m a woman of class.”

“Oh really?” he smirks, brushing his lips against yours. “Then what do you call straddling me two minutes after showing up at my door?”

You blink. “A polite hello?”

That makes him laugh—loud and warm and a little disbelieving—and before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you into another kiss, one that promises you’re not going anywhere for a while.

You gasp a laugh into his neck, your arms wrapping around him instinctively as he carries you down the hallway. “You know this is wildly unfair, right?” you murmur, teasing, fingers threading into his hair.

He huffs a breath that’s half-laughter, half-something darker. “Unfair is you showing up at my door looking like that and saying things like you left your scent on my pillow.”

“You did!” you protest, grinning. “I had to do laundry just to stop thinking about you.”

Changbin chuckles lowly, nudging open his bedroom door with his foot. “Bold of you to assume that’s gonna help.”

The room is dimly lit, still carrying traces of the last time he was here, early in the morning, the faint smell of his cologne clinging to the air. He sets you down gently, but his hands linger, fingers splaying over your back like he doesn’t want to let go.

You lean in, catching his bottom lip between your teeth in a playful tug before you pull back just slightly, eyes meeting his. “So… movie night?”

He’s grinning like he’s never been happier. “Sure,” he says, brushing your hair back behind your ear. “But just so you know, I’m not watching a second of it.”

“Perfect,” you whisper, pulling him down to meet your mouth again.

The kiss deepens before either of you even really breathe, all soft mouths and slow-burning heat, like picking up a conversation you never quite stopped. His hands find your waist again, steady and warm, while yours slide up under the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing skin like you’re rediscovering something you didn’t know you missed.

You barely make it to the bed before falling into it, laughter and sighs tangled somewhere in the middle. Changbin settles above you but doesn’t rush, just looks at you for a moment—like he needs to memorize this, in case it’s a dream.

“God, you’re so—” he starts, then stops, because saying too much feels dangerous. Like tipping the scale too far too soon.

But you only smile, thumb brushing his jaw, and pressing a soft kiss on his cheek.

His chest rises with a quiet breath, and then he leans down again, kissing you like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. His hands move slowly, reverently—like he’s taking his time learning every curve, every sound you make, every shift beneath his touch.

He’s taken off guard when you suddenly take control, the dynamic of the situation abruptly shifting. You move him back, onto the bed, and he lets out a surprised gasp as his back hits the mattress. His eyes widen as you straddle his hips, your body pinning him down, but he doesn’t try to break free.

Changbin gazes up at you, a mixture of surprise and arousal evident in his expression. His hands instinctively go to your thighs, gripping the flesh there, as if trying to anchor himself.

“W-wait a sec…” He bites his lip to not whimper as your lips travel to his neck, peppering soft kisses that threaten to drive him crazy. “Please, gorgeous, let me… just… tell me…”

You swallow dry, settling your hands on his chest. “”I need to tell you something.” 

He blinks. Once, then twice. His eyes have turned so dark they could fuck you themselves. “O-okay,” he breathes out, one of his hands playing with a strand of your hair. “What is it?”

”I just, um…” You wait until he nods, reassuring you, and then you bite your lip. “Well. Last time I did something… like this, I…” You sigh, sitting back straight, and he moves with you, holding your waist, stroking you absentmindedly with his thumbs. “It was probably years ago.”

”Oh.” He chews on his lower lip. He wants to eat you alive. “Gorgeous, if you’re having second thoughts, I…”

You’re overthinking. You have been, ever since Hyunjin sent you the apartment's address. Honestly, a part of you always is. But you want this. Want him. So, for the second time in the day, and for the second time since you’ve met him, since he burned and churned everything you thought you knew about this world, you let your mind turn off, and you act again.

You grab the hem of your shirt, and you pass it softly over your head, taking it off.

It doesn’t matter if your act of foolishness or braveness or whatever that was fades just as your shirt touches the floor. You’ve never been insecure about your body, probably because you’ve always been too busy being insecure about every other thing you do or say. But if the case were different, and you had been filled with insecurities, —if you had had any doubts regarding whether the gorgeous man before you would find you attractive or desirable—, they would burn out in this instant.

His index hooks under your chin, moving softly so that you’d look at him.

Seo’s cheeks have turned red. His eyes, still as dark as before, struggle to look at your eyes, your lips, or the way your black bra holds your curves, decorating your skin with lacy patterns. He can’t pick where to look. His other hand, the one not holding your face, fists the bedsheets, as if to help him hold himself back.

”I…” He’s speechless. He doesn’t know what to say.

But then you grab his wrist, and Changbin’s breath catches when you guide his hand and press it flat against your chest, right over your racing heart. His fingers twitch instinctively, splayed wide like he’s afraid to press too hard, afraid to break whatever fragile thing is forming between you. But then he feels it—your heartbeat, wild and thunderous beneath his palm—and it makes his own skip, makes something twist and bloom in his chest. 

“You make me nervous, because you’re… you. But I’ve never been as comfortable as I feel when I’m with you.” You nod, and he stares up at you as if he’s seen an angel. “So, no. Please. I want this.”

You’re nervous. You’re saying it, but you’re also letting him feel it. And that trust, that quiet offering of vulnerability, knocks the air out of him. He’s never been good with words, not when the moment matters most, but now he doesn’t need them. 

“God, I…” His voice sounds like he has just ran a marathon. No, not just one. Ten marathons. “Okay. Yeah. We’ll take it slow.”

You move your hand toward your back to take your bra off, but he grabs it, stopping you. 

“Leave it on?” He blinks. “Please.” 

You nod. Your skirt is almost a belt at your waist, ridden up to its limits. “How about this one?” 

He gulps. “Y-yeah.” His jaw tightens. “Not the socks. Keep them.”

It all happens in blinks. Your skirt, off. His shirt, off. His belt clinks when it hits the floor, but you’re too busy being kissed crazy. Your lips are swollen, and he looks ethereal under the sole light of his desk light.

His breath is shallow as he leans back slightly, eyes searching yours, asking without words. When you nod, lips parted, skin flushed, he lets out a quiet curse under his breath—half disbelief, half hunger—and leans over the side of the bed. His hand fumbles in the drawer for a moment before he finds the foil packet, tearing it open with practiced ease. The soft rustle of the wrapper is the only sound in the room besides your breathing, and when he looks back at you—eyes dark, chest rising and falling—there’s a flicker of something softer beneath the heat, like awe. Like he can’t believe this is real.

And when he finally moves back to your lips and slides into you, —slowly, deviously even though his hands hold your body the way an evergreen tree’s branches hold onto the snow in the winter, as if there was no other way to express just how much this feels meant to be— you feel completely consumed.

You let out a strangled gasp, and he murmurs something against your neck that sounds like "fuck." You arch into him, the air escaping from your lungs as you try to get closer, chasing more of that feeling.

“I’m going to…” his teeth barely scratch against your shoulder, and he pants, moving and pressing kisses all over your face. “Okay. Okay. I’ll start moving now, yeah?”

”Please,” you cry out. And he starts, and God. You almost can’t handle it. It’s good. Really good. Can too good be a thing? It’s almost absurd. You throw your head back as you moan, and his lips find your jaw, kissing you softly.

”God. Can’t believe… no one has fucked you in years,” he gasps. “Been wanting to do it even before you called me that night.”

You nod. Letting him know that he can. Fuck you, that is. Whenever. Yes. Yes, please. It’s almost as if he can hear you, because he speeds up, whining. 

“I meant what I said last time. Please.” He moves your hands, and your fingers curl against his shoulders, nails just barely digging in. He exhales sharply, lips brushing against your jaw. “Go on, gorgeous,” he murmurs, coaxing. “Make it so they won’t dare to ask me about it in the lockers.”

Your nails drag down his back as you moan, slow at first, then harder when he rolls his hips against yours and you gasp into his mouth. The sound he makes—low, broken, almost a growl—shoots straight through you, and his grip on your waist tightens like he’s barely holding on. “Fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, his body trembling from restraint. You do it again, scratching lines into his skin, and he shudders, his breath stuttering as he buries his face in your neck. 

“You’re driving me insane,” he mutters against your skin, voice wrecked and raw. But his mouth doesn’t stop, trailing fire down your throat as his hands slide lower, pulling you closer like he needs you to feel just how much you’re undoing him.

His mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s all tongue and need, his hands greedy at your waist, pulling you closer like he needs to feel every inch of you just to stay grounded. You gasp into him, fingers now tangled in his hair, hips arching instinctively into his as your back meets the wall with a soft thud. The air is thick with heat and the quiet, desperate sounds you both make—like touch alone might not be enough. His name slips from your lips like a prayer, and he groans against your throat, biting softly before kissing the sting away. 

His hands are everywhere—skimming up the back of your thighs, gripping at your hips, sliding up your tummy, like he’s trying to memorize you by touch alone. Your breath hitches when his fingers dig in just enough to make you whimper, and he swallows the sound with a kiss that’s nothing but heat and tongue and open-mouthed desperation. Every time he pulls back for air, it’s only for a second—just long enough to look at you, eyes dark and hungry, before diving back in like he can’t help himself. You can feel how hard he is, and the way he groans when your nails rake down his back only makes the fire burn hotter. 

It’s not slow. It’s not sweet. It’s messy and breathless and overwhelming, like you’re both seconds from losing control—and neither of you wants to stop.

But his body betrays him. 

“Shit—do it again,” he pants, voice rough as his forehead rests against yours.

You let out a breathy moan, dragging your nails down his back once more, and he groans, his body jerking slightly.

“God, you’re unreal,” he mutters, breathless. 

Your breath hitches, fingers curling against his shoulders as your back arches beneath his touch. You can barely think—every nerve lit up, every movement sending sparks through you.

“Bin—” you gasp, your voice shaking.

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes dark, lips swollen. “You’re close, aren’t you?” he whispers, his voice rough and reverent, like he’s watching something sacred unfold.

You nod, barely, and he kisses you like he’s trying to steal the moment—slow and deep and all-consuming—as his hand finds yours, fingers tangling. “Come on,” he murmurs against your lips, “You’re the one who said ‘I could eat’,” he whispers cheekily, teeth brushing against your neck.

“Yeah, well—” you cut off with a gasp as his hips roll up into yours, “—I didn’t know the main course would be this fucking dangerous,” you let out between moans.

He chuckles, low and wicked, and your eyes flutter shut. He kisses the tip of your nose. 

“Tell me to stop,” he teases, voice low against your ear.

“Don’t you dare.”

Your bodies move in sync, breaths tangled, hands everywhere—desperate to keep each other close, to feel everything, all at once. His lips trail along your jaw, your neck, your shoulder, every inch of you burning where he touches, where he breathes.

“God, you feel so good,” he groans against your skin, voice low and trembling.

You pull him closer, nails raking gently down his back as you gasp, your voice breaking. “I—Bin, I’m… I’m right there—”

“I know,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “Me too.”

Your eyes meet, wild and wide and filled with something neither of you can name, and the world blurs. Everything sharpens and fades all at once—heat building, breaking, a shuddering crash that pulls both of you under. You cling to him, to the moment, to the fire crackling through your veins, and he holds you through every breathless second, like he never plans to let go.

And then it hits—slow and sudden, overwhelming in its intensity. You arch into him with a gasp, your hands fisting in the fabric at his shoulders as your body tenses, then melts, trembling in his hold. He follows right after, burying his face in your neck with a deep, broken groan, his arms wrapped tightly around you like he’s anchoring himself to you, to this exact moment.

Everything else falls away. Just your hearts pounding in unison, your skin slick and warm against his, your breaths slowly syncing as the aftershocks ripple through you both.

He doesn’t move for a long while. Just stays there, holding you close, one hand running softly up your spine. “You okay?” he whispers, voice rough, tender.

You nod against him, a lazy smile spreading across your lips. “More than okay.”

Changbin shifts slightly beneath the sheets, careful not to jostle you too much as he reaches for the nightstand. His hand brushes over your hip on the way, lingering for a moment before he moves again. “Just give me a sec,” he murmurs, voice still husky from the heat you shared.

You hum, eyes fluttering closed as the mattress dips slightly. He moves quietly, slipping out from under the blanket, bare feet padding across the room. You peek through heavy lashes just in time to see him toss the condom into the small trash can by the bathroom door, then pause to wash his hands. The soft rush of water fills the silence, grounding and intimate in the afterglow.

When he returns, he’s quieter, slower—gaze soft as he climbs back into bed. He wraps himself around you again with a quiet sigh of contentment, pulling you into his chest like you’re something fragile and sacred. “Didn’t want to let go,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Even for a second.”

You let out a soft breath, eyes fluttering half-shut as sleep begins to tug at the edges of your mind. But when Changbin settles beside you again, warm and shirtless, you can’t help it—your gaze wanders.

Your fingers trail lazily over his chest, admiring the lines of his muscles, the way his skin still feels warm beneath your touch. You hum, the smallest, sleepiest smile curling at your lips. “You’re so hot,” you mumble, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s honestly unfair.”

Changbin freezes for a second, ears going pink. “Wh—what?” he stammers, his voice caught somewhere between flustered and amused.

You laugh softly, curling closer, your hand splayed over his stomach now. “Just saying,” you yawn, blinking slowly up at him. “You’re built like a dream and smell like safety. Not fair.”

He buries his face in the pillow for a second, groaning into it before peeking up at you with a sheepish grin. “You can’t say stuff like that while you’re half-asleep. It’s lethal.”

“Mm,” you murmur, already dozing off with a smile. “Still true.”

Changbin groans, dragging a hand over his face, his cheeks flaming as he sinks further into the pillow. “Please don’t,” he mumbles, voice muffled and boyish and utterly mortified.

“But you’re a fireman,” you say again, stretching the word like it’s a revelation. You reach out and tap his bare shoulder, grinning as he peeks at you through his fingers. “You have to know that you’re like, smoking hot, right?”

He lets out a breathy, helpless laugh, flipping onto his back to stare at the ceiling as if begging the universe for strength. “You’re seriously gonna do wordplay right now?”

You giggle, propping yourself up on one elbow to look down at him. “Don’t act like I’m wrong.”

Changbin turns to face you fully, cheeks still flushed but eyes full of warmth, his smile crooked. “You’re dangerous when you’re tired.”

“Only for you,” you tease, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth.

You shift closer, humming softly as your fingers trail up his stomach, drawing lazy patterns across his skin. Changbin sucks in a breath, already blushing again as your lips press soft, teasing kisses along his collarbone, then to his chest, then down to his ribs.

“Hey—wait—” he squirms, laughter bubbling up in his throat as your hands join in, dancing over his sides. “That tickles—!”

You giggle, refusing to stop, your kisses growing playful, scattered like confetti across his skin. “I know,” you admit in a whisper, between kisses, “I’m doing it on purpose.”

He grins, grabbing one of your wrists gently to halt your mischief, eyes sparkling. “You little—”

“But also,” you say with a sheepish smile, settling on top of him and resting your chin on his chest, “I’m actually kind of hungry now.”

Changbin blinks, still catching his breath. “Hungry? Now?”

You nod seriously. “Like… food hungry. Not, you know, metaphorically.”

He groans. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

But you just smirk. “I was going to say we can order take out, but I suddenly thought it’d be so hot seeing you in nothing but pants and an apron,” you smile wiggling your eyebrows teasingly.

Changbin lets out a startled laugh, his eyes widening as your words sink in. “Oh my god—”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, grinning wickedly. “What? I’m just saying. Fireman by day, chef by night?” You wiggle your eyebrows again, biting your lip playfully. “With those arms? That apron? Nothing else?”

He covers his face with both hands, groaning into his palms. “You’re going to kill me.”

You lean in and nuzzle against his cheek. “Death by thirst. Sounds poetic.”

“Sounds criminal,” he mumbles, cheeks burning. Then, peeking at you through his fingers, he adds, “If I burn dinner it’s because you distracted me.”

You grin. “Worth it.”

He shifts under your touch, laughing softly as you press another kiss to his jaw. “You really want me half-naked and cooking for you?”

“Seriously? Who wouldn’t?” You smile, nudging him with your nose, and then shrug innocently. “I think it’s a public service.”

Changbin groans again, but starts dragging himself out of bed. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re a dream.”

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

~kats, who is unbelievably proud at the fact that not only did she finish this, but she also did it within the deadline!

catiuskaa, april 2025 ©