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Guys there's something odd going on with my taglist, I think its fixed now but if you're supposed to be tagged and its not showing then please let me know!!!

New Beginnings - Part Five - Stray Kids x female!9th member

Pairing: Chan x 9th Member

Summary: Lines are becoming more and more blurred as you and Chan still struggle to navigate old feelings that are returning to the surface. The pressure on the solos and duet are building so it’s only a matter of time before one of you breaks.

Genre: Angst, slow burn

A/N: YOU GUYS I’M BACK <3 Thank you all so much for you patience, I know I was away a lot longer than I originally planned but seeing the love still coming in from you all means THE WORLD. It’s been a hard few weeks but I’m so happy to be back and bringing you a new chapter. Please let me know what you think <3

Part Four

Masterlist

────୨ৎ────

Chan could feel it — the way his heart clawed against his ribs, frantic, desperate, every second he stayed here next to you.

It hurt.

It hurt worse than anything he’d ever felt.

But it also felt like breathing for the first time in forever.

You were right there.

So close he could feel the tremble of your breath against his skin, could hear the unsteady beat of your heart matching his.

And still, it didn’t feel close enough.

His pinky was still tangled with yours, the fragile thread holding him together when everything else inside him was pulling apart. He didn’t know how long you had been lying there together, time had blurred into nothing, into something sacred he didn’t want to let go of.

In here. it was just you and him. No expectations. No fear. No pretending.

Only this.

Only you.

His fingers twitched before he even realized what he was doing, brushing your hair back from your forehead, the softest touch he could manage because anything more would break him completely.

“We should probably go back to the dorm,” he whispered, but his voice barely sounded like his own. It was rough, hoarse, cracking under the weight of all the things he didn’t dare say out loud.

Don’t go. Stay. Stay with me.

When you shook your head, that tiny, heartbreaking movement, his chest caved in.

He closed his eyes tightly, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

“I know,” he managed to choke out. “I don’t want to either.”

Because if you left now, if you walked out of this tiny sanctuary you’d built between you — he didn’t know if he’d survive pretending anymore.

Didn’t know if he could keep looking at you like you weren’t everything.

Didn’t know if he could keep swallowing down the truth burning in his chest like it would tear him apart from the inside out.

He hovered, hand still half-reaching toward you, caught in the impossible choice between pulling you closer or letting you go.

Every instinct in him screamed to move.

To tell you.

To let it out.

That he—

It was there.

Right there on the tip of his tongue.

He could taste it.

He could feel it in the way his breath caught when he looked at you.

And then, your forehead brushed his again, tentative, burning, fragile and he couldn’t hold back anymore.

He wasn't sure who moved first. Maybe he did or maybe it was you? He didn't care, all he knew was his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t controlled.

It was a breaking, desperate, shattering kind of kiss that said everything he didn’t have the courage to speak.

You gasped against him, and it felt like a lifeline he hadn’t known he was drowning for. He deepened it, pressing closer, his hand cradling the back of your head like you might disappear if he didn’t hold you tight enough.

He felt the way you kissed him back, just as desperately, pulling at his hoodie like you needed him just as badly. And that undid him more than anything else. Because it meant maybe you were just as lost, just as scared, just as ruined by this impossible thing between you.

He wanted to fall into you.

Wanted to lose himself in you completely.

Wanted to forget the fear, forget the reasons, forget everything except the way you tasted and the way you made breathing feel easier and harder all at once.

It was messy. Raw. Unforgiving.

It could have turned into more — it almost did.

The way your hands fisted in the front of his hoodie, the way your body pressed flush against his like you couldn’t bear to leave even an inch of space between you both.

Chan would have given you anything you asked for.

Anything.

But then—

The slam of a door echoed down the hall, sharp and cruel.

You broke apart like you’d been shocked, gasping for air, blinking at each other with wide, stricken eyes.

Chan’s hand hovered in the space between you, trembling, aching.

His mouth opened.

“Say it. Say it now. Tell her. Tell her, you coward.”

But the words caught in his throat.

He couldn’t.

Instead, he let his hand fall back to his side, clenching into a fist to stop himself from reaching for you again.

You didn’t move either.

You both just sat there, breathing hard, hearts pounding, drowning in everything that had gone unsaid — everything that still needed to be said.

He wanted to tell you so badly it physically hurt.

Wanted to fall into you, lose himself in you, trust you with all the broken, scared pieces he never showed anyone else.

But fear won.

Like it always did.

So, he stayed silent.

And so did you.

The space between you filled up with all the things you were too scared to say.

Chan lowered his head, staring at the ground, willing his breathing to slow, willing his hands to stop shaking.

But deep down, he knew.

He was already too far gone.

He had been for a long, long time.

And now, he was terrified it might already be too late.

────୨ৎ────

Chan didn’t know how long you both stayed like that.

Two statues. Too afraid to move.

He could feel the seconds bleeding into minutes, heavy and suffocating.

You were still sitting there across from him— so close he could reach out and touch you again if he just let himself.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

His hands curled into tight fists on his knees, nails digging into his palms hard enough to leave marks.

He needed the pain.

He needed something to hold onto before he did something even stupider than what they’d already done.

He snuck a glance at you.

You weren’t looking at him.

Your gaze was locked somewhere over his shoulder, unfocused, lost, like if you just stared hard enough at the wall, you could pretend none of this had happened.

But it had.

The taste of you was still on his lips. The weight of you was still in his arms, in his chest, in every shattered breath he pulled in. He thought kissing you would help. He thought maybe, maybe if he just touched you once — really touched you — he could get it out of his system.

Be normal again.

Be safe.

But all it did was make him need you more.

You have no idea what you’re doing to me, he thought helplessly. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you.

Years.

It had been years.

Years of stolen glances across rehearsal rooms, of staying late under the excuse of working on songs down the back of the practice room while you danced when really he just didn’t want to leave your orbit.

Years of brushing shoulders, of laughing too loud at your stupid jokes, of feeling his heart lurch whenever you smiled at him like he was your favorite person in the whole damn world.

Years of swallowing it down.

Years of telling himself he wasn’t allowed.

And now… now he wasn’t sure he could stuff it back inside.

Because for a second — just one broken, burning second — he thought you wanted it too. He thought he felt it in the way you kissed him back like you were drowning.

He almost told you.

Almost blurted it out right there on the studio floor like some desperate idiot.

Please stay.

Please choose me.

But the fear was louder.

Fear of losing you completely if he scared you.

Fear of breaking this fragile thing between you, whatever it was.

Fear that if he gave you all of him, you might decide it wasn’t enough.

He would survive a thousand more nights of pretending — if it meant he still got to be near you.

But he wouldn’t survive losing you altogether.

He bit down on the words like they were poison.

He didn’t look at you.

He couldn’t.

If he did, he was afraid something inside him would shatter too loudly to recover. So he stayed on the floor, back pressed to the wall, breathing like he’d just run miles and still couldn’t catch up. His chest ached. Your kiss still burned on his lips.

And all he could think was “you’re going to leave again.”

Just like last time.

He didn’t blame you. Not really. Not after what just happened — after everything neither of you said. This whole thing was a mess. A beautiful, terrifying mess.

So when you stood up, the sound of your movement made his breath hitch.

“There it is. She’s leaving.”

The thought ripped through him like a blade.

And he couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Just sat there like he deserved it — like maybe if he kept quiet, it would hurt less when the door finally shut behind you.

But instead you crouched down in front of him.

His eyes jerked up instinctively, confused, afraid.

You weren’t walking away.

You weren’t yelling. You weren’t running. You weren’t even crying.

You were just holding out your hand.

“Come on,” you said softly, voice too full of something tender and breakable. “We should go back to the dorms.”

It short-circuited something in him.

He stared at your hand like it might disappear if he blinked. Like maybe this was a dream too. That you’d vanish and he’d wake up and it would be just like always, just him, and silence, and the ache of everything he never said.

“You’re not leaving?” he heard himself ask.

His voice cracked halfway through.

It sounded too young. Too raw. Too real.

Your expression softened. “No,” you said. “Not without you.”

And Chan couldn’t breathe.

For a second, his lungs just stopped.

Because he’d been sure. Sure that the second the air shifted again, you’d pull away. Back into safety. Back into silence.

But you didn’t, you stayed.

You didn’t confess. Didn’t cry. Didn’t promise anything you couldn’t give.

You just reached for him. Like it was that simple.

And maybe it wasn’t simple. Maybe it would get more complicated from here. Maybe neither of you knew what came next. But as for right now, you were here, and you were asking him to come with you.

So he reached out. Slowly. Carefully. Like if he moved too fast, the moment might burst. His hand fit into yours like it always had. Like it knew where to go. You pulled him up and he went willingly. Still no words but your fingers were warm around his.

And he didn’t let go.

Because even if he didn’t know what this meant… even if he was scared out of his mind…

You were still here.

And for now —

That was enough.

────୨ৎ────

You didn’t let go of his hand.

Not even once.

Not when you stepped out of the studio. Not when the cold night air hit your skin and made you realize just how long you’d been inside. Not even when your fingers started to tremble.

Chan’s hand stayed wrapped around yours — like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to let go either.

It wasn’t tight. It wasn’t desperate.

Just… there.

A quiet tether between two people terrified of falling apart.

You couldn’t look at him. Not directly. Every time you tried, the memory of his mouth on yours, the way he kissed you like it hurt, would slam into your chest like a freight train. So you looked ahead. At the sidewalk. At the streetlights. At the familiar path you’d walked a thousand times before — that now felt completely foreign.

Because nothing felt normal anymore.

And yet here you were. Holding his hand. Trying to breathe.

You didn’t know how to explain what was happening inside you. How scared you were. How your heart was thudding so hard it felt like your whole body was pulsing with it. How the kiss had shattered you and filled you in the same breath.

And how now…

Now you didn’t know who you were supposed to be.

Because if you let yourself want this — really want it — you didn’t know if you’d survive it breaking.

So instead, you walked beside him in silence. Let your thumb brush against his knuckles now and then. Let your skin speak for you because words were too big. Too dangerous.

And maybe — maybe he understood. Because he didn’t try to fill the silence either. He just stayed close. Matched your steps. Let you lead the way, like he trusted you not to let him fall.

The dorm came into view slowly, edges soft and blurry through the fog of your thoughts.

You still didn’t let go.

Chan didn’t either.

Not when you climbed the stairs.

Not when you reached for the front door.

Not even when the lock clicked and you stepped inside.

The world didn’t stop turning. The hallway lights still flickered like always. The dorm still smelled like laundry and someone’s leftovers. Jisung’s laugh echoed faintly from down the hall.

But your hand was still in his.

And he hadn’t let go.

So you didn’t either.

Even though it hurt. Even though the fear sat like a weight on your ribs. Even though you were trying not to cry from the sheer, impossible tenderness of it.

Because for a few more seconds — just a few — you didn’t have to pretend to be fine.

You didn’t have to carry it all alone.

You didn’t say anything when you looked up at him, not really.

But you saw it — the way his eyes searched yours, full of pain, full of apology, full of something unspoken that neither of you could say.

And then, quietly, you tugged his hand.

Not away.

Not to push him back.

Just to guide him forward.

Down the hallway. Toward your room.

Still holding on. Still breathing. Still not ready to let go.

The room was quiet when you closed the door behind you.

Soft. Dim. Familiar.

You didn’t turn on the overhead light. Just the warm little lamp on your desk — barely enough to see by, but it made everything feel… gentler.

Chan didn’t say anything when you let go of his hand for the first time. He just stood there, fingers curling briefly like he could still feel the shape of yours pressed against his.

You didn’t know what to say.

There wasn’t anything that would make this less complicated. Nothing that would untangle the fear in your chest or the ache in his eyes.

So you didn’t speak.

You just crossed the room slowly, your movements quiet, a little clumsy from how much your body still buzzed with emotion. You pulled back the blanket on your bed, slipped inside like it was any other night — like this wasn’t the aftermath of a kiss that had nearly destroyed you both.

You didn’t invite him but you knew that uou didn’t have to.

After a long second, he followed. Chan lay down beside you, keeping to his side at first. His back hit the mattress in a slow, deliberate motion — like even this small, fragile thing was too much.

You didn’t reach for him. Not right away but eventually the silence became too loud and the space between you hurt too much.

So, after a while, you rolled over and tucked yourself into the curve of his side — tentative, not pushing, just there. Your cheek against the soft fabric of his hoodie. Your hand curled near his ribs, not touching, just hovering close enough to feel his warmth.

He went still.

Then — slowly — his arm came up and around your shoulders.

You let yourself breathe.

Not deeply. Not fully. But enough.

Enough to feel his chest rise and fall beneath your ear. Enough to feel the way his hand settled gently at your back. Enough to know you weren’t the only one holding onto something invisible in the dark.

He didn’t say a word.

Neither did you.

Because there was nothing left to say tonight.

No confessions. No apologies. No promises.

Just presence.

Just the soft, steady beat of his heart under your cheek. The warmth of his palm resting against your spine. The way his breathing finally slowed — like he could only fall asleep when you were close.

And maybe, just maybe… so could you.

────୨ৎ────

The next morning, the practice room felt colder somehow, but maybe that was just him.

Chan leaned against the mirrored wall, arms crossed tight over his chest like he could hold himself together if he just pressed hard enough. Trying to ignore how seeing you felt like a punch to the chest.

You were standing at the front of the studio, arms crossed loosely, instructing Jeongin through the next segment of choreography. Your voice was calm, focused, and just light enough that the younger members didn’t feel the pressure of getting things perfect.

You smiled at something Jisung said. Laughed, even.

Like nothing had happened.

Like you hadn’t reached for him in your sleep just hours ago, whispering his name with that quiet ache in your voice that still hadn’t left his bones.

The boys weren’t paying him any attention, they were too focused on the music, the mirrors, the sweat and rhythm of practice.

He remembered the warmth of your bed. The shape of your hand fisted in his shirt. The way you’d shifted closer even in sleep, like your body knew it was safe near his. How cold your room felt when he slipped out from under the covers and tiptoed towards the door.

And then….The moment you’d reached for him.

The quiet, broken sound of his name. Like how even in your sleep, you knew he wasn't beside you anymore. His legs had nearly given out but he left anyway. Because he thought he was doing the right thing. Because he was afraid of what would happen if he didn’t.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

Because here you were, cool and distant like always—like every second you’d shared in the studio, every glance that lingered too long, every stolen breath, every whisper hadn’t meant anything.

You didn’t look at him when he walked in.

Not even a flicker of recognition in your expression.

And that—somehow—was worse than anything he could’ve prepared for.

The pain bloomed sharp in his chest, but he swallowed it down. Pushed it back behind the practiced smile, behind the “leader voice,” behind the walls he’d rebuilt brick by brick the second he walked out of your room.

If you were pretending, he would too.

Because if this was how you protected yourself, then fine. He’d do it too.

His gaze flicked across the room — not looking for you, but finding you anyway.

Always you.

You were laughing at something Hyunjin said, your head tipped back, light catching in your hair.

To anyone else, you looked fine.

You looked the same.

But Chan saw it.

The slight tremor in your hands when you tied your shoes.

The way your smile faltered just a second too soon.

The way you kept your distance — from him.

It felt like something sacred had been ripped open between you, and now neither of you knew how to stitch it back up.

He should be relieved you were pretending nothing had happened.

Should be grateful you hadn’t said anything to the others, hadn’t looked at him like he was a mistake.

But it hurt more than he thought it would.

Because he couldn’t stop feeling it.

Every time your eyes brushed past him and didn’t stay. Every time your hand passed too close to his and didn’t linger. Every time you laughed and it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Chan knew he should be focusing on the choreography. On the music. On the steps. But all he could think about was the way you’d kissed him back like you were breaking apart. The way you’d clung to him like you didn’t know how to let go.

He kept catching himself turning toward you, catching himself reaching and pulling back just in time. Because you were right there, and yet impossibly far away.

Because whatever fragile, reckless thing had bloomed between you last night —

It scared the hell out of both of you.

────୨ৎ────

Minho noticed it first during the water break.

The way you sat a little too far from the others, your bottle clutched loosely in your hand, staring at the floor like you weren’t really seeing it. The way you turned down the snacks the others offered.

And Chan.

Minho wasn’t blind — he saw the way Chan kept glancing over at you when he thought no one was looking.

Saw the way his fingers fidgeted restlessly, tugging at the hem of his shirt, tapping against the water bottle, tugging at his ear every time you gave corrections.

Something was wrong.

And not just tired wrong.

Not long practice hours wrong.

Different.

Minho’s eyes narrowed slightly, reading the silent, broken tension hanging between you and Chan like a crack in the floorboards nobody dared step on.

He wandered over casually, pretending he needed something from his bag, giving you a moment to notice him.

When you did, you forced a small smile — tired, a little frayed around the edges — but it was enough to make his chest tighten.

“Hey,” he said, voice pitched low so the others wouldn’t hear. “You okay?”

You nodded too quickly. Too automatically.

Minho frowned.

“You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?” he added, nudging you lightly with his elbow, like he could joke it into feeling less heavy.

Your gaze flicked to Chan — just for a second — and Minho caught it.

Chan wasn’t looking your way anymore.

He was staring hard at the wall, jaw clenched like he was holding something back.

Minho didn’t know what it was — not yet.

But he knew the two of you were lying.

Still, he didn’t push.

He just gave you a look — steady, warm, a silent I’m here when you’re ready — and squeezed your shoulder before moving back to the others.

But the worry stayed with him.

Lingering.

Because Minho had seen the way people fell apart before.

And right now, you and Chan looked like two halves of the same breaking heart.

────୨ৎ────

Everyone was spread out, music playing low from the speakers as the boys worked individually on their solo stages.

You sat cross-legged by the mirrors, notebook in your lap, calling out small adjustments or encouragements whenever someone caught your eye.

Felix was near the back, trying to nail a turn sequence but kept spinning a little too far and smacking into Jeongin, who let out a loud yelp.

“Felix-hyung! That’s the third time—are you trying to kill me?”

“Sorry! Sorry! I swear it’s the shoes—”

“It’s always the shoes!” Jeongin huffed, dramatically clutching his ribs like he’d been mortally wounded.

Chan hovered near the back of the room, pretending to check the playlist on his phone, but you could feel him without looking.

Like always.

You tried to focus — you needed to focus — and poured yourself into helping the others.

“Hyung!” Seungmin called over his shoulder toward Chan, dodging a flying hoodie that Jisung had just flung off mid-dance. “Play the track again, I want to run through the ending.”

“God, can you not undress while I’m trying to exist?” Minho muttered, stepping over the hoodie with a curled lip as if it had personally offended him.

Jisung snorted, twirling dramatically in place like it was a fashion show. “Some of us sweat when we work hard.”

“You’ve been dancing for thirty seconds.”

“Intensity, hyung. Passion.”

Chan gave a sharp nod and hit play, but you caught the slight hesitation in his movements.

The way he kept sneaking glances toward you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You were both pretending so hard, it hurt.

The music kicked in again, and you tapped your foot lightly, mouthing along to the beat as Seungmin danced.

The boys were working so hard — they deserved you at your best, not… whatever fragile thing you were becoming.

As Seungmin finished and dropped dramatically onto the floor beside you, panting, Hyunjin flopped down too, tugging at the hem of your hoodie.

“Hey, noona,” he said, a teasing smile pulling at his lips, “When’s your turn? You’ve been helping all of us. When do we get to see your solo?”

You froze for half a second — just enough for Changbin to catch it.

“Yeah,” he added, glancing at you. “You said you finished writing it, right? How’s recording going?”

You swallowed thickly, keeping your face neutral.

Lying to them felt wrong — they trusted you — but the thought of saying it out loud made your chest feel tight.

“I… I haven’t recorded it yet,” you admitted, voice quieter than you intended.

A beat of silence.

“You haven’t?” Jisung asked, sitting up straighter. “Why not? You’re usually the fastest!”

Felix, who was now trying to put a piece of Jeongin’s hair up into a ponytail for no reason whatsoever, paused. “Wait, seriously? I thought you were, like, halfway done.”

Jeongin nodded, unbothered by the makeshift salon situation. “Yeah, you’re the overachiever here. We depend on that.”

You could feel Chan’s gaze burning into the side of your face, but you didn’t look at him.

Couldn’t.

“Been… busy,” you mumbled, staring hard at the notes in your lap. “Choreography took priority. I’ll get to it.”

There was another beat of silence before Jisung broke it with a bright, easy smile.

“Well then,” he said, nudging your foot with his, “Come by later tonight. We'll be there anyway. We’ll help you record it.” He gestured to Changbin and Chan.

Changbin raised a brow. “By help, he means sit behind the glass and dramatically mouth the lyrics like we’re in a musical.”

Jisung pointed proudly. “Exactly. Moral support. Emotional theatre.”

You forced a small smile, nodding even though your stomach twisted painfully.

You knew you needed to do it — you couldn’t run forever — but the idea of being trapped in that tiny recording booth with Chan again, after everything, made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

Still, you said, “Okay.”

Because what else could you do?

You had a job to finish.

You had a version of yourself to protect.

“Yay!” Hyunjin cheered, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Our superstar noona!”

You laughed weakly, letting him jostle you, even as your eyes flicked across the room — just once — catching Chan’s.

He looked away almost immediately but you had seen it and the look in his eyes made your stomach flip painfully.

────୨ৎ────

The dorm was quieter than usual when you slipped back in, hoodie sleeves tugged nervously over your hands.

You headed straight for your room, trying not to overthink, trying to block out the weight of what was coming tonight, but you barely made it down the hallway before you heard his voice behind you.

“Hey.”

You turned, already knowing who it was.

Minho stood leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

To anyone else, he looked relaxed — bored, even.

But you knew better.

Minho didn’t just stand around for no reason.

“You heading out again?” he asked, tone deceptively light.

You nodded. “Yeah. Recording some stuff. Just came back to get changed and drop some notes off.”

He hummed, watching you carefully. There was no judgment in his eyes — just that sharp, quiet knowing he carried like a second skin. Like he already had your whole heart mapped out before you even opened your mouth.

“You been eating?” he asked, voice still casual, but the slight crease in his brow gave him away.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. I mean�� kind of. I grabbed something earlier.”

Minho didn’t react. Just looked at you for a long second. Then, with a sigh, he pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer.

“Are you ok?”

It wasn’t teasing this time.

It wasn’t casual.

It was real — careful, and impossibly gentle in the way only Minho could manage without ever losing his edge.

You gave him your best smile, the one you reserved for when you didn’t want anyone to worry.

The one he always saw right through, but neither of you would acknowledge that.

“Just tired,” you said, shrugging one shoulder. “A lot going on.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just studied you in that quiet way of his, like he was checking for cracks. Like he was looking through you instead of at you.

“You don’t have to tell me what it is,” he said finally. “But you need to know I see it. And I’m not letting you pretend you’re fine just because you’re good at holding it in.”

Your breath caught a little at that.

Minho didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t press.

But the weight of what he wasn’t saying hit you harder than anything else.

He knew.

Maybe not all the details. Maybe not about that night with Chan, or the aching, frayed line you’d been walking since.

But he saw enough.

“I’m not trying to lie,” you murmured, voice small. “I just… I don’t want to make it worse.”

“You won’t,” he said immediately, firm enough that you looked up at him. “You’re allowed to hurt too. You’re allowed to lean on people, not just carry it all by yourself like a hero in a tragic novel.”

You let out a shaky breath, something between a laugh and a sob.

He reached out and squeezed your shoulder — not hard, not rushed. Just enough to ground you.

Then he looked you square in the eye.

“If you get tired of being brave,” he said softly, “you know where to find me.”

Your chest twisted painfully and your throat tightened, too full of unspoken things to say thank you.

So you just nodded.

And Minho gave you a small nod back — no smile, no dramatics, just the silent promise he always carried in his chest:

You’re not alone.

Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into his room, leaving you standing in the hallway, blinking hard against the burn in your eyes.

────୨ৎ────

The sun had barely set when you found yourself standing outside the studio door, heart hammering against your ribs like it wanted out.

Inside, you could hear the faint drum of bass — Changbin and Jisung laying down their parts, joking loudly between takes.

Their laughter should have eased the knot in your stomach.

It didn’t.

You lingered, hand hovering over the door handle, willing yourself to breathe.

“You coming in or planning to record from the hallway?”

Jisung’s voice called through the door, half-teasing, half-genuine.

You forced your fingers to move, pushing the door open.

The room was warm with leftover energy.

Changbin was still at the mic, headphones slung around his neck, while Jisung lounged behind the soundboard with a half-eaten snack in his lap.

And Chan — Chan was there too, perched in the producer’s chair, scribbling something into a battered notebook.

Your stomach flipped again.

He didn’t look up immediately.

You caught the tense line of his shoulders, the way he tapped the pen against the paper a little too hard.

You took a step inside, closing the door behind you.

The soft click felt too loud in the tight space.

“Hey!” Jisung grinned, waving you over. “About time. We saved you the comfy chair.”

You made your way over, settling into the seat they dragged out for you.

You tried to ignore how Chan’s eyes finally flickered up to meet yours — brief, like a spark you weren’t allowed to touch.

“You good to record today?” Changbin asked, all bright encouragement.

You nodded, throat dry. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

“Sweet,” Jisung said. “Hyung and I are finishing this last thing and then it’s all you.”

You busied yourself setting up — plugging in your headphones, adjusting the mic stand — anything to avoid looking at Chan again.

But you could feel him.

Heavy.

Unmovable.

Like gravity itself had shifted to keep you trapped around him.

“Okay,” Changbin said through the mic, “One more pass, then we can leave vocal goddess over here to work her magic.”

“Don’t hype her up too much,” Jisung added, smirking. “She’ll forget we taught her everything she knows.”

You snorted softly despite yourself, grateful for their antics. “Yeah right.”

Minutes bled into each other.

Changbin finished his part with a dramatic bow; Jisung clowned around until Chan swatted at him with a notebook.

Normal.

They were keeping it normal.

Only when Jisung spoke did you panic, “We’re gonna grab food — you want anything?”

“No, I’m good,” you said quickly, too quickly.

“You sure?” Changbin asked. “Could be a while.”

“I’m fine. Thanks.”

You already felt nauseous enough, no need to add food into this mess and make yourself feel even worse.

Jisung and Changbin exchanged a look you didn’t quite catch — some unspoken conversation — but thankfully they didn’t push.

“Don’t set the studio on fire while we’re gone,” Jisung said, tossing a gummy bear toward Changbin, who caught it with a triumphant cheer.

They slipped out with a loud bang of the door, leaving you alone.

With him.

The silence pressed down instantly, thick and suffocating.

You stared at the mic, the lyric sheet in your hand trembling slightly.

“You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready,” Chan said quietly.

Your head snapped up.

He was still sitting at the desk, hands folded together tightly, like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for you.

“I’m ready,” you said, voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Chan nodded, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard at your words.

He opened the project file on the laptop, the first few notes of your instrumental filling the room. It was an old instrumental that he’d made for you during another comeback but it’d been scrapped before you could even put pen to paper.

Now though, instead of the feel good high energy performance you’d once envisioned for it, you had lyrics on repeating mistakes, unspoken words and feelings, the constant repetition of going back again and again and again…

You read over the chorus quickly, lyrics that you didn’t have a clear memory of writing. There were no clear thoughts, just the cold hard truth that you were trying so desperately to shove down. “Like a revolving door, feels about right.” You thought bitterly.

You stepped up to the mic, sliding the headphones over your ears.

The instrumental played once more through the monitors.

You closed your eyes.

The first lines fell from your lips like the beginning of a confession.

Across the glass, Chan’s eyes were locked onto you, unmoving, drinking in every word.

You didn’t look at him.

You couldn’t.

Every line cracked something deeper open inside you.

When you finally finished the take, the room stayed silent.

You blinked, chest heaving, the last note trembling in the air between you.

Chan was still staring. Like he’d never seen you before. Like you were breaking him just by existing.

Your breath hitched.

You pulled the headphones off and clutched them tightly, willing yourself to hold it together.

“Again?” you asked, voice barely a whisper.

Chan shook his head once, sharply.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “I think we need— that I need a minute.”

The word hung there, heavy, carrying more weight than he probably intended.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, nodding stiffly.

Chan closed the laptop gently— like it would trap the song within it so it couldn’t hurt you anymore. He kept his eyes on you, following even the slightest movement in your fingers.

The door swung open breaking the suffocating atmosphere before it could do anymore damage. Changbin and Jisung bustling back in, arms full of takeout bags and noisy conversation.

“Okay, who ordered emotional devastation with a side of kimchi?” Jisung asked.

The fragile, breaking moment snapped.

Chan looked away.

You turned back to the mic.

And just like that, the wall between you slammed back into place

The rest of the recording session blurred into muscle memory. You ran the song time after time, adding adlibs, harmonies, listening to the feedback from the others.

“Damn Noona, who broke your heart?” Ji joked at one point.

Chan’s hands froze instantly, his face paled, unable to look up from the laptop.

You swallowed once before forcing a grin. “Like anyone could break my heart Ji, you should know better than that.”

You stepped out after that, calling an end to your session. It was easy enough to fade into the background again, Changbin and Jisung were still riding the high from their own tracks, bickering and laughing loudly as they tweaked harmonies, replayed verses. You sat back, letting it all wash over you, too raw to add much more than quiet nods and occasional murmurs of agreement.

Across the room, Chan barely spoke.

He just worked — fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes fixed on the screen with an intensity that was almost painful to watch.

Every now and then, you caught him sneaking glances at you, his gaze quick, guilty — like he couldn’t help himself but hated that he couldn’t look away.

You pretended not to notice.

Pretended you weren’t doing the exact same thing.

Finally, after another hour of polishing small details, Changbin stretched with a groan.

“Alright, I’m tapping out. My brain’s fried.”

Jisung yawned, dramatically slumping across the couch.

“Same. Studio ghost, take me now.”

You managed a weak smile when they both packed up. They left after exchanging a few more jokes and you promising to check the tracks later for any choreo inspiration that might hit, before finally waving and heading out, leaving the room heavy and silent once again.

You and Chan.

Again.

Alone.

Chan didn’t look at you as he opened a different project file — the one labeled with both your names.

Your duet.

You swallowed hard, moving stiffly back toward the mic.

The first few notes played through the speakers, low and aching, but the way you were behaving was anything but. You were mechanical, methodical, like the pain within the song was just a story. A part for you both to play— not the all consuming heartache that was bleeding you dry.

You sang your parts and he sang his. You worked well. It was professional. Efficient.

Cold.

That was until the bridge.

You missed your cue by half a second — mind tangled, emotions fraying — and Chan’s voice cut across the room, sharper than it needed to be.

“Focus.” he snapped, barely controlled.

You froze, heat surging up your spine.

“I am focused,” you shot back, biting the words before they could tear your throat raw. “Or I was, until you disappeared this morning without a fucking word.”

Chan flinched like you’d slapped him.

You stepped away from the mic, breath shaking. “You left.”

He looked down at the desk, mouth opening, then closing again. Nothing came out.

You waited.

Your hands curled into fists.

“Say something.”

His throat worked, jaw tight, eyes burning with something that looked an awful lot like regret.

Your voice cracked. “Why, Chan?”

He shook his head once, helpless.

And something in you snapped.

“Right,” you whispered, eyes shining. “Of course. Nothing to say now. You only talk when it’s safe, right? When we’re just coworkers. When I’m standing behind a fucking microphone.”

“Don’t—” he said, stepping forward, but you were already moving.

You grabbed your water bottle and stormed out, the door thudding behind you.

The hallway was too quiet.

The air was too cold.

You pressed your back to the wall, trying to hold your body together. Trying not to scream. He didn’t even try to explain. Didn’t even try to stay.

And despite it all, your heart still ached for him.

The seconds dragged by.

One minute.

Two.

Five.

Finally, when you trusted yourself enough that you could keep it together, you pushed off the wall and slipped back into the studio.

Then you pushed open the door again, bracing for silence.

But what you saw undid you.

Chan sat at the desk, body folded in on itself, hands over his face, shoulders trembling — crying so quietly it felt like it didn’t belong to the same man who had snapped at you minutes before.

He looked small.

Like the weight of what he couldn’t say was crushing him.

You didn’t think.

You just moved.

You crossed the room in three strides and wrapped your arms around him from behind — hesitant, then firmer when he didn’t pull away.

He gasped at the touch, like he hadn’t expected it, like he didn’t think he deserved it.

But then he leaned back into you, shaking, breaking, and you held on tighter.

You pressed your cheek to his shoulder.

Eyes burning.

Voice gone.

You were both running.

Running from the truth.

From each other.

From what this could be if either of you were brave enough to name it.

But tonight wasn’t for courage.

Tonight was for surviving.

His hands reached for yours — clumsy, trembling — and you laced your fingers with his without a word.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

But your arms around him said what neither of you could.

Eventually, Chan shifted under your arms, just enough to turn in your embrace, facing you.

You let him.

You always let him.

His hands found your face, trembling slightly, and you leaned into the touch without thinking. For a long moment, he just looked at you. Looked at you like you were something he couldn’t quite believe was real.

“I don’t know how to…” he started, voice breaking on the words.

You placed your hands over his, steadying them against your skin.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Not right now.”

But his eyes were wild, desperate, something feral and terrified all at once.

He almost said it.

Right then.

The words burned in his chest, clawing their way up his throat, louder than the guilt, louder than the fear, louder than every reason he’d convinced himself not to speak.

He almost said your name like a prayer. Almost begged for forgiveness. Almost told you he was sorry for everything — for the silence, for the pretending, for the way he kept hurting you just to keep you close.

Almost told you the truth.

Not because he was ready. Not because it was the right time. But because maybe it was the only way to make the pain stop — to finally stop watching you break in quiet corners while he stood there, useless, swallowing the truth like it was poison.

Maybe if he said it, just once, it would undo the damage.

But then you blinked, and he saw the shimmer in your lashes — the breath you hadn’t taken yet, the sob you were still holding in.

And it crushed him.

Because if he said it now, it wouldn’t be for the right reasons. It wouldn’t be for you. It would be for the guilt. For the desperation. For trying to fix something he hadn’t been brave enough to stop breaking in the first place.

So he didn’t.

He let the words die in his mouth like they always did.

Let the silence settle again, heavy and aching.

Let you hold him a little longer, even though he didn’t deserve it.

“I’m scared,” he said, raw and honest in a way you had never seen him before.

“Of what?” you breathed.

“Of losing this. Losing you.”

The words hung between you like a live wire, crackling and deadly.

You could feel your heart pounding so hard it hurt.

You opened your mouth — you didn’t even know what you were going to say — but he leaned in first.

Pressed his forehead to yours.

Breathing the same air.

So close, so fragile, so breaking.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “Not tonight.”

You swallowed the sob threatening to escape and nodded against him.

“Okay.” you whispered back, even though everything inside you screamed for more.

The silence stretched between you like a chasm, like you both were in danger of falling off the edge, headfirst into this. But slowly, you both pulled back.

You didn’t look at each other. Couldn’t. You owed it to him not to push this tonight.

Chan cleared his throat softly, running a hand through his curls, eyes flicking anywhere but you. “We should… get back to it.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Your voice cracked on the word, so you turned away, heading toward the mic stand before your face could give too much away. You adjusted the headphones, took a slow breath, and gave him a nod. “Ready when you are.”

You heard Chan’s quiet response through the speakers. “Okay.”

The music swelled in your headphones — your track, your story — and suddenly it felt like too much. Every lyric was a mirror. Every beat lined with everything you didn’t say in that room a moment ago.

But you sang anyway. Your voice steady, even when your hands weren’t.

Chan stayed silent as you recorded. He didn’t give any direction, didn’t stop you. He just watched, mouth tight, eyes shadowed.

When your verse ended, you heard his chair creak — soft movement in the control room — and a moment later, he stepped out and into the studio again.

“I want to try the harmony with you,” he said quietly, voice low. “Is that ok?”

You nodded, still not quite meeting his gaze.

You both put on your headphones, standing close to share the mic. His shoulder brushed yours. You didn’t flinch. Neither of you did.

The track played again, and this time, you sang together.

Your voices blended too well. Like they were made for this — layered, aching, wrapped in the kind of tension that gave the song more depth than even the best production ever could.

Halfway through the harmony, your eyes finally met.

And that was it.

Your voices cracked slightly — just for a moment — then steadied again.

When the track ended, there was a beat of silence.

Chan took off his headphones slowly. “That’s the one,” he murmured.

You nodded, swallowing hard.

You didn’t speak again as he walked to the computer and saved the file. The silence this time wasn’t empty, it was full. Dense. Alive.

When he finally turned back to you, his expression had softened, but the storm was still there — just buried under the surface.

You packed up your things in silence.

Chan stood by the door, clutching the strap of his backpack too tightly, not looking at you.

You left together but not together, walking silently through the quiet streets, keeping a careful two-step distance apart.

Your fingers itched for his hand.

You ached to be childish again, tugging on his hoodie sleeve, laughing in the dark the way you used to.

But you didn’t move.

Neither did he.

When you reached the dorms, you hesitated at your door.

The silence pressed heavy between you.

You thought — maybe — hoped for something. Anything but instead he just gave you a broken little half-smile, so soft it barely existed, and nodded once.

And then he turned and walked away without turning back even once.

You stood there for a long time after he was gone, backpack dangling uselessly from one hand, trying to pull yourself back together before eventually falling though the doorway. You leaned back against the frame and shut your eyes tightly, your hand dragged down your face as if it could pull the stress straight from inside your brain.

You had no idea how much longer you could keep doing this.

How much longer you could pretend you didn’t know exactly what you both were to each other.

You were already breaking but you just hoped you could survive it and that he could too.

────୨ৎ────

He shouldn’t have it.

Chan stared down at the notebook in his hands like it might burn him.

He hadn’t meant to take it. Honestly.

It had just gotten swept into his things when they cleared out the studio that night. He hadn’t noticed until he was back at the dorms, unpacking cables and charger cords and then — there it was.

Your notebook.

He’d meant to return it immediately. He meant to.

But instead, his fingers had opened it. Just for a second. Just to confirm it was yours.

And then he couldn’t stop.

Pages of choreography, combinations sketched out in fast, frantic writing. Notes on the boys’ performances — the way Seungmin dropped his shoulder in the third chorus, the way Felix’s gaze could sharpen a transition. You’d taken everything in, made it part of your work. Of their work.

The middle pages that hit him hard. The duet. It had been planned carefully, deliberately, a stark contrast to the usual chaos of your scribbled notes. This was calculated. Thoughtful. It was your way of navigating everything between you, the kind of emotional vulnerability you didn’t let anyone else see because you hadn’t just choreographed a performance. You choreographed a boundary.

Just emotional enough. Just vulnerable enough. Without taking it too far.

But then, further back, something else. Something he had no business seeing.

If the middle pages hit him hard then the back ones felt like someone swung a hammer right through his chest.

Scribbled-out plans. Lyrics. So many. Entire songs that you never sang for anyone. Songs about heartbreak. About silence. About feelings that sat heavy in your chest because they were too big to speak aloud.

And tucked inside the back cover — a Polaroid.

He went still when he saw it.

You and him. One of the rooftop photos, he realized. The ones you always joked you hated because they made your face look round. But in this one, you were laughing — mid-laugh, in fact — tucked under his arm, grinning like the whole world was safe.

And behind it, a small collage. Snippets of photos over the years. Training. Touring. Rehearsals. All moments with him.

Not the posed, public stuff. Not the ones fans saw.

These were quiet.

Soft.

Real.

He had to press the heel of his hand to his eyes because it hurt — this proof that you’d held all of it close to your chest while he’d been too afraid to reach for it.

Now here he was standing outside your bedroom door, the notebook in his hand like it weighed a hundred pounds. He didn’t knock. He didn’t trust himself.

Instead, he crouched down, carefully setting the notebook against the wall beside your door, making sure it wouldn’t slide or fall. He hesitated, one hand still resting on the cover, his thumb brushing over the edge of the worn leather.

Then he stood.

Took two steps back.

Pulled out his phone.

[2:11 AM] CHAN: You left this at the studio. It’s by your door.

He stared at the message for too long before sending it. And when it finally delivered, he turned away fast, walking down the hallway like the building was on fire.

He couldn’t face you.

Not like this.

Not when everything you felt had just been laid bare in his hands — when your voice was in every lyric, and your memories were in every picture, and your pain was his fault.

He didn’t see you open the door.

Didn’t see the way your fingers hovered over the notebook before pulling it gently to your chest.

Didn’t hear the way your breath hitched when you flipped to the back and saw what he had seen.

Didn’t know how long you stayed like that, sitting quietly in the dark hallway, arms around that notebook like it was the only thing holding you together.

And maybe, in a way, it was.

But what you didn’t know — what you wouldn’t know — was that one photo was missing.

Just one.

The Polaroid of you laughing on the rooftop, his arm slung around your shoulders, both of you looking impossibly young and impossibly safe.

Chan had slipped it out before he closed the notebook. He hadn’t meant to. Not really. His fingers just… wouldn’t let it go.

Now it was tucked behind the clear case on the back of his phone — hidden, private, something no one else would ever see.

He told himself he would only keep it for a day.

Just a day.

But that night, when sleep wouldn’t come and his heart felt like it had cracked too wide to ever mend, he turned the phone over in his hands, thumb brushing lightly over the image.

And he didn’t take it out.

He couldn’t.

Because it was the only piece of you he could hold without hurting you.

And even if it was selfish — even if it was wrong — it still felt a little like home.

────୨ৎ────

You didn’t open the notebook right away.

You couldn’t.

Not when your hands were still trembling from just seeing it again. Not when your chest felt too tight and the air around you too still — like the silence after a storm when you’re not sure if the damage is over or just beginning.

But eventually, you sat down at your desk, notebook in your lap, and you opened it.

The pages flipped easier than they should have. It was too exposed now, too vulnerable, too known. You flipped past the choreography — the notes and scribbles that felt like old friends now, familiar and safe. Past the duet section — the page you’d written so carefully it almost hurt. The part of you that still clung to something delicate and restrained.

Then the back.

Where the real fear lived.

Where the words spilled out in jagged, bleeding lines and the paper bore witness to every feeling you had tried to bury. Where you’d written like no one would ever see.

But he had.

You knew it now.

You could feel it in your bones — in the way some of the pages felt just slightly off-center, like they’d been flipped through by someone else’s hands. Hands you knew as well as your own.

You swallowed thickly.

And then you turned to the last page.

The Polaroids.

Your heart dropped.

One was missing.

Your hand flew to your mouth before the sound could escape, a choked breath caught somewhere between panic and disbelief.

No. No, no, no.

Your fingers traced the empty corner like you could will it back. The photo had been taped — carefully, not like the others you’d lazily slapped down with washi tape. That one had mattered. It had been yours.

Rooftop. Sunset. His hoodie on your shoulders, his arm slung around you, your head tipped into him like it had always belonged there. Your laugh frozen in time. His eyes on you instead of the camera.

Gone.

You flipped the page frantically, checking if it had just come loose, fallen between the pages — but it wasn’t there.

You never took it out.

Which meant…

He must have it.

You let the notebook fall closed in your lap, breath shaking as you stared at the cover. The panic didn’t quite subside — just shifted, morphed into something else. Something quieter, heavier.

He saw everything.

And still, he kept a piece of it.

A piece of you.

He hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t knocked. Hadn’t faced you.

But he’d taken the photo.

And somehow, that was even louder than anything he could’ve said.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

You didn’t know what it meant.

But now you couldn’t stop seeing it — that tiny, terrible hope flickering in your chest like a match that hadn’t quite gone out yet.

Because if he kept the photo… maybe he was still holding on, too.

────୨ৎ────

A/N: Ok guys if you made it all the way down here, let me know what you’re favourite moment was. Is the heartache becoming too overwhelming? Is it time for Minho to smack their heads together?

Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist <3

Taglist: @rtyuy1346 @yxna-bliss @m-325 @imeverycliche @hynjnnie @mbioooo0000 @maddy24207 @brokendols-world @alisonyus @justhansol @rtyuy1346 @psychobitchsthings @thedanishprince @decaffeinatomi @geni-627 @linosgrape @river121798 @chaosandcandies

#skz #skz 9th member #skz imagines #skz ninth member #skz x reader #stray kids #stray kids 9th member #stray kids imagines #stray kids ninth member #stray kids x reader #bang chan imagines #bang chan #bangchan #new beginnings #chan x reader #chan angst #chan imagines

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channieschaoscorner · 5 days ago

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AHHHHH YOU DONT UNDERSTAND HOW LOUD I SCREAMED WHEN I SAW THAT YOU’RE BACK!! I HOPE UR DOING WELL 🫶

i love new beginnings soo much and how well you write everything :) chan and the reader are so pool by paramore coded!!

HELLO ANON <3

FIRST OF ALL thank you so much for your kind words, I'm doing a lot better now thank you! Its been a hard few weeks between exams and family circumstances but it's getting better now

SECOND OF ALL I've listened to Pool and can I say amazing music taste and it's going STRAIGHT into my New Beginnings playlist <3

#AskFi

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channieschaoscorner · 5 days ago

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New beginnings is truly so beautiful😪😪 like when I mean slow burn this is what I wanna seeeee

The pining, the angst, the way you write their emotions so perfectly. Js the way you write in general, the constant flipping point of views, always making them like two sides of the same coin aurrr my god

Please keep up the good work and let those two be happy💔

This is so kind thank you so much 😭

I'm so happy that you're enjoying it and don't worry, a happy end will absolutely happen ❤️

We're just taking a while to get there 😂

#AskFi

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channieschaoscorner · 5 days ago

Text

YOU ARE SO WELCOME <3

New Beginnings - Part Five - Stray Kids x female!9th member

Pairing: Chan x 9th Member

Genre: Angst, slow burn

Part Four

Masterlist

────୨ৎ────

Chan could feel it — the way his heart clawed against his ribs, frantic, desperate, every second he stayed here next to you.

It hurt.

It hurt worse than anything he’d ever felt.

But it also felt like breathing for the first time in forever.

You were right there.

So close he could feel the tremble of your breath against his skin, could hear the unsteady beat of your heart matching his.

And still, it didn’t feel close enough.

In here. it was just you and him. No expectations. No fear. No pretending.

Only this.

Only you.

His fingers twitched before he even realized what he was doing, brushing your hair back from your forehead, the softest touch he could manage because anything more would break him completely.

“We should probably go back to the dorm,” he whispered, but his voice barely sounded like his own. It was rough, hoarse, cracking under the weight of all the things he didn’t dare say out loud.

Don’t go. Stay. Stay with me.

When you shook your head, that tiny, heartbreaking movement, his chest caved in.

He closed his eyes tightly, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

“I know,” he managed to choke out. “I don’t want to either.”

Because if you left now, if you walked out of this tiny sanctuary you’d built between you — he didn’t know if he’d survive pretending anymore.

Didn’t know if he could keep looking at you like you weren’t everything.

Didn’t know if he could keep swallowing down the truth burning in his chest like it would tear him apart from the inside out.

He hovered, hand still half-reaching toward you, caught in the impossible choice between pulling you closer or letting you go.

Every instinct in him screamed to move.

To tell you.

To let it out.

That he—

It was there.

Right there on the tip of his tongue.

He could taste it.

He could feel it in the way his breath caught when he looked at you.

And then, your forehead brushed his again, tentative, burning, fragile and he couldn’t hold back anymore.

He wasn't sure who moved first. Maybe he did or maybe it was you? He didn't care, all he knew was his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t controlled.

It was a breaking, desperate, shattering kind of kiss that said everything he didn’t have the courage to speak.

He wanted to fall into you.

Wanted to lose himself in you completely.

Wanted to forget the fear, forget the reasons, forget everything except the way you tasted and the way you made breathing feel easier and harder all at once.

It was messy. Raw. Unforgiving.

It could have turned into more — it almost did.

The way your hands fisted in the front of his hoodie, the way your body pressed flush against his like you couldn’t bear to leave even an inch of space between you both.

Chan would have given you anything you asked for.

Anything.

But then—

The slam of a door echoed down the hall, sharp and cruel.

You broke apart like you’d been shocked, gasping for air, blinking at each other with wide, stricken eyes.

Chan’s hand hovered in the space between you, trembling, aching.

His mouth opened.

“Say it. Say it now. Tell her. Tell her, you coward.”

But the words caught in his throat.

He couldn’t.

Instead, he let his hand fall back to his side, clenching into a fist to stop himself from reaching for you again.

You didn’t move either.

You both just sat there, breathing hard, hearts pounding, drowning in everything that had gone unsaid — everything that still needed to be said.

He wanted to tell you so badly it physically hurt.

Wanted to fall into you, lose himself in you, trust you with all the broken, scared pieces he never showed anyone else.

But fear won.

Like it always did.

So, he stayed silent.

And so did you.

The space between you filled up with all the things you were too scared to say.

Chan lowered his head, staring at the ground, willing his breathing to slow, willing his hands to stop shaking.

But deep down, he knew.

He was already too far gone.

He had been for a long, long time.

And now, he was terrified it might already be too late.

────୨ৎ────

Chan didn’t know how long you both stayed like that.

Two statues. Too afraid to move.

He could feel the seconds bleeding into minutes, heavy and suffocating.

You were still sitting there across from him— so close he could reach out and touch you again if he just let himself.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

His hands curled into tight fists on his knees, nails digging into his palms hard enough to leave marks.

He needed the pain.

He needed something to hold onto before he did something even stupider than what they’d already done.

He snuck a glance at you.

You weren’t looking at him.

Your gaze was locked somewhere over his shoulder, unfocused, lost, like if you just stared hard enough at the wall, you could pretend none of this had happened.

But it had.

Be normal again.

Be safe.

But all it did was make him need you more.

You have no idea what you’re doing to me, he thought helplessly. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you.

Years.

It had been years.

Years of brushing shoulders, of laughing too loud at your stupid jokes, of feeling his heart lurch whenever you smiled at him like he was your favorite person in the whole damn world.

Years of swallowing it down.

Years of telling himself he wasn’t allowed.

And now… now he wasn’t sure he could stuff it back inside.

Because for a second — just one broken, burning second — he thought you wanted it too. He thought he felt it in the way you kissed him back like you were drowning.

He almost told you.

Almost blurted it out right there on the studio floor like some desperate idiot.

Please stay.

Please choose me.

But the fear was louder.

Fear of losing you completely if he scared you.

Fear of breaking this fragile thing between you, whatever it was.

Fear that if he gave you all of him, you might decide it wasn’t enough.

He would survive a thousand more nights of pretending — if it meant he still got to be near you.

But he wouldn’t survive losing you altogether.

He bit down on the words like they were poison.

He didn’t look at you.

He couldn’t.

And all he could think was “you’re going to leave again.”

Just like last time.

He didn’t blame you. Not really. Not after what just happened — after everything neither of you said. This whole thing was a mess. A beautiful, terrifying mess.

So when you stood up, the sound of your movement made his breath hitch.

“There it is. She’s leaving.”

The thought ripped through him like a blade.

And he couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Just sat there like he deserved it — like maybe if he kept quiet, it would hurt less when the door finally shut behind you.

But instead you crouched down in front of him.

His eyes jerked up instinctively, confused, afraid.

You weren’t walking away.

You weren’t yelling. You weren’t running. You weren’t even crying.

You were just holding out your hand.

“Come on,” you said softly, voice too full of something tender and breakable. “We should go back to the dorms.”

It short-circuited something in him.

“You’re not leaving?” he heard himself ask.

His voice cracked halfway through.

It sounded too young. Too raw. Too real.

Your expression softened. “No,” you said. “Not without you.”

And Chan couldn’t breathe.

For a second, his lungs just stopped.

Because he’d been sure. Sure that the second the air shifted again, you’d pull away. Back into safety. Back into silence.

But you didn’t, you stayed.

You didn’t confess. Didn’t cry. Didn’t promise anything you couldn’t give.

You just reached for him. Like it was that simple.

And maybe it wasn’t simple. Maybe it would get more complicated from here. Maybe neither of you knew what came next. But as for right now, you were here, and you were asking him to come with you.

And he didn’t let go.

Because even if he didn’t know what this meant… even if he was scared out of his mind…

You were still here.

And for now —

That was enough.

────୨ৎ────

You didn’t let go of his hand.

Not even once.

Not when you stepped out of the studio. Not when the cold night air hit your skin and made you realize just how long you’d been inside. Not even when your fingers started to tremble.

Chan’s hand stayed wrapped around yours — like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to let go either.

It wasn’t tight. It wasn’t desperate.

Just… there.

A quiet tether between two people terrified of falling apart.

Because nothing felt normal anymore.

And yet here you were. Holding his hand. Trying to breathe.

And how now…

Now you didn’t know who you were supposed to be.

Because if you let yourself want this — really want it — you didn’t know if you’d survive it breaking.

So instead, you walked beside him in silence. Let your thumb brush against his knuckles now and then. Let your skin speak for you because words were too big. Too dangerous.

And maybe — maybe he understood. Because he didn’t try to fill the silence either. He just stayed close. Matched your steps. Let you lead the way, like he trusted you not to let him fall.

The dorm came into view slowly, edges soft and blurry through the fog of your thoughts.

You still didn’t let go.

Chan didn’t either.

Not when you climbed the stairs.

Not when you reached for the front door.

Not even when the lock clicked and you stepped inside.

The world didn’t stop turning. The hallway lights still flickered like always. The dorm still smelled like laundry and someone’s leftovers. Jisung’s laugh echoed faintly from down the hall.

But your hand was still in his.

And he hadn’t let go.

So you didn’t either.

Even though it hurt. Even though the fear sat like a weight on your ribs. Even though you were trying not to cry from the sheer, impossible tenderness of it.

Because for a few more seconds — just a few — you didn’t have to pretend to be fine.

You didn’t have to carry it all alone.

You didn’t say anything when you looked up at him, not really.

But you saw it — the way his eyes searched yours, full of pain, full of apology, full of something unspoken that neither of you could say.

And then, quietly, you tugged his hand.

Not away.

Not to push him back.

Just to guide him forward.

Down the hallway. Toward your room.

Still holding on. Still breathing. Still not ready to let go.

The room was quiet when you closed the door behind you.

Soft. Dim. Familiar.

You didn’t turn on the overhead light. Just the warm little lamp on your desk — barely enough to see by, but it made everything feel… gentler.

Chan didn’t say anything when you let go of his hand for the first time. He just stood there, fingers curling briefly like he could still feel the shape of yours pressed against his.

You didn’t know what to say.

There wasn’t anything that would make this less complicated. Nothing that would untangle the fear in your chest or the ache in his eyes.

So you didn’t speak.

You didn’t invite him but you knew that uou didn’t have to.

After a long second, he followed. Chan lay down beside you, keeping to his side at first. His back hit the mattress in a slow, deliberate motion — like even this small, fragile thing was too much.

You didn’t reach for him. Not right away but eventually the silence became too loud and the space between you hurt too much.

He went still.

Then — slowly — his arm came up and around your shoulders.

You let yourself breathe.

Not deeply. Not fully. But enough.

He didn’t say a word.

Neither did you.

Because there was nothing left to say tonight.

No confessions. No apologies. No promises.

Just presence.

And maybe, just maybe… so could you.

────୨ৎ────

The next morning, the practice room felt colder somehow, but maybe that was just him.

You smiled at something Jisung said. Laughed, even.

Like nothing had happened.

Like you hadn’t reached for him in your sleep just hours ago, whispering his name with that quiet ache in your voice that still hadn’t left his bones.

The boys weren’t paying him any attention, they were too focused on the music, the mirrors, the sweat and rhythm of practice.

And then….The moment you’d reached for him.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

Because here you were, cool and distant like always—like every second you’d shared in the studio, every glance that lingered too long, every stolen breath, every whisper hadn’t meant anything.

You didn’t look at him when he walked in.

Not even a flicker of recognition in your expression.

And that—somehow—was worse than anything he could’ve prepared for.

If you were pretending, he would too.

Because if this was how you protected yourself, then fine. He’d do it too.

His gaze flicked across the room — not looking for you, but finding you anyway.

Always you.

You were laughing at something Hyunjin said, your head tipped back, light catching in your hair.

To anyone else, you looked fine.

You looked the same.

But Chan saw it.

The slight tremor in your hands when you tied your shoes.

The way your smile faltered just a second too soon.

The way you kept your distance — from him.

It felt like something sacred had been ripped open between you, and now neither of you knew how to stitch it back up.

He should be relieved you were pretending nothing had happened.

Should be grateful you hadn’t said anything to the others, hadn’t looked at him like he was a mistake.

But it hurt more than he thought it would.

Because he couldn’t stop feeling it.

Every time your eyes brushed past him and didn’t stay. Every time your hand passed too close to his and didn’t linger. Every time you laughed and it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

He kept catching himself turning toward you, catching himself reaching and pulling back just in time. Because you were right there, and yet impossibly far away.

Because whatever fragile, reckless thing had bloomed between you last night —

It scared the hell out of both of you.

────୨ৎ────

Minho noticed it first during the water break.

And Chan.

Minho wasn’t blind — he saw the way Chan kept glancing over at you when he thought no one was looking.

Saw the way his fingers fidgeted restlessly, tugging at the hem of his shirt, tapping against the water bottle, tugging at his ear every time you gave corrections.

Something was wrong.

And not just tired wrong.

Not long practice hours wrong.

Different.

Minho’s eyes narrowed slightly, reading the silent, broken tension hanging between you and Chan like a crack in the floorboards nobody dared step on.

He wandered over casually, pretending he needed something from his bag, giving you a moment to notice him.

When you did, you forced a small smile — tired, a little frayed around the edges — but it was enough to make his chest tighten.

“Hey,” he said, voice pitched low so the others wouldn’t hear. “You okay?”

You nodded too quickly. Too automatically.

Minho frowned.

“You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?” he added, nudging you lightly with his elbow, like he could joke it into feeling less heavy.

Your gaze flicked to Chan — just for a second — and Minho caught it.

Chan wasn’t looking your way anymore.

He was staring hard at the wall, jaw clenched like he was holding something back.

Minho didn’t know what it was — not yet.

But he knew the two of you were lying.

Still, he didn’t push.

He just gave you a look — steady, warm, a silent I’m here when you’re ready — and squeezed your shoulder before moving back to the others.

But the worry stayed with him.

Lingering.

Because Minho had seen the way people fell apart before.

And right now, you and Chan looked like two halves of the same breaking heart.

────୨ৎ────

Everyone was spread out, music playing low from the speakers as the boys worked individually on their solo stages.

You sat cross-legged by the mirrors, notebook in your lap, calling out small adjustments or encouragements whenever someone caught your eye.

Felix was near the back, trying to nail a turn sequence but kept spinning a little too far and smacking into Jeongin, who let out a loud yelp.

“Felix-hyung! That’s the third time—are you trying to kill me?”

“Sorry! Sorry! I swear it’s the shoes—”

“It’s always the shoes!” Jeongin huffed, dramatically clutching his ribs like he’d been mortally wounded.

Chan hovered near the back of the room, pretending to check the playlist on his phone, but you could feel him without looking.

Like always.

You tried to focus — you needed to focus — and poured yourself into helping the others.

“Hyung!” Seungmin called over his shoulder toward Chan, dodging a flying hoodie that Jisung had just flung off mid-dance. “Play the track again, I want to run through the ending.”

“God, can you not undress while I’m trying to exist?” Minho muttered, stepping over the hoodie with a curled lip as if it had personally offended him.

Jisung snorted, twirling dramatically in place like it was a fashion show. “Some of us sweat when we work hard.”

“You’ve been dancing for thirty seconds.”

“Intensity, hyung. Passion.”

Chan gave a sharp nod and hit play, but you caught the slight hesitation in his movements.

The way he kept sneaking glances toward you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You were both pretending so hard, it hurt.

The music kicked in again, and you tapped your foot lightly, mouthing along to the beat as Seungmin danced.

The boys were working so hard — they deserved you at your best, not… whatever fragile thing you were becoming.

As Seungmin finished and dropped dramatically onto the floor beside you, panting, Hyunjin flopped down too, tugging at the hem of your hoodie.

“Hey, noona,” he said, a teasing smile pulling at his lips, “When’s your turn? You’ve been helping all of us. When do we get to see your solo?”

You froze for half a second — just enough for Changbin to catch it.

“Yeah,” he added, glancing at you. “You said you finished writing it, right? How’s recording going?”

You swallowed thickly, keeping your face neutral.

Lying to them felt wrong — they trusted you — but the thought of saying it out loud made your chest feel tight.

“I… I haven’t recorded it yet,” you admitted, voice quieter than you intended.

A beat of silence.

“You haven’t?” Jisung asked, sitting up straighter. “Why not? You’re usually the fastest!”

Felix, who was now trying to put a piece of Jeongin’s hair up into a ponytail for no reason whatsoever, paused. “Wait, seriously? I thought you were, like, halfway done.”

Jeongin nodded, unbothered by the makeshift salon situation. “Yeah, you’re the overachiever here. We depend on that.”

You could feel Chan’s gaze burning into the side of your face, but you didn’t look at him.

Couldn’t.

“Been… busy,” you mumbled, staring hard at the notes in your lap. “Choreography took priority. I’ll get to it.”

There was another beat of silence before Jisung broke it with a bright, easy smile.

“Well then,” he said, nudging your foot with his, “Come by later tonight. We'll be there anyway. We’ll help you record it.” He gestured to Changbin and Chan.

Changbin raised a brow. “By help, he means sit behind the glass and dramatically mouth the lyrics like we’re in a musical.”

Jisung pointed proudly. “Exactly. Moral support. Emotional theatre.”

You forced a small smile, nodding even though your stomach twisted painfully.

Still, you said, “Okay.”

Because what else could you do?

You had a job to finish.

You had a version of yourself to protect.

“Yay!” Hyunjin cheered, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Our superstar noona!”

You laughed weakly, letting him jostle you, even as your eyes flicked across the room — just once — catching Chan’s.

He looked away almost immediately but you had seen it and the look in his eyes made your stomach flip painfully.

────୨ৎ────

The dorm was quieter than usual when you slipped back in, hoodie sleeves tugged nervously over your hands.

You headed straight for your room, trying not to overthink, trying to block out the weight of what was coming tonight, but you barely made it down the hallway before you heard his voice behind you.

“Hey.”

You turned, already knowing who it was.

Minho stood leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

To anyone else, he looked relaxed — bored, even.

But you knew better.

Minho didn’t just stand around for no reason.

“You heading out again?” he asked, tone deceptively light.

You nodded. “Yeah. Recording some stuff. Just came back to get changed and drop some notes off.”

“You been eating?” he asked, voice still casual, but the slight crease in his brow gave him away.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. I mean— kind of. I grabbed something earlier.”

Minho didn’t react. Just looked at you for a long second. Then, with a sigh, he pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer.

“Are you ok?”

It wasn’t teasing this time.

It wasn’t casual.

It was real — careful, and impossibly gentle in the way only Minho could manage without ever losing his edge.

You gave him your best smile, the one you reserved for when you didn’t want anyone to worry.

The one he always saw right through, but neither of you would acknowledge that.

“Just tired,” you said, shrugging one shoulder. “A lot going on.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just studied you in that quiet way of his, like he was checking for cracks. Like he was looking through you instead of at you.

“You don’t have to tell me what it is,” he said finally. “But you need to know I see it. And I’m not letting you pretend you’re fine just because you’re good at holding it in.”

Your breath caught a little at that.

Minho didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t press.

But the weight of what he wasn’t saying hit you harder than anything else.

He knew.

Maybe not all the details. Maybe not about that night with Chan, or the aching, frayed line you’d been walking since.

But he saw enough.

“I’m not trying to lie,” you murmured, voice small. “I just… I don’t want to make it worse.”

You let out a shaky breath, something between a laugh and a sob.

He reached out and squeezed your shoulder — not hard, not rushed. Just enough to ground you.

Then he looked you square in the eye.

“If you get tired of being brave,” he said softly, “you know where to find me.”

Your chest twisted painfully and your throat tightened, too full of unspoken things to say thank you.

So you just nodded.

And Minho gave you a small nod back — no smile, no dramatics, just the silent promise he always carried in his chest:

You’re not alone.

Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into his room, leaving you standing in the hallway, blinking hard against the burn in your eyes.

────୨ৎ────

The sun had barely set when you found yourself standing outside the studio door, heart hammering against your ribs like it wanted out.

Inside, you could hear the faint drum of bass — Changbin and Jisung laying down their parts, joking loudly between takes.

Their laughter should have eased the knot in your stomach.

It didn’t.

You lingered, hand hovering over the door handle, willing yourself to breathe.

“You coming in or planning to record from the hallway?”

Jisung’s voice called through the door, half-teasing, half-genuine.

You forced your fingers to move, pushing the door open.

The room was warm with leftover energy.

Changbin was still at the mic, headphones slung around his neck, while Jisung lounged behind the soundboard with a half-eaten snack in his lap.

And Chan — Chan was there too, perched in the producer’s chair, scribbling something into a battered notebook.

Your stomach flipped again.

He didn’t look up immediately.

You caught the tense line of his shoulders, the way he tapped the pen against the paper a little too hard.

You took a step inside, closing the door behind you.

The soft click felt too loud in the tight space.

“Hey!” Jisung grinned, waving you over. “About time. We saved you the comfy chair.”

You made your way over, settling into the seat they dragged out for you.

You tried to ignore how Chan’s eyes finally flickered up to meet yours — brief, like a spark you weren’t allowed to touch.

“You good to record today?” Changbin asked, all bright encouragement.

You nodded, throat dry. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

“Sweet,” Jisung said. “Hyung and I are finishing this last thing and then it’s all you.”

You busied yourself setting up — plugging in your headphones, adjusting the mic stand — anything to avoid looking at Chan again.

But you could feel him.

Heavy.

Unmovable.

Like gravity itself had shifted to keep you trapped around him.

“Okay,” Changbin said through the mic, “One more pass, then we can leave vocal goddess over here to work her magic.”

“Don’t hype her up too much,” Jisung added, smirking. “She’ll forget we taught her everything she knows.”

You snorted softly despite yourself, grateful for their antics. “Yeah right.”

Minutes bled into each other.

Changbin finished his part with a dramatic bow; Jisung clowned around until Chan swatted at him with a notebook.

Normal.

They were keeping it normal.

Only when Jisung spoke did you panic, “We’re gonna grab food — you want anything?”

“No, I’m good,” you said quickly, too quickly.

“You sure?” Changbin asked. “Could be a while.”

“I’m fine. Thanks.”

You already felt nauseous enough, no need to add food into this mess and make yourself feel even worse.

Jisung and Changbin exchanged a look you didn’t quite catch — some unspoken conversation — but thankfully they didn’t push.

“Don’t set the studio on fire while we’re gone,” Jisung said, tossing a gummy bear toward Changbin, who caught it with a triumphant cheer.

They slipped out with a loud bang of the door, leaving you alone.

With him.

The silence pressed down instantly, thick and suffocating.

You stared at the mic, the lyric sheet in your hand trembling slightly.

“You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready,” Chan said quietly.

Your head snapped up.

He was still sitting at the desk, hands folded together tightly, like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for you.

“I’m ready,” you said, voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Chan nodded, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard at your words.

You stepped up to the mic, sliding the headphones over your ears.

The instrumental played once more through the monitors.

You closed your eyes.

The first lines fell from your lips like the beginning of a confession.

Across the glass, Chan’s eyes were locked onto you, unmoving, drinking in every word.

You didn’t look at him.

You couldn’t.

Every line cracked something deeper open inside you.

When you finally finished the take, the room stayed silent.

You blinked, chest heaving, the last note trembling in the air between you.

Chan was still staring. Like he’d never seen you before. Like you were breaking him just by existing.

Your breath hitched.

You pulled the headphones off and clutched them tightly, willing yourself to hold it together.

“Again?” you asked, voice barely a whisper.

Chan shook his head once, sharply.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “I think we need— that I need a minute.”

The word hung there, heavy, carrying more weight than he probably intended.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, nodding stiffly.

Chan closed the laptop gently— like it would trap the song within it so it couldn’t hurt you anymore. He kept his eyes on you, following even the slightest movement in your fingers.

The door swung open breaking the suffocating atmosphere before it could do anymore damage. Changbin and Jisung bustling back in, arms full of takeout bags and noisy conversation.

“Okay, who ordered emotional devastation with a side of kimchi?” Jisung asked.

The fragile, breaking moment snapped.

Chan looked away.

You turned back to the mic.

And just like that, the wall between you slammed back into place

The rest of the recording session blurred into muscle memory. You ran the song time after time, adding adlibs, harmonies, listening to the feedback from the others.

“Damn Noona, who broke your heart?” Ji joked at one point.

Chan’s hands froze instantly, his face paled, unable to look up from the laptop.

You swallowed once before forcing a grin. “Like anyone could break my heart Ji, you should know better than that.”

Across the room, Chan barely spoke.

He just worked — fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes fixed on the screen with an intensity that was almost painful to watch.

Every now and then, you caught him sneaking glances at you, his gaze quick, guilty — like he couldn’t help himself but hated that he couldn’t look away.

You pretended not to notice.

Pretended you weren’t doing the exact same thing.

Finally, after another hour of polishing small details, Changbin stretched with a groan.

“Alright, I’m tapping out. My brain’s fried.”

Jisung yawned, dramatically slumping across the couch.

“Same. Studio ghost, take me now.”

You and Chan.

Again.

Alone.

Chan didn’t look at you as he opened a different project file — the one labeled with both your names.

Your duet.

You swallowed hard, moving stiffly back toward the mic.

You sang your parts and he sang his. You worked well. It was professional. Efficient.

Cold.

That was until the bridge.

You missed your cue by half a second — mind tangled, emotions fraying — and Chan’s voice cut across the room, sharper than it needed to be.

“Focus.” he snapped, barely controlled.

You froze, heat surging up your spine.

“I am focused,” you shot back, biting the words before they could tear your throat raw. “Or I was, until you disappeared this morning without a fucking word.”

Chan flinched like you’d slapped him.

You stepped away from the mic, breath shaking. “You left.”

He looked down at the desk, mouth opening, then closing again. Nothing came out.

You waited.

Your hands curled into fists.

“Say something.”

His throat worked, jaw tight, eyes burning with something that looked an awful lot like regret.

Your voice cracked. “Why, Chan?”

He shook his head once, helpless.

And something in you snapped.

“Right,” you whispered, eyes shining. “Of course. Nothing to say now. You only talk when it’s safe, right? When we’re just coworkers. When I’m standing behind a fucking microphone.”

“Don’t—” he said, stepping forward, but you were already moving.

You grabbed your water bottle and stormed out, the door thudding behind you.

The hallway was too quiet.

The air was too cold.

You pressed your back to the wall, trying to hold your body together. Trying not to scream. He didn’t even try to explain. Didn’t even try to stay.

And despite it all, your heart still ached for him.

The seconds dragged by.

One minute.

Two.

Five.

Finally, when you trusted yourself enough that you could keep it together, you pushed off the wall and slipped back into the studio.

Then you pushed open the door again, bracing for silence.

But what you saw undid you.

Chan sat at the desk, body folded in on itself, hands over his face, shoulders trembling — crying so quietly it felt like it didn’t belong to the same man who had snapped at you minutes before.

He looked small.

Like the weight of what he couldn’t say was crushing him.

You didn’t think.

You just moved.

You crossed the room in three strides and wrapped your arms around him from behind — hesitant, then firmer when he didn’t pull away.

He gasped at the touch, like he hadn’t expected it, like he didn’t think he deserved it.

But then he leaned back into you, shaking, breaking, and you held on tighter.

You pressed your cheek to his shoulder.

Eyes burning.

Voice gone.

You were both running.

Running from the truth.

From each other.

From what this could be if either of you were brave enough to name it.

But tonight wasn’t for courage.

Tonight was for surviving.

His hands reached for yours — clumsy, trembling — and you laced your fingers with his without a word.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

But your arms around him said what neither of you could.

Eventually, Chan shifted under your arms, just enough to turn in your embrace, facing you.

You let him.

You always let him.

“I don’t know how to…” he started, voice breaking on the words.

You placed your hands over his, steadying them against your skin.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Not right now.”

But his eyes were wild, desperate, something feral and terrified all at once.

He almost said it.

Right then.

The words burned in his chest, clawing their way up his throat, louder than the guilt, louder than the fear, louder than every reason he’d convinced himself not to speak.

Almost told you the truth.

Maybe if he said it, just once, it would undo the damage.

But then you blinked, and he saw the shimmer in your lashes — the breath you hadn’t taken yet, the sob you were still holding in.

And it crushed him.

So he didn’t.

He let the words die in his mouth like they always did.

Let the silence settle again, heavy and aching.

Let you hold him a little longer, even though he didn’t deserve it.

“I’m scared,” he said, raw and honest in a way you had never seen him before.

“Of what?” you breathed.

“Of losing this. Losing you.”

The words hung between you like a live wire, crackling and deadly.

You could feel your heart pounding so hard it hurt.

You opened your mouth — you didn’t even know what you were going to say — but he leaned in first.

Pressed his forehead to yours.

Breathing the same air.

So close, so fragile, so breaking.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “Not tonight.”

You swallowed the sob threatening to escape and nodded against him.

“Okay.” you whispered back, even though everything inside you screamed for more.

The silence stretched between you like a chasm, like you both were in danger of falling off the edge, headfirst into this. But slowly, you both pulled back.

You didn’t look at each other. Couldn’t. You owed it to him not to push this tonight.

Chan cleared his throat softly, running a hand through his curls, eyes flicking anywhere but you. “We should… get back to it.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

You heard Chan’s quiet response through the speakers. “Okay.”

But you sang anyway. Your voice steady, even when your hands weren’t.

Chan stayed silent as you recorded. He didn’t give any direction, didn’t stop you. He just watched, mouth tight, eyes shadowed.

When your verse ended, you heard his chair creak — soft movement in the control room — and a moment later, he stepped out and into the studio again.

“I want to try the harmony with you,” he said quietly, voice low. “Is that ok?”

You nodded, still not quite meeting his gaze.

You both put on your headphones, standing close to share the mic. His shoulder brushed yours. You didn’t flinch. Neither of you did.

The track played again, and this time, you sang together.

Your voices blended too well. Like they were made for this — layered, aching, wrapped in the kind of tension that gave the song more depth than even the best production ever could.

Halfway through the harmony, your eyes finally met.

And that was it.

Your voices cracked slightly — just for a moment — then steadied again.

When the track ended, there was a beat of silence.

Chan took off his headphones slowly. “That’s the one,” he murmured.

You nodded, swallowing hard.

You didn’t speak again as he walked to the computer and saved the file. The silence this time wasn’t empty, it was full. Dense. Alive.

When he finally turned back to you, his expression had softened, but the storm was still there — just buried under the surface.

You packed up your things in silence.

Chan stood by the door, clutching the strap of his backpack too tightly, not looking at you.

You left together but not together, walking silently through the quiet streets, keeping a careful two-step distance apart.

Your fingers itched for his hand.

You ached to be childish again, tugging on his hoodie sleeve, laughing in the dark the way you used to.

But you didn’t move.

Neither did he.

When you reached the dorms, you hesitated at your door.

The silence pressed heavy between you.

You thought — maybe — hoped for something. Anything but instead he just gave you a broken little half-smile, so soft it barely existed, and nodded once.

And then he turned and walked away without turning back even once.

You had no idea how much longer you could keep doing this.

How much longer you could pretend you didn’t know exactly what you both were to each other.

You were already breaking but you just hoped you could survive it and that he could too.

────୨ৎ────

He shouldn’t have it.

Chan stared down at the notebook in his hands like it might burn him.

He hadn’t meant to take it. Honestly.

It had just gotten swept into his things when they cleared out the studio that night. He hadn’t noticed until he was back at the dorms, unpacking cables and charger cords and then — there it was.

Your notebook.

He’d meant to return it immediately. He meant to.

But instead, his fingers had opened it. Just for a second. Just to confirm it was yours.

And then he couldn’t stop.

Just emotional enough. Just vulnerable enough. Without taking it too far.

But then, further back, something else. Something he had no business seeing.

If the middle pages hit him hard then the back ones felt like someone swung a hammer right through his chest.

And tucked inside the back cover — a Polaroid.

He went still when he saw it.

And behind it, a small collage. Snippets of photos over the years. Training. Touring. Rehearsals. All moments with him.

Not the posed, public stuff. Not the ones fans saw.

These were quiet.

Soft.

Real.

He had to press the heel of his hand to his eyes because it hurt — this proof that you’d held all of it close to your chest while he’d been too afraid to reach for it.

Now here he was standing outside your bedroom door, the notebook in his hand like it weighed a hundred pounds. He didn’t knock. He didn’t trust himself.

Then he stood.

Took two steps back.

Pulled out his phone.

[2:11 AM] CHAN: You left this at the studio. It’s by your door.

He stared at the message for too long before sending it. And when it finally delivered, he turned away fast, walking down the hallway like the building was on fire.

He couldn’t face you.

Not like this.

Not when everything you felt had just been laid bare in his hands — when your voice was in every lyric, and your memories were in every picture, and your pain was his fault.

He didn’t see you open the door.

Didn’t see the way your fingers hovered over the notebook before pulling it gently to your chest.

Didn’t hear the way your breath hitched when you flipped to the back and saw what he had seen.

Didn’t know how long you stayed like that, sitting quietly in the dark hallway, arms around that notebook like it was the only thing holding you together.

And maybe, in a way, it was.

But what you didn’t know — what you wouldn’t know — was that one photo was missing.

Just one.

The Polaroid of you laughing on the rooftop, his arm slung around your shoulders, both of you looking impossibly young and impossibly safe.

Chan had slipped it out before he closed the notebook. He hadn’t meant to. Not really. His fingers just… wouldn’t let it go.

Now it was tucked behind the clear case on the back of his phone — hidden, private, something no one else would ever see.

He told himself he would only keep it for a day.

Just a day.

But that night, when sleep wouldn’t come and his heart felt like it had cracked too wide to ever mend, he turned the phone over in his hands, thumb brushing lightly over the image.

And he didn’t take it out.

He couldn’t.

Because it was the only piece of you he could hold without hurting you.

And even if it was selfish — even if it was wrong — it still felt a little like home.

────୨ৎ────

You didn’t open the notebook right away.

You couldn’t.

But eventually, you sat down at your desk, notebook in your lap, and you opened it.

Then the back.

Where the real fear lived.

Where the words spilled out in jagged, bleeding lines and the paper bore witness to every feeling you had tried to bury. Where you’d written like no one would ever see.

But he had.

You knew it now.

You could feel it in your bones — in the way some of the pages felt just slightly off-center, like they’d been flipped through by someone else’s hands. Hands you knew as well as your own.

You swallowed thickly.

And then you turned to the last page.

The Polaroids.

Your heart dropped.

One was missing.

Your hand flew to your mouth before the sound could escape, a choked breath caught somewhere between panic and disbelief.

No. No, no, no.

Rooftop. Sunset. His hoodie on your shoulders, his arm slung around you, your head tipped into him like it had always belonged there. Your laugh frozen in time. His eyes on you instead of the camera.

Gone.

You flipped the page frantically, checking if it had just come loose, fallen between the pages — but it wasn’t there.

You never took it out.

Which meant…

He must have it.

You let the notebook fall closed in your lap, breath shaking as you stared at the cover. The panic didn’t quite subside — just shifted, morphed into something else. Something quieter, heavier.

He saw everything.

And still, he kept a piece of it.

A piece of you.

He hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t knocked. Hadn’t faced you.

But he’d taken the photo.

And somehow, that was even louder than anything he could’ve said.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

You didn’t know what it meant.

But now you couldn’t stop seeing it — that tiny, terrible hope flickering in your chest like a match that hadn’t quite gone out yet.

Because if he kept the photo… maybe he was still holding on, too.

────୨ৎ────

A/N: Ok guys if you made it all the way down here, let me know what you’re favourite moment was. Is the heartache becoming too overwhelming? Is it time for Minho to smack their heads together?

Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist <3

Taglist: @yxna-bliss @m-325 @imeverycliche @hynjnnie @mbioooo0000 @maddy24207 @brokendols-world @alisonyus @justhansol @rtyuy1346 @psychobitchsthings @thedanishprince @decaffeinatomi @geni-627 @linosgrape @river121798 @chaosandcandies

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channieschaoscorner · 6 days ago

Text

New Beginnings - Part Five - Stray Kids x female!9th member

Pairing: Chan x 9th Member

Genre: Angst, slow burn

Part Four

Masterlist

────୨ৎ────

Chan could feel it — the way his heart clawed against his ribs, frantic, desperate, every second he stayed here next to you.

It hurt.

It hurt worse than anything he’d ever felt.

But it also felt like breathing for the first time in forever.

You were right there.

So close he could feel the tremble of your breath against his skin, could hear the unsteady beat of your heart matching his.

And still, it didn’t feel close enough.

In here. it was just you and him. No expectations. No fear. No pretending.

Only this.

Only you.

His fingers twitched before he even realized what he was doing, brushing your hair back from your forehead, the softest touch he could manage because anything more would break him completely.

“We should probably go back to the dorm,” he whispered, but his voice barely sounded like his own. It was rough, hoarse, cracking under the weight of all the things he didn’t dare say out loud.

Don’t go. Stay. Stay with me.

When you shook your head, that tiny, heartbreaking movement, his chest caved in.

He closed his eyes tightly, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

“I know,” he managed to choke out. “I don’t want to either.”

Because if you left now, if you walked out of this tiny sanctuary you’d built between you — he didn’t know if he’d survive pretending anymore.

Didn’t know if he could keep looking at you like you weren’t everything.

Didn’t know if he could keep swallowing down the truth burning in his chest like it would tear him apart from the inside out.

He hovered, hand still half-reaching toward you, caught in the impossible choice between pulling you closer or letting you go.

Every instinct in him screamed to move.

To tell you.

To let it out.

That he—

It was there.

Right there on the tip of his tongue.

He could taste it.

He could feel it in the way his breath caught when he looked at you.

And then, your forehead brushed his again, tentative, burning, fragile and he couldn’t hold back anymore.

He wasn't sure who moved first. Maybe he did or maybe it was you? He didn't care, all he knew was his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t controlled.

It was a breaking, desperate, shattering kind of kiss that said everything he didn’t have the courage to speak.

He wanted to fall into you.

Wanted to lose himself in you completely.

Wanted to forget the fear, forget the reasons, forget everything except the way you tasted and the way you made breathing feel easier and harder all at once.

It was messy. Raw. Unforgiving.

It could have turned into more — it almost did.

The way your hands fisted in the front of his hoodie, the way your body pressed flush against his like you couldn’t bear to leave even an inch of space between you both.

Chan would have given you anything you asked for.

Anything.

But then—

The slam of a door echoed down the hall, sharp and cruel.

You broke apart like you’d been shocked, gasping for air, blinking at each other with wide, stricken eyes.

Chan’s hand hovered in the space between you, trembling, aching.

His mouth opened.

“Say it. Say it now. Tell her. Tell her, you coward.”

But the words caught in his throat.

He couldn’t.

Instead, he let his hand fall back to his side, clenching into a fist to stop himself from reaching for you again.

You didn’t move either.

You both just sat there, breathing hard, hearts pounding, drowning in everything that had gone unsaid — everything that still needed to be said.

He wanted to tell you so badly it physically hurt.

Wanted to fall into you, lose himself in you, trust you with all the broken, scared pieces he never showed anyone else.

But fear won.

Like it always did.

So, he stayed silent.

And so did you.

The space between you filled up with all the things you were too scared to say.

Chan lowered his head, staring at the ground, willing his breathing to slow, willing his hands to stop shaking.

But deep down, he knew.

He was already too far gone.

He had been for a long, long time.

And now, he was terrified it might already be too late.

────୨ৎ────

Chan didn’t know how long you both stayed like that.

Two statues. Too afraid to move.

He could feel the seconds bleeding into minutes, heavy and suffocating.

You were still sitting there across from him— so close he could reach out and touch you again if he just let himself.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

His hands curled into tight fists on his knees, nails digging into his palms hard enough to leave marks.

He needed the pain.

He needed something to hold onto before he did something even stupider than what they’d already done.

He snuck a glance at you.

You weren’t looking at him.

Your gaze was locked somewhere over his shoulder, unfocused, lost, like if you just stared hard enough at the wall, you could pretend none of this had happened.

But it had.

Be normal again.

Be safe.

But all it did was make him need you more.

You have no idea what you’re doing to me, he thought helplessly. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you.

Years.

It had been years.

Years of brushing shoulders, of laughing too loud at your stupid jokes, of feeling his heart lurch whenever you smiled at him like he was your favorite person in the whole damn world.

Years of swallowing it down.

Years of telling himself he wasn’t allowed.

And now… now he wasn’t sure he could stuff it back inside.

Because for a second — just one broken, burning second — he thought you wanted it too. He thought he felt it in the way you kissed him back like you were drowning.

He almost told you.

Almost blurted it out right there on the studio floor like some desperate idiot.

Please stay.

Please choose me.

But the fear was louder.

Fear of losing you completely if he scared you.

Fear of breaking this fragile thing between you, whatever it was.

Fear that if he gave you all of him, you might decide it wasn’t enough.

He would survive a thousand more nights of pretending — if it meant he still got to be near you.

But he wouldn’t survive losing you altogether.

He bit down on the words like they were poison.

He didn’t look at you.

He couldn’t.

And all he could think was “you’re going to leave again.”

Just like last time.

He didn’t blame you. Not really. Not after what just happened — after everything neither of you said. This whole thing was a mess. A beautiful, terrifying mess.

So when you stood up, the sound of your movement made his breath hitch.

“There it is. She’s leaving.”

The thought ripped through him like a blade.

And he couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Just sat there like he deserved it — like maybe if he kept quiet, it would hurt less when the door finally shut behind you.

But instead you crouched down in front of him.

His eyes jerked up instinctively, confused, afraid.

You weren’t walking away.

You weren’t yelling. You weren’t running. You weren’t even crying.

You were just holding out your hand.

“Come on,” you said softly, voice too full of something tender and breakable. “We should go back to the dorms.”

It short-circuited something in him.

“You’re not leaving?” he heard himself ask.

His voice cracked halfway through.

It sounded too young. Too raw. Too real.

Your expression softened. “No,” you said. “Not without you.”

And Chan couldn’t breathe.

For a second, his lungs just stopped.

Because he’d been sure. Sure that the second the air shifted again, you’d pull away. Back into safety. Back into silence.

But you didn’t, you stayed.

You didn’t confess. Didn’t cry. Didn’t promise anything you couldn’t give.

You just reached for him. Like it was that simple.

And maybe it wasn’t simple. Maybe it would get more complicated from here. Maybe neither of you knew what came next. But as for right now, you were here, and you were asking him to come with you.

And he didn’t let go.

Because even if he didn’t know what this meant… even if he was scared out of his mind…

You were still here.

And for now —

That was enough.

────୨ৎ────

You didn’t let go of his hand.

Not even once.

Not when you stepped out of the studio. Not when the cold night air hit your skin and made you realize just how long you’d been inside. Not even when your fingers started to tremble.

Chan’s hand stayed wrapped around yours — like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to let go either.

It wasn’t tight. It wasn’t desperate.

Just… there.

A quiet tether between two people terrified of falling apart.

Because nothing felt normal anymore.

And yet here you were. Holding his hand. Trying to breathe.

And how now…

Now you didn’t know who you were supposed to be.

Because if you let yourself want this — really want it — you didn’t know if you’d survive it breaking.

So instead, you walked beside him in silence. Let your thumb brush against his knuckles now and then. Let your skin speak for you because words were too big. Too dangerous.

And maybe — maybe he understood. Because he didn’t try to fill the silence either. He just stayed close. Matched your steps. Let you lead the way, like he trusted you not to let him fall.

The dorm came into view slowly, edges soft and blurry through the fog of your thoughts.

You still didn’t let go.

Chan didn’t either.

Not when you climbed the stairs.

Not when you reached for the front door.

Not even when the lock clicked and you stepped inside.

The world didn’t stop turning. The hallway lights still flickered like always. The dorm still smelled like laundry and someone’s leftovers. Jisung’s laugh echoed faintly from down the hall.

But your hand was still in his.

And he hadn’t let go.

So you didn’t either.

Even though it hurt. Even though the fear sat like a weight on your ribs. Even though you were trying not to cry from the sheer, impossible tenderness of it.

Because for a few more seconds — just a few — you didn’t have to pretend to be fine.

You didn’t have to carry it all alone.

You didn’t say anything when you looked up at him, not really.

But you saw it — the way his eyes searched yours, full of pain, full of apology, full of something unspoken that neither of you could say.

And then, quietly, you tugged his hand.

Not away.

Not to push him back.

Just to guide him forward.

Down the hallway. Toward your room.

Still holding on. Still breathing. Still not ready to let go.

The room was quiet when you closed the door behind you.

Soft. Dim. Familiar.

You didn’t turn on the overhead light. Just the warm little lamp on your desk — barely enough to see by, but it made everything feel… gentler.

Chan didn’t say anything when you let go of his hand for the first time. He just stood there, fingers curling briefly like he could still feel the shape of yours pressed against his.

You didn’t know what to say.

There wasn’t anything that would make this less complicated. Nothing that would untangle the fear in your chest or the ache in his eyes.

So you didn’t speak.

You didn’t invite him but you knew that uou didn’t have to.

After a long second, he followed. Chan lay down beside you, keeping to his side at first. His back hit the mattress in a slow, deliberate motion — like even this small, fragile thing was too much.

You didn’t reach for him. Not right away but eventually the silence became too loud and the space between you hurt too much.

He went still.

Then — slowly — his arm came up and around your shoulders.

You let yourself breathe.

Not deeply. Not fully. But enough.

He didn’t say a word.

Neither did you.

Because there was nothing left to say tonight.

No confessions. No apologies. No promises.

Just presence.

And maybe, just maybe… so could you.

────୨ৎ────

The next morning, the practice room felt colder somehow, but maybe that was just him.

You smiled at something Jisung said. Laughed, even.

Like nothing had happened.

Like you hadn’t reached for him in your sleep just hours ago, whispering his name with that quiet ache in your voice that still hadn’t left his bones.

The boys weren’t paying him any attention, they were too focused on the music, the mirrors, the sweat and rhythm of practice.

And then….The moment you’d reached for him.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

Because here you were, cool and distant like always—like every second you’d shared in the studio, every glance that lingered too long, every stolen breath, every whisper hadn’t meant anything.

You didn’t look at him when he walked in.

Not even a flicker of recognition in your expression.

And that—somehow—was worse than anything he could’ve prepared for.

If you were pretending, he would too.

Because if this was how you protected yourself, then fine. He’d do it too.

His gaze flicked across the room — not looking for you, but finding you anyway.

Always you.

You were laughing at something Hyunjin said, your head tipped back, light catching in your hair.

To anyone else, you looked fine.

You looked the same.

But Chan saw it.

The slight tremor in your hands when you tied your shoes.

The way your smile faltered just a second too soon.

The way you kept your distance — from him.

It felt like something sacred had been ripped open between you, and now neither of you knew how to stitch it back up.

He should be relieved you were pretending nothing had happened.

Should be grateful you hadn’t said anything to the others, hadn’t looked at him like he was a mistake.

But it hurt more than he thought it would.

Because he couldn’t stop feeling it.

Every time your eyes brushed past him and didn’t stay. Every time your hand passed too close to his and didn’t linger. Every time you laughed and it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

He kept catching himself turning toward you, catching himself reaching and pulling back just in time. Because you were right there, and yet impossibly far away.

Because whatever fragile, reckless thing had bloomed between you last night —

It scared the hell out of both of you.

────୨ৎ────

Minho noticed it first during the water break.

And Chan.

Minho wasn’t blind — he saw the way Chan kept glancing over at you when he thought no one was looking.

Saw the way his fingers fidgeted restlessly, tugging at the hem of his shirt, tapping against the water bottle, tugging at his ear every time you gave corrections.

Something was wrong.

And not just tired wrong.

Not long practice hours wrong.

Different.

Minho’s eyes narrowed slightly, reading the silent, broken tension hanging between you and Chan like a crack in the floorboards nobody dared step on.

He wandered over casually, pretending he needed something from his bag, giving you a moment to notice him.

When you did, you forced a small smile — tired, a little frayed around the edges — but it was enough to make his chest tighten.

“Hey,” he said, voice pitched low so the others wouldn’t hear. “You okay?”

You nodded too quickly. Too automatically.

Minho frowned.

“You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?” he added, nudging you lightly with his elbow, like he could joke it into feeling less heavy.

Your gaze flicked to Chan — just for a second — and Minho caught it.

Chan wasn’t looking your way anymore.

He was staring hard at the wall, jaw clenched like he was holding something back.

Minho didn’t know what it was — not yet.

But he knew the two of you were lying.

Still, he didn’t push.

He just gave you a look — steady, warm, a silent I’m here when you’re ready — and squeezed your shoulder before moving back to the others.

But the worry stayed with him.

Lingering.

Because Minho had seen the way people fell apart before.

And right now, you and Chan looked like two halves of the same breaking heart.

────୨ৎ────

Everyone was spread out, music playing low from the speakers as the boys worked individually on their solo stages.

You sat cross-legged by the mirrors, notebook in your lap, calling out small adjustments or encouragements whenever someone caught your eye.

Felix was near the back, trying to nail a turn sequence but kept spinning a little too far and smacking into Jeongin, who let out a loud yelp.

“Felix-hyung! That’s the third time—are you trying to kill me?”

“Sorry! Sorry! I swear it’s the shoes—”

“It’s always the shoes!” Jeongin huffed, dramatically clutching his ribs like he’d been mortally wounded.

Chan hovered near the back of the room, pretending to check the playlist on his phone, but you could feel him without looking.

Like always.

You tried to focus — you needed to focus — and poured yourself into helping the others.

“Hyung!” Seungmin called over his shoulder toward Chan, dodging a flying hoodie that Jisung had just flung off mid-dance. “Play the track again, I want to run through the ending.”

“God, can you not undress while I’m trying to exist?” Minho muttered, stepping over the hoodie with a curled lip as if it had personally offended him.

Jisung snorted, twirling dramatically in place like it was a fashion show. “Some of us sweat when we work hard.”

“You’ve been dancing for thirty seconds.”

“Intensity, hyung. Passion.”

Chan gave a sharp nod and hit play, but you caught the slight hesitation in his movements.

The way he kept sneaking glances toward you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You were both pretending so hard, it hurt.

The music kicked in again, and you tapped your foot lightly, mouthing along to the beat as Seungmin danced.

The boys were working so hard — they deserved you at your best, not… whatever fragile thing you were becoming.

As Seungmin finished and dropped dramatically onto the floor beside you, panting, Hyunjin flopped down too, tugging at the hem of your hoodie.

“Hey, noona,” he said, a teasing smile pulling at his lips, “When’s your turn? You’ve been helping all of us. When do we get to see your solo?”

You froze for half a second — just enough for Changbin to catch it.

“Yeah,” he added, glancing at you. “You said you finished writing it, right? How’s recording going?”

You swallowed thickly, keeping your face neutral.

Lying to them felt wrong — they trusted you — but the thought of saying it out loud made your chest feel tight.

“I… I haven’t recorded it yet,” you admitted, voice quieter than you intended.

A beat of silence.

“You haven’t?” Jisung asked, sitting up straighter. “Why not? You’re usually the fastest!”

Felix, who was now trying to put a piece of Jeongin’s hair up into a ponytail for no reason whatsoever, paused. “Wait, seriously? I thought you were, like, halfway done.”

Jeongin nodded, unbothered by the makeshift salon situation. “Yeah, you’re the overachiever here. We depend on that.”

You could feel Chan’s gaze burning into the side of your face, but you didn’t look at him.

Couldn’t.

“Been… busy,” you mumbled, staring hard at the notes in your lap. “Choreography took priority. I’ll get to it.”

There was another beat of silence before Jisung broke it with a bright, easy smile.

“Well then,” he said, nudging your foot with his, “Come by later tonight. We'll be there anyway. We’ll help you record it.” He gestured to Changbin and Chan.

Changbin raised a brow. “By help, he means sit behind the glass and dramatically mouth the lyrics like we’re in a musical.”

Jisung pointed proudly. “Exactly. Moral support. Emotional theatre.”

You forced a small smile, nodding even though your stomach twisted painfully.

Still, you said, “Okay.”

Because what else could you do?

You had a job to finish.

You had a version of yourself to protect.

“Yay!” Hyunjin cheered, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Our superstar noona!”

You laughed weakly, letting him jostle you, even as your eyes flicked across the room — just once — catching Chan’s.

He looked away almost immediately but you had seen it and the look in his eyes made your stomach flip painfully.

────୨ৎ────

The dorm was quieter than usual when you slipped back in, hoodie sleeves tugged nervously over your hands.

You headed straight for your room, trying not to overthink, trying to block out the weight of what was coming tonight, but you barely made it down the hallway before you heard his voice behind you.

“Hey.”

You turned, already knowing who it was.

Minho stood leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

To anyone else, he looked relaxed — bored, even.

But you knew better.

Minho didn’t just stand around for no reason.

“You heading out again?” he asked, tone deceptively light.

You nodded. “Yeah. Recording some stuff. Just came back to get changed and drop some notes off.”

“You been eating?” he asked, voice still casual, but the slight crease in his brow gave him away.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. I mean— kind of. I grabbed something earlier.”

Minho didn’t react. Just looked at you for a long second. Then, with a sigh, he pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer.

“Are you ok?”

It wasn’t teasing this time.

It wasn’t casual.

It was real — careful, and impossibly gentle in the way only Minho could manage without ever losing his edge.

You gave him your best smile, the one you reserved for when you didn’t want anyone to worry.

The one he always saw right through, but neither of you would acknowledge that.

“Just tired,” you said, shrugging one shoulder. “A lot going on.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just studied you in that quiet way of his, like he was checking for cracks. Like he was looking through you instead of at you.

“You don’t have to tell me what it is,” he said finally. “But you need to know I see it. And I’m not letting you pretend you’re fine just because you’re good at holding it in.”

Your breath caught a little at that.

Minho didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t press.

But the weight of what he wasn’t saying hit you harder than anything else.

He knew.

Maybe not all the details. Maybe not about that night with Chan, or the aching, frayed line you’d been walking since.

But he saw enough.

“I’m not trying to lie,” you murmured, voice small. “I just… I don’t want to make it worse.”

You let out a shaky breath, something between a laugh and a sob.

He reached out and squeezed your shoulder — not hard, not rushed. Just enough to ground you.

Then he looked you square in the eye.

“If you get tired of being brave,” he said softly, “you know where to find me.”

Your chest twisted painfully and your throat tightened, too full of unspoken things to say thank you.

So you just nodded.

And Minho gave you a small nod back — no smile, no dramatics, just the silent promise he always carried in his chest:

You’re not alone.

Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into his room, leaving you standing in the hallway, blinking hard against the burn in your eyes.

────୨ৎ────

The sun had barely set when you found yourself standing outside the studio door, heart hammering against your ribs like it wanted out.

Inside, you could hear the faint drum of bass — Changbin and Jisung laying down their parts, joking loudly between takes.

Their laughter should have eased the knot in your stomach.

It didn’t.

You lingered, hand hovering over the door handle, willing yourself to breathe.

“You coming in or planning to record from the hallway?”

Jisung’s voice called through the door, half-teasing, half-genuine.

You forced your fingers to move, pushing the door open.

The room was warm with leftover energy.

Changbin was still at the mic, headphones slung around his neck, while Jisung lounged behind the soundboard with a half-eaten snack in his lap.

And Chan — Chan was there too, perched in the producer’s chair, scribbling something into a battered notebook.

Your stomach flipped again.

He didn’t look up immediately.

You caught the tense line of his shoulders, the way he tapped the pen against the paper a little too hard.

You took a step inside, closing the door behind you.

The soft click felt too loud in the tight space.

“Hey!” Jisung grinned, waving you over. “About time. We saved you the comfy chair.”

You made your way over, settling into the seat they dragged out for you.

You tried to ignore how Chan’s eyes finally flickered up to meet yours — brief, like a spark you weren’t allowed to touch.

“You good to record today?” Changbin asked, all bright encouragement.

You nodded, throat dry. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

“Sweet,” Jisung said. “Hyung and I are finishing this last thing and then it’s all you.”

You busied yourself setting up — plugging in your headphones, adjusting the mic stand — anything to avoid looking at Chan again.

But you could feel him.

Heavy.

Unmovable.

Like gravity itself had shifted to keep you trapped around him.

“Okay,” Changbin said through the mic, “One more pass, then we can leave vocal goddess over here to work her magic.”

“Don’t hype her up too much,” Jisung added, smirking. “She’ll forget we taught her everything she knows.”

You snorted softly despite yourself, grateful for their antics. “Yeah right.”

Minutes bled into each other.

Changbin finished his part with a dramatic bow; Jisung clowned around until Chan swatted at him with a notebook.

Normal.

They were keeping it normal.

Only when Jisung spoke did you panic, “We’re gonna grab food — you want anything?”

“No, I’m good,” you said quickly, too quickly.

“You sure?” Changbin asked. “Could be a while.”

“I’m fine. Thanks.”

You already felt nauseous enough, no need to add food into this mess and make yourself feel even worse.

Jisung and Changbin exchanged a look you didn’t quite catch — some unspoken conversation — but thankfully they didn’t push.

“Don’t set the studio on fire while we’re gone,” Jisung said, tossing a gummy bear toward Changbin, who caught it with a triumphant cheer.

They slipped out with a loud bang of the door, leaving you alone.

With him.

The silence pressed down instantly, thick and suffocating.

You stared at the mic, the lyric sheet in your hand trembling slightly.

“You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready,” Chan said quietly.

Your head snapped up.

He was still sitting at the desk, hands folded together tightly, like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for you.

“I’m ready,” you said, voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Chan nodded, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard at your words.

You stepped up to the mic, sliding the headphones over your ears.

The instrumental played once more through the monitors.

You closed your eyes.

The first lines fell from your lips like the beginning of a confession.

Across the glass, Chan’s eyes were locked onto you, unmoving, drinking in every word.

You didn’t look at him.

You couldn’t.

Every line cracked something deeper open inside you.

When you finally finished the take, the room stayed silent.

You blinked, chest heaving, the last note trembling in the air between you.

Chan was still staring. Like he’d never seen you before. Like you were breaking him just by existing.

Your breath hitched.

You pulled the headphones off and clutched them tightly, willing yourself to hold it together.

“Again?” you asked, voice barely a whisper.

Chan shook his head once, sharply.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “I think we need— that I need a minute.”

The word hung there, heavy, carrying more weight than he probably intended.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, nodding stiffly.

Chan closed the laptop gently— like it would trap the song within it so it couldn’t hurt you anymore. He kept his eyes on you, following even the slightest movement in your fingers.

The door swung open breaking the suffocating atmosphere before it could do anymore damage. Changbin and Jisung bustling back in, arms full of takeout bags and noisy conversation.

“Okay, who ordered emotional devastation with a side of kimchi?” Jisung asked.

The fragile, breaking moment snapped.

Chan looked away.

You turned back to the mic.

And just like that, the wall between you slammed back into place

The rest of the recording session blurred into muscle memory. You ran the song time after time, adding adlibs, harmonies, listening to the feedback from the others.

“Damn Noona, who broke your heart?” Ji joked at one point.

Chan’s hands froze instantly, his face paled, unable to look up from the laptop.

You swallowed once before forcing a grin. “Like anyone could break my heart Ji, you should know better than that.”

Across the room, Chan barely spoke.

He just worked — fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes fixed on the screen with an intensity that was almost painful to watch.

Every now and then, you caught him sneaking glances at you, his gaze quick, guilty — like he couldn’t help himself but hated that he couldn’t look away.

You pretended not to notice.

Pretended you weren’t doing the exact same thing.

Finally, after another hour of polishing small details, Changbin stretched with a groan.

“Alright, I’m tapping out. My brain’s fried.”

Jisung yawned, dramatically slumping across the couch.

“Same. Studio ghost, take me now.”

You and Chan.

Again.

Alone.

Chan didn’t look at you as he opened a different project file — the one labeled with both your names.

Your duet.

You swallowed hard, moving stiffly back toward the mic.

You sang your parts and he sang his. You worked well. It was professional. Efficient.

Cold.

That was until the bridge.

You missed your cue by half a second — mind tangled, emotions fraying — and Chan’s voice cut across the room, sharper than it needed to be.

“Focus.” he snapped, barely controlled.

You froze, heat surging up your spine.

“I am focused,” you shot back, biting the words before they could tear your throat raw. “Or I was, until you disappeared this morning without a fucking word.”

Chan flinched like you’d slapped him.

You stepped away from the mic, breath shaking. “You left.”

He looked down at the desk, mouth opening, then closing again. Nothing came out.

You waited.

Your hands curled into fists.

“Say something.”

His throat worked, jaw tight, eyes burning with something that looked an awful lot like regret.

Your voice cracked. “Why, Chan?”

He shook his head once, helpless.

And something in you snapped.

“Right,” you whispered, eyes shining. “Of course. Nothing to say now. You only talk when it’s safe, right? When we’re just coworkers. When I’m standing behind a fucking microphone.”

“Don’t—” he said, stepping forward, but you were already moving.

You grabbed your water bottle and stormed out, the door thudding behind you.

The hallway was too quiet.

The air was too cold.

You pressed your back to the wall, trying to hold your body together. Trying not to scream. He didn’t even try to explain. Didn’t even try to stay.

And despite it all, your heart still ached for him.

The seconds dragged by.

One minute.

Two.

Five.

Finally, when you trusted yourself enough that you could keep it together, you pushed off the wall and slipped back into the studio.

Then you pushed open the door again, bracing for silence.

But what you saw undid you.

Chan sat at the desk, body folded in on itself, hands over his face, shoulders trembling — crying so quietly it felt like it didn’t belong to the same man who had snapped at you minutes before.

He looked small.

Like the weight of what he couldn’t say was crushing him.

You didn’t think.

You just moved.

You crossed the room in three strides and wrapped your arms around him from behind — hesitant, then firmer when he didn’t pull away.

He gasped at the touch, like he hadn’t expected it, like he didn’t think he deserved it.

But then he leaned back into you, shaking, breaking, and you held on tighter.

You pressed your cheek to his shoulder.

Eyes burning.

Voice gone.

You were both running.

Running from the truth.

From each other.

From what this could be if either of you were brave enough to name it.

But tonight wasn’t for courage.

Tonight was for surviving.

His hands reached for yours — clumsy, trembling — and you laced your fingers with his without a word.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

But your arms around him said what neither of you could.

Eventually, Chan shifted under your arms, just enough to turn in your embrace, facing you.

You let him.

You always let him.

“I don’t know how to…” he started, voice breaking on the words.

You placed your hands over his, steadying them against your skin.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Not right now.”

But his eyes were wild, desperate, something feral and terrified all at once.

He almost said it.

Right then.

The words burned in his chest, clawing their way up his throat, louder than the guilt, louder than the fear, louder than every reason he’d convinced himself not to speak.

Almost told you the truth.

Maybe if he said it, just once, it would undo the damage.

But then you blinked, and he saw the shimmer in your lashes — the breath you hadn’t taken yet, the sob you were still holding in.

And it crushed him.

So he didn’t.

He let the words die in his mouth like they always did.

Let the silence settle again, heavy and aching.

Let you hold him a little longer, even though he didn’t deserve it.

“I’m scared,” he said, raw and honest in a way you had never seen him before.

“Of what?” you breathed.

“Of losing this. Losing you.”

The words hung between you like a live wire, crackling and deadly.

You could feel your heart pounding so hard it hurt.

You opened your mouth — you didn’t even know what you were going to say — but he leaned in first.

Pressed his forehead to yours.

Breathing the same air.

So close, so fragile, so breaking.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “Not tonight.”

You swallowed the sob threatening to escape and nodded against him.

“Okay.” you whispered back, even though everything inside you screamed for more.

The silence stretched between you like a chasm, like you both were in danger of falling off the edge, headfirst into this. But slowly, you both pulled back.

You didn’t look at each other. Couldn’t. You owed it to him not to push this tonight.

Chan cleared his throat softly, running a hand through his curls, eyes flicking anywhere but you. “We should… get back to it.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

You heard Chan’s quiet response through the speakers. “Okay.”

But you sang anyway. Your voice steady, even when your hands weren’t.

Chan stayed silent as you recorded. He didn’t give any direction, didn’t stop you. He just watched, mouth tight, eyes shadowed.

When your verse ended, you heard his chair creak — soft movement in the control room — and a moment later, he stepped out and into the studio again.

“I want to try the harmony with you,” he said quietly, voice low. “Is that ok?”

You nodded, still not quite meeting his gaze.

You both put on your headphones, standing close to share the mic. His shoulder brushed yours. You didn’t flinch. Neither of you did.

The track played again, and this time, you sang together.

Your voices blended too well. Like they were made for this — layered, aching, wrapped in the kind of tension that gave the song more depth than even the best production ever could.

Halfway through the harmony, your eyes finally met.

And that was it.

Your voices cracked slightly — just for a moment — then steadied again.

When the track ended, there was a beat of silence.

Chan took off his headphones slowly. “That’s the one,” he murmured.

You nodded, swallowing hard.

You didn’t speak again as he walked to the computer and saved the file. The silence this time wasn’t empty, it was full. Dense. Alive.

When he finally turned back to you, his expression had softened, but the storm was still there — just buried under the surface.

You packed up your things in silence.

Chan stood by the door, clutching the strap of his backpack too tightly, not looking at you.

You left together but not together, walking silently through the quiet streets, keeping a careful two-step distance apart.

Your fingers itched for his hand.

You ached to be childish again, tugging on his hoodie sleeve, laughing in the dark the way you used to.

But you didn’t move.

Neither did he.

When you reached the dorms, you hesitated at your door.

The silence pressed heavy between you.

You thought — maybe — hoped for something. Anything but instead he just gave you a broken little half-smile, so soft it barely existed, and nodded once.

And then he turned and walked away without turning back even once.

You had no idea how much longer you could keep doing this.

How much longer you could pretend you didn’t know exactly what you both were to each other.

You were already breaking but you just hoped you could survive it and that he could too.

────୨ৎ────

He shouldn’t have it.

Chan stared down at the notebook in his hands like it might burn him.

He hadn’t meant to take it. Honestly.

It had just gotten swept into his things when they cleared out the studio that night. He hadn’t noticed until he was back at the dorms, unpacking cables and charger cords and then — there it was.

Your notebook.

He’d meant to return it immediately. He meant to.

But instead, his fingers had opened it. Just for a second. Just to confirm it was yours.

And then he couldn’t stop.

Just emotional enough. Just vulnerable enough. Without taking it too far.

But then, further back, something else. Something he had no business seeing.

If the middle pages hit him hard then the back ones felt like someone swung a hammer right through his chest.

And tucked inside the back cover — a Polaroid.

He went still when he saw it.

And behind it, a small collage. Snippets of photos over the years. Training. Touring. Rehearsals. All moments with him.

Not the posed, public stuff. Not the ones fans saw.

These were quiet.

Soft.

Real.

He had to press the heel of his hand to his eyes because it hurt — this proof that you’d held all of it close to your chest while he’d been too afraid to reach for it.

Now here he was standing outside your bedroom door, the notebook in his hand like it weighed a hundred pounds. He didn’t knock. He didn’t trust himself.

Then he stood.

Took two steps back.

Pulled out his phone.

[2:11 AM] CHAN: You left this at the studio. It’s by your door.

He stared at the message for too long before sending it. And when it finally delivered, he turned away fast, walking down the hallway like the building was on fire.

He couldn’t face you.

Not like this.

Not when everything you felt had just been laid bare in his hands — when your voice was in every lyric, and your memories were in every picture, and your pain was his fault.

He didn’t see you open the door.

Didn’t see the way your fingers hovered over the notebook before pulling it gently to your chest.

Didn’t hear the way your breath hitched when you flipped to the back and saw what he had seen.

Didn’t know how long you stayed like that, sitting quietly in the dark hallway, arms around that notebook like it was the only thing holding you together.

And maybe, in a way, it was.

But what you didn’t know — what you wouldn’t know — was that one photo was missing.

Just one.

The Polaroid of you laughing on the rooftop, his arm slung around your shoulders, both of you looking impossibly young and impossibly safe.

Chan had slipped it out before he closed the notebook. He hadn’t meant to. Not really. His fingers just… wouldn’t let it go.

Now it was tucked behind the clear case on the back of his phone — hidden, private, something no one else would ever see.

He told himself he would only keep it for a day.

Just a day.

But that night, when sleep wouldn’t come and his heart felt like it had cracked too wide to ever mend, he turned the phone over in his hands, thumb brushing lightly over the image.

And he didn’t take it out.

He couldn’t.

Because it was the only piece of you he could hold without hurting you.

And even if it was selfish — even if it was wrong — it still felt a little like home.

────୨ৎ────

You didn’t open the notebook right away.

You couldn’t.

But eventually, you sat down at your desk, notebook in your lap, and you opened it.

Then the back.

Where the real fear lived.

Where the words spilled out in jagged, bleeding lines and the paper bore witness to every feeling you had tried to bury. Where you’d written like no one would ever see.

But he had.

You knew it now.

You could feel it in your bones — in the way some of the pages felt just slightly off-center, like they’d been flipped through by someone else’s hands. Hands you knew as well as your own.

You swallowed thickly.

And then you turned to the last page.

The Polaroids.

Your heart dropped.

One was missing.

Your hand flew to your mouth before the sound could escape, a choked breath caught somewhere between panic and disbelief.

No. No, no, no.

Rooftop. Sunset. His hoodie on your shoulders, his arm slung around you, your head tipped into him like it had always belonged there. Your laugh frozen in time. His eyes on you instead of the camera.

Gone.

You flipped the page frantically, checking if it had just come loose, fallen between the pages — but it wasn’t there.

You never took it out.

Which meant…

He must have it.

You let the notebook fall closed in your lap, breath shaking as you stared at the cover. The panic didn’t quite subside — just shifted, morphed into something else. Something quieter, heavier.

He saw everything.

And still, he kept a piece of it.

A piece of you.

He hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t knocked. Hadn’t faced you.

But he’d taken the photo.

And somehow, that was even louder than anything he could’ve said.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

You didn’t know what it meant.

But now you couldn’t stop seeing it — that tiny, terrible hope flickering in your chest like a match that hadn’t quite gone out yet.

Because if he kept the photo… maybe he was still holding on, too.

────୨ৎ────

A/N: Ok guys if you made it all the way down here, let me know what you’re favourite moment was. Is the heartache becoming too overwhelming? Is it time for Minho to smack their heads together?

Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist <3

#skz #skz 9th member #skz imagines #skz ninth member #skz x reader #stray kids #stray kids 9th member #stray kids imagines #stray kids ninth member #stray kids x reader #bang chan imagines #bangchan #bang chan #new beginnings #chan x reader #chan angst #chan imagines

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channieschaoscorner · 23 days ago

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Hi guys

Just wanted to give you an update, I'm still here but unfortunately I've been dealing with a death in my family so that's taking up a lot of my time supporting everyone.

I really appreciate your patience and love so I'll hopefully be back soon

Fi <3

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channieschaoscorner · 1 month ago

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hiiiiii <3 ur fics are lit amazing they make me laugh so much!

This is so lovely to hear thank you!!! I'm glad you're enjoying them <3

#AskFi

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channieschaoscorner · 1 month ago

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Are you still writing?

Hi love, yes I am still writing! I'm finishing my college exams today so I'll be back to uploading more regular once I'm done <3

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channieschaoscorner · 1 month ago

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Hoping to start editing the next part of new beginnings tonight and give myself a break from studying before I go insane 🙃

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channieschaoscorner · 2 months ago

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I've been studying so long my left eye won't stop twitching

I'm now staring at my laptop with only one good eye and no will to live

I have about 15 hours until my exam. Please pray for me.

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channieschaoscorner · 2 months ago

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Not me getting insane inspiration for a scene on the bus to work and now I've got to figure out where to put it in because I know you'll LOVE it

This is going to end up going on forever I can feel it

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channieschaoscorner · 2 months ago

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Hoping to try and have Part 5 up some time this week in between studying for my exams. Thank you guys for being patient and your support 💕

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channieschaoscorner · 2 months ago

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You can pry my em dash from my cold dead heads

"If you use em dash in your works, it makes them look AI generated. No real human uses em dash."

Imaging thinking actual human writers are Not Real because they use... professional writing in their works.

Imagine thinking millions of people who have been using em dash way before AI becomes a thing are all robots.

REBLOG IF YOU'RE A HUMAN AND YOU USE EM DASH

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channieschaoscorner · 2 months ago

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I had the weirdest dream about being in a zombie apocalypse with Felix...

So naturally that's going on my list of stuff to write straight away

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channieschaoscorner · 2 months ago

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You know what? Done.

Let's just keep this series going forever 😂

New Beginnings- Part Four - Stray Kids x female!9th member

Pairing: Chan x 9th Member

Summary: The pressure from your duet is now starting to take its toll on you and Chan. You’re both trying your best to keep it together but you don’t realise how the other is drowning too.

Genre: Angst, slow burn (I promise this will eventually have a happy ending guys, we’re all in this together)

A/N: Part four guys!!! I’d love to hear your thoughts on this so far or any theories if you have them :) thank you all so much for your support and comments and re logs, it really means so much to me!!!! I hope you enjoy <3

Part Three

Masterlist

────୨ৎ────

You knew the second you stepped into the practice room that today was going to be hard.

It wasn’t the exhaustion tugging at your limbs or the dull ache in the back of your leg from stretching too quickly. It was the silence that fell over the room the second Chan looked at you.

Not that he said anything. He didn’t have to.

His eyes flicked down, just briefly, before darting away. That’s when you realized—

You were wearing his hoodie.

The one from years ago. Oversized, soft from too many washes, a little stretched at the sleeves from him tugging on them during late-night studio sessions. You hadn’t meant to grab it this morning. It had just been hung on the back of your door, and your body had moved on autopilot.

Now it felt like a spotlight. Hot and heavy on your back.

You swallowed hard, ignoring the twist in your chest, and made your way to the center of the room. The others were already stretching, laughing about something Hyunjin had said. The room was buzzing with energy, but it all felt a little too loud, a little too far away.

You felt like glass, like one wrong word might shatter you.

“Let’s run it from the top,” you said, forcing your voice to stay strong, steady. “Focus on formations today, we’re still rushing transitions, I want everyone to finish each move before moving onto the next, okay?”

They nodded, obedient, unaware of the current threatening to pull you under.

You clapped to count them in, turned to the mirror, and started the choreography. The music pulsed through the speakers, grounding you in rhythm. This was familiar. Safe.

But every time you turned, every time your gaze skimmed the room, you felt him there. Just behind you. Not too close. Not too far. Watching.

And you could feel the weight of it, just heavy enough to throw you.

You were halfway through the second verse when it happened. Just a small misstep, barely noticeable—but Chan noticed.

Your foot slipped out of sync, and your arms lost their sharpness. Your balance faltered for a beat, not enough to draw attention, but enough to break your flow. Enough to remind you that you weren’t okay.

You glanced in the mirror.

Chan’s eyes were on you. Not cold. Not angry. Just concerned. Guarded.

And somehow that made it worse.

You pushed through. Forced yourself to keep going. To pretend like the air wasn’t thick and tense, like the silence between you hadn’t grown a thousand walls tall. You had a job to do. You had to set an example.

You weren’t allowed to fall apart.

But your chest was tight. Your head spun. The last few days had been too much.

The kiss. The fight. The guilt that clung to every glance you shared.

Now here you were, in his hoodie, standing in front of everyone, pretending you didn’t want to scream.

When the music cut, you bent over to catch your breath. Sweat dripped from your temple, your pulse thudding too fast.

Chan didn’t say anything. But you could feel him moving toward you.

“Grab some water and we’re going again.” you said quickly, wiping your face with your sleeve before he could get too close, before you broke.

The others nodded, scattering across the room for their bottles, for a moment to breathe.

You didn’t move. Just stood there, still catching your breath, arms crossed over your chest as if you could hold yourself together with sheer will.

You could feel Chan watching.

But neither of you said a word.

Because you both knew that if either of you did, something would crack.

And you weren’t ready to bleed so you did what you did best, you stayed silent.

────୨ৎ────

The hours raced by thankfully, it wasn't long before you were close to the end of this practice. Your eyes practically burning through the clock on the wall, counting down the seconds until you could escape.

There was one last thing to do and you were determined to get it right. Determined to finish knowing that you could still show up for the others even when it felt like you were falling apart.

You’d done the flip a hundred times before.

Launched off the solid base of Changbin’s hands, flipped through the air with the confidence of muscle memory, and landed with precision like always.

But not this time.

Not after the day you were having. Not after the hours of silence and cold glances and the weight of Chan’s avoidance pressing down on your shoulders like another member in the formation.

You were already exhausted, but the group needed to finish this run-through and you needed to feel like you could actually do your job. You needed to pull yourself together and finish on a good note.

“Alright, reset.” Chan called out, voice firm and distant.

You tried not to flinch at the way he didn’t look at you when he said it.

The music started. You took your place. Breathed. Told yourself this was just muscle memory. You’d already done this a dozen times, what was once more?

So you ran and you jumped.

Everything was normal until that one second as you left the ground. Your eyes found his across the room, just for a second.

And your stomach dropped.

It wasn’t a long look. It was so short that it could barely even count as eye contact.

But it was enough.

Just enough of him to unravel your concentration, to make the twist come too fast, your knees not tuck in tight enough, your focus crack like glass under a heel.

You knew you wouldn't make it.

You braced yourself for the impact that was coming.

And then…

You hit the ground hard.

A sharp smack of skin against the floor, air knocked out of your lungs, a wince caught in your throat before you could hold it back.

“Shit!” someone yelped—Felix maybe—but all you could hear was Chan’s voice before anyone else even moved.

“Don’t move—don’t move.”

The room stopped.

Hands reached out but Chan was already there, crouching beside you, his hand hovering inches from your arm, not touching but ready.

“Where does it hurt?” he asked, voice low, trembling with something close to panic. “Tell me where it hurts.”

“I’m fine.” You breathed, trying to sit up.

“You fell hard.” he said sharply. “Don’t get up yet.”

You blinked, taken aback by the force of it. Not the volume, but the fear underneath.

“I just landed wrong.” you whispered, avoiding his eyes. “I’ve done worse.”

“Not when I was watching.” he muttered before he could stop himself.

You both froze.

He knew it was too much. That he was showing too much. So he pulled back, physically and emotionally, as if catching himself right before falling off a ledge.

“Sorry,” he added quickly, eyes flicking away. “Just management would kill us if anyone got benched before the comeback.”

But that wasn’t why.

And everyone in the room knew it.

You could see the confusion on the other members’ faces.

Why was Chan reacting like this? Why was he pacing behind you now, fists clenched, jaw locked, like he was about to explode?

You rolled onto your hands and knees, took a deep breath, ignoring the protesting from your ribs and pushed up.You switched weight between your feet, wincing at the pain that shot through your right side. Your ankle rolled uncomfortably when you took a step forward but as far as you could tell, nothing was broken.

“I’m okay.” you said again, gently, for him this time.

Chan gave a stiff nod. “We’re done for today.” he announced, voice curt. “Let’s cool down and head out.”

No one argued.

As the group scattered, Hyunjin lingered beside you, picking up your bag along with his own, offering his arm to help you walk out but it didn't register with you, not properly. Your eyes were burning into Chan’s bsvk byt he didn’t even glance your way again. He picked up his water bottle, slung his towel around his neck, and walked toward the door.

But just before he left, he hesitated.

You caught it. That half-second pause. That internal war.

He didn’t turn around.

Didn’t speak.

Just left.

And you were left wondering what would’ve happened if you’d called out to him. If you’d asked what he wasn’t saying, what he was so scared of.

Because it wasn’t the injury.

It was you.

And it was him.

And everything neither of you could afford to admit.

────୨ৎ────

You hit the floor so hard.

And Chan couldn’t breathe.

It had all happened so fast. Just a missed step, the wrong angle, but the second you slammed into the floor and your body crumpled, the air had been ripped from his lungs.

He didn’t remember how he got out of the practice room.

The fluorescent lights blurred into the black of the hallway, into the cold sting of night air outside. He just kept walking, like if he stopped moving, the panic would catch up to him and take him down for good.

You said you were okay.

You smiled, brushed it off like it didn’t matter. But it did.

It mattered more than anything.

Because seeing you fall, seeing you in pain, was enough to undo him entirely.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He’d clenched them into fists the moment you reassured everyone you’d be fine. But all he could hear was the sound of you hitting the floor, the gasp of pain that you couldn’t stop escaping, the way the room had gone silent, how everyone looked at him like he should’ve done something.

Like he should’ve known.

Back at the dorms, he didn’t go looking for you. He wanted to. Desperately. He stared at your door as he passed it in the hallway, stood there for a long moment with his fist halfway raised.

But he couldn’t do it.

Because if you looked at him with even an ounce of fear or disappointment, he wasn’t sure what it would do to him.

So he walked away.

He went to his room, shut the door, and sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands.

This duet. This stupid duet.

It was pulling everything to the surface, everything he’d worked so hard to bury.

The way you looked at him now. The way your voice sounded when you laughed too hard. The memory of how it felt when your hand brushed his. That night in the practice room years ago—the kiss neither of you talked about. He couldn’t stop remembering it. Couldn’t stop feeling it.

And that scared him more than anything.

Because you meant everything to him.

And that meant he couldn’t feel this way about you. Not the way his heart begged him to. Not in a way that could cost him you.

He lay back on his bed, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling until sleep finally dragged him under.

And in his dream—

You were his.

Not in a grand, dramatic way. Just there. Sitting beside him on the floor of the practice room, feet crossed under your legs, your head resting against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He kissed your forehead.

You closed your eyes and smiled softly at the feeling.

It felt right.

It felt like home.

He woke up with your name on his tongue and a hollow ache in his chest.

This couldn’t happen.

He couldn’t feel like this. Not about you.

Because if he did—and if he lost you because of it—

He didn’t think he’d ever recover.

────୨ৎ────

The dorm was quiet.

It was late, too late. The kind of late that made the walls feel thinner, like everything in the world had gone to sleep except him. Chan sat alone on the couch, hood pulled low, phone untouched beside him. He hadn’t even bothered with music. It was too much. That dream had shaken him, scared him out of his own bed to the point that he was afraid if he went back to it that he would dream of you again.

And he couldn’t do that.

So instead he told himself that he was only staying awake in case you needed something. You were injured and he was just looking out for you. That’s what a good leader would do.

You were still in your room, wide awake.

He knew you were. He’d heard your door close softly when the others trickled back from the studio hours ago. Heard Hyunjin’s voice for a while too, gentle and low. That had reassured him for a moment. At least you hadn’t been alone. At least someone had stayed close.

But it didn’t settle him for long.

The image of you falling was stuck behind his eyes, on repeat. That moment where you made eye contact with him, just for a second, and then everything went wrong.

He blamed himself. How could he not?

You’d been distracted because of him.

Everything between you had been spinning tighter for days, and he hadn’t done a damn thing to stop it. He’d been short with you, colder than he ever meant to be. It was the only way he knew how to protect himself. Protect you. If he didn’t feel it — didn’t let himself fall — then maybe you could both stay safe.

But then you wore his hoodie.

You walked into the practice room like it was just another day, sleeves too long, hood too big pulled over your head, and it hit him all over again. Just how tightly you were wound into him, even when neither of you acknowledged it.

Even when it hurt.

Now here he was, sitting in the dark with a tightness in his chest that wouldn’t let up, jaw clenched, trying not to cross the hallway and knock on your door.

But he needed to.

He couldn’t sit here one more minute, not knowing how you were, not knowing if you were still hurting or angry or scared. Not knowing if you blamed him too.

So, heart pounding, he stood.

The hallway stretched long in front of him, silent. Your door was closed, the light beneath it soft and steady. He hesitated there for a moment, fist raised halfway — and lowered it again.

“Coward.” his mind spat. “You’re such a coward.”

But it wasn’t cowardice.

It was fear. Of saying the wrong thing. Of hurting you more. Of unraveling whatever fragile thing still existed between you.

Still, he knocked.

Softly.

Once.

He heard you move, the rustle of the pile of blankets you kept on your bed and then your voice, muffled. “Yeah?”

He almost turned back. Almost gave in to the doubt, the instinct to run. But when you opened the door, standing there in fresh clothes, hair slightly damp from your shower earlier and eyes still red-rimmed with exhaustion, he froze.

You looked at him surprised, unsure but said nothing.

Chan cleared his throat, voice low. “I just… I needed to see if you were okay.”

Your brows pulled in, softening just a little. “I’m fine.” you said, even though your voice betrayed it.

“You’re not.” His throat tightened. “That flip–it wasn’t supposed to go wrong. You’ve done it a hundred times and I— I knew you weren’t ready today. I should’ve—”

“Chan.” you interrupted gently, but he kept going.

“I should’ve stopped you. Or said something. I saw it in your eyes. You looked at me, and I— I froze. I’m the one who—” He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, angry, scared. “I wasn’t thinking. Not about the team. Not about you. I— I messed this up.”

There was a pause.

Then you stepped forward.

You reached for his hand carefully, slowly, like you would with a frightened animal, and laced your fingers with his.

His breath caught.

“I’m okay.” you said again, this time softer, like you wanted him to believe it. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“But I—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned up and pressed your lips to his.

It was gentle. Warm. Reassuring. Nothing like before.

It said all the things you couldn’t.

That you didn’t blame him. That you were still here. That you still wanted to be here.

His hand rose, hovering like he wasn’t sure what to do, before resting lightly against your waist. Too hesitant, too protective, too afraid of making it worse.

When you pulled back, your forehead lingered against his, breath shared in the quiet.

“I’m okay.” you whispered one last time.

And Chan let himself believe you.

He didn’t kiss you again.

He didn’t pull you closer.

He let you go, fingers slipping from yours as you stepped back inside and closed the door behind you.

And he stood there, alone in the hall, heart still aching, knowing this would break him — this feeling he kept trying to bury — but to feel like this silently, from a distance, still felt safer than admitting it and losing you completely.

────୨ৎ────

The next morning, you arrived at the practice room a little later than usual.

No one said anything even though you could feel their eyes on you, flicking briefly to your ankle as you walked with a slight limp, the sleeve of Chan’s old hoodie pulled long over your hands. You hadn’t meant to put it on again, but like before your body moved without thinking. It was soft, warm, familiar. It smelled like safety. Like him. So once you realised, you didn’t want to take it off, you needed the extra comfort today so you let yourself indulge in it.

Which, now, was its own kind of problem.

The sweet kiss from the night before lingered in your memory like a ghost. Gentle, comforting. Too much and not enough all at once. But it hadn’t fixed anything. It hadn’t changed the wall still between you. If anything, it made it harder to look at him without remembering what it felt like to have his lips on yours, trembling with guilt and worry.

When you stepped into the room, the others greeted you with a quiet kind of warmth — gentle smiles, softened edges — and you were grateful they didn’t push, didn’t ask questions. They just moved out of the way, making space for you to sit near the mirrors with your notebook, ready to instruct without pushing your ankle.

You sat down, slowly, trying to hide the wince in your movements.

Across the room, Chan was already there. He hadn’t greeted you, hadn’t looked your way. But you noticed the way he stood slightly apart from the others, hands tucked into his pockets. And in his hand — almost hidden, barely visible from where you were sitting — was your scrunchie.

Your scrunchie.

The one that he’d stole years ago during survival show filming. The one you’d teased him about, half-joking that he’d stolen it because he missed you. You’d never seen it again.

Until now.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t show it off. Just held it quietly, turning it between his fingers once before slipping it into the pocket of his hoodie.

You looked away quickly, heart clenching.

Minho clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Alright, let’s warm up before we run the chorus section again.”

The boys moved easily, a little more subdued than usual, but still focused. You began calling out instructions from where you sat, voice steady even though your chest felt tight. You kept things light, cracked a joke when Seungmin slipped on a spin, praised Jeongin for hitting his marks perfectly.

You avoided looking at Chan.

But he kept glancing your way.

You felt it each and every time, like gravity tugging at your skin. His gaze felt heavy on your skin. Not angry or cold. Never that. Just unreadable, always unreadable in moments like this. Like he was waiting for you, for something you weren’t ready to give yet.

You kept giving feedback, biting back the exhaustion creeping into your limbs. The bruises on your ribs and ankle were making everything harder, but you wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t show weakness. You had to hold everything together. You couldn’t stop just because you were having a bad day. You had to push through even when you felt like you were breaking apart.

Felix brought you a water bottle at one point, kneeling beside you with a soft smile. “You sure you don’t wanna rest properly? You can go back home, we’ll be okay.”

“I’m fine.” you murmured. “Promise.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. Just nodded, patting your shoulder before returning to the group.

Chan hadn’t said a word.

But when the music stopped after a particularly intense run-through, and the boys were catching their breath, he glanced your way again. Not just a flicker this time. It was longer. Lingering. And he looked like he wanted to say something this time.

You didn’t let him.

You dropped your eyes to your notebook in your lap and called out the next section.

The tension buzzed beneath the surface like a wire being pulled too tightly from both ends. You knew it would snap eventually. You just didn’t know when.

And despite everything, despite the kiss, the hoodie, the scrunchie in his pocket. Neither of you reached out to break the silence.

Not yet.

────୨ৎ────

The studio was cloaked in silence, the soft hum of your laptop the only sound as you reviewed the day’s rehearsal footage. The boys had long since departed, leaving behind the echoes of laughter and the scent of sweat-soaked determination. You’d dismissed their efforts to bring you home, determined to get your work done. You might not have been able to dance yet but that didn’t mean you couldn’t review their progress and give them feedback.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, Chan’s hoodie enveloping you in its familiar warmth. The fabric, worn and frayed at the cuffs, still carried his scent somehow after all these years. It was your armor, your comfort, a tangible piece of him that you clung to in the quiet moments.

The door creaked open, and you looked up to see Chan entering, his gaze settling on you.

“You’re still here.” he said softly.

You offered a small smile, nodding. “Just reviewing some stuff I filmed today.”

His eyes drifted to the hoodie you wore, and he hesitated before speaking again.

“Why do you still wear that thing?”

You looked down at the sleeves, fingers tracing the frayed edges. “It makes me feel safe,” you admitted. “Like I have a part of you with me.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions. Chan’s gaze softened, and he stepped closer, the dim light catching on something around his wrist.

Your breath caught when you saw it — your scrunchie. The one he’d taken years ago, the one he hid in his pocket earlier, now sat looking particularly comfortable and familiar on his wrist. It was faded now, the color dulled, but it was unmistakably yours.

“You kept it.” you whispered, eyes meeting his.

He nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It reminds me of you.”

The room was thick with tension, the air charged with the weight of everything left unsaid. You both stayed still, hearts laid bare, and still neither of you moved to bridge the gap.

Finally, Chan broke the silence. “I should go.”

You nodded, watching as he turned and walked away, the door closing softly behind him. No progress had been made, no truths confessed, just the lingering ache of what remained unspoken.

You stared at the closed door for a long moment, half-expecting him to walk back through, to say something, anything but he didn’t.

You were alone. Again.

You pulled your knees to your chest, burying your face in the sleeves of his hoodie. It still smelled like him. Still felt like him. Like safety. Like home.

But it wasn’t enough. Not really.

Your heart ached with the weight of what just happened or more painfully, what didn’t happen.

You told him you wore the hoodie to feel close to him. He showed you he’d kept your scrunchie all these years.

It should have meant something. It did mean something.

But neither of you had the courage to say it out loud.

You wanted to scream, to cry, to throw the stupid hoodie across the room just to do something but you didn’t.

You stayed there, sitting on the practice room floor, head tipped back against the mirrors, the laptop forgotten beside you, letting the quiet swallow you whole.

You were terrified of ruining what you had with him.

Terrified that if you reached for more, you’d lose even the pieces you still clung to.

And worse, you knew he was just as scared.

The silence between you wasn’t just silence anymore. It was everything you were both too afraid to say.

Every almost-confession. Every glance held too long. Every time you ached to reach for him but held yourself back.

You wondered if he was feeling the same weight right now, alone in his own room, clutching your scrunchie like it was some lifeline.

You wondered if he regretted walking away.

You wondered if he ever wished he hadn’t.

But you were too scared to find out.

Instead, you wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, stood up shakily, and gathered your things.

You told yourself you’d be fine. That you could survive this aching emptiness.

That pretending was easier than risking it all.

You pulled the hoodie tighter around you and stepped out into the hallway, the cold biting at your skin.

One foot in front of the other.

One breath at a time.

Even if it broke your heart a little more each day, you would keep pretending.

Because losing him completely?

That would destroy you

────୨ৎ────

He didn’t get far.

Only a few steps down the hallway before he stopped, his hand braced against the cool wall like he needed it to hold him up.

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard like he’d just sprinted miles.

But he hadn’t gone anywhere.

He couldn’t go anywhere, not really. Not from this. There was no escape from this.

Your words echoed in his mind:

“It makes me feel safe…like I have a part of you with me.”

And he’d seen the way your eyes softened when you noticed the scrunchie on his wrist. The one he’d carried with him like some ridiculous secret all these years.

It should have been so easy.

It was right there, wasn’t it? Everything you both couldn’t say?

But the fear — God, the fear — that was louder.

It drowned out the hope.

It told him that if he reached for you, he’d lose you completely.

Chan let out a shaky breath and tugged the scrunchie loose from his wrist.

Held it between his fingers.

Something so small, so worn, so you.

His throat burned. His chest felt like it might cave in.

He pressed the scrunchie to his forehead, gripping it tightly like it could somehow anchor him, fix the gaping hole he could feel splitting wider inside of him.

He wanted to go back.

Wanted to turn around, walk into the room, pull you into his arms and tell you everything.

How he needed you more than anything.

How the distance between you was killing him.

How he didn’t care if it was reckless and messy and terrifying, all he wanted was you.

But he didn’t.

Because he couldn’t.

Because if he said the wrong thing — if you didn’t feel the same —

He would lose you completely.

And that was a risk he couldn’t survive.

So he stuffed the scrunchie into the pocket of his hoodie, like hiding it could somehow bury the ache inside him too.

And he walked away.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Further away from you, no matter how badly he wanted to turn around.

────୨ৎ────

It was past 2AM when Chan gave up pretending he might sleep.

The glow of his phone lit up the dark room as he turned it over in his hand, the screen too bright, too sharp against the aching pull in his chest.

He unlocked it without thinking.

Muscle memory.

Habits built from years of late-night check-ins, “Did you eat?” texts, “Get home safe,” messages, blurry photos of snacks left outside your door after hard days.

He opened your chat.

The familiar thread of texts that stretched back months, years even, full of jokes, plans, worries — the kind of soft friendship that had built your whole world together.

He stared at the blinking cursor for a long time.

Started typing.

Deleted.

Started again.

Deleted again.

Finally, his fingers moved — slow, clumsy.

Are you ok?

He hovered there, thumb just above the send button.

It felt wrong.

Too small.

Too big.

Too dangerous.

Because what he really wanted to say, what he wanted to tell you was buried deep down and none of it would come out.

He could barely even type three words without feeling like he might shatter.

After what felt like an eternity, he hit delete.

Every letter, one by one, disappearing into nothing.

He locked his phone again and dropped it onto the nightstand like it burned him.

Rolled onto his side, clutching the scrunchie so tightly it hurt his hand.

“Idiot.” he whispered into the darkness, voice wrecked and raw.

Because he knew that you were just down the hall. You were just an unlocked door away, but it didn’t feel like that. You’d never felt further from him, like there was a cavan between you now. It was widened by fear, and it continued to grow with everything. By mistakes, by what should have been said out loud but had been silenced by the thought of losing what little friendship you had left.

Chan squeezed his eyes shut, willing the ache to quiet, even if just for a few hours.

He couldn’t reach for you.

Not now.

Not yet.

So he stayed still.

Silent.

Drowning quietly in everything he didn’t have the courage to say.

────୨ৎ────

It was supposed to be a “team bonding” night.

Pizza, movies, dumb games — the kind of thing you all used to do without thinking.

The boys had begged you for it, claiming the excuse of everyone working too hard for the comeback. You’d agreed to it along with Chan, marking out time in everyone’s schedule. Originally you’d been looking forward to it.

But now?

Now it felt like trying to hold two magnets together by sheer force of will.

You sat cross-legged on the floor between Seungmin and Felix, your smile stretched a little too tight as you watched Minho dramatically argue over the rules of some game one of them had picked. The living room was loud — laughing, shouting, teasing — but under it all, you could feel the static between you and Chan.

Thick.

Heavy.

He was across the room, half-curled into the corner of the couch, a cap pulled low over his eyes like it could hide him from you. He barely spoke. When he did it was short answers, distracted smiles.

It made your chest ache. This used to be the kind of evening he lived for. The dorm happy, full, everyone home together.

A family.

You tried not to look at him. You really, really tried but your eyes kept betraying you. Kept dragging back to the worn scrunchie still looped around his wrist, no longer hidden away. To the familiar hoodie he’d thrown on, you remembered stealing that one at one point before he stole it back, claiming you already took too many of his clothes. To the quiet, almost invisible way his shoulders tensed when the others teased you — the way he still instinctively reacted, still cared, even if he pretended he didn’t.

You fumbled your turn in the game, making Seungmin crack up at your bad luck.

“You’re usually so good at this!” he wheezed, clutching his stomach.

You laughed as well, too loud, too unbothered, brushing it off like you weren’t crumbling inside.

Chan didn’t laugh. He just watched. Silent. Guarded. Hurting.

When Felix leaned into your side, draping himself dramatically over your lap to try and distract you, you felt Chan’s stare sharpen — a quick, barely-there flicker — before he dropped his gaze again.

It was killing you. The pretending, the silence. The invisible wall that had risen so high between you it felt impossible to climb. You missed him. You missed your best friend.

You missed laughing with him until you cried, missed falling asleep in the studio surrounded by music and half-empty coffee cups. You missed being able to look at him without feeling like the ground might shatter underneath you. But you couldn’t go back and neither could he.

So you played along. You laughed when you were supposed to. Shoved Felix playfully when he got too dramatic. High-fived Changbin when your team won. And all the while, you ached.

You caught his eye — just for a heartbeat.

And in that tiny moment, you could feel everything that hung between you both.

The noise of the dorm wrapped around you like a storm. Laughter echoed off the walls, it was loud, bright, endless.

You couldn’t breathe.

You were drowning in it — the pretending, the weight of everything unsaid. It had been easier, once. You had been better at lying to yourself. Now, even smiling hurt. You stood up too fast, disturbing Felix who’d been lounging next to you.

“Hey, you okay?” Felix asked, glancing up.

“Yeah.” you forced a laugh. “Just remembered something — I, uh— I forgot to finish choreographing that new section for the group routine. I told the backup dancers I’d have it ready tomorrow.”

The lie slipped out before you could stop it.

You hated yourself for it.

There was a pause — just a beat too long — and then everyone nodded, accepting it easily.

Everyone except Minho. His eyes narrowed slightly, watching you. You felt it — the way he saw through you, like he always had. He didn’t say anything in front of the others, but when you bent to grab your bag, he followed you to the door.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked quietly, out of earshot of the others.

You kept your gaze trained on the floor.

“Yeah. Just tired, I can’t believe I forgot about this.” you mumbled, shouldering your bag.

Minho didn’t move. Didn’t push. Just stood there silently, arms crossed loosely, studying you like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

You knew he was letting you go because he trusted you but you also knew he didn’t believe you.

Finally, he exhaled.

“Don’t push yourself too hard.” he said simply. His voice was low, rough around the edges in the way it always got when he was worried.

It made your stomach knot uncomfortably.

You managed a small smile. It was real, even if it was weak one and nodded.

“I’ll be fine.”

Minho didn’t answer.

Just reached out and lightly flicked your forehead, it was a small, affectionate gesture, more comforting than a thousand words before stepping back and letting you go.

You walked out the door, his eyes heavy on your back. The second it closed behind you, the lie twisted tighter in your chest. You weren’t fine. You weren’t even close but you didn’t know how to be anymore, not when it felt like everything that kept you standing was slipping right through your hands.

The noise of the dorm, the shouting, the laughter, the forced normalcy. It had wrapped around your throat like a noose all night.

You needed out. You needed space. You needed to stop pretending for just a second.

Your legs carried you on autopilot.

Out the door.

Down the street.

Across the empty parking lot.

You pushed open the side door of the JYPE building and the familiar fluorescent lights buzzed against your skin.

The practice room.

Your safe place.

Your sanctuary.

The only place where, once, you could let go without fear. Now? Now it felt haunted. You slipped inside quietly, letting the heavy door click shut behind you. The room was empty, the mirrors black and cold in the low light.

You dropped your bag by the wall, pulled your hoodie tighter around yourself, and sank down onto the floor. Back braced against the wall, knees pulled to your chest.You stared at your reflection, blurry in the dimness.

You looked tired. Defeated. Someone you barely recognized. You buried your face in your arms. The tears came before you could stop them.

Hot, silent, relentless.

You didn’t sob.

You didn’t wail.

You just broke.

Piece by piece.

All the pressure — the performances, the choreographies, the endless expectations.

All the heartache — Chan’s silence, his distance, the way he looked at you like he wanted to say everything and nothing at once.

All the fear — of losing him, of losing yourself.

It all cracked inside you.

You stayed like that for what felt like forever.

Alone.

Invisible.

Too caught up in your own feelings that you didn’t hear the door open.

You didn’t notice him until you felt his presence — heavy and warm and unmistakably him.

You stayed curled on your side on the studio floor, you weren’t sure when you slipped from sitting to lying down, but that didn’t matter now. Right now you were trying and failing to swallow the broken sobs shaking your chest.

For a moment, there was just silence and then the floor shifted , the air stirring as Chan slowly, carefully, lowered himself down.

You felt the heat of him in front of you, not touching, but close enough that it made your heart ache.

Your breath caught when you finally opened your eyes.

Chan’s face was so close — closer than you could bear — his eyes burning with a mixture of worry and something deeper, something you didn’t dare name.

He hesitated, just for a second. Then his hand moved between you, fingers trembling slightly, and he hooked his pinky around yours. Soft. Tentative. A promise.

You didn’t move, you didn’t pull away. Instead, your pinky tightened slightly around his, clinging to that tiny anchor between you. And something in him jumped.

He edged a little closer, just enough that your foreheads brushed together, the barest touch, but it felt like an earthquake inside you. The soft press of his skin against yours was grounding, overwhelming, almost too much. You squeezed your eyes shut, another tear slipping free.

That was when you heard it. It was barely a whisper, it was raw, bare, pulled back.

“We can stay here… as long as you need.”

You shuddered out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, your forehead still pressed to his, your pinkies still tangled together.

There were a thousand things you both wanted to say. A thousand ways you could shatter each other but instead, you stayed like this.

Silent.

Steady.

Together.

Neither of you moved.

The studio was so silent you could hear the faint hum of the lights overhead, the distant thump of someone closing a door down the hall, the world carrying on without you.

But here, it was just the two of you.

Your breathing slowly evened out, still shaky but steadier, syncing naturally with his. The tiny contact, pinkies linked, foreheads barely touching. It anchored you both more than any words could have.

You should’ve pulled away. You should’ve said something. You should’ve moved, anything to stop this feeling from growing too big to control. But you didn’t and neither did he.

You felt it every time he exhaled, the way his breath warmed your skin, the way he stayed perfectly still like if he shifted even an inch, everything would shatter.

You wanted to ask him why he followed you, wanted to ask if he could hear how fast your heart was beating, wanted to ask if he felt it too — this fragile, burning thing stretching between you.

But you were both cowards when it came to this.

So instead, you stayed there, tangled in this moment that wasn’t supposed to happen. After a while, your fingers slid just slightly along his, not breaking the pinky hold, just moving closer.

Almost holding hands.

Almost something more.

You heard him breathe in sharply at the touch, a sound so soft you almost missed it. Still, he didn’t pull away. And still, you stayed.

Long past the point you knew you should have.

Long past the point where pretending it meant nothing was still believable.

But you were too tired, too broken to face it tonight.

So you lay there with him — forehead to forehead, pinky to pinky — pretending the tiny world you’d built between you was strong enough to hold all the things you weren’t brave enough to say.

And for now you let it be enough.

Even though deep down, you both knew it never really could be.

────୨ৎ────

You weren’t sure how long you stayed on the floor, time lost all meaning once you entered that room. It was like it existed outside the real world for you. Here, you didn’t have to pretend. In here, you could be honest with yourself.

Eventually, Chan shifted just slightly, breaking the tiny pinky hold to gently brush your hair back from your forehead, his fingers so careful, so tentative it made your throat tighten.

“We should probably go back to the dorm.” he whispered, voice hoarse with something neither of you were ready to name.

His thumb hovered for a second longer against your temple, like he couldn’t bring himself to stop touching you.

You shook your head, just the smallest movement but it was enough.

He closed his eyes like it physically hurt him.

“I know,” he said, voice cracking. “I don’t want to either.”

Because you both knew.

As soon as you left this room, you’d have to go back to pretending.

Go back to being what everyone thought you were.

Go back to holding everything inside until it hurt.

And somehow it felt easier to stay here, lost in this fragile, breaking thing between you, than to go back to lying to yourselves.

You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was him.

But suddenly his hand was cradling your jaw and you were leaning into him and then—

His lips were on yours.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t careful.

It was desperate, bruising, full of every feeling you’d both buried for years, pouring out all at once because neither of you were brave enough to say it with words.

You gasped into him and he swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting you go, fingers sliding up to tangle in your hair as he pressed closer, closer, until there was no space left between you.

It was messy.

It was aching.

It was everything you were both too scared to admit.

You kissed him back just as desperately, hands fisting in the front of his hoodie — his hoodie— the fabric worn and soft and his, and it made you want to cry.

You could feel it in the way his mouth moved against yours — the frustration, the longing, the pain of wanting more and being too afraid to take it.

It was the kind of kiss that could’ve turned into something else if you’d let it.

It was right there, just hovering on the edge of losing control.

And maybe you would have fallen over that edge if not for the sudden slam of a door somewhere down the hall, loud enough to jolt both of you back into yourselves.

You broke apart like you’d been burned, breathing hard, staring at each other with wide, stunned eyes.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

Because you both knew — if you said anything right now, it would unravel everything.

And neither of you were ready for that.

Chan’s hand hovered for a second in the empty space between you, like he wanted to reach for you again but he didn’t.

And you didn’t either.

Instead, you both sat there, raw and shaking, pretending you hadn’t just crossed a line that neither of you could uncross.

────୨ৎ────

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#new beginnings

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channieschaoscorner · 2 months ago

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Idk how I'm supposed to finish this series

I'm so attached to these idiots now 🙃