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s4nniebe4r · 5 months ago

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the roommate

part eleven: leftover

pairing: roommate! san x fem! reader

synopsis: at the coffee shop, you’re teased by the group, but maybe there’s a reason for it?

wc: 7.1k

tags: slight nsfw, slow burn, roommates, enemies to lovers, angst, forced proximity, eventual romance

etc: hi all! so sorry that this took forever to release, please keep in mind that i do this for fun on the side, as i am a college student that works part time! i hope this chapter compensates for missed time! and as always, this is not proofread!

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mature content: this chapter contains a little nsfw-esc content toward the end (which is a little out of my comfort zone to write), read with care, and minors, please do not interact!

The warm air from the coffee shop is a relief after the cold outside. The buzz of conversation and the smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the space, but you can’t help the cozy feeling of meeting with your friends after so long. There's light chatter all around you that doesn’t require much effort on your part. You’re just happy to be here, surrounded by friends, even though it’s a bit crowded, it always is, there’s a lot of people crammed into this little space, but you’re used to it by now.

San is next to you, of course he is. You don’t even think about how that’s become normal. He’s just there, sitting with his usual relaxed demeanor, sipping his coffee as he scrolls through his phone. Mingi’s across the way from him talking with Wooyoung about this ridiculous thing, that’s probably an argument about something trivial that’s been blown way out of proportion. Yunho and Jongho are laughing at something, too, whilst Yeosang is absorbed in his book, and Seonghwa is leaning back into his cushion, clearly watching the entire group interact, as Hongjoong rests his back against his side as he’s scrolling through his phone.

You sit back in your seat, glancing at San for a moment, but it’s nothing unusual. He’s just there, as usual. A little too casual about his drink, A little too relaxed in the way he occupies space next to you. He's scrolling through his phone, but his leg Is brushed so close to yours, you can feel the heat of him through your jeans. And you don't notice it, not consciously, but your body seems to set a little more against him when you shift your weight.

Seonghwa glances at you both from across the coffee table, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips. He's always been keen on picking up on the little things, the small gestures, the way people move when they're comfortable with each other, always, a little, motherly. And right now he's noticing something, Something in the way you and San are just… settled.

He tried to ignore it, but the weight of his gaze is hard to miss. He gives you a small teasing smile as he leans and his voice light but still knowing.

“You seem… different,” he says, his tone just shy of being a, but there's something underneath that makes you pause for a bit longer than you'd usually like to.

You blink at him, caught off guard. “What do you mean?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

Seonghwa just shrugs, leaning back into his chair, as Hongjoong finds his seat again. “You and San, you know… just different. Lately. Like dinner, the other evening.”

San, who's been mostly focused on his phone, looks up at the mention of his name. He meets Seonghwa’s gaze briefly, then looks back down at his phone, before clicking joining in on Wooyoung and Mingi’s conversation, though his posture shifts slightly, leaning a little closer to you in the process.

“I don't know what you mean,” you say with a nervous laugh, brushing it off. You immediately grab your pastry, taking a bite to distract yourself. You feel his eyes linger, but he doesn't press, thankfully.

Seonghwa doesn’t miss a beat, though. Simply raises an eyebrow and just lets it go, turning his attention back to his own drink.

And you know he's not going to push it further, not unless he really feels like having a bit more fun with it later. But you're not sure how to feel about it, so you let the moment pass. For now.

Conversation does pick up again, but there's something different now, something that you can't quite place, though it's mostly in the back of your mind.It's like the air is just thick again, and yet you don't let it bother you too much.

Your focus drifts back to San, whose gaze has flicked briefly to you, only for him to talk with Mingi again. But it’s his body language shifts slightly—his leg inching only a little closer, a little too deliberate, like he’s trying to be just near enough without crossing a line. Or maybe he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

And maybe that’s what bothers you more. You can’t tell if this is all just a normal thing now, or if something’s changed that you don’t fully understand just yet. You sigh and try to focus on the conversation around you, but your eyes can’t help but flick to San once more.

You take a deep breath and try to ignore whatever awareness is prickling at the back of your mind. It’s like your body is in sync with San’s now, without you even realizing it. When he shifts, your attention shifts too. When he leans in to talk to Mingi, you lean forward just a little too, wanting to be part of the conversation, but a little unsure of why you're reacting like this. Your legs brush once again, and you just let it be.

It’s when you hear a quiet voice again, this time softer, but still clear enough to cut through whatever was racing in your head.

“Did you have something to add, Y/N?” San’s voice is low but teasing. His gaze flicking from Mingi back to you, his eyes catching yours, and you feel the heat rise in your cheeks from the unexpected attention.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words falter before they even reach your lips, you glance down at your drink, and let the silence settle before finally mumbling out, “I don’t think so,” feeling the awkwardness creep up your spine.

San shrugs, his attention already shifting back to Mingi as he picks up the thread of their conversation, but not before he gives you one last glance. It’s a quick moment, but you feel it. The way his eyes flick to yours and linger for just a second longer than usual. Then, as if nothing happened, he goes back to the easy flow of banter, though the tension in the air still feels thick, almost like you’re both playing a game neither of you can quite name.

You try to keep the conversation going, nodding and offering a comment here and there, but your mind is still on that brief interaction. Seonghwa catches your eye from across the table, and you quickly look away, embarrassed, but it doesn’t stop the small, knowing smile that curls up at the edges of his lips.

You swear, it’s like he’s always lurking.

It’s not until the conversation shifts again, this time around something entirely ridiculous, that you feel the tension start to ease just a bit. You let out a small breath and adjust in your seat, trying to ignore how close San is, how his leg brushes yours again as he shifts, settling in beside you. It feels natural, but for some reason, it doesn't make it any easier to just let go.

The conversation around you carries on, everyone chattering like the waves. Seonghwa is still half-watching you and San, but his attention is now split between the group and whatever thoughts are running through his head. You can’t help but feel the weight of his gaze every now and then, as if he’s waiting for something, for you and San to slip up, maybe.

Mingi’s still going off about his topic, and the others are laughing alongside him, but you can’t help but feel slightly disconnected from it. Your attention keeps wandering back to San, who’s still engaged in his conversation with Mingi. He’s relaxed again, leaning back into the couch, legs stretched out, but there’s something in the way that his body is angled toward you, there’s a shift in his posture that feels a little too deliberate. His legs brushing against yours again, and you can’t ignore how loud it feels, like he’s settled into your space and doesn’t plan to move.

You’re barely paying attention to the conversation when your leftover pastry sits between you and San, partially eaten. You glance at it for a second, then at San, and without thinking, you push the small plate closer to him on the coffee table. You don’t even ask, it’s just become an unspoken thing. He picks it up without a word and finishes it off in a few bites, you’ve had your fair share.

It’s something so small, so familiar, that it doesn't register until you hear a small giggle from across the way. Hongjoong, who’s been half-listening, raises an eyebrow. “Well, that’s… something,” he comments, his tone light but laced with amusement that makes your face heat up.

You glance over quickly, your fingers curled around your drink. “What?” you ask, trying to sound casual, but the way everyone’s looking at you makes it impossible to ignore the sudden shift in the air.

Seonghwa leans back, eyeing the two of you with an almost amused expression. “You two are... getting cozy,” he observes, a teasing tone in his voice. “The other evening, and now...”

You shoot him a side glance, feeling heat rise to your face. You knew it wasn’t anything new between the two of you, but now it feels… well, noticed.

Jongho only grins and nudges Wooyoung. “It’s like you two have your own little routine going on here.” He points toward the plate, his grin only widening. “She gives him the leftovers, and he’s all too happy to eat them up. You know, like a couple, or something.”

The comments leave a pang in your chest, but you laugh it off, trying to hide the sudden flush growing on your cheeks. “I wasn’t hungry,” you mutter, hoping it’ll end the conversation.

But, of course, it doesn’t.

Mingi, who’s been listening with a wolfish grin plastered on his face, chimes in. “Honestly, I’m just waiting for her to hand feed him the next treat, and I’ll really be convinced you’re dating in secret.” His voice is so light, so teasing, but it feels like there’s an underlying tone that makes you feel like everyone is starting to notice the unspoken things between you and San.

Yeosang gives you a small smile, but he doesn’t join in on the teasing. Instead, he leans back in his seat, looking between you and San. “You two haven’t always been so comfortable around each other, have you?” he asks, the question was casual, but laced with curiosity.

You try to smile it off, but something tightens in your chest. You glance at San, who seems completely unfazed by all the extra attention. He just shrugs, looking down at his coffee, as if nothing out of the ordinary happened. But you can’t shake the feeling that everyone;s watching you two a little too closely.

Hongjoong leans over Seonghwa, putting his drink down and giving you both an exaggerated look of disbelief. “Seriously, though,” he says with an extra chuckle, “If you two aren’t secretly dating, you’re about to be. It’s written all over you.”

You groan inwardly, trying not to blush more. “We’re just roommates,” you say quickly, forcing a laugh that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Nothing more.”

San just nods in agreement, though he says nothing else. His quiet confidence in the way he responds only makes the whole thing feel more like a dance you’ve been doing.

Jongho, not wanting to let it go, turns to you both with a little smirk. “Right, right. Just roommates,” he says sarcastically. “Then why does it feel like we’re missing something? Seonghwa, you said what, about a dinner?”

You roll your eyes, but the question still lingers, and you can’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, they’re right. “Can we just drop it already?” you intervene, trying to steer the conversation literally anywhere else.

But the group isn’t ready to let it go. Wooyoung, always ready to stir the drama, leans forward to the coffee table with a wink. “You know, I’ll put twenty dollars down that you two are dating in secret.”

You stare at him for a beat before breaking into a nervous laugh. “It’s not like that,” you say, but it comes out more unsure than you’d like.

“Oh? Then what’s it like?” he continues.

“You guys are impossible,” you say with a sigh, shaking your head. “Can we just enjoy the drinks, please?”

Everyone laughs, but you’re still stuck in the back of your mind, wondering if they see something you don’t. The conversation carries on, but you find yourself glancing over at San again, catching his eye for a moment. His gaze lingers just a little longer than necessary, but he doesn’t say anything.

The group’s chatter slowly dies down as the night wears on. The boys start gathering their things, grabbing jackets and bags, preparing to leave the coffee shop. The table starts to feel emptier as everyone stands around and stretches as the conversation begins to dissipate into the background.

You stand up and give a small stretch, feeling the weight of the evening’s conversations linger in the air. There’s a small tension in your shoulders, but it's nothing you can't shake off. The sound of chairs scraping against the floor and footsteps heading toward the door fills the room, and you take a moment to grab your jacket, preparing to leave too.

Seonghwa, who’s been moving slowly per usual, notices you standing near the door. He smiles, his expression soft. You meet his gaze and can’t help but return the smile, he always brought you some sort of comfort.

“Alright,” he says with a gentle nod, walking toward you. He extends his arms out, “It’s been good eating out again,” he adds, his voice warm.

You wrap your arms around him briefly, feeling the weight of the hug more than you expected. It’s a comforting gesture, the kind that makes you feel like everything is okay, even when you don’t know exactly what’s been building up inside of you. “I missed it, even with you looking too far into this roommate thing,” you say quietly, pulling back just a little as you both step away from each other. “Thanks for coming out, Hwa.”

“Anytime,” he says, eyes glinting mischievously for a moment. “Take care of yourself.” And with that, he gives you a quick squeeze on the shoulder before turning toward the rest of the group.

You watch him walk off to join the others by the door, your thoughts trailing behind him. The door clicks open, and you hear the sound of voices echoing out into the cool night. You breathe in deeply, looking around the nearly empty shop, the weight of the evening’s atmosphere settling around you.

San, who’s been standing off to the side, catches your eye. He’s already slipping on his jacket, moving with that familiar lazy ease. He looks over at you, but instead of speaking, he just nods with a soft smile. The others have already filtered out by the time you make your way to the door, and soon it’s just the two of you left. The air outside is colder, but not enough to make you shiver. You slip your hands into your pockets, glancing over at San, but neither of you says anything immediately. The night feels too good for words, and somehow, that silence is more comfortable than you expect.

You fall into step next to him as the two of you start walking down the sidewalk, the soft scrape of your shoes against the pavement the only sound filling the quiet.

It’s strange, this silence. You’ve walked with him like this before, but tonight feels different somehow. You don’t feel the need to break it, don’t feel the weight of tension or the pressure to fill every moment with something. It’s just the two of you, walking side by side, the city lights flickering in the distance. San doesn’t seem to mind the quiet either. He keeps his hands in his pockets, his strides are long and relaxed, but his attention is more on the path ahead of him than on anything else.

As you walk, your eyes flicker up to him again. He’s not looking at you, but there’s something in the way he moves—like he’s waiting for something, or maybe it’s you who’s waiting. Your thoughts drift, but you don't address anything, you can’t. You’re not even sure you want to. Instead, you focus on the quiet hum of the evening, the soft rustle of trees as the wind pushes through them. Every now and then, your steps fall just a little too close, and you end up brushing against his arm. Neither of you pulls away. It’s just how it is.

The walk feels long enough for you to notice the subtle shift between the two of you but not quite long enough to really understand it. Still, when you get to the apartment building, you don’t say anything about it. There’s nothing to say, not yet.

San steps ahead of you and opens the door, holding it for you without a word. You nod in thanks, walking inside, the warmth of the apartment greeting you. You slip off your shoes, but there’s still no conversation, no need for one. It’s just the two of you again.

The apartment feels quieter than before, the light from the lamps casting long shadows on the walls as you walk in with San. The evening’s winding down, but you’re not quite ready for it to end yet. The night’s been easy, comfortable, and you find yourself not wanting to break the rhythm.

San glances over at you as he kicks off his shoes by the door, a small smile on his face. “You want to finish the movie we started earlier?” His voice is casual, but there’s a hint of warmth there, like he’s offering you something simple, familiar.

You nod, pulling off your jacket and hanging it on the coat rack, the weight of the evening settling over you. “Yeah, just give me a second to change,” you reply, and San watches you for a moment before nodding and walking toward the kitchen.

You head to your room, your fingers tapping absentmindedly on your phone as you text Yeosang. You’re not sure what compels you to, but you want to catch up with him sometime soon, just the two of you, maybe debrief about San, afte rall, he’s the only one who doesn’t seem to enjoy teasing you about it.

You finish typing out the message, put your phone down, and change into your comfiest clothes. The familiar stretch of your sweats, the softness of your hoodie, his hoodie, really. It’s a piece of his closet that you ‘borrowed’ from him a few laundry days ago and never returned. It’s warm and soft, and you feel a bit silly for not giving it back sooner, but it smells like him, and there’s something comforting about that.

When you step back into the living room, you see San standing by the kitchen counter, a mug in his hand as he moves about, carefully preparing something. His back is to you, but you watch for a second as he works, the quiet concentration in his movements. You can hear the faint click of the kettle as he fills it, the soft hiss of steam rising from it.

“What flavor are you brewing?”

San glances over his shoulder, looking up at you with a small smile. “Maybe ginseng or something. Whatever sounds good,” he says, the nonchalance of his tone making it sound effortless.

You give a small nod in acknowledgment, but your attention shifts to the pantry as your eyes land on the binch biscuits you know he loves. You grab the box, a small grin forming on your face. You walk toward the couch, settling down with the biscuits in your lap, just waiting for San to finish up.

He finishes the tea and heads toward the living room with your tea and his water in hand, and you follow suit, grabbing a box of binch biscuits from the pantry on your way. The simple gesture of grabbing a snack for the two of you feels easy, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times before, even though you’ve never actually done it this way. You sit down on the couch first, placing the biscuits in your lap. When San joins you, he pulls the blanket around both of you, settling in next to you with a soft exhale. You scoot closer to him, feeling his warmth through the blanket, and without really thinking, you lean against him, letting your head rest on his shoulder. It feels right. Familiar.

San looks at you for a second, a glimmer of something in his eyes, before he sets down his cup and slides a little deeper into the blanket. “Wait a second,” he says, eyes narrowing at you. “I finally found where my hoodie went.”

You blink, confused for a moment, but when you look down at yourself, you realize you’re wearing the hoodie he gave you a while ago. “Oh, this? I guess it’s mine now,” you joke, your voice a little unsure.

San grins, shaking his head as he gently tugs at the sleeve of the hoodie. “I didn’t say you could keep it.”

You feel your heart skip a beat when he tugs you closer with the fabric, just enough to make you lean into him. His move feels so natural, and before you know it, you’re nestled against his side, the two of you getting comfortable under the blanket. His arm slides around your waist, pulling you just a little bit closer. You didn’t do anything to get away. If anything, you let yourself melt into him more, your body fitting into his like it’s always been this way. You let out a small sigh, finally relaxing into the warmth of the moment.

The movie continues to play, but now it’s just background noise. Your thoughts are more focused on the way San’s arm is wrapped around you, how his hand rests lightly on your waist, his fingers brushing against your side. You can feel his heartbeat beneath the fabric of his hoodie, and it’s oddly comforting.

San leans in slightly, his lips near your ear. “You know, you're my favorite roommate,” he says in a teasing, lighthearted tone.

The way he says it is enough to make your heart pulse just a little quicker, but you don’t think too much of it. You’re still trying to adjust to the fact that everything between you and him feels a little different. Like something changed, but neither of you has said anything about it yet.

You reach for the binch biscuits, your fingers brushing lightly against his hand as you grab one, then hold it up to him. “Want one?” you offer.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Of course,” he says with a grin of his own, leaning forward slightly to take the biscuit from you.

But this time, you raise the biscuit to his mouth, but he hesitates for just a second, a small flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. You feel a little awkward, unsure if he’s hesitating because it’s strange or because of something else. Before you can figure it out, you mutter quietly, “Sorry,” and start to bring the biscuit down to his hand.

But before you can move it away, San leans in and bites the biscuit straight from your hand, his lips brushing against your fingers as he does. The soft touch makes your pulse quicken even more.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says with a warm smile, his voice low and reassuring. “I got my biscuit.”

It only makes you smile to yourself as you adjust back to face the screen.

You both settle back down, the blanket now draped comfortably over your bodies, and the movie continues to play. The soft sound of the characters on-screen is barely a distraction as you settle even closer to San. You feel his arm tighten slightly around your waist, pulling you in just a little bit more.

The movie’s been playing quietly in the background, but you and San are barely paying attention. The warmth of the blanket, the soft glow of the TV, and the closeness of him beside you all seem to have your focus. You're still nestled comfortably against him, the rhythm of his breathing steady and calming as the movie continues, though your mind is more focused on the way he’s holding you.

But then, suddenly, there's a loud, jarring sound of something on screen ripping through the air, blasting out of the speakers that catches you both off guard. It’s a sound that seems designed to startle, and it works.

San jumps, a sharp, instinctive reaction that’s so sudden it makes you flinch, your own heart leaping in your chest. Before you can even process it, his arms wrap around you, pulling you so tightly into his chest that you feel a brief, almost painful pressure against your ribs. You gasp slightly, your breath catching at the intensity, but it’s not a painful kind of tightness—it’s more like a reaction, his body tensing up and seeking comfort at the same time.

“Sorry,” he mutters, his voice muffled, but you can feel his breath warm against your ear. The way his body shakes just in the slightest makes your heart ache a little.

You reach down, your fingers brushing his hand instinctively, and squeeze it gently, as if offering him the same comfort he’s giving you. His grip doesn’t loosen, though. If anything, he holds onto you a little tighter, his arms wrapping further around you.

You swallow, trying to calm the nervous flutter in your chest, and let your hand slide slowly from his hand, up to his forearm. His muscles are tense, but you trace soft, slow lines up and down his arm, trying to calm him just a little to give you some leeway to breath. He shudders slightly beside you, his breath still shaky, and you softly coo at him, the sound almost instinctive.

“You’re alright,” you whisper gently, your voice just about a murmur, really it was meant for the both of you. “It’s just a movie, Sannie. Nothing to be scared of.” You’re not really sure where the name came from, but you hope it wasn’t too out of the ordinary.

You feel him nod slightly against you, though his grip remains tight around your waist, like he’s still unsure if he’s safe. But you can feel him trying to settle, to push past the fear. “I know, I know,” he breathes out. “I’m fine.”

But the tension in his body doesn’t quite dissipate. You notice the way his muscles stay tight, the way his arm remains wrapped around you protectively, even though the immediate scare is over.

“Hey,” you whisper, your fingers tracing gentle lines over his arm, as you move yourself to face him more clearly, angling your legs to him. Your fingers slowly wander up the soft fabric of his hoodie, moving to his shoulder, your touch lingering there for just a second. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

He exhales shakily, but doesn’t pull away from you. You notice how he shifts just the slightest, his legs adjusting underneath the blanket, moving slightly closer to you. Your heart beats a little more as his body naturally gravitates toward yours, his need for closeness mirroring yours.

But then, a second loud, abrupt noise comes from the movie, a sound that’s too sudden, too harsh, and it catches San off guard again.

He tenses completely this time, his hands gripping you so tightly you wince slightly from the pressure. Without any sort of thought it seems, he pulls you completely into his chest, practically lifting you off the couch as he pulls you. You’re almost out of breath from the force of his arms around you, but the warmth of his body is undeniable, and it feels so instinctive, so natural.

This time, though, San doesn’t just hold you to his chest. He shifts under the blanket, his movements sudden as he wraps one arm fully around your waist. Before you can blink, he’s pulling you up on his lap, and you gasp slightly, not fully expecting it. You settle awkwardly for a second, your legs finding their place on either side of his. His hands are still gripping you gently, but firmly, as if he needs the reassurance.

“San?” you whisper, your heart pounding through your throat. You knew he was nervous from the movie, but you hadn’t ever expected him to react this way, to pull you so close, to have you quite literally sitting on his lap like this, straddled onto him. You try to keep your voice light, not wanting to make it awkward, but your voice comes out in a small, shaky exhale.

“Yeah, I know,” he murmurs, his voice quieter, as if he’s trying to make some sort of light out of the situation. His hand on your waist shifts, his fingers loosening a little, but his thumbs digging into you from the nerves. “This feels… better,” he adds, his voice dropping off slightly, like he’s unsure of how to say it without making things weird.

You glance down, and your breath catches for a moment when you realize you’re fully and completely on his lap, your body leaning slightly into his chest. It’s a bit awkward of course, but you can’t deny that there’s some sort of comfort in the closeness.

You both settle into the moment, trying to find some semblance of normality as the movie continues to play in the background, even though the tension between you two could be cut with a knife. You try not to overthink it, to ignore the way your heart beats faster every time his hand shifts slightly, every time his warmth surrounds you completely.

Without thinking, you lean into him, the warmth of his body seeping into yours. The movie is forgotten. Anything outside the couch is irrelevant. You let your fingers trail lightly over his arm, tracing the muscles that tense beneath his hoodie. He’s solid, and the comfort of him, mixed with the rawness of the situation, makes you feel like you could drown in him.

The movie continues to play, but the sound is distant now. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the way he’s looking at you, his gaze locked onto yours, eyes dark with something you can’t quite name, but it pulls at you in a way that makes your stomach twist. The way he’s holding you, the way his chest rises and falls with his breath, it all feels too much and yet not enough.

You shift, feeling the shift of your body against his, and you just can’t deny the heat growing between you. His hand moves up, cupping your cheek gently, his thumb brushing over your jaw with an almost reverent touch. You catch your breath at the feeling, your body responding to the soft, careful way he touches you.

“Are you okay?” His voice is barely a whisper, his lips brushing against your ear as he pulls you even closer. You don’t trust your voice to answer anymore, but the only thing you can do is nod, a small sound escaping your lips as you lean into him, your body reacting to the closeness. The heat between you is building, and it feels like a slow burn that’s about to catch fire.

Before you can think, your lips are on his. Soft, hesitant at first, but then a little more urgent, more desperate. His hand moves to the back of your neck, pulling you into him, deepening it all. You lose yourself in the feel of him, the taste of him, the heat that just seems to radiate from his skin. His hands are everywhere now, one still cupping your cheek, the other sliding down to your waist, pulling you even closer, somehow.

He breaks the kiss for just a second, pulling back slightly, eyes darkened from the situation. “Are you sure?” The question is quiet, and heavy with meaning. You know exactly what he’s asking, but you can’t bring yourself to answer with words. You don’t need to. Your body gives the answer for you.

So, you pull him back to you, your lips crashing against his once again, harder this time, your hands threading through his hair, pulling him closer. He groans softly into your mouth, and you can feel the tension in his body, the way he’s trying to hold back, but it’s too much. You’re both just a little too far gone now.

He moves, his body shifting beneath you, and it’s fully coming to your attention that you’re straddling him with your legs on either side of him, your body pressed so close that you can feel every bit of him. His hands grip your hips, pulling you down against him, and you can feel the way his body reacts to yours, hard and warm beneath you.

Everything feels deeper now, frantic, his hands just moving around you, pulling at you, but it’s not desperate, it’s just instinctual. Everything is happening just a little fast, but it feels like it’s been building for ages now. You should stop, but you really don’t want to.

But then he pulls back, his breath ragged as he looks at you, and for a moment, you both just pause. His hands rest on your hips, and his gaze shifts between your eyes and your lips, the weight of the moment settling in. Neither of you speaks. The silence is thick, heavy with everything unsaid.

Finally, he whispers, his voice a little hoarse, “We should slow down.”

But you don’t pull away. Neither of you do.

The silence between you two feels electric now, the weight of it heavier than anything either of you have said. He’s still breathing hard, his chest rising and falling beneath you, and you feel the heat radiating off of him, pulling you back to him. Before you can even think about what’s happening, his lips are on yours again, somehow even more urgent this time, a little messier, a little desperate. It’s not gentle anymore, not soft like before.

His hands are on you again, one moving from your hips to your back, pulling you flush against him. The pressure of his body beneath yours is so intoxicating you just can’t think, you just let yourself feel. You feel the roughness of his lips as he kisses you deeper, more fervently, his breath mixing with your, and you can’t help yourself from responding with the same intensity.

At some point, his mouth leaves yours and begins to trail down your jaw, down your neck, and you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair. The sensation is overwhelming, and you tilt your head back instinctively, giving him more room, more access. His lips are warm, almost unbearably so, and the way his teeth graze lightly against your skin makes you shiver, a soft moan escaping you before you can stop it.You can’t focus on anything but him, the feel of his mouth on your skin, the way he’s moving against you. You let your hands slide through his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands, tugging him closer as he kisses his way back up your neck. His lips are still sloppy, still hungry, but they’re soft, too, deliberate, as though he’s trying to savor every moment, every inch of you.

He murmurs your name, low and breathless, and you can feel the way his voice vibrates through you, sending a shiver down your spine. His hand moves from your back to your waist, sliding down, his fingers pressing into the soft fabric of your hoodie, tugging it just slightly to pull you even closer, like he can’t get enough. You feel the heat of him against your chest, the rapid beating of his heart matching the pounding in your own.

You pull him back up to kiss him again, deeper this time, no hesitation, just pure need. His hands are everywhere now, one hand cradling your neck, the other slipping down your side, tracing the curve of your body. You let out a breathless laugh, but it’s interrupted by the way his thumb brushes along your lower lip, his eyes flicking between your eyes and your mouth, waiting for something, though you’re not sure what.

But, before you can ask, he leans in again. You feel the tension in him, the way he holds himself back, but you’re too caught up in the moment, too lost in how right it feels to be close to him like this. You kiss him just a little harder, one hand finding its way to his chest, feeling the way he shifts beneath his shirt.

You break away for a moment, gasping for air, and your forehead rests against his. You can’t tell if you’re shaking or if it’s him, but the intensity of the moment doesn’t let up. His lips find your neck again, trailing down your pulse, and you shudder under the touch, eyes closing, completely lost in the sensation. You can’t think, can’t focus on anything but him, and the way he’s making you feel. His hands slide underneath your hoodie, warm against your skin, and you stiffen slightly at the touch, but it’s not unwelcome. Far from it. You lean into it, leaning into him, and you can feel his breath against your neck, his lips trailing lower, brushing against your collarbone. The sensation makes your body tingle, a heat spreading through you, and before you can stop yourself, you move, pressing yourself even closer to him.

San groans, low and throaty, his hands moving to your back, pulling you up slightly. His hands slide down your sides, grasping at you, like he’s trying to hold onto you as if you’ll just slip away.

You pause, just for a moment, lips hovering over his, and his breath is coming in short bursts. You can hear his heart beating erratically in his chest, and you feel your pulse quicken in response. You’re both so close now, your body pressed against his, tangled in each other. Neither of you is willing to pull away, there’s really no need to.

Your hands find their way to his hair again, tugging him back for one last kiss. He groans softly against your lips, the sound vibrating through you as his hands tighten.

When you finally pull away, breathless and flushed, you’re still in his arms, still tangled in the heat of him. The room is quiet, save for the sound of your breathing.

You both pause for a moment, breathing heavily, and for a second, it feels like the world has stopped spinning around you. The heat still lingers between you two, like it’s impossible to shake off. His forehead rests gently against yours, and you’re both gasping for air, the weight of the moment settling over you, quieting the chaos in your chest.

San’s hands are still on you, and the feel of them sends little shivers down your spine. He shifts slightly, his fingers slipping from your back under your hoodie to gently trace the bare skin of your waist, his touch soft, lingering. It’s not the urgency of before, not the desperate rush, it’s slower now, softer. He moves, just enough to pull his hand away, and you’re about to ask what he’s doing when he reaches up to click the remote. The sound of the television turning off is a sharp contrast to the stillness in the room. His hand lingers at the remote, but his other hand stays with you, resting just above your waist, fingertips grazing the skin where the hem of your hoodie ends.

He doesn’t let go.

You feel his breath warm against your neck as he shifts again, making space between you two on the couch. It’s like a natural transition, one that neither of you is fully ready to make. But he moves you closer, pulling you with him, his arms wrapping around you as he adjusts the blanket around the two of you. There’s no rush, no reason to hurry. He lets you get comfortable, his hand slipping beneath your sweatshirt again, resting on the small of your back, just barely pressing into you.

The silence feels different. It’s more intimate this time. You feel his breath against your neck again, warm and slow, you find yourself breathing in time with him. Your chest rising and falling in sync with his, like you’re both catching your breath, not from whatever the two of you indulged in, but maybe something else entirely.

His fingers stroke your skin lightly as you both settle more comfortably on the couch. He pulls you closer, pulling the blanket up over you both until the cool air is shut out, leaving only the warmth between the two of you. His arm is still around you, his fingers pressing into your side, holding you close, but gentle, like he doesn’t want to let go, like he can’t.

You shift, rolling onto your side slightly, letting your back press against his chest. You feel his hand move from your waist to your hip, his thumb brushing slowly over the soft skin there. You shift again, and he tugs you closer, his face just behind your ear, his breath still warm against your neck. You let your fingers find his hand, and he holds onto yours without any hesitation, his thumb drawing gentle circles against your knuckles. It's comforting, soothing.

For a moment, you both just lay there, the faint sound of your breathing and the soft brush of his lips against your neck the only things that fill the space. His arm tightens slightly around you, and you shift again, pressing into him just a little more. His warmth envelops you, and you can feel him smile against your neck, the slight movement of his lips brushing against the nape of it sending a shiver down your spine.

Your eyes close finally, and you let sleep begin to take over, the soft rhythm of your breaths lulling you away.

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s4nniebe4r · 5 months ago

Note

part ten of roommate when?🥹🥹 i just love themm sooo muchh

out now liebchen!! read it here!

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s4nniebe4r · 5 months ago

Text

the roommate

part ten: domestic

pairing: roommate! san x fem! reader

synopsis: things in the apartment have become a little more comfortable

wc: 5.5k

tags: slow burn, roommates, enemies to lovers, angst, forced proximity, eventual romance

etc: so sorry this took longer to post than usual! i should take the time to let you all know that updates are sporadic as this is something i do in my free time! i’m so happy you all received this series well and are enjoying it! lots of love, liebchens, and as always, this is not proofread!

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You don’t even remember when it started, when the evenings started to stretch and melt into one another.

It’s quiet tonight, but it’s not silent. The soft clicking of San’s controller fills the living room in a little rhythm, broken by the occasional shout from the voice chat playing through on the television screen. You’re curled up into the left side of the couch, legs tucked under you, laptop open but practically untouched from the past hour. The document sits there half-finished on your screen, you’ve typed and deleted the same sentence at least six times now.

San’s on your right, his back resting against the arm of the couch, one leg bent whilst the other stretches along the cushions, his leg nearly brushing yours. His hair’s a little messy, damp at the ends from a shower earlier, and his expression is so focused. His eyebrows are furrowed, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. There’s a hoodie sleeve pushed halfway up his arm and his controller rests comfortably in his hand as he moves through the game. He’s mid match as you glance up at the screen, some brightly lit map you couldn’t even tell the name of if you tried.

It should annoy you. It should annoy you how immersed he is in it. But it doesn’t. Not tonight.

He’s losing his match. And he’s clearly not very happy about it.

He huffs through his nose, leans forward, then back into the armrest again. “What is this idiot doing,” he mutters, barely loud enough for you to be able to register it.

You stretch your legs a little, shifting in your seat. The cushion dips slightly where his thigh finally slips close to yours. You hide a small smile, dragging your cursor across your document again. You’re not even pretending to work anymore. Your paper is an end of semester reflection due this upcoming week. Every time you start typing, your eyes drift toward the game. Or toward him. You’re not even watching the screen so much as watching him. The way his brows twitch. How he exhales sharply whenever he dies. How he leans forward when the stats start getting tighter. It’s kind of endearing.

You’d never say that aloud though. Never.

“Why are you making that face?” San asks suddenly, not even taking his eyes off the screen.

You blink. “What face?”

“That face,” he says, still focused on the game. “Like you’re actively judging me.”

“Maybe I am.”

He scoffs and then returns back to his game. Letting out a string of curses as his character dies on screen again. You hear the other players shouting at him as he continues to mash the buttons on his controller.

“You good over there?” you ask lightly.

He doesn’t look away from the screen. “Peachy.”

You stifle a laugh. “Want me to backseat again? I can tell you what you’re doing wrong. Just say the word.”

“God, no.” The slants a quick glance at you. “You don’t even know what’s happening.”

“I don’t need to,” you reply, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “You keep playing the same map over again. You just threw… a smoke? And got knifed by someone behind you.”

San groans. “I really don’t need a commentator, thanks.”

You hum, tapping a key idly on your laptop. “Seems like you might actually.”

He turns his head slightly to glance at you, narrowing his eyes. “Think you can do better?”

You lift your brows. “Is that a challenge?”

San sets the controller down in your lap before you can argue. “Here. Prove it. You won’t last five seconds.”

Your mouth opens, then shuts again as you tilt your head. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he says, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Come on, superstar. Show me.”

With a theatrical sigh, you shift your laptop to the side, shuffling to be positioned even closer to him now, and pick up the controller. The second you enter the match, you’re overwhelmed. Your character spawns in, and within seconds, you’re already taking fall damage from jumping off something you weren’t supposed to. You wince as the screen flashes at you.

“Okay, that was on purpose,” you mumble.

“You lost almost all your health just from falling, Y/N.”

“I was just looking around.”

“We’re in a match.”

A beat later, a single bullet from the corner takes you out. You frown at the screen, scowling.

“No. This is rigged,” you mutter, brows scrunching in concentration.

“Sure, sure,” he says, nudging your shoulder. “Keep telling yourself that.”

You last another three minutes before tossing the controller back into his lap with a dramatic groan. “I hate this stupid game.”

He’s still grinning when he takes it back. “It’s okay. Not everyone’s built for it.”

“Whatever,” you mutter as you stand, stretching your arms over your head. “I’m going to the kitchen for food.”

“What are you making?” he asks, already half-distracted, fingers flying over the buttons again.

You shrug as you walk behind the couch. “I dunno. Fried rice, maybe.”

You move into the kitchen, tugging open the fridge and collecting what you can—leftover rice from the night before, an egg, and some sad-looking vegetables that need to be used sooner rather than later. San’s still back on the couch, but you can feel a set of eyes follow you briefly as you shuffle around.

You’re mid-stir when you reach over the burner without thinking. Just a quick reach, barely a stretch, but the heat is too close. It’s nothing bad, but you can still feel it. You flinch as the edge of your wrist catches a sting of warmth.

“Ow—fuck.”

San’s already halfway out of his seat. “Seriously?” He rounds the corner. “What’d I say about being so clumsy?”

You shoot him a glare, cradling your wrist. “It’s fine. It’s barely anything.”

“Yeah, that’s how it starts,” he mutters, reaching past you to turn the heat down slightly. “Gonna end up burning down the apartment complex.”

“Don’t give me ideas, maybe I’ll do it on purpose.”

He tosses you a look over his shoulder as he takes the spatula. The sizzling oil starts to quiet, and he’s moving around like it’s nothing. You catch him glance toward the kettle, and moment later, he fills it with water and sets it to what. You notice, but don’t say anything. He’s just focused now.

“I forgot you can actually cook,” you say, sliding next to him at the stove, reaching around to grab the salt.

There’s a few moments of silence as he lets out a small hum and continues to work around. You take the time to grab plates, glasses, and utensils.

The kettle clicks off, and you see a mug appear on the counter beside you. You don’t think much of it at first. You rinse off the dishes from earlier while he keeps cooking, the two of you working on your tasks in silence.

This isn’t the first time you’ve had a night like this. A week ago, you’d fallen asleep on the couch while he was playing. You hadn’t meant to, but you woke up with a blanket over your legs and your head tilted against his shoulder. He hadn’t mentioned it. Neither had you.

Another night, you made grilled cheese, and he insisted on making tomato soup. You didn’t fight him on it. He didn’t comment when you added more seasoning than he would have. You were both just coexisting.

You finish drying your hands and glance toward the counter. The tea is there, steam curling from the rim of the mug, almost golden tinted in the faint kitchen light. You didn’t make it. You didn’t even see what kind it was.

You take a sip. Honey citron.

You blink down at the cup, lips parting in surprise. It tasted as good as Seonghwa had said earlier. You assume this was from the box you found not too long ago when rummaging through the pantry for snacks.

You don’t say anything. Not yet. But you sip again, slower this time, letting the sweetness melt on your tongue.

“Food’s ready,” he says, plating two portions and sliding them across the counter.

You take a seat at the kitchen island, sliding onto the left barstool as he settles beside you on the right. He’s close, his shoulder brushes yours when he shifts his plate.

It’s not tense. Not weird. Just comfortable.

“Pretty good,” you say after the first bite.

San hums at your comment. “I know.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

You glance over at him, smiling against your will. He’s already watching you, elbow on the counter, twirling the utensil lazily in his hand. You continue your conversation. Mostly commentary on the rice and a few other jabs at each other.

After you eat, he stands to clear the plates and you go to help, grabbing the sponge and running the water.

“I got it,” he says.

You wave him off. “I’m already here.”

San lets you scrub while he dries. He doesn’t say anything when your arms bump or your elbows brush. It’s almost automatic, the way you pass the dishes off without needing to speak, the way he catches the ones you rinse before they even hit the drying rack.

“You feeling okay?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him. “You’re being weirdly helpful.”

He shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You look at him a little more intently now. “You’re plotting something.”

He smirks at you. “Always.”

You finish the last dish and rinse your hands, drying them quickly. San’s still there, hovering near the sink. You place the towel down and lean against the counter beside him, not quite looking at him yet.

“You’re not gonna mention the tea?”

San blinks. “What?”

You nod toward the mug. “The new honey citron tea.”

He shrugs again. “Ah. Didn’t think I needed to.”

You glance at him. “I mean, you bought it.”

“Yeah.”

You nod once, then look away again. It’s silent for a long beat. You think maybe that’s the end of it, that neither of you will say more.

But then San murmurs, “You looked like you needed it.”

You freeze fingers curling around the edge of the counter. When you finally glance back up at him, he’s already looking away, reaching for the dish towel you just used to dry his hands.

You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to.

A few seconds later, he brushes past you quietly, back to the couch, to his game. He doesn’t say another word.

You’re still thinking about the tea. How good it is. How right Seonghwa was.

You settle on the floor with a heavy sigh, pulling your laptop and notebook in front of you just like you’ve done at least a hundred times before with this paper. The carpet is cool underneath your legs as you cross them. The blanket you’d been curled up in earlier is still bunched on the couch behind you, forgotten as you’re now fixed on sitting on the ground. Somehow, you need this, you need the distance from comfort to focus on this. To lock in.

San’s switched from his game to a show, the volume is switched down, and you can barely hear it, the subtitles flickering across the screen. He’s quiet now, settled back into the corner of the couch with a knee up, phone in hand but mostly idle. You haven’t said much since you sat down, and neither has he. It’s not awkward. Just quiet.

You open your laptop and blink at the mostly empty page. You type a few words. Delete them. Start again. Only to tap the backspace button once more. Your notebook sits open beside you, a few ideas scribbled along the lines, but nothing’s clicking. You can feel it, the deadline is breathing down your neck, your brain shutting off the closer it gets.

Ten, fifteen minutes pass like this. Then you sigh, a sharp exhale that deflates your chest.

Behind you, San speaks. “Is this what academic death looks like?”

You don’t turn around, you just throw up a hand and wave him off. “Don’t start with me.”

You hear the faint smile in his tone as he hums back at you.

You try again. A few more sentences. Another failed paragraph. And it’s all starting to swirl together. You rub at your eyes, trying to stop the frustration from welling up too fast.

“Want help?” he offers, casually.

You blink, then glance over your shoulder. “You?”

He raises an eyebrow, gesturing vaguely. “I’m capable of making thoughts.”

You shake your head but shift your laptop slightly so he can see the screen. “Be my guest.”

You feel the couch shift as he leans forward, bracing himself on one arm, chin hovering just behind you, scanning the screen. His proximity warms your back.

He hums softly again, tilting his head. “Starting with a quote? I guess that’s one way to do it.”

“It’s relevant.”

“It’s pretentious,” he counters, voice dry, there’s no bite.

You elbow his leg. “Okay, professor.”

His voice quiets. He leans back again, still reading, but he stops making snide comments. And for a while, he’s just there, reading, glancing between your screen and notebook. You go still, fingers tapping nervously on your thigh. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel there’s a shift in him, it’s when you started getting more tense. The way your posture has folded in, like you’re trying to curl away from the pressure.

Then the blanket slips down from the couch behind you.

You blink, startled as it drapes over your shoulder from above, it’s warm and comforting. You glance up, only to find San resettling behind you again, quieter this time.

He folds himself back onto the couch, one leg tucked under him, the other bent up beside your right shoulder. His leg rests close, almost too close, like it’s fixing him to the floor without quite touching you. You feel his presence radiate at your back.

Your chest tightens. It’s a small gesture, and yet you feel your body react before your mind can catch up. Why does the blanket feel heavier now that he’s the one who put it on you? And then his hand is there still, his palm is resting over the blanket on your right shoulder. At first, it’s just the weight of it. But then his fingers start to move, tracing lazy, shapeless patterns through the thick fabric. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at you. His touch is quiet and rhythmic, like he’s drawing something only he understands.

It’s not fair. Not fair at all how much you notice him. The way his fingers trail without any purpose, the heat is seeping through despite the barrier of fabric. It’s like every inch of your skin under his hand has become a live wire. He’s not even trying and yet, it still makes your thoughts scatter.

You don’t realize your eyes have shut until the motion stops. You blink them open, glancing up just as he reaches for something on the table to your left. Your tea.

He passes it over without a word, and your fingers wrap around the warmth instinctively. It feels heavier now, like you’re more aware of the sensation. The tea is still warm when you take a sip.

His hand returns to your shoulder, settling there again like it never even left.

You shouldn’t like this as much as you do. You shouldn’t feel like this.

You exhale slowly. Your pulse has calmed, but something about the moment feels suspended in time, like the seconds have come to a halt.

Then, just as you shift to reach for your notebook again, San leans forward slightly. His voice comes quietly, right near your ear, almost brushing against your skin.

“You’ve got it.”

You still.

The mug in your hand doesn't rise. Your fingers go a little slack. The words wrap around your spine like a string pulled tight. You’ve never heard him say something like that. Not like that. Not to you. Not so close.

You don’t respond right away, and he doesn’t press for it. Instead he stays there. Warm and present. His hand stays exactly where it is, slowly moving now in small strokes along the curve of your shoulder blade.

You close your eyes again. Just for a second. Just to feel this.

You let yourself lean back just slightly, not enough to rest on him, not really. But enough for him to know you’re still there, still waiting.

The door clicks open, and you barely register it at first, too absorbed in the steady rhythm of your hands as you stir something simmering on the stove. But then, the familiar voice of Seonghwa cuts through your space, drawing your attention immediately.

“Smells good in here.”

You turn just in time to see him step inside, his smile already wide as he takes off his shoes and steps into the apartment. You’re still stirring the dish on the stove. It’s almost done, the creamy tteokbokki bubbling just right, and the dumplings sizzling in the pan. You smile as Seonghwa steps further inside, the sight of him bringing a quick surge of fondness. “Hey,” you greet, setting the spoon aside to walk over to him. The space between you is closing, and without even thinking, you pull him into a tight hug.

“Didn’t think I’d be walking into something this good,” Seonghwa chuckles, his arms wrapping around you. You chuckle, it’s easy and familiar, and you let your body relax against him. It’s been a while since you’ve had the chance to just hang out like this, and you didn’t realize how much you’d missed it until now.

“Missed you, Hwa,” you say, pressing your cheek against his shoulder, the comfort of his just being here easing into the quiet of the evening.

“I missed you too,” he replies easily, his voice bright, though he’s already walking toward the kitchen, the scent of dinner catching his attention. “It’s been too long.”

Seonghwa moves to the kitchen, running a hand through his hair as he glances over the counter. His eyes settle on the bubbling tteokbokki, the crispy dumplings still cracking in the pan. You step back to the stove, your fingers grazing over the edge of the pan, the warmth from the heat seeping through your fingertips.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he moves around the kitchen, clearly appreciating the smells that fill the room. You return to your dish, absentmindedly reaching across the stove to grab the dirty dish you had left to clean, but before you can grab it, San’s hand catches your wrist, pulling it back gently.

“Didn’t I tell you not to do that anymore?” His voice is soft but firm, there’s concern buried in his words.

You blink, a little flustered, especially in front of Seonghwa, but laugh as you tug your wrist free from his grasp. “I’m fine, San. I wasn’t even that close.”

He narrows his eyes at you, giving a small shake of his head. “Doesn’t matter. You’re gonna end up burning yourself. You’re so clumsy.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but smiling anyway, knowing he’s probably right. “You’re dramatic,” you tease lightly, picking up your tea and taking a sip. It's your second of the evening, just like the one he made for you earlier. You don’t acknowledge it, not aloud at least. Neither does San. But Seonghwa notices.

He’s quiet for a moment as his eyes flicker between you and San, a thoughtful look on his face, but neither of you are looking his way. His gaze shifts back to the food, breaking the brief tension. “It’s been a while since I’ve walked into this kind of domesticity,” he says, his voice light and teasing.

San doesn’t even flinch at the observation, though you do notice a subtle shift in his posture, his fingers flexing ever so slightly on the spoon in his hand as he stirs the pan. You try not to pay too much attention to the small things, how you and San have moved through the kitchen together, there’s ease in the way you anticipate his actions. It’s just comfortable.

Seonghwa steps closer to the counter, eyes lingering for a moment longer before he grabs a glass from the cupboard. “So, what are we making?” he asks, trying to sound casual, but his gaze doesn’t stray too far from you and San.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you reply, setting the sponge down as you turn to plate the food. “You can help me set the table if you want.”

Seonghwa takes a deep breath and does as you say, moving toward the small dining area with a few plates and glasses. “Smells amazing,” he mutters, glancing toward San, who’s still focused on the stove. You can feel the small shifts between them, Seonghwa’s keeping tabs on every little thing, so it seems.

It’s easy. Too easy. But it’s also something Seonghwa has been picking up on, and you pretty much know it. The quick glances, the way you move in sync without a word. It’s something neither you nor San acknowledges.

You finish plating the food and set it on the table, Seonghwa already filling his glass with water. There’s a quietness between the three of you as you take your seats. Seonghwa is directly across from you, and San is to your left. The conversation flows easily between you.

“So,” Seonghwa starts, glancing between the two of you, “You guys cook together often?”

You freeze briefly, then brush it off with a light laugh. “More often than I’d like to admit.”

San chuckles, but there’s a subtle shift in the air again, something in how he doesn’t look at you when he responds, something you can’t quite place. “We get by.”

Seonghwa raises an eyebrow at the casualness, his gaze flicking down to his food. There’s no comment, not yet.

Dinner continues, and Seonghwa tells you stories from his week, little anecdotes about classes, but you let yourself drift away from the conversation for a moment. Letting yourself feel the shift in the air, the shift you can’t quite put into words. And Seonghwa seems to catch it.

“I gotta say,” Seonghwa finally speaks up again, his voice light but his words sharp, “You two are weirdly in sync tonight.”

You freeze for half a second, before brushing it off with a half-hearted laugh. “What does that even mean?”

San shifts in his seat, making direct eye contact with Seonghwa, and his fingers tap lightly against the table. “Nothing. Just… dinner. Relax.”

But Seonghwa’s eyes are still on you both, and you know he’s watching for something. His gaze flits back and forth. He doesn’t push it any further though. The rest of dinner passes with light banter, but there’s an awareness between him and San, even as Seonghwa continues his stories.

As you finish, the dishes are cleared and the living room starts to invite you over. The three of you make your way over, and you flick on the television.

The game on the screen hums softly in the background, the flickering world of your game providing a light, easy distraction. You sit on the floor, comfortably nestled between Seonghwa’s legs, the soft cushions of the couch pressed against your back. It’s one of those moments that feels effortless, and you let yourself sink into it without as much of a second thought.

Seonghwa sits behind you, his fingers moving through your hair slowly, absently, as if it’s second nature to him. You lean back just enough to feel his warmth, letting your head lay against his knee, the soft pull of your hair as he braids a few strands, all while his eyes remain on the screen. There’s a gentle rhythm in his actions, it’s soothing, like there’s no words needed between you two. His attention is split between the game and the little affection he’s showing you, and you let yourself be.

Occasionally, Seonghwa offers you little tips on the game, but it’s more out of habit than anything else. “Careful there,” he says lightly, his voice just a soft murmur above your head. “You’re about to fall into a hole,” he says as he tugs a little harder on your hair out of shared nerves. You chuckle, moving your character just in time, and he smiles down at you, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

San, however, sits across from him on the couch. He’s a little more distant physically, his body leaned back against the armrest with one leg draped across the cushions. Despite his relaxed posture, there’s something about the way his eyes flicker toward you every now and again when he thinks you don’t notice. He’s quiet, absorbed in his own thoughts, but his gaze never strays too far from you. You can feel him watching, even when you aren’t looking at him directly.

Every so often, you glance up at him. His jaw is slightly clenched, his thumb tapping against the edge of his phone, but his eyes flicker between the game on the screen and you. There’s something unreadable again, in the way his eyes meet yours for a second before darting away, and you can’t help but wonder what’s got him like this.

You’re so caught up in the game, the banter with Seonghwa, that you don’t notice how your body gradually shifted even closer to him. At first you're just comfortable between his legs, playing the game, laughing at the graphics, but eventually you lean back further into him. It’s small, something like second nature, and you’re not sure when it happens, but now you're pressed fully against his leg. It feels like you could stay here for a while.

But then, the silence is broken by San’s voice.

“Are you trying to make another trip to the chiropractor down there?” He calls out, glancing over at you from his spot on the couch. “Remember last week when we were working on your paper? You complained for days after. There’s room on the couch, you know?”

You blink at him, caught off guard for a second. You hadn’t really thought about moving, but San nudges his leg lightly in your direction, like a subtle invitation.

“Come on, the couch isn’t too crowded up here,” he teases, the smirk in his voice clear even though he’s not looking at you directly now.

You chuckle, glancing up at Seonghwa for a moment. “I’m fine here,” you say, half-defensive, but there’s no real conviction behind it.

Seonghwa smiles down at you, his eyes crinkle for a moment before he lets his fingers untangle from your hair. “San’s right, there’s plenty of room with us.”

So, you don’t fight it, though part of you wishes you could ignore the way San’s voice was the pulling force at you. You push yourself upright, making space for yourself on the couch, unsure of where exactly to settle. You end up sitting between them, but noticeably closer to San. You're not sure why, but your body seems to naturally gravitate toward his cushion. You let yourself lean toward him almost unconsciously, his presence familiar more so these past few days, you don't even realize how much until your shoulder brushes against his arm.

It’s not an awkward thing, just easy. You’ve been around each other like this more and more lately, and for once, it feels a little comfortable. His warmth and the light sound of his breath next to you, it all fits around you well. There’s no second-guessing as you settle into him, letting yourself lean slightly against him as you turn yourself to face Seonghwa.

San doesn’t say anything at first, but his body shifts slightly, his knee brushing against yours, a touch so soft it might as well be accidental. You glance up at him, and he’s still focused on Seonghwa, but now he’s more turned toward the conversation too, his body angled in a way that mirrors yours. You find your back resting against his chest now, almost without realizing how you got there. You tell yourself you’re not noticing the heat from his side, but you absolutely are.

As you talk with Seonghwa, your attention shifts between him and San, and you don’t even realize how much you’re leaning into San now. You feel the slight shift of his weight beside you, the way his body seems to almost instinctively adjust to give you more room. His arm just barely brushing yours, you’ve already found a rhythm in your movements. Not entirely aware that your body is more pressed against his side now, the curve of your shoulder resting against his ribcage.

His warmth feels solid, you feel… safe. You laugh softly at something Segonwha says, your head tilting back just slightly, resting against San a little, your loosely braided hair falling to one side. His breathing is steady, and you can’t help but notice the way his chest rises and falls beneath you, each exhale something you let yourself fall against.

Seonghwa, ever the observer, catches the shift, but he doesn’t comment on it. Just a fleeting glance from him to San, before he dives back into the conversation.

As the evening is winding down. The air is now quieter, as if everyone is letting the night unfold. The lights seem to be getting darker, and the television hums in the background, but you can feel Seonghwa’s departure looming.

Seonghwa stretches, his eyes flicking toward the door as he grabs his jacket from the back of the chair. “I should probably get going,” he says with a light yawn, brushing his hair back with his fingers. “It’s getting late, and I’ve got that early meeting tomorrow.”

You push up away from San on the couch to walk him to the door. “I enjoyed you coming over tonight, Hwa. Maybe we should have people over more often, right, San?” You say looking over at him with his back draped against the armrest of the couch.

He lets out a small hum of agreement, nodding his head up and down lazily as he shifts his attention from the television screen to the two of you at the door.

“Of course,” Seonghwa says, adjusting his jacket. He pauses by the door, eyes flickering between you and San before settling back on you. “It’s been too long, really. I’m looking forward to next time.”

You laugh, shrugging lightly. “You know, this would have been sooner if you didn’t keep running off on me.”

Seonghwa chuckles softly at your teasing. "I can't help it, I've got a lot on my plate." He says this with a grin, clearly not bothered by the comment. As he steps closer to you, you give him a quick hug, your arms wrapping around him in a comfortable, familiar way. The moment feels warm, easy, just like it always has been with him.

"Take care of yourself, alright?" you murmur into his shoulder as you pull away.

"I will, I will," he replies, pulling back with a wink. "I’ll see you soon, Y/n.”

With one last smile, Seonghwa steps out the door, leaving you standing in the dimly lit hallway. You close the door behind him, and as you turn back to the living room, the silence falls over you.

You walk back to the couch, your footsteps soft on the carpet, and sit down again, this time closer to the middle of the cushion. His eyes are still glued to the screen, though the quiet hum of the TV doesn’t seem to hold the same weight anymore. The space between you feels quieter now, but not uncomfortable.

You feel a small pull of curiosity tugging at you. You glance over at San, his features soft in the dim light, and then, almost on impulse, you let your mouth work faster than your head, you ask, “Were you jealous?”

San doesn’t turn to face you right away, but there’s a small shift in his posture. He tilts his head just enough for his gaze to flicker in your direction. His lips curl into him shyly, letting a small smirk, and he doesn’t miss a beat before answering, “A little.”

You don’t know why, but the short response makes your face heat. There’s something about the way he says it, as if it’s no big deal, but you know better. You roll your eyes, but there’s a softness in your smile. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, though your voice isn’t carrying any sort of edge.

San chuckles under his breath, but he doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he leans back further against the armrest, as if settling into the silence between the two of you. “Just a little,” he says.

taglist

(please lmk if you’ve been missed out or i’ve entered your user wrong!)

#choi san #san #san ff #san fanfic #san fluff #san soft hours #san x reader #ateez fluff #ateez soft hours #ateez #ateez soft thoughts #ateez choi san #ateez san #choi san x reader #choi san fanfic #choi san ff #choi san fic

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s4nniebe4r · 6 months ago

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i'm really loving your roommates series sm, i've been reading fan fiction for so long and i hadn't read anything this good in a while :') idk if this is a weird question but i was wondering if u had a visual layout of the apartment ? just to make sure i'm picturing it accurately 👉🏻👈🏻

yes! here’s the layout of their apartment that i made. and omg this took way longer than it should have, the software i downloaded on my laptop to make this is so old and i lwk thought i was going to get a virus… anyway! i hope this helps make sense of the story a little more! much love, liebchens 💖

#s4nniebe4r blog #s4nniebe4r

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s4nniebe4r · 6 months ago

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thank you so much for 127 followers! love you all my little liebchens 💖

#s4nniebe4r #s4nniebe4r blog

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s4nniebe4r · 6 months ago

Text

the roommate

part nine: outage

pairing: roommate! san x fem! reader

synopsis: the power is completely out forcing the two of you to deal with the unspoken tension and reach a breaking point

wc: 5.5k

tags: slow burn, roommates, enemies to lovers, angst, forced proximity, eventual romance

etc: lmk what you think, i’m excited for this chapter, and hope you receive it well! not proofread, liebchens!

previous part next part

The storm has been going for hours now, getting worse by the minute. It started as just another cold night, wind pushing against the windows, the occasional shake of the apartment walls, but at some point it turned into something a little stronger. Now the wind is pounding outside, rattling the glass, making the heater struggle to keep the apartment even remotely warm.

So you shift in your chair, tugging your comforter tighter around your shoulders as you stare at your laptop screen. Your fingers scroll through your open document. You’re supposed to be finishing this, but you haven’t written a word in nearly twenty minutes. The words on the screen seem to blur together, your mind too restless to focus. It’s the only source of light in your room aside from the soft glow of your bedside lamp and the dim light from the dim lamp from your dresser. The gold shades make the space feel slightly less suffocating, letting long, warm shadows flicker against the walls.

Still, it’s too cold. And it’s only getting colder. The apartment feels colder than usual. You roll your shoulders, trying to shake off the chill, but it seeps everywhere. The heater is still running, but it’s been weaker than usual, struggling. At this point, it’s barely there, pushing out anything it can. You’ve been trying to ignore it, telling yourself it’ll be fine, that it won’t actually give out, not again. But, by the way the air is slowly creeping back into your bones tells you otherwise. You tuck your legs up under yourself, adjusting your blanket as your fingers continue to hover over the keyboard.

Your phone is dead. You didn’t bother charging it, too determined to finish your coursework without distraction. Now, with nothing on your laptop and a few lights to illuminate the room, your apartment feels a little eerie under the storm.

You rub at your arms, trying to push through the chill, but it doesn’t help much. Your fingers are stiff, the cold seeping into your skin, making it harder to focus. This isn’t working. You sigh, shifting your position, trying to get comfortable once more, but it’s no use.

Then, the lights flicker.

Your stomach clenches immediately, unease sparking at the base of your spine. You freeze, watching as the warm glow of your lamp dims for a half-second before bouncing back. Your laptop screen switches to white before flickering back, the small hum of electricity in the room stuttering for a moment.

Don’t worry, you tell yourself.

You tap your fingers against the bed, waiting. Nothing happens. You let out a slow breath, forcing your shoulder to relax. It’s just the storm. The power won’t actually go out. Right?

You hear a faint creak from somewhere else in the apartment. You don’t think much of it though, San must be moving around in his room. You haven’t seen much of him today. Not that you’ve been trying to, but the tension from the past week still lingers, unspoken. After what almost happened between the two of you, you’ve both seemingly been avoiding each other, caught up in a game of who can pretend the other isn’t there better.

Another flicker. Longer this time.

You grip the sheets under you, letting your lips press together. The heater stutters again low and unsettling as it pushes through the vents.

You swallow. You should probably grab your charger, just in case anything does happen. Shoving your blanket aside, you stretch to the side, rolling the stiffness from your shoulders as you move toward your nightstand. Your hand almost grips the charger.

And then, everything dies.

Your room is instantly swallowed by darkness. Your lamps shut off all at once, leaving only the faintest flow of your laptop screen before it switches to a completely white screen. A gasp catches in your throat. The heater completely shuts now, as well. The air stops moving, the hum of electricity vanishes, and suddenly, the apartment is silent, the kind of silence that makes your ears ring.

You blink in the darkness, barely processing it before your laptop pings with a message. Please connect to Wi-Fi.

You let out a sharp, frustrated breath. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you say aloud to yourself.

You snap your laptop shut, your jaw tightening already. You already know what this means, the power is completely out. The heater’s done for. Your phone is dead because of course you forgot to charge it, and now, the apartment is going to get even colder than it already is, which seems about impossible. Without heat, it’s going to get unbearable fast.

Great.

Your fingers fumble in the darkness, reaching for your phone out of instinct, before remembering it’s dead. You exhale through your nose, trying not to let the frustration bubble over. You need to find a way to warm up before the temperature really starts to drop. So you shove yourself out of the bed and stand, pulling your comforter completely off of you as you step toward the door. You exhale, pressing your lips together before halfway blindly navigating your way toward the door. If the power’s out for you, it’s out for San, too.

And right then, another door creaks open down the hall.

The moment you step out into the hallway, your eyes trying to adjust to darkness, you see the figure of him. He’s already there. He’s standing in his doorway, phone in hand, the faint glow of screen illuminating his face. His brows are slightly furrowed, his usual unreadable expression tinged there with mild frustration.

Neither of you says anything. For a second, you both just stand there, lingering in the dark. Then without a word, San tilts his phone upward, flicking on the flashlight. The beam cuts through the dimness of the apartment, landing on the floor between you before he slowly shifts it up, scanning the hallway.

“Power’s out,” he states, his voice rough from lack of speaking.

“Yeah,” you breathe, shifting on your feet, trying to get used to the cold feeling. “No shit.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head slightly before stepping further into the hallway. “The heater’s out too.”

You don’t respond to him. The fact is obvious, but hearing him say it out loud makes your stomach twist again. You wrap your arms around yourself as another gust of wind rattles the windowpane beside you.

San’s phone flickers again, a small warning that his battery is on its last leg.

He notices, of course he does. And clicks his tongue. “You got a flashlight?”

You shake your head. “Phone’s dead.”

San exhales again, glancing down at his own screen before quickly swiping somewhere. The glow shifts slightly, the screen dimming as he does. Then without looking up, he asks, “Candles?”

You blink. “What?”

“You got any?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah, under the sink.”

Without as much as another word, San steps past you toward the kitchen, and you force yourself to follow.

The apartment is unnervingly quiet. The only sound is the occasional scrape of furniture as you move around, gathering what little light sources you can find. The air already feels colder, the lack of heat seeping into the walls, and into your skin. San moves with ease though, his body language quite calm despite the situation at hand. He crouches down, rummaging under the sink with the flashlight while you hover near the counter, watching him work.

The silence between you stretches, heavy and thick. Then, after a beat, “How bad is it outside?” you ask, voice quieter than intended.

San doesn’t even look up. “Bad.”

You swallow, shifting your weight. “Like… landlord-fixing-it-tonight bad? Or?”

A sharp gust of wind cuts through the building, rattling the kitchen window so hard that you instinctively flinch. San’s hands still for a fraction of a second before he exhales, shaking his head.

“Doubt it.”

You press your lips together once more this evening. “Great.”

Another stretch of silence before San finally finds what he’s looking for, pulling out a set of candles and a lighter. He stands, clicking the lighter once, then twice, until a small flame flickers up.

Warm light illuminates his face, casting deep shadows across the features on his face, the flow flickering into his dark eyes.

You force yourself to look away.

The candlelight spreads as he lights more, placing them around the kitchen. The space shifts, now in a warm, golden tint. And for a moment, despite the cold, despite the situation, everything feels just a little softer now.

The candlelight flickers, stretching shadows across the walls, wrapping the apartment in the same soft glow, everything feels a little closer, quieter, different. You press your fingers against the smooth wax of an unlit candle on the counter, tracing idle patterns, trying not to focus on the way San’s face is illuminated in the dim light. The sharp edges of his jaw soften, the golden hues melting into his skin, casting his features in a way you’ve never really been able to take time to notice before.

He adjusts one of the candles, leaning forward slightly, and for a second, you think he’s going to say something. You wait, holding onto the quiet, but nothing comes. Instead he just exhales through his nose, flicking the lighter in his hand absently, the flame catching for a half a second before it’s snuffed out again.

It’s strange. The silence between you should feel tense, it has for the past few days now, more so than ever. But now, with the light flickering between you, it feels a little different.

You let your throat clear and shift your weight before looking the other way, unsure of what to do.

San glances at you. “You should grab more blankets.”

You nod, already backing toward the hallway. “Yeah. I was just thinking that.”

He hums in acknowledgment before turning back to the candles. You linger for a half second longer, watching the way the lights flicker against his skin before finally heading toward your room. And as you move, the air shifts again. It’s colder now. Quieter.

And for the first time in a while, you and him are alone together now. No distractions anymore, no more excuses for avoidance. There’s nowhere left to hide now.

You return to the living room with three blankets piled in your arms, their weight pressing against your chest as you maneuver carefully around the dimly lit space. The candles San set up as you were fetching the blankets flicker, letting the room sit in the soft, golden light, almost tricking you into feeling warmer than what the apartment really was.

San is still on the couch, one long leg stretches out whilst the other is bent at the knee, his elbow propped lazily against the armrest. He doesn’t say anything as you sit down, but he watches, eyes flicking briefly over the layers of fabric as you settle in. You pull your legs up onto the cushion knees tucked close against your chest, curling yourself into the warmth of the blankets.

San shifts slightly, back pressing against the armrest as he reaches out. Without a word, he pulls one blanket from your lap and drapes it over himself. You blink at him, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, just smoothing the fabric over his legs like it was his all along.

A small scoff escapes you. “You couldn’t have grabbed your own?”

San finally glances at you, expression unchanging, before settling deeper into the couch. “Why bother? You brought plenty.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t actually mind. You burrow further into your own warmth, adjusting your position so that you’re slightly angled toward him, not purposeful, but your chin rests on top of your knees now. The apartment is quiet, except for the occasional howl of wind outside and the crackling of candle wicks burning. It should feel awkward, but it doesn’t at least, not entirely.

San’s fingers drum idly against the edge of his blanket, his gaze drifting toward the nearest candle, watching the way the small flame wavers in the glass casing. Then after a beat, he exhales softly. “I used to love when school got canceled for snow days.”

You glance at him, eyebrows lifting at the sudden statement. He’s not looking at you, his eyes still fixed on the candlelight, but there’s something almost nostalgic sounding in his tone.

“Yeah?” you prompt, adjusting your grip on your blanket.

San hums in response. “Mhm. I’d sleep in, obviously. And then just… draw all day.”

That catches you off guard. “Draw?”

He finally glances at you, the slightest smirk ghosting over his lips. “Surprised?”

You hesitate, because… yeah, you are a little surprised. You’ve never actually seen him draw, but the way he says it, like it was a natural part of him, it makes you suddenly very aware of how much you just don’t know about him. You shift in your position, getting a little more comfortable, before asking, “What would you draw?”

San shrugs, leaning his head against the armrest, the candlelight catching in the sharp lines of haw. “Anything. Random stuff I saw outside. Characters from shows I watched. Sometimes I’d just sketch Byeol while she was curled up in my lap.”

The mention of his cat makes your lips twitch. “She really followed you everywhere, huh?”

“Like a little shadow,” he muses, a small chuckle left from under his breath. “If I moved, she moved. If I sat down, she was already in my lap before I could say anything to her.”

“That’s cute,” you admit, surprising yourself a little with the honesty in your town, your mouth working faster than your head.

San doesn’t react at first, but then he exhales, long and slow, shifting his position so that he's facing you a little more, his knee bumping lightly against your blanket-covered leg. “What about you?”

You tilt your head slightly at him. “What about me?”

He mirrors your head tilt, eyes flickering toward you under the low light. “What’d you do on snow days?”

Your mouth forms into an O shape. The question makes you pause, your fingers curling absently into the fabric of your blanket as memories flicker through your mind. “I don’t know,” you murmur after a moment. “I guess when I was little, my older sister and I used to build forts in the living room when the power went out. We’d grab every pillow and blanket we could find and just… hide in there until the morning.”

San hums softly, as if he’s picturing it. “Sounds fun.”

You shrug, giving him a loose, small smile. “It was, back then.” Your voice softens slightly. “I don’t really do anything like that now, I can’t afford to not have the blankets on me anymore. I mean, I don’t even think I’ve had a proper snow day since—”

“You’re still cold all the time,” San interrupts.

You blink. “What?”

His gaze flickers over you, lingering just a second too long. “You’re always cold. You’ve always got like, three layers on, at all times.”

You frown slightly, shifting in your seat. He’s not wrong, but hearing him say it so plainly, like he’s actually noticed something about you, it makes a strange warmth start to bloom somewhere in you.

“Well,” you say, trying to push past whatever you just felt, “some of us don’t have the luxury that is body heat.”

He lets out a small laugh at that, shaking his head. “It’s not my problem that you have zero insulation.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something lighter settling between the two of you now. The silence that follows the comment isn’t tense, it’s easy, it’s familiar.

But then, San tilts his head slightly, his brows pulling together like he’s remembering something. “You’ve been busy lately,” he remarks casually.

Your fingers pause where they’ve been idly petting at the fabric of the blanket. “Yeah. Classes.”

San doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he watches you a second more, his fingers still drumming against his knee. Then. “That why you’ve been hanging out with Hongjoong and Seonghwa so much?”

Your breath catches every so slightly. Your grip tightens just a little onto the blanket. You keep your face neutral. “Yeah. Well that was preplanned.”

San nods slowly, but something in his expression changes. Like he doesn’t entirely believe you. There’s a stretch of silence before he shifts slightly, the blanket rustling over his legs. “You guys went to that gallery, right?”

You blink at him, unsure why he’s bringing this up. “Yeah? We’ve been meaning to go for a while.”

San hums, expression unreadable. “Right. Looked nice.”

You hesitate, there’s something about his tone making your stomach twist. It wasn’t his usual teasing tone. Maybe Mal-intent? Could it even be jealousy? “You saw the pictures?”

He exhales through his nose. “Mhm. Seonghwa posted them.”

You frown slightly. Didn’t know you kept up with Seonghwa’s socials like that.”

San’s jaw ticks for a half second before he shrugs. “I don’t.”

That is such a lie. But, you don’t call him out on it.

Instead, you exhale slowly, trying to smooth out the sudden tension creeping between the two of you. “It was fun. I haven’t been to a gallery in a while. I think Joong really enjoyed it too.”

San doesn’t say anything at first. His fingers still against his knee. Then, “And that study date with Wooyoung and Yeosang?” he asks, voice still casual, too casual.

Your brows furrow now this time. “How’d you know about that?”

San shifts, rolling his neck slightly, gaze flicking away just for a moment. “Woo mentioned something about it.” You stare at him, studying the smallest change in his expression, something a little too controlled, too calm.

“Ah,” you say after a beat. Your lips press together, something in your chest going tight. Your voice is a little quieter now as you look down to your hands fiddling with the blanket for a moment before looking back up. “Right. That makes sense.”

A flicker of something unreadable crosses San’s face. He looks like he wants to say something more, but instead he lets his head tip back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling above.

The flickering candlelight casts shadows along him, the curve of his neck, the definition of his adam’s apple bobbing through his throat, moving as he swallows. Everything is a little more defined, and a little softer, all at once.

You shift in your seat once again, the weight of the conversation pressing down on you, making all of your limbs feel much heavier. Something about this all seems off, somehow. You know you haven’t been around the apartment much lately, but you thought he hadn’t noticed it. Not like this.

You don’t know what to say. The silence stretches too long.

San exhales through his nose, leaning his head back against the armrest, his eyes half-lidded as he looks at you again, letting his eyes settle on yours. And then casually, so casually and a little offhandedly, he says, “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

You blink. Your breath catches before you can stop it. “What?”

He doesn’t repeat himself. He just watches you, the dim glow of the candles flickering across his face, making his expression that much more difficult to read as your mind races. Your pulse jumps. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it's a habit, muscle memory from every single time he's ever frustrated you beyond belief. But before you can stop yourself, the words slip through your lips. “And you don’t think I don’t feel the same?”

He lets out a breath, shaking his head slightly. He’s still leaning back against the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, fingers lightly tapping against the cushion. There’s not much to tell on his face, save for the slightest flicker in his gaze

“Wooyoung also told me something interesting earlier,” he says suddenly, his voice completely even.

You glance at him warily, already picking up on the shift in his tone. “...And?”

San tilts his head slightly downward, his eyes flitting toward you, watching, gauging your reaction before he speaks. “He said Yeosang was all over you the other night.”

Your brows pinch together, practically meeting each other, the words catching you off guard. Not at all what you were expecting him to say. You shift in your spot, you knee brushing against the blanket covering your lap, his own knee isn’t that far from yours, it’s close enough that if either of you moved, even slightly, you’d be touching. The realization sends a strange sort of awareness through you, but you push the thought down quickly.

“So?” you reply, voice flat, unimpressed with what he had to say.

He lets out a dry, humorless laugh, shuffling slightly. His arm slides further along the back of the couch, coming quite close to where your shoulder rests. Not quite touching, but you can feel the heat of his skin, the weight of his presence near you.

“I don’t know,” he says, lips curling at the edge, though there’s no humor in his eyes whatsoever. “Just thought that was interesting.”

You scoff, letting your hand fall from your lap to the couch cushion beneath you. “Yeo and I have been friends for years, San. Frankly, I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

His lips twitch slightly. “I never said it was.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Then why bring it up?”

San doesn’t answer right away. Instead he stares at you, almost as if he’s studying you, letting his gaze linger, his fingers flexing slightly against his knee. There’s something there, something just under the surface that you're waiting for him to let out.

“You tell me,” he finally says.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “God, San, you’re absolutely impossible.”

San just smirks, like he enjoys the way your frustration starts bubbling up. Like he enjoys poking you, pushing you, getting under your skin. He always has, but it’s been a while. His eyes flit downward just enough to register the way your fingers curl against the cushion between you, knuckles tightening slightly. His fingers twitch, as if resisting the urge to do something about it.

“That’s rich coming from you,” he murmurs.

Your jaw tightens. “You’re insufferable.”

San just hums in response, a lazy almost teasing sound, but there’s something more than just his usual irritating behavior. And then, before you can think twice, you find yourself now muttering under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

“You drive me insane.”

And for a moment, the air in the room shifts.

San stills slightly, his fingers stop moving. The muscles in his jaw flicker, moving and working against each other. His eyes make their way toward yours, dark and steady.

Then, he tilts his head slightly, considering what you had to say. “What?”

Your stomach twists. Your pulse stumbles. You don’t know why, but the small couch suddenly feels even smaller, the space between you barely there. His knee has been brushing against yours, not by accident, but this time it’s deliberate, testing the waters. You don’t know why, but your breath catches, and he’s looking at you suddenly in a way that makes it harder to think. You shake your head, looking away, voice a little smaller than it was before. “Forget it.”

San doesn’t repeat himself. He doesn’t say anything. The silence is stretching now. It’s the kind of quiet that makes your skin feel a little too warm, even with the heater out. And before you even realize it, your hands are close. Too close. Your knees press together fully now, neither of you making any sort of effort to shift away. You feel his exhale more than you hear it, flush against your face.

And for some reason, you’re leaning in. or maybe, he is. But suddenly, the space between you is practically nonexistent.

San is close. So very close. You can smell him now, there’s a faint, lingering scent of his shampoo, he smells like a fresh summer day. It lingers in the air now, you can’t get it out of your mind, and it’s so distinctly him, nothing you’ve ever really noticed until you were really in his space. There's heat radiating from his body, even in the freezing apartment. It’s distracting, almost addicting. And your breath stutters.

Your eyes wander downward to the cushions.

His hand is right there. Inches from yours, splayed out and relaxed against the couch cushion, but you can feel the tension buzzing between your fingers, like electricity. You swear you see his fingers twitch, like they’re seconds away from reaching out.

When you glance back up, he’s already looking at you.

Your stomach tightens. He hasn’t looked away this entire time. His gaze is dark, sharp, and unreadable in the glow of the candlelight, but there’s something there, something pulling you, and it makes your lungs push against your ribs.

The room is so quiet that you swear you can hear his heartbeat. Or maybe it’s yours?

You don’t know how long you sit there, caught in the weight of his stare. Time seemingly dancing by, maybe it’s only been seconds, or even minutes. But it doesn't seem to matter much.

Then, as if waking up from a trance, your breath hitches, and you jolt back slightly, startled by the realization of just how close he is from you. And the first thing that comes to mind, you do, you shove him.

It’s not harsh, not at all, but the sudden push against his shoulder makes him shift back slightly.

He blinks, like you just snapped him out of something, himself. Then, just as quickly his hand moves.

Before you can register it, his fingers wrap around your wrist. The warmth of touch spreads immediately against your skin, sending a sharp current up your arm. The arm that you used to shove him, now splayed across his forearm.

Your chest tightens, your breath catching once more. He isn’t letting go.

The moment stretches, lingers. Then, before you can pull away, before you can properly react, he tugs you in. Not roughly. Not forcefully. But firmly, deliberately.

You barely have another second to process it before his other hand lifts, fingertips grazing your jaw, mirroring the night just a week ago. This time, he’s pressing it against the side of your neck. His thumb swipes over the soft skin there, a light and fleeting touch, but it manages it to render you without breath.

His brows furrow slightly, like he’s searching for something in your expression. Like he’s looking for a reason to stop. Anything.

But you don’t give him one.

You let your eyes flutter shut. And your hand pulls it’s way up from his forearm to his shoulder, letting your fingers curl there, anchoring yourself to him as you let yourself lean in ever so slowly.

San pulls you in the rest of the way.

It crashes into you all at once. Months of irritation, weeks of frustration, and most recently, days of explicit avoidance, all of it erupting in this moment.

His lips press against your, not soft, not tentative, it’s intense and consuming. He’s kissing you like he’s needed to do this for longer than he’s willing to admit. His fingers tighten slightly at your neck, now letting his hand move to the back of your neck, cradling your head in his hand. His other hand pulls it’s way from your wrist up your arm, tracing the shape of your neck before finally finding purchase at your jaw, cupping it. His thumb tilting your jaw up just enough to deepen the kiss.

Your heart is slamming against your throat now, and you’re sure he can feel it through his fingers. Your own hand grips at his shoulder, your fingertips digging into the fabric of his hoodie as you kiss him back just as desperately.

His hand at your jaw is cupping it now fully, holding you there. Like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. Like this moment will slip through his fingers like the last time.

But you don’t.

You stay.

For once, you don’t think. You don’t hesitate. You just let yourself feel. And San doesn’t stop. Not right away. Not when his fingers trace lightly against your skin, not when your breath mixes with his, not when the warmth between the two of you is so overwhelming that the cold of the apartment doesn’t even register to you anymore.

He only pulls away when the both of you need a moment to breathe. When he does, it’s slow. He lingers for a second, like he doesn’t want to break contact completely, like he’s still caught in the gravity of it all.

Your eyes open, adjusting to the dim light of the living room once more, meeting his eyes immediately.

Everything feels different to the last time you were looking at him.

His hand is still on the back of your neck, his other one is still holding your cheek. Your hand still is gripping onto the fabric of his hoodie. Neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks. You sit there, in the thick silence.

And then, San’s fingers twitch slightly against your skin. He lets out a slow breath, barely audible, like he’s trying to process what the hell just happened. Now, for the first time since you’ve met him, you see it, something real, something raw. And you’re not quite sure what to do with it.

Your breath is still uneven. It’s the first thing you really notice of yourself. Your chest is rising and falling too fast, your pulse hammering in your ear, your skin still tingling the place he touches. The apartment is dead silent. And San is still close.

You can feel the warmth of him, see the way his lips part slightly, like he’s trying to form words, but is unable to. His hand is still there. The one resting against your jaw. His thumb against your cheek, lingering, not ready to let go. And your fingers still curled into his hoodie, like you need something to keep you steady, to keep you upright.

And then his fingers move. Slowly. Barely a shift at all. His thumb traces along your jaw, down to the base of your neck, so featherlight, so absentminded, it sends a shiver straight down your spine, you almost lean into the touch of his hand.

You should say something. You should move away.

But you don’t. Because you can’t. And because you don’t want to.

Then there’s the weight of his stare. It’s unbearable. It’s everything.

San exhales sharply, and you feel it. You feel it against your skin, and it sends yet another shiver through you. And for a moment, you think he’s about to say something. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he moves again. This time he’s pulling you in. Slow and cautious. It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic like before. This time, it’s like he’s giving you time to stop him.

You don’t. You let him.

You let him pull you in until you’re against his chest as he rests against the couch’s armrest, almost completely flush with the cushions beneath him. Until his arms shift, wrapping around you, until the warmth of him completely engulfs you. You don’t think. You just let it happen. You feel the rise and fall of his breathing, his solid frame, the way his chin nearly rests against your head.

He lets out a breath, one that’s deep, steadying, like he’s still trying to get a grasp on reality again.

The blanket shifts as he tugs it over the both of you. And just like that, you’re tucked against him, away from the cold, from everything.

Your fingers twitch slightly. You don’t know where to put them. Then, before you can figure it out, his hand moves again. This time it’s in your hair. His fingers slide through the strands, slow, absentminded, as if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. He lets his fingers card through your hair, stroking at it, maybe he needs it more than you. And it makes your stomach twist.

Your fingers finally find something to do; you clutch onto his hoodie again, gripping slightly tighter.

And neither of you speaks. Because what the hell is there to say?

All you can do is listen. To the way his heartbeat sounds beneath your ear, thrumming through you. To the sounds of his slow, steady breathing. The way the candles flicker and crackle softly in the background.

And you’re not sure when it happens, but your eyelids begin to feel heavier and heavier. And before you can think more about it, you let your head fall into his chest.

taglist

@kryscent @randajjjad @yutapeaxh @barbielibra @sheadoreswalls @candied-czennie @decaffeinatedpandabread @sannieworshipper @pirateprincessblog @zeeader @frecklyfelix @serotoninbarbz

(please lmk if you’ve been missed out or i’ve entered your user wrong!)

#choi san #san #san ff #san fanfic #san fluff #san soft hours #san x reader #ateez fluff #ateez soft hours #ateez #ateez soft thoughts #ateez chou san #ateez san #choi san x reader #choi san fanfic #choi san ff #choi san fic

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s4nniebe4r · 6 months ago

Text

the roommate

part eight: barely there

pairing: roommate! san x fem! reader

synopsis: your avoidance is evident, but it can only last so long

wc: 1.5k

tags: slow burn, roommates, enemies to lovers, angst, forced proximity, eventual romance

etc: a little shorter update, but, you'll like the end... promise! not proofread, liebchens!

previous part next part

The avoidance starts unintentionally. Or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

It’s not like you planned to spend every free moment outside the apartment. You suddenly have more work to get done at the library, more errands to take care of, more assignments that require your full attention; all of which need to be done anywhere but here. And when you do stay home, you suddenly have the overwhelming urge to clean. Not just a little tidying up, either. Full clean. Scrubbing the counters, organizing the fridge, wiping down the mirrors, sweeping even though the floor is spotless already. Anything to keep your hands moving, anything to keep your mind off him.

It’s almost ironic how perfectly timed you and your movements have become. You leave the kitchen right before he enters. You slip into your room just as he steps into the hallways. The bathroom door clicks shut behind you before he can even round the corner. You barely see him at all.

And the best way you have found to ignore him? Your Sony’s. The headphones are now constantly on you, filling the silence with music, drowning out every creak of the apartment, every potential sound that might make you wonder where he’s at. Because wondering means noticing, and noticing means thinking, and thinking means remembering. And you just can’t afford to remember. Not that night.

San doesn’t actively avoid you, but he doesn’t make an effort to be around you either. If anything, he’s just quieter. And, you’re grateful? There are no more sarcastic remarks when you walk by. No more unnecessary commentary. He doesn’t challenge you anymore, no more pushing your buttons, he doesn’t give you any reason to push back. In some ways though, it’s worse than before. At least when he was annoying, it was easy to fight him. But, now? There’s nothing to fight now.

Then there were the changes. At first, you didn’t even register them. But then, you start noticing.

The sink isn’t piled up with dishes anymore. The couch is always clear when you go to sit down. The jacket from that night that was draped over the armrest? It’s gone. The bathroom counter isn’t cluttered with his stuff, the towels aren’t left on the floor, the small annoyances you’ve mentally kept over time start to disappear. Like he’s started to disappear.

It’s almost enough to trick you into thinking he isn’t there at all.

But there are the small things.

One day, you reach into the kitchen cabinet, searching for a snack, only to stop dead.

There’s a new box of the honey citron tea bags. Your breath catches slightly. You never bought this.

You remember talking about it with Seonghwa at the cafe the other evening, mentioning in passing that you’d been meaning to try it, but never got around to it. San wasn’t even there. He couldn’t have heard you—except, he must have?

Your fingers hover over the packaging, tracing the label, stomach twisting into something unreadable, starting to hurt a little. You don’t take it out. You don’t even touch it. You just stand there, staring, pulse thumping in your ears.

He was listening. He remembered.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

It happens again when you step into the living room one morning and realize that the thermostat is set higher than usual. Not too much, just enough. Enough for you to breathe a little easier. Enough for you to not wake up shivering.

Once more when you go to put something away and realize that the broken cabinet you complained about weeks ago is suddenly fixed. The one that always jammed, that always annoyed you, that he used to sneer about not bothering to touch because it adds character.

It happens again and again and again.

And every time, your chest gets a little tighter.

Because San isn’t saying anything. He’s not looking for a thank you, he’s not pointing out the things he’s done, not making some snarky comment about how he’s better than you. He’s just doing them. Without a word. Without acknowledgement. Maybe even without expectation.

Silent. Unspoken. Things that mean too much to just be meaningless.

Steam curls against the bathroom mirror, fogging the glass in front of you as you strip off your sweatpants, kicking them into the corner. The room is warm, like a sauna, and the heat seeps into your skin, and you stretch your arms overhead, sighing softly as the muscles in your back unwind.

You’re exhausted. You’ve exhausted yourself. Not just physically, but mentally—this whole week has been an exercise in careful avoidance. You don’t even remember the last time you and San have been in the same space for more than just a brief moment.

Maybe that’s why your guard is down. Maybe that’s why, when you reach for the shower knob to switch from the faucet to the overhead, hand hovering, you suddenly remember.

Your towel. You left it in your room.

You let out a quiet, annoyed groan, raking a hand through your hair. The bathroom is literally across the hall from your bedroom. It’s not even a two-second walk. You’ve done it a million times before, stepping out quickly to grab something you forgot. San is probably in his room, headphones in, completely unaware, per usual.

It’ll be fine. So you move without thinking; opening the bathroom door, stepping into the hallway. The air hits you differently outside the steamy bathroom. The immediate change sends a shiver down your legs, a fresh wave of awareness crashing over you.

You’re not even wearing bottoms. Just an oversized hoodie and underwear.

You barely have time to process that thought before you’re already moving.

Two steps into your bedroom, fingers reaching for the towel draped over your desk chair, and you’re already spinning back around—ready to return to the safety of the bathroom.

And that’s when it happens.

You slam into something that wasn’t there before. Solid and warm.

Your breath catches. The impact jolts through your body, your hands shooting up instinctively to brace whatever—whoever—you just ran into before you may fall back.

San.

The realization hits you right after your fingers splayed outward, spreading against the fabric of his hoodie, feeling the firmness beneath.

His hands find you instantly, steadying you, one at your upper arm, the other hovering just slightly above your waist.

And there it is again. Silence. The kind of silence that feels deafening. Neither of you move. Neither of you breathe. Your heart is pounding. You’re too aware. Of him. Of you. Of everything.

And then, it happens. His gaze drops. You can feel it happen before you fully register it.

A flicker—his dark eyes dragging downward, sweeping over the bare skin of your legs, the oversized hoodie hanging just long enough to leave everything else dangerously close to exposed. To the clothes that are barely there.

You feel your stomach tightening again.

Your skin prickles, every nerve ending is alive, your hair standing up.

And then, just as fast, his gaze snaps back up. His fingers flex around your arm. It’s subtle, a reflex, like his body is processing what just happened a second slower than his mind. His face remains carefully blank, but you see the shift. The slight tension in his jaw. The way his lips press together. It lasts half a second, and yet, it stretches into what feels like eons.

You swear, you feel the ghost of his touch even after his hand on your arm drops away—as if the heat of them lingers, as if the pressure is still there, even though it’s gone.

And suddenly, you’re aware of everything. The way his hoodie smells just like him, close enough to catch the faint traces of his cologne, something warm, earthy, and deep. The way your hoodie barely covers the top of your thighs, and the cool air feels entirely too noticeable against the sliver of skin where his hand had been close to moments ago. The way your breath is shallower than it should be. The way his is, too.

You don’t know who moves first. All you know is that suddenly, San is stepping back. His other hand falls away, the warmth of them vanishing too quickly. But not before his fingers graze against the side of your hip—just barely, just the softest ghost of a touch. It shouldn’t feel like anything. But it does.

And without a word, without a single glance back, he walks past you. Disappearing into his room. Closing the door behind him.

The silence slams into you all over again. Your breath shudders out of you. You should move. You should do something. Anything.

Instead, you just stand there. Your fingers tighten around the towel in your grip, pulse hammering in your ears. The hallway feels too cold now. You swallow hard, but it doesn’t go down smoothly. Because you still feel where his hands were. Still feel the heat that shouldn’t be there. Still feel the weight of everything that just happened, everything that shouldn’t have mattered. The way that the touch felt the same as that night the two of you fought.

It really shouldn’t matter. But it does.

taglist:

@kryscent @randajjjad @yutapeaxh @barbielibra @sheadoreswalls @candied-czennie @decaffeinatedpandabread @sannieworshipper

(please lmk if you’ve been missed out or i’ve entered your user wrong!)

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s4nniebe4r · 6 months ago

Text

the roommate

part seven: lingering heat

pairing: roommate! san x fem! reader

synopsis: tomorrow comes, and you’re at the cafe with the group

wc: 3.9k

tags: slow burn, roommates, enemies to lovers, angst, forced proximity, eventual romance, some explicit language

etc: i couldn’t stop typing, my bad! somebody reached out about a taglist, so… if you want tagged, lmk - much love! not proofread, liebchens!

previous part next part

The moment you step into the cafe, the familiar scent of roasted coffee beans and freshly baked pastries wrap around you, warm and welcoming despite the biting cold that still clings to your skin from outside. The contrast is immediate, the comforting heat of the space sinking into your bones as you take your first step inside.

It’s cozy here, it always is. It’s quiet compared to the rest of the chaos of the campus. The cafe isn’t the biggest, nor the most modern, but it has a comfortability that makes it impossible not to love. The walls are a mix of warm wood and mismatched art, presumably from thrift shops, fairy lights strung across the ceiling, casting a soft glow over the room, the big lights were never on. The furniture is just as varied of course—plush couches in deep colored gem tones, low tables that invited you to stay for a while, and a firepit along one side of the space where your group always sat, its warmth always drawing you in like a moth to a flame.

The cafe has always felt like your second home because you always gather here with your friends. The couches were arranged neatly around a coffee table with the firepit to the side which has practically become your group’s claimed territory—you always procrastinated your assignments, made plans, and just sat around.

But today? Despite the warmth, the familiarity, despite how much you should feel at ease—there’s an uneasy tightness curling in your stomach.

You already know why.

Jongho walks beside you, his voice filling the space between you both as he rants about a professor who forced the entire class to retake a quiz just because of a grading mistake. His words drift in and out of your mind, something along the lines of “How is that my fault, seriously?”—but you’re barely processing it. You nod in the right places, make a noise of agreement when necessary, but your focus is already elsewhere.

Because he’s here.

Your eyes find him too quickly, like you were already searching before you even meant to. San stands at the counter, waiting for his order, his posture relaxed, head tilted slightly as he listens to the barista confirm his order. The overhead lighting catches his dark hair, and highlights the sharp curve of his jaw as he pulls his phone from his back pocket with an absent flick of his wrist.

You should look away. You really should.

But you don’t.

Instead, you freeze for just a half a second—just long enough to hate yourself for it.

Jongho veers off toward the firepit area, immediately greeted by Wooyoung and Hongjoong as he settles onto the couch across from where you’ll be sitting. You should follow him. You should just walk past the counter, take your seat, and pretend like you didn’t just hesitate the second you saw San standing there.

But instead, you step toward the register.

Not close enough, but not far enough to make it obvious that you're avoiding him.

Your voice surprisingly doesn’t waver when you order your usual hot tea, the barista nodding as they start preparing it. You slide your card over the counter, waiting for the familiar beep, feeling the weight of silence settle in the space beside you.

Because San doesn’t say anything.

And of course neither do you.

For a moment, you feel acutely aware of the inches between you—the way his presence feels heavier than it should, the way your own breathing sounds just a little too loud. The moment drags, stretching thin and taut, as you have known before, but this time different. A silence that should have been filled. A snide comment, a teasing jab, a glare thrown his way over something stupid.

But instead, there’s just nothing. Absolutely nothing.

You don’t look at him, and he doesn’t look at you.

Just two people standing next to each other. Pretending like nothing ever happened. Like he wasn’t just inches away from you last night, thumb against your cheek, breath fanning against your lips. But you can feel the weight of presence, even as your stomach tightens at the silence between you, even as you wonder if he feels it too.

By the time you grab your receipt and step away, you already hear laughter from your usual spot in the cafe. The group is already settled—three couches surrounding the low coffee table in the center, positioned near the firepit.

The set is familiar, one that you’ve sat in countless times before. But tonight? It feels unbearably small.

Across from you on their own couch, are Jongho, Wooyoung, and Hongjoong—already talking about something, and from the looks of it, it seems that Jongho had continued his conversation he was having with you, with them.

On the couch to the left, perpendicular to yours, are Yunho, Mingi, and San.

The last couch is yours. Seonghwa sits on the left cushion whilst Yeosang sits on the right side, leaving you a place in the middle.

The couches are close—close enough that Seonghwa and San’s knees nearly touch. Close enough that if you were to lean forward just slightly, you’d be able to brush your fingertips against San’s knee.

You suppress the urge to turn around and leave. Instead, you force yourself forward and walk toward your seat.

As soon as you reach the couch, Seonghwa and Yeosang pause their conversation to acknowledge you.

“Hey,” Seonghwa greets first with a smile, his voice warm as he opens his arms slightly. Instinctively, you fall into his hug as you sit down, soaking in the familiarity, it’s second nature at this point.

Yeosang, always a little more reserved but no less present, gives a soft nod in greeting, his voice smooth as he hums out, “Took you long enough.” Which makes you roll your eyes playfully, but lean into him for a quick hug too, and he moves against you to mimic your movement.

It’s all normal.

Except—you feel San’s eyes on you. Just for a moment.

And then the moment passes.

You settle into your spot, tucking your legs up slightly as the warmth from the firepit near you sinks into your skin. The conversation resumes, the low hum of laughter and voices settling around you like white noise.

The barista calls your name.

And then, seconds later, San’s.

You don’t hesitate. You push yourself up quickly, muttering, “Be right back,” as you move toward the counter.

San follows.

You don’t look at him. And he doesn’t look at you.

But his footsteps trail right behind yours, the distance between you both nonexistent and infinite all at once.

You reach for your cup first, fingers curling around the warm ceramic, grateful for the immediate heat against your skin.

San reaches for his drink just after you, his hand brushing past your for just a second—knuckles grazing against yours, featherlight, just as his touch on your face was last night.

But it’s nothing this time.

It should be nothing. But your breath still catches, just slightly.

You pull your hand back too quickly, as if burned, and you turn on your heel without another word.

Yoru fingers tighten around your mug as you hurry back to your seat, the warmth from your tea nothing compared to the heat creeping up your neck slowly, but surely.

You sit back down, and second later, San follows.

He hands a few napkins to Mingi as he settles back into his spot—completely unbothered, unreadable, composed.

And you? You grip your tea a little tighter. The warmth should be comforting, but your pulse still beats a little too quickly, like your body is aware of something your mind refuses to admit.

The conversation around you continues without missing a beat.

But through it all, you and San don’t acknowledge each other. Not yet.

The warmth of the firepit next to you is a welcome contrast to the cool air that still seems to linger in the cafe. You keep your hands wrapped tightly around you tea, soaking in the heat, letting it seep into your fingers as the conversation around you carries on effortlessly.

Everyone is talking, conversations overlapping the way that they always do when the group is together. It’s comforting—or at least, it should be.

But there’s something off.

Not in the way that’s obvious, not in a way anyone else seems to pick up on right away—but you feel it.

Because even as the conversation flows naturally, even as you listen to Mingi and Hongjoong go back and forth about something ridiculous, there’s a noticeable gap where you and San should be.

Normally, at this point in the night, he would have said something to rub you the wrong way and annoy you. And normally, you would have rolled your eyes, fired something back, and the banter would have slipped into place like second nature.

But now? Now you both remain silent.

You keep your eyes on your drink, pretending not to notice the way Seonghwa keeps glancing between the two of you. And then—the shift happens.

Somewhere in the middle of a completely unrelated conversation, Yunho loudly and casually throws out the comment, “Honestly, you guys have it the worst in this weather,” he says, gesturing vaguely between you and San. “Y/N is always freezing, and San acts like he’s immune to the cold or something.”

You blink.

The conversation stops short—just slightly. It’s quieted down now.

Mingi lets out an awkward laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah… uh.” He says as he side-eyes san. Hard.

You hesitate. And your fingers tighten slightly around your mug, and you try not to look at San; because he’s not looking at you either. It’s only for a second, but the silence is just long enough for the shift to become obvious.

Yunho, oblivious as ever, lets out a light laugh. “I mean, I’m just saying—”

But you’re already moving, instinct kicking in to deflect attention away from yourself. You bring your tea to your lip—too quickly.

The moment the heat touches your skin, you realize your mistake.

The liquid burns. The heat hits you instantly—a sharp, searing burn that spreads across the delicate skin of your chest, soaking into your shirt before you even have the chance to react properly. The shock of it sends you jerking back slightly, your grip around the cup faltering for a split second.

You suck in a sharp breath, teeth clenching as the sting spreads across your skin, and before you can even think—words slip out through gritted teeth.

“Shit—ah, fuck, fuck—damnit—”

A string of low, pained curses tumble out of you as you quickly pull the fabric away from your skin, trying to lessen the direct heat pressing into you. The damp material clings unforgivingly, heat trapped beneath the fabric, and for a second, you feel a wave of nervousness creep in because not only does your skin sting like hell, but your white tee is completely ruined. Fantastic.

“Careful!” Seonghwa’s voice cuts through the moment, sharp and immediate. He’s already moving, reaching for any napkins he can with quick reflexes, eyes scanning you for any signs of real injury, you can feel everyone's eyes. “Did it burn you?”

“I—I don’t know,” you barely manage, still trying to process the lingering heat pressing into your skin, trying to assess whether it’s just an intense sting or something that’s going to leave a real mark. You glance down at your chest, flustered, hands hovering as if unsure what to even do first.

Before you can react further, Yeosang shifts closer, his voice calm but already filled with concern. “Here—let me help.”

The next thing you know, he’s leaning in, napkins already in hand from Seonghwa, gently pressing against the soaked fabric that’s still clinging to your skin.

You freeze.

Not because of Yeosang, he’s been a close friend for years, but because the whole situation is entirely overwhelming. Your skin still stings, your heart is beating too fast, and now Yeosang is right there, focused on patting the fabric dry, diligently working to prevent a stain before it can settle. His fingers are determined and skim just over your collarbone, pressing carefully where the tea soaked through.

You can barely think straight. “Oh my God,” you mutter under your breath, half to yourself, head tilting back slightly as if that will somehow help you make sense of what’s happening. However, you’re grateful for the zip up you have on over it, just frustrated you had it undone when you were inside.

“Hold still,” Yeosang says firmly. “You’re making it worse.”

You huff, but you listen, trying not to fidget as he works.

Seonghwa, still watching, seems oddly expectant.

And when you follow his gaze, you understand why.

San hasn’t said a word. Which is not normal. At all.

Because this? This is prime material to tease you for. This is the exact type of situation that San would never let you live down. Normally, he would’ve had some kind of remark by now—something sarcastic, something smug, something about how clumsy you are, maybe how you are always in need of being the center of attention.

But instead?

Silence.

You don’t dare to look at him.

Seonghwa, however, is definitely looking at him.

And when you risk a glance in that direction, you notice it, too.

San isn’t just silent, he’s watching.

His jaw is set, his fingers flexing slightly against the side of his cup, but it’s his eyes that catch you the most.

Because he’s not looking at you.

He’s looking at Yeosang. Moreso, Yeosang’s hands. Which are currently pressed practically flush against your chest.

There’s something almost unreadable in San’s expression, something too guarded, too controlled—but his stare doesn’t waver. His fingers only tighten around his cup once more for just a second before he forces himself to look away.

But Seonghwa catches it all.

There’s a brief flicker of amusement in his eyes as he watches the scene unfold, and when he glances at San again, there’s a distinct smirk forming and pulling at his lips. But still, he says nothing. Not yet.

“Y/N, hold this,” Yeosang says, pressing a damp napkin into your hand after wetting it slightly from his water. “Try to dab at it. Don’t rub it too hard.”

You nod quickly, grateful for something to focus on as you press the cool fabric against your chest, hoping it’ll help ease some of the lingering sting. Seonghwa watches for another second before muttering, “At least you have a thing for tea. If it were coffee, you’d have to say goodbye to that top.”

You shoot him a halfhearted glare, still too flustered to give a proper response.

San shifts in his seat, gaze flickering toward you only briefly before dropping back down to his drink. Still silent. Still unaffected.

But Seonghwa? He notices once again. Raising his eyebrows at San before turning to you.

Because he knows.

And now? You do too.

The conversation moves on quickly, the group eager to distract from the minor fiasco, but despite everyone falling back into casual chatter, the air feels strange still.

Or at least, to you, it does.

The warmth from your tea still lingers in your palms as you hold onto the mug, fingers tightening around it slightly. You don’t bother setting it down—not only because the heat feels nice, but because keeping it in your hands gives you something to focus on.

You’re hyper aware of everything now.

The way Yeosang has fully relaxed beside you again, completely oblivious to how much attention he just drew for helping you. The way Seonghwa is still next to you, just watching San a little too closely—his eyes flickering back and forth between the two of you as if he’s trying to piece something together.

And then, of course, there’s San himself. Still silent to what happened. Still completely unreadable.

He’s engaged in conversation now, talking idly with Wooyoung, his voice is even and casual, as if nothing even happened.

But Seonghwa isn’t buying it. Neither are you.

It’s then, as the conversation flows around you, that Seonghwa finally acts on whatever suspicion has been forming in his mind. The shift is subtle, his tone still casual, still light, as he leans slightly toward you and asks, “You good?”

You blink, thrown off by the sudden question. “Huh?”

Seonghwa just gives you a look, tilting his toward you, his brow arching slightly as he gestures vaguely toward you. “You seem… I dunno. A little off.”

Your movements stop.

It’s small enough that most of the group doesn’t notice. Most of them.

Your heart picks up slightly, and out of pure reflex, your fingers tighten around your mug as you force yourself to react normally.

“I—I’m fine,” you say, clearing your throat. “I just wasn’t expecting to be burned today, I guess. I’m fine, Hwa.”

Seonghwa only hums, unconvinced. “You sure?”

It’s like he’s testing you. But you will yourself to remain calm, but in the split second of hesitation before your answer comes, your gaze flickers briefly to San—only for a second, barely even noticeable, but Seonghwa sees it.

Something flickers across his lips. “Oh…” He leans back slightly, drawing the moment out, watching you squirm.

You glare at him. “Seonghwa.”

“Nothing,” he says smoothly, waving a hand dismissively. “You two just seem… different.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, it happens.

You and San react at the same time.

“What? No.”

“Nothing’s changed.”

The words fall out too quickly between you two, too rushed, too synchronized. And that’s the mistake. And Seonghwa catches it immediately.

His gaze flicks between you and San, his lips pressing together, a teasing glint in his eyes. But you force yourself to remain composed, but you can feel your pulse in your heart, running up your throat and remaining there, almost suffocating.

San on the other hand, is still entirely unreadable, and it’s incredibly frustrating. His expression doesn’t even shift, his fingers still rest on his drink, his posture relaxed now.

You don’t dare look at Seonghwa anymore now. The glint in his eyes, the smug curl of his lips—it’s all too much. He knows. Or at least, he thinks he knows something. And the last thing you need is for him to push any further, to keep prodding at something that you’re not even sure how to explain yourself. Something that just was never there.

So instead? You lean into Yeosang.

It’s subtle at first. A small shift, your shoulder just barely brushing his as you inch closer to him on the couch, into his space, just enough to put some extra space between you and Seonghwa. Yeosang doesn’t hesitate. He simply adjusts slightly, like it’s second nature, and when Seonghwa gives you a look that asks you is this how we’re playing this, Yeosang shifts even more.

His arm presses lightly against yours, his warmth is solid and grounding, a reassurance that you don’t even have to ask for. And you wonder why you didn’t do this ten minutes ago.

Seonghwa notices immediately. His smirk widens. You pretend not to see it.

But Yeosang? Yeosang definitely sees it. And that’s when he reacts.

His head tilts slightly as he glances at Seonghwa, his gaze calm but watchful, it’s a soft warning beneath his otherwise typically impassive expression. He never is the type to outright question things in front of the group, but he’s also not blind. He can feel the tension radiating off of you, and can see that whatever Seonghwa is teasing you about isn’t just for fun.

So, in the most effortless, natural movement, he shifts his arm up and rests it casually along the back of the couch—right behind you. It’s not possessive. It’s not dramatic. But it’s there.

Seonghwa raises a single eyebrow at you, which only makes you grip onto the mug tighter.

“Seriously,” Seonghwa hums after a beat, his voice light and quiet but laced with too much meaning. “You two just seem so different.”

Yeosang barely hesitates. His arm shifts slightly, his fingers grazing the fabric of your hoodie as he tilts his head. “She’s fine.” His voice is calm, neutral even, but the message is ever so clear.

Seonghwa leans back, his smirk deepening. “Oh, is she?”

You exhale slowly, willing yourself not to react. Instead you take another sip of your tea, forcing yourself to look completely unaffected. Your fingers tighten just slightly around the mug, and Yeosang’s fingers brush against your shoulder.

And San? He hasn’t said a damn word. But you can feel it, the weight of his stare, the careful silence that says more than anything that he actually could have said. And for some reason, that’s what unsettles you the most.

And for a moment, Seonghwa still doesn’t let up. He’s watching you San, watching everything that isn’t being said, and you can see the gears turning in his head—he’s trying to piece things together and files them away for later. And then he pushes just a little too far. “Come on,” he murmurs, voice dripping with the same teasing lilt, like he’s still playing a game only he thinks he understands. “You don’t think it’s interesting how—”

Yeosang doesn’t even let him finish. Before you can even react, Yeosang shifts, his arm tightening, pulling you fully into him. The movement is so sudden, so firm that you barely have time to process it—one second you’re sitting beside him, the next you’re pressed up against his side, his arm wrapping around your shoulder, holding you close. His body is solid, warm, and despite the casual air for the movement, there’s no mistaking it—it’s a message.

To Seonghwa.

To anyone watching.

To San.

His voice is low but steady when he says, “Fuck off.”

There’s no playfulness, no lingering amusement—just a quiet warning, one that lands exactly the way he wants it to.

Seonghwa raises both hands in a mock surrender, finally leaning away from you. “Alright, alright—I’m sorry,” he says, not quite apologetic but knowing when to back down. “I’ll drop it.”

Yeosang exhales, letting out a small nod toward Seonghwa, but he doesn’t move away. And you don’t either.

For a second, you just sit there, still pressed into him, his arm still firm around your shoulders—and you realize something. You’re comfortable. The warmth of the firepit, the steady rhythm of Yeosang’s breathing, the soft hum of conversations filling the space around you, you’re starting to feel grounded now. And you let your head tilt and lean onto him. You can’t even think about San right now.

“Your burn,” Yeosang murmurs, dipping his head slightly, his voice softer now. “How’s it feeling?”

You blink, piled from your thoughts. “Oh, um.” You glance at your shirt—still damp, but no longer scalding. You know you’re still going to feel it tomorrow though. “It’s fine, I think.”

Yeosang hums, clearly unconvinced. “Put ointment on when you get home.”

The words settle around you, and for some reason you feel yourself fully relaxed for the first time all evening. You nod into him.

And just like that, Yeosang turns his attention toward whatever Mingi and Wooyoung are loudly arguing about now, seamlessly rejoining the group as if nothing had happened.

But you? You’re not fully here anymore You stare into the flickering firepit, letting the conversation around you blur into the background, your thoughts drifting. Because despite the warmth, despite the comfort of Yeosang, despite Seonghwa dropping it for now, you just want to go home, to your bed.

And more than that? You’re just glad nobody else noticed.

taglist:

@kryscent

(please lmk if you’ve been missed out or i’ve entered your user wrong!)

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s4nniebe4r · 6 months ago

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all those fancalls...and not one shirt?? Still nugu I guess...

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s4nniebe4r · 6 months ago

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the roommate

part six: brush it off

pairing: roommate! san x fem! reader

synopsis: you finally let out your frustrations, and so does he?

wc: 2.7k

tags: slow burn, roommates, enemies to lovers, angst, forced proximity, eventual romance, some explicit language

etc: double update?! yes, because i can and am impatient! do we like angry san? also, let’s keep in mind this is not an accurate description of who san is and how he acts! this is purely fiction! not proofread, liebchens!

previous part next part

It’s been a few days since your last call with Seonghwa about your recent episode. You walk into the living room, ready to finally relax after a long day. Your muscles are really just craving the comfort of the couch, the cushions usually engulf you like a hug. But, as you make your way to it, your eyes narrow in disbelief.

San’s stuff is everywhere. His dirty habit is all over the living area.

His jacket is draped over the armrest, his sneakers are left carelessly at the foot of the couch, and his bag is sprawled across the cushions on the opposite side that he’s on. He’s completely unaware of the chaos, too focused on whatever he had on the screen.

You exhale sharply, standing still for a moment, trying to calm your frustration. It’s one of those things that’s been slowly driving you mad, but now? You just can’t let it go anymore.

Without looking up from the screen, San mutters, “What?”

You scowled, hands now moving to your hips. “I didn’t realize the couch was now exclusively yours,” you shot, your voice laced with irritation.

San glances up briefly, his face impassive. “You could have just asked me to move it, instead of acting like a martyr. Or you could move it yourself,” he says casually, as if it isn’t a big deal.

Your frustration only flares. You aren’t about to just let it slide. “I shouldn’t have to move it,” you snap, sitting down heavily next to the pile of things, trying to make it clear how annoyed you are. You’re now wedged between the cushions in a tight, uncomfortable spot. You try to ignore the inconvenience, but the tension only grows. “I’m not your personal maid.”

San doesn’t seem to get the hint, he never does. His gaze returns to the TV, focusing on the game, his expression rather unchanged. “You could sit somewhere else,” he says, his voice light, like it’s no big deal.

You shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest, now sandwiched between the cushions and his mess. “I shouldn’t have to ask to sit down, San. Why does your stuff always have to be everywhere?”

His response comes with a soft, distracted laugh. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. It’s just the couch, just move the stuff. It’s not that hard.”

Your jaw tightens, the irritation now rising into anger. You can’t understand why he’s so oblivious to how it makes you feel. “It’s not just about the couch, San. It’s everything. The way you take up the space here and never even think about how it affects me.”

San doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. He’s fully immersed in the game now, his thumb flicking over the controller with easy skill as he moves characters around. “You could just tell me if you want something changed. But instead, you’ve kept quiet and now you’re just spouting bullshit.”

The words sting more than they should. You feel your chest tighten. “I’m always telling you. But you never listen. You only listen when it’s conveniently late.”

He huffs, his jaw setting in a way that very distinctly shows he’s getting annoyed too. “I’m listening right now, aren’t I? But I can’t do anything about it if you don’t actually talk to me when it matters.”

You’re standing up now, your frustration bubbling over, no longer able to stay stuck between what you see as a rock and a hard place, even though it’s really just his mess of your space. “It’s not just about the damn couch, okay? It’s everything. You’ve been playing this game for hours, and I can’t even get a moment to myself. It’s like you’re so wrapped up in what you want and nothing else matters.”

San finally looks over at you, his brows furrowed, but then his eyes return to the screen, his fingers never pausing. “You’re really going to bring that up? The TV? The game? That’s what’s bothering you? Right now?”

You scoff, throwing your hands in the air. “It’s not just the damn game, San. It’s everything! The TV, the temperature—you always keep it freezing in here! And let’s not even talk about the dishes, or the fact that you leave your crap everywhere, like it’s some kind of storage space.”

San finally pauses his games, his fingers tightening their grip around the controller. He turns his head toward you, brows furrowing. “So now I’m supposed to keep the place at your perfect temperature? What, just because you can’t handle a little cold? I live here too, Y/N.”

“That’s not the point, and you know it. I’m trying to say, you don’t think about anyone else living here. You don’t even try to meet me halfway.”

San lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head slightly. “That’s rich, coming from you. You act like you’re the only one dealing with anything in this apartment.”

Your fists unconsciously start to clench at your sides, heat rising in your chest. “Oh really? So please, San, tell me—what exactly am I doing that’s so unbearable?”

His jaw tightens. “For starters? You take up all the cabinets in the bathroom, you’re constantly rearranging the kitchen items, and you never turn the stove off. Not to mention you’re always slamming shit around when you’re mad instead of saying anything. If something bothers you so much, why do I have to play detective and figure it out? All you have to do is say something, literally anything.”

You breath hitches, air stuck in your throat. You knew he noticed, but hearing him say it like that—like you’re childish—makes your stomach twist with something sharp. “Maybe because when I do say something, you brush it off. You never actually listen until it gets to this point. And by then, it’s too late to even say anything further.”

San stands up now, tossing the controller onto the couch a little rougher than he should have, meeting you now. “No, you just wait until you’re pissed off to dump everything on me all at once. And I’m supposed to just sit here and take it?”

And just like that, your throat tightens, a familiar sting rising behind your eyes. It always happens when things get too emotionally charged, when the tension builds past the point of your control. You hate it. You hate that no matter how angry you feel, your body betrays you, turning frustration into something softer, something weaker. That’s why you never liked fighting. Why you never want to bring things up with San. Because you know, you knew it would end like this—your voice shaking, your vision blurring, emotions spilling over in ways you can't stop. You don’t want to cry. Not here, not now, and definitely not in front of him. You tilt your head back slightly, eyes flickering toward the ceiling as if that will somehow force the tears back into place.

He exhales sharply. “Oh, what, now you’re gonna act like I’m the bad guy?” His voice is a little quieter now, but there’s something else there—frustration, exhaustion. Maybe something more? But you don’t let yourself think too much about it.

You shake your head, stepping back, trying to regain even the smallest bit of control over this moment, over yourself. “I don’t want to do this, San.”

“Oh, you don’t?” He scoffs, his head dipping a little, his own voice strained now. “Because it sure as hell seems like you do—considering you just unloaded every single thing that’s been pissing you off for months.”

You clench your jaw, turning on your heel to leave. “I’m done. I don’t even know why I—”

But before you can't even take another step, his hand wraps around your wrist. Firm. Not forceful, but it’s definitely there. Stopping you. Pulling you back, closer than where you stood previously.

“You can’t just say all of that and walk away,” he says, and this time, his voice is low. Measured. Almost unreadable, as what you’ve grown accustomed to.

You freeze. His fingers are warm despite the cold air that always lingers in the apartment. His grip isn’t too tight, but it anchors you in your place, and suddenly, there's a stolen breath from your lungs.

You look up at him, ready to snap, ready to pull your arm away as harshly as you can, to—

But the moment your eyes meet his, everything shifts.

The sharp words on your tongue die out where they were, swallowed by the space between you—what little of it remains. His fingers are still wrapped around your wrist. You should pull away, you should end this here before the arguments gets to be too much, but neither of you move.

Instead, you decided to continue, it seems that’s what he wants, anyway.

“I wouldn’t have had to say all of that if you actually listened,” you bite out, voice wavering between anger and something else that you can’t quite pinpoint.

San steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, enough that you can see the way his muscles flex in his face, the way his brows furrow as his own frustration builds. “You’re acting like I never pay attention to you,” he snaps. “Like I don’t—” He stops himself, exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

“No,” you push, voice still shaking but a little firmer now. “Say it, you clearly want to.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable. The muscle in his jaw locks. “You think I don’t notice things about you?” He lets out, his voice low and rougher now. “That I don’t know you get cold way too easily, even when it’s barely snowing outside? That you always sigh when the water filter isn’t taken care of? That you leave the lights on and act like you don’t even though I see you do it night after night?”

Your breath catches where it is.

His grip on your wrist loosens now, but doesn’t drop.

You should say something—anything—but the way he’s looking at you is knocking the air out of your lungs. And it only makes you more uncomfortable with how you’re feeling. The tears in your eyes begging to be let loose.

And then—his eyes flicker downward.

Your stomach flips.

San isn’t breathing. Neither are you. Your pulse thrums in your ears, drowning out every thought, every rational part of you screaming that this, this is too close, this is too much. You can feel the warmth of his breath, the tension surrounding you, it’s so thick, it’s suffocating.

And then, his hand moves.

Gently, so gently, something so different than the first touch on your wrist. His fingers brush up against the side of your face. His thumb drags across your jaw, moving up until it swipes across your cheek, catching the single tear that had fallen against your will.

You suck in a breath—barely a sound, but you know he hears it. How could he not?

San doesn't move away. Not yet. His thumb lingers for a fraction of a second longer than it should, his touch warm, his expression unreadable.

You don’t move. You can’t. There’s something different in the way he’s looking at you now, looking into you—not quite anger, it’s not soft, but something simmering beneath it all, something too heavy, too much to put your finger on. His brows are drawn together and his jaw is tensing, relaxing, and tensing all over again, like he’s trying to decide between something.

And yet, through it all, his hands don’t leave your skin.

Your own breath is shallow, barely there, as if exhaling too harshly would shatter whatever fragile thing is spinning itself between you.

San’s eyes flicker, tracing every inch of your face—lingering at the corner of your lips, dipping briefly to your mouth before darting back up like he wasn’t supposed to look, like he wasn’t even supposed to think about it.

His thumb moves again, featherlight across your cheekbone, following the path of the tear that betrayed you. His touch burns, knot in the way that hurts, but in the way that it brands itself into your memory, searing its permanence, a heat that will stay long after he eventually decides to let go.

You swallow, your throat dry, too tight, too tense. Your own fingers twitch at your sides, caught in something invisible between pushing him away or pulling him a little closer.

He’s still looking at you. You’re still looking at him.

And inevitably, your eyes flutter shut.

That’s all it seems to take.

San’s fingers shift, tilting your face upwards, guiding you just a little closer. His other hand leaves your wrist, skimming lightly up the length of your arm, tracing the fabric of your sleeve until his palm ghosts over your shoulder.

The distance between you is barely anything now—a breath away, you can feel it.

And then—

Your phone rings.

The sharp buzzing in your pocket shatters the moment, yanking you back into reality so fast it makes your head spin.

San pulls back instantly, almost as fast as you, exhaling harshly, as if just realizing how close you both had been; like he was suddenly snapped out of something he wasn’t supposed to be in. His hand drops from your skin as if he was burnt from the touch of it. His jaw clenches, and before you can say anything—before you can even breathe properly—he runs a hand through his hair, stepping back, the heat of his touch lingering against your skin.

You don’t look at him when you answer the call. But you don’t have to, because you can feel his gaze burning into you.

You blink, chest rising and falling way too fast, mind scrambling to catch up to what just happened.

Seonghwa.

His name flashes on your screen like a cruel joke, and with trembling fingers, you fumble to answer. San doesn’t say anything. But out of the corner of your eye, you see it—his hand running through his hair, gripping at it a little too harshly, his jaw clenched so tight you think it might hurt.

You don’t let yourself look at him any longer.

You clear your throat, voice uneven, and lift the phone to your ear as you turn on your heel one last time for the night, and leave—quickly, too quickly—before he can say anything, before you can process the way his stare is still boring into your back.

The door shuts behind you harshly as you step into your room, pressing your forehead against the cold frame of it for just a second, trying to collect yourself.

“Y/N?” Seonghwa’s voice is light, casual, completely unaware of what he just interrupted.

“Uh—yeah,” you breathe, trying to force normalcy back into your tone.

“You good?”

“Yeah, just—yeah. What’s up?”

“You want to hang out tomorrow?” Seonghwa asks easily, not even pushing the wreckage of whatever just happened on the other side of the line. “Me and the other guys are getting together for an evening. We thought you’d wanna come.”

You press your lips together, fingers curling around your phone as your gaze flickers toward the door. You can still feel San’s presence just beyond it, the weight of everything that almost happened settling into your chest like a storm waiting to let out its first stroke of lightning.

But instead of acknowledging it, instead of thinking about it, you force yourself to focus on Seognhwa’s words instead. And you pretend.

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” You let out.

“Okay, and what about San? He’s at the apartment, right? I figured I could get an answer from him while I’m at it.” He responds back as he puts his phone on speaker to do whatever it was that he needed.

“Uh…” You pause. “We’ll be there.”

“Great! We’ll see you tomorrow.” Seonghwa says as he moves around his apartment. “Oh and that reminds me…” He continues.

And you pretend. At least you don’t have to deal with what’s beyond your bedroom door until tomorrow evening. So you hum into the speaker and let Seonghwa continue.

#choi san #san #san ff #san fanfic #san fluff #san soft hours #san x reader #ateez fluff #ateez soft hours #ateez #ateez soft thought #ateez choi san #ateez san #choi san x reader #choi san fanfic #choi san ff #choi san fic

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s4nniebe4r · 6 months ago

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the roommate

part five: respite

pairing: roommate! san x fem! reader

synopsis: san accidentally eaves drops and you catch him looking at old photos

wc: 1k

tags: slow burn, roommates, enemies to lovers, angst, forced proximity, eventual romance

etc: this chapter is so short omg, i’m so sorry… exposition though! not proofread, liebchens!

previous part next part

San wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. Really, he wasn’t.

But when he walks past the slightly ajar door to Y/N’s room on the way to get cleaned up from his day, he hears her voice一low and wavering, frustration tied into every word一his steps falter.

“Everything just feels like too much sometimes,” you murmur, and though you’re clearly on the phone, there’s a weight to your words that makes something in San tighten. He knows he shouldn’t listen, he should keep walking and mind his business, but he doesn’t.

He lingers in the hall, just out of view, as you sigh into the receiver. “My classes are so demanding, my job drains me, and I feel like I have no place to breathe, Hwa. My apartment doesn’t even feel like a safe space because San is just so damn messy, and it stresses me out more than it should. I just… I like having control over things, and right now, it feels like I have control over nothing.” You say, practically on the verge of tears.

San exhales slowly, rubbing at the back of his neck. He hadn’t realized it was that bad for you. Sure, he knew you liked things tidy一like whenever you sighed when he left a jacket draped over the couch made that clear一, and he figured his habits annoyed you, but to hear it so plainly? To hear how overwhelmed you really were?

“I get it, Y/N,” Seonghwa’s voice crackles through the speaker. “But you don’t have to be in control all the time. And just because San doesn’t say it, doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice.”

When he heard your sniffles from the other side of the door, he took that as a sign to stop listening in. San swallows, suddenly feeling like an intruder in his own apartment. His fingers flex at his sides, jaw tightening as something uneasy settles in his chest. He forces himself to move, feet dragging as he finally heads toward the bathroom, Seonghwa’s words playing on repeat in his head.

Later that night, long after the apartment has gone completely quiet, San finds himself sitting on the edge of the couch, staring at his phone. The screen is dim, but the video playing is all too familiar一Byeol, his cat, stretching out lazily in a sunbeam, letting out a soft meow. His lips press into a thin line as he watches, the nostalgic ache creeping in. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he catches his reflection in the darkened screen.

Later that night, you’re shuffling into the kitchen, exhausted but too restless to sleep. You’re halfway through filling a glass of water when movement in the living catches your eye. San is sitting on the couch, phone in hand, gaze soft in a way you haven’t really seen before. He’s so focused he doesn’t notice you lingering in the doorway, and for once, you don’t immediately announce your presence.

He’s watching something一a video, you realize. And it takes you a moment to notice the little flicker of movement on his screen, a small, fluffy animal padding around. A cat.

You brows knit together as you step closer, curiosity outweighing your exhaustion. There’s something familiar about the way he’s looking at the screen, something wistful, like he’s watching a memory rather than just a video. “Didn’t peg you as a cat person,” you remark.

San startles, nearly dropping his phone. He shoots you a look, one that’s supposed to be annoyed, but there’s no true heat behind it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug, taking a sip of water. “Just saying. You haven’t really made yourself out to be a soft animal lover.”

San huffs, rolling his eyes, but doesn’t argue. Instead, he glances back to the video, the corners of his lips tugging downward. “Her name’s Byeol. She lives with my parents.”

Your eyes flicker past him landing on his side of the apartment, where一now that you’re really paying attention一you notice a couple of small, worn-out photos pinned up on the wall. Ones you’d never bothered to look at before. Ones that, now that you’re seeing them, show a younger San with a little kitten cradled in his arms. There’s even one where he’s holding her up in the air, grinning, a rare kind of smile that makes your chest feel a little tighter.

Without really thinking about it, you move forward, you step cautious, like you’re approaching something fragile. The couch dips slightly as you lower yourself onto the other end, cradling your glass between your fingers. “She’s cute,” you murmur, nodding toward his phone. “You two must’ve been really close.”

San glances at you, eyes flickering with something unreadable before he leans back against the couch. “Yeah,” he admits, voice a little quieter than usual. “I had her since she was a kitten. She used to sleep on my chest when I was a kid. I couldn’t go anywhere in the house without her following me around.”

There’s something about the way he says it一casual, but laced with an unspoken fondness一that makes your stomach twist. You can picture it quite easily; a younger San, all limbs and boyish energy, with a tiny kitten curled against his heartbeat. The thought is unexpectedly soft.

San scratches his cheek, like he suddenly feels too exposed, too vulnerable. He turns his phone off and leans back against the couch, his usual unreadable expression slipping back into its place. “What, got nothing smart to say?” he teases.

You open your mouth, but the quick-witted response doesn’t come. Instead, you tilt your head, considering him. You should roll your eyes, should throw something sarcastic back at him like always. But instead, you just shake your head, lips pressing together. For once, the banter doesn’t come so easily.

Because at that moment, something about him seemed a little different. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the memory of Seonghwa’s words still lingering in your head, but maybe you’ve been wrong.

#choi san #san #san ff #san fanfic #san fluff #san soft hours #san x reader #ateez ff #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez san #ateez fluff #ateez soft hours #ateez soft thoughts #choi san x reader #choi san fanfic #choi san ff #choi san fic

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s4nniebe4r · 6 months ago

Text

the roommate

part four: fresh air

pairing: roommate! san x fem! reader

synopsis: y/n is slowly recovering from her illness, and san seems a little more attentive than he should be

wc: 2.7k

tags: slow burn, roommates, enemies to lovers, angst, forced proximity, eventual romance

etc: not proofread, liebchens!

previous part next part

You wake up feeling like your body weighs twice as much as it should. Everything is stiff, your head is throbbing, and your throat is painfully dry. Blinking sluggishly, you shift against the pillows, trying to piece together how you ended up tucked in so securely. The blanket is snug around you, tucked carefully at the sides like someone had made sure you stayed warm. There’s a faint scent of something familiar in the air—San’s detergent, maybe? And for some reason, that realization unsettles you a little more than it should. The last thing you clearly remember is dragging yourself into the kitchen for food—everything after that is kind of a blur of feverish exhaustion.

The door creaks slightly, and you glance over just in time to see San stepping inside your room, a glass of water in one hand and a bottle of ibuprofen in the other.

“You’re awake,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Took you long enough.”

You frown slightly at his tone. Not because it’s rude, he’s always rude, but because something about it is off… He’s not rude right now. He’s not teasing, not smirking. His face is completely neutral, but his eyes flick over you a little too quickly, like he’s trying to access something.

You clear your throat, wincing at the slight ache. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon.”

Your eyes widen. “I slept that long?”

San shrugs. “Not surprising. You were barely conscious when you were awake.” His voice is casual, but there’s something under it—something unreadable. There’s something in his gaze that disappears the moment before you’re able to place it.

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach twist, though you’re not sure why. You try to sit up, but your muscles falter, and a wave of dizziness washes over you, the room spinning. Immediately, San moves forward, bracing the back of your pillow to help you sit properly. His hands are gone in an instant, but the feeling still lingers. The touch was steady and firm, but not rough. He didn’t even hesitate, didn’t make some snarky comment about your state, he was just there, like it was second nature.

You blink at him. He looks normal—same messy hair, same indifferent expression. But there’s something different, something in the way he doesn’t meet your eyes for long, something in the way that he exhales a little too sharply before stepping back.

“I’ll make food,” he mutters, already heading for the door before you register his movements. “You need to eat something before you pass out again.”

He leaves quickly, a little too quickly, like he’s running from something.

You stare at the doorway long after he’s gone, trying to shake the weird feeling curling in your chest.

The rest of the day passes in a strange haze. You still feel weak, but it’s different now—less of a feverish blur and more like your body is just recovering from the aftermath. San isn’t hovering, but he checks in more than you see necessary, popping his head into your room randomly to ask if you’ve eaten, if you took your medicine, if you need anything. It’s weird.

Even weirder is that he doesn’t seem to think it’s weird. He’s not teasing you about collapsing onto him, not throwing his usual sarcastic japs. He just hands you things before you even realize you need them—more water, another blanket, an extra portion of food that he accidentally didn’t measure out. And each time he does, he barely lingers—just long enough to make sure you’re okay before completely disappearing again with a quiet nod. Like he doesn’t even want you to notice. And he does it all with this frustratingly casual attitude, like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t spent the last few months being completely insufferable.

At some point, you start anticipating it. Not consciously, of course—just small moments where you half-expect him to appear, only to find out he already has. Like a glass of water left by your bedside before you wake up. It’s just a steady presence right outside your line of sight.

When you finally get a bit of strength back, you shuffle out of your room and find him in the kitchen, stirring something over the stove. He glances at you briefly before going back to whatever it is that he’s cooking.

“Surprised you’re up and out,” he says.

You roll your eyes, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “Disappointed?”

He smirks, but it’s faint, barely even there. “A little.”

It’s familiar, the banter, the back-and-forth—but there’s something different about the way he says it—less bitey, less of the usual sharp edge. It almost sounds comfortable.

You sip on your water, watching him from the corner of your eye. There’s always been tension between you two, this time it’s subtle, but still there. Something seems to have shifted, but you don’t know how to place it. San is still annoying. Still frustrating. But now, for some reason, you can’t stop thinking that it was him that tucked the blanket around you, that he held you up when you couldn’t yourself. You remember the warmth of his hands against your skin. In your haze, you still remember the quiet focus in his expression, the way he lingered at your bedside for much longer than necessary. How he didn’t hesitate, how he stayed even when he didn’t have to. And you don’t know what’s worse—the fact that he did it, or that fact that you didn’t hate it.

And for the first time, the thought doesn’t make you want to fight him.

It just makes you confused.

The strange tension lingers over the next few days. San doesn’t change or let up much, at least not outwardly. He still takes up too much space on the couch, still leaves his dishes in the sink too long, still somehow always gets to the shared bathroom right before you need to use it. But now, there’s something else—maybe, a hesitation? A lingering glance that you can feel, and it lasts a second too long, a quietness that wasn’t there before.

You feel it most when he thinks you’re not looking.

Like when you push yourself up from the couch a little too quickly and have to steady yourself against the armrest—he doesn’t say anything, but you catch the way his hand twitches, like he almost reached out to help but stopped himself at the last second.

Or when you’re sitting at the counter, eating the food accidentally made too much of, and he pretends not to care, but he doesn’t move until he sees you take the first bite. Like he wants to see what your reaction is.

When you cough—just once, it’s not even that bad—and he looks over from his spot on the couch, watching you for a beat too long before going back to his game.

It’s subtle. So subtle you could almost pretend it’s not happening. But it is. And it’s starting to get under your skin.

One night, you’re curled up on the couch under a throw blanket, flipping through your phone, when San walks in from the kitchen, setting a mug of tea on the coffee table in front of you.

You glance up at him, now standing at the other side of the couch. “What’s that?”

He shrugs. “Tea.”

“I didn’t ask for tea.”

“Okay?” He said, with a hint of annoyance.

You stare at him for a second before picking up the mug. It’s still hot, steam curling up in little waves. It’s ginger and honey, you don’t even have to taste it to know.

San sits down on the other end of the couch, stretching his arms over the backrest. He doesn’t even look at you, just keeps his eyes on the TV as he flicks through movies.

You take a sip, warmth spreading through your chest, and something settles deep in your stomach.

The next day, you wake up feeling almost normal. Not completely, but enough that you don’t feel like collapsing every time you stand up. You’re craving some fresh air today. You decide to test your strength, wandering into the kitchen to make something simple, maybe some eggs.

San is already there, leaned forward against the counter with a plate of food in front of him. He barely glances at you before sliding the plate over. “Made too much again.”

You narrow your eyes at him but take the food anyway. “You really need to work on your portion control.”

“Or maybe you just need to stop being so picky.”

You roll your eyes and take a bite. It’s good. Annoyingly good.

The silence stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. You realize now, it hasn’t been for a while. Not the same uncomfortable.

San watches you, something unreadable as always in his expression, before he huffs out a breath and pushes off the counter. “Try not to do this again,” he says, grabbing his jacket off the back of the couch. “It was a pain taking care of you.” And he says it so casually, but there’s not bite to it.

You swallow the small lump in your throat and you roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all sentimental.”

San scoffs and heads for the door, but just before he leaves, he pauses. “I’m going to the grocery,” he says, sounding as casual as ever. “Do you need anything?”

You hesitate for a second, then shift your weight. “Could I come with?” The words are out before you fully think them through. “I just… I could use some fresh air.”

San doesn’t say anything, right away. He just looks at you, his expression ever-so untelling, eyes scanning your face as if he’s trying to figure something out. Then, without a word, he exhales sharply through his nose and moves toward the couch. He plops down on the couch easily, almost nonchalantly, one arm resting lazily against the back of the cushion while another drums absentmindedly against his knee. “I’m waiting.”

You blink. “What?”

San lifts a brow, turning to look back toward you, giving you a pointed look. “Go get ready.”

Something in his tone makes your breath catch. It’s not teasing, just expectant. Like he knew you’d ask. Like he doesn’t even mind. You hesitate only a second longer before turning on your heel and heading to your room.

You don’t take long一just long enough to throw on something warmer and brush out the tangles in your hair, making yourself look a little less like you’ve spent the last few days feeling like you’ve been in comatose. As you adjust your coat, a flicker of doubt creeps its way in. Why did you even ask to go? Why did he agree? But when you step back into the room, San doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at you weird. He just pushes himself off the couch in one fluid motion, shoving his hands into his pockets before heading for the door.

And just like that, you’re going to the grocery store together.

The walk to the store is quiet, save for the occasional gust of wind that stings your face. THe sidewalks are still icy in patches, and you find yourself walking carefully, your black snow boots crunching softly against the snow-dusted pavement. San walks a step or so ahead of you, his hands still buried in his coat pockets, his posture relaxed but purposeful.

Halfway there, you step onto a slick patch of ice without noticing. You let out a stifled yell, and for a brief, stomach-dropping moment, you brace for impact一but before you can meet the ground, San’s hand shoots out, gripping your arm and steadying you.

“Watch where you’re walking,” he mutters, releasing you just as quickly.

Your heart is still pounding as you huff, “I didn’t exactly do it on purpose.”

He doesn’t respond, just keeps walking, but he slows his pace, like he’s making sure you don’t fall again.

By the time you reach the grocery store, your face is numb from the cold, and you’re craving the warmth of the indoors. San grabs a cart without a word, pushing it toward the produce section as if he already has a route planned in mind. You trail behind, glazing around the mostly empty store. The storm must have kept a lot of people home.

“Do you always like shopping like this? Like just get in and out?” you ask, watching as he swiftly grabs a bag of apples and tosses them into the cart without hesitation.

San barely spares a second glance towards you. “I don’t like wasting time.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue. Instead, you find yourself watching him more closely, noticing little things you hadn’t seen in him before一how he checks the expiration dates without thinking, how automatically avoids the center of the aisle, even though the two of you were the only ones shopping, how his brows knit together slightly when he’s deciding between two brands.

Meanwhile, your approach is much less structured. You grab things that sound good in the moment一some chips, a frozen meal that looks especially comforting, especially on these cold days, and a box of snack mix you haven’t had since you were a kid. San casts you an unimpressed glance when he notices the growing pile of impulse buys in the cart.

“We’re getting actual food,” he says flatly, reaching past you to grab a pack of chicken breasts.

“This is actually food,” you counter, tossing in a pack of instant ramen to the cart just to spite him.

San exhales sharply through his nose, clearly fighting the urge to say something. You swear you can see the corner of his mouth twitch, but he just shakes his head and keeps walking.

At some point, you wander off, distracted by a display of brightly colored energy drinks, debating which one looks best. When you turn back, San is a few aisles away, scanning the sweets shelves with a faint crease of impatience in his brow. He’s obviously looking for something. Before he can even ask, you pluck a pack of Binch biscuits from the cart that you tossed in earlier and hold them up.

His eyes narrow slightly. “When did you一?”

“You’re not the only one who pays attention,” you say, dropping them back in their respective place.

San blinks at you, then back at the biscuits, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t say anything, but you catch the way his grip on the cart tightens briefly before he moves on, his silence saying more than any actual words would.

By the time you reach checkout, you pull your card out, prepared to pay, but before you can even slide it out, San is already tapping his phone against the pin pad. The beep sounds before you can even react.

Your eyes widen in mild frustration. “What the hell一”

“Groceries are on you next we go,” he says simply, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

You stare at him, dumbfounded. “Next time?”

But he’s already grabbed the bags, heading for the door like it was nothing, like he didn’t just casually imply there’d be a next time.

You stand there for a second longer, card still in your hand, processing. A protest lingers on your tongue, but something about the ease in which he does it makes you hesitate. With a sigh, you shove your card back into your pocket and follow him out into the cold. The streets are even quieter now, the snow crunching underfoot as you walk side by side, bags rustling between you.

Halfway home, he cleared his throat. “Consider it covered this time一just don’t make me regret it.”

You huff, stuffing your hands deeper into your pockets. “Yeah, yeah.”

San glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small smirk. “Unless you’re just planning on freeloading.”

You shove him lightly, barely enough to make him shift. “Oh, shut up."

He lets out a small chuckle, shaking his head as you both trudge forward through the icy streets.

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s4nniebe4r · 6 months ago

Text

the roommate

part three: cold front

pairing: roommate! san x fem! reader

synopsis: a terrible storm comes, leaving you to fall incredibly ill

wc: 2.9k

tags: slow burn, roommates, enemies to lovers, angst, forced proximity, eventual romance, sicker reader, caregiver san (eventually)

etc: yes, i’m aware this is a little longer than the previous chapters, but this is where the story starts to go somewhere… i couldn’t help myself, these kinds of works are my kryptonite. the perspective changes a little to san, but still keeps that same style... i guess? as always, this isn’t proofread!

previous part next part

It’s been a few months since you moved in with San, long enough that autumn had come and gone, and was replaced with the bitter grasp of winter. The warm hues of falling leaves feel like a blurred memory compared to the storm raging on outside. You hadn’t even noticed the season slipping away, too caught up in the mundane rhythm of life. Now, winter has made itself known with full force.

The heater breaks in the middle of the night. You don’t notice right away, curled up under layers of blankets, but by the time your alarm blares in the morning, your nose is undoubtedly a bright shade of pink, and freezing. The kind of freezing that makes it hard to muscle yourself out of bed, let alone start the day. You burrow deeper into your comforter, squeezing your eyes shut, willing yourself to go back to sleep. But the air in your room is sharp and biting, making it near impossible to get comfortable.

So, with a groan, you sit up, shivering as your blankets pool around your waist. You grab your phone and immediately see the message from your landlord. Heat’s out. No repairs until the storm clears. Stay warm. This must be why the price was so affordable, you thought.

A second notification then catches your eye—one from your university’s message board. Due to severe weather conditions, all classes have been canceled until further notice. Please reach out to your professors for individual questions. Stay safe.

At least there’s a silver lining.

“Great. Fantastic.” Your voice is hoarse from the night, and the second you speak, you feel the dryness in your throat. It’s easy to ignore, for now.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you pull on the thickest pair of socks you own, adding another hoodie over your long sleeve, and wrap a throw blanket around your shoulders before stepping out of your room.

The rest of the apartment is just as cold as your room—maybe colder, considering how the hardwood floors only amplify the chill. You tighten the throw blanket around you as you shuffle into the kitchen. Tea first. Then maybe you’ll figure out how to survive the rest of the day and the unbearable cold.

San is already there, of course, leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone. Unlike you, he looks so completely unfazed by the temperature drop, like he’s dressed just as any other day. No extra layers, no sign of discomfort—just a hoodie and sweatpants, like the cold doesn’t even register for him.

You frown as you start the kettle. “How are you not freezing?”

He barely glances up. “How are you this dramatic?”

You shoot him a small glare as you wait for the kettle to heat. “I’m literally dying.”

“You’re literally not.”

You only huff, crossing your arms over your chest. The silence between you is thick, heavy with the weight of mutual stubbornness. It’s not like you and San talk much anyway, but something about the heater breaking makes the space between you feel more present. More noticeable, something else you actually share in common, although it’s something so frustrating.

As soon as the tea is done, you pour yourself a cup and immediately press it to your hands, savoring the fleeting warmth. The first sip burns your tongue, but you don’t really mind, you welcome it in all honesty, sighing as it spreads through you. Letting a smile form, even though it’s small, it’s there.

San watches, unimpressed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re heartless.” You sniff, retreating to the couch. You cocoon yourself in a blanket, pressing the tea to your lips like it’s your lifeline. “I hope you freeze in your sleep.”

San scoffs, setting his phone down. “I won’t. Because I’m normal.”

You glare at him over the rim of your mug. “You’re a freak of nature.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you turn on the TV, searching for something mindless to distract you from the fact that you can feel the cold seeping into your bones, freezing you inside and out. The storm outside only gets worse as the day drags on, wind rattling against the windows, snow piling up on the ledges, practically taunting you. Every so often, you glance at the thermostat, hoping—so stupidly—that maybe it’ll magically fix itself. It never does.

San lounges on the other end of the couch, completely at ease, while you curl into yourself trying to conserve warmth. The worst part? It’s only the first day, and the forecast calls for at least a few more days of this.

And you already feel miserable.

You wake up to a room even colder than before. If the first day was miserable, today is unbearable. Your throat feels scratchy, your body is heavy from exhaustion, but you push the thoughts aside. It’s probably just from the dry air, nothing to worry about. Still, you hesitate before leaving your bed, knowing that the moment you step into the apartment, the chill will settle back into your bones all over again.

San of course, is fine. You find him in the same position as yesterday, sprawled out on the couch, a controller in his hands. He’s playing a video game, but barely—his movements are lazy, half-hearted, like he’s not even paying much attention. His hair is slightly messier, but he looks… comfortable. Perfectly content. The sight makes you irrationally upset.

“How,” you start, rubbing at your chilled over arms, “are you not cold?”

He barely looks up. “Mind over matter.”

You groan, stomping into the kitchen to make another cup of tea. At this rate, it might be your only source of warmth. And maybe, it would add some sort of soothing to your chapped lips, which already felt like they were cracking and so dry, it pained you.

San watches as you wrap yourself in yet another blanket, shaking his head. “You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

“And you’re insufferable.” You drop onto the two-seater couch with a dramatic sigh, pressing your warm mug to your face, rubbing it against your cheek. “I hate this.”

He smirks. “You hate everything.”

You grumble something incoherent, pulling your blanket tighter around you as the snow continues to pike outside. The storm hasn’t let up, and of course, the heater is still broken.

And you have no idea how you’re going to get through these next few days.

The third day arrives, but you barely register it.

The exhaustion at this point is crushing. It weighs on your body like a weighted blanket, pressing you deeper into the mattress, keeping you tethered to your bed. The cold that had once been a biting inconvenience now feels so overwhelming. Your head is heavy, your throat raw, your body aching in places you didn’t even know could hurt. Even under the layers of blankets and clothing, warmth is nowhere to be felt.

So, you try to sleep through it. Maybe if you sleep long enough, you’ll wake up and feel normal again. But the fever doesn’t let you rest. Each time you drift off, you wake up sweating, shivering, tangled in your blankets like they’re trying to strangle you—at this point you wouldn’t mind it too much, if it meant not feeling like this. The pounding in your head never fades. Your stomach churns unpleasantly, but you don’t have the energy to get up and find something to eat. It’s easier to just stay curled up, hoping that if you keep your eyes shut long enough, time will fast-forward through the worst of it.

At first, San doesn’t notice your absence.

It’s not unusual for you to keep to yourself. Most days, you both exist in the apartment without really acknowledging each other—passing by in the kitchen, sharing the couch in silence, or exchanging dry remarks about how much the winter has been draining this year. So when a full day passes without seeing you, he doesn’t think much of it. You’re probably just holed up in your room, avoiding the cold like usual.

But then, another day slips by. And it starts to feel… off.

He doesn’t realize what’s wrong until he’s sitting on the couch, half-heartedly playing a video game again, and his stomach growls. Automatically, his mind drifts to the last time he saw you. The first two days of the lock in, you’d make your way into the kitchen, bundled up in layers, grumbling silently to yourself about the cold while clutching a steaming cup of tea. But the apartment has been eerily quiet. Not complaints, no passive-aggressive shivering, no muffled TV sounds coming from your room. His fingers pause on the controller.

How long has it been since he’s actually seen you?

Something nags at the back of his mind, a small itch of concern he doesn’t want to even acknowledge. He tells himself he’s just curious, that it’s weird for you to go this long without irritating him with your presence. But the longer he sits there, the stronger the feeling gets. Finally, with a sigh, he sets the controller down and pushes himself off the couch.

The hallway is dim, and your door is shut as usual. He hesitates for a second before knocking lightly.

There’s no response.

Frowning, he knocks again, a little louder. “Hey.”

Still nothing.

There’s a strange, uneasy feeling that settles in the pit of his stomach. He debates leaving it alone—maybe you’re just sleeping—so he puts weight on the heel of his foot to turn away. But then he hears it: the faintest rustling, the sound of movement from inside, almost sluggish and strained.

Without thinking, he tries at the door. It’s unlocked.

The second he steps inside, the change of temperature from your room hits him like a wall. Despite the rest of the apartment being freezing, your room is a furnace, stuffy with the trapped warmth of your body heat and heavy blankets. It’s suffocating, the air is thick with that distinct feverish scent, the kind that clings to sickness. And then, he sees you.

You’re curled up in a pathetic heap, tangled in a mess of blankets, your face flushed and damp with sweat. Your hair is a disaster, sticking to your forehead from the beads of sweat, your lips are chapped and cracked. Dark circles stain the skin under your eyes, practically swallowing you whole, and even in the dim lighting, he can see you’re pale—too pale.

San’s stomach twists. You don’t just look sick. You look fragile. Completely drained, like the fever has sapped every ounce of strength from you. Wrapped in layers of blankets, you seem impossibly small, as if they’re the only thing keeping you from fading away entirely.

“Jesus,” he mutters, stepping closer. “You look like you’re on your deathbed.”

You barely stir at the sound of his voice. That’s what worries him the most. You’re always quick with a comeback, always rolling your eyes at him, always finding something to be annoyed about. But now? You don’t even have the energy to react. Your eyes flutter open for maybe a second, hazy and unfocused, not even registering the figure in front of you, before slipping shut again.

San exhales sharply. “Okay. This isn’t great.” He shifts into autopilot, moving before he even realizes what he’s doing.

First, he grabs the half-empty water bottle on your nightstand, frowning at how light it is. Probably days old. He disappears into the kitchen and returns with a fresh bottle, kneeling beside your bed, your head facing him. “You need to drink this.”

You groan softly, barely comprehending his words.

San clicks his tongue in annoyance, but there’s something else in his expression—something bordering on the line of concern. He props you up slightly, your back flush against the headboard, pressing the bottle to your lips. He tries to be gentle, one hand cradling the back of your head as he angles the bottle just right, making sure you don’t accidentally choke or spill. His fingers brush against the damp strands of your hair, feeling the feverish heat radiating from your skin. “Come on. Just a little, that’s all.”

You manage a few sips before turning your head away with a weak grumble. Even that small effort seems to drain you, leaving you slumped against him. Your weight is warm but unsettling, too light, like you might just slip away if he lets go.

San shifts slightly, adjusting his grip on you. His arm tightens around your shoulder, supporting you so you don’t slide back down into a heap. He can feel the quick and unsteady rise and fall of your breathing, the occasional tremor that runs through you. He keeps his hold steady, firm but careful, as if he’s trying to anchor you in place. The thought unsettles him.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You’re hopeless.”

So, he stands up, letting you down ever so carefully against the pillows he propped up near the headboard before disappearing again for a while. This time, he doesn’t just grab the soup and medicine—he also snatches the thermostat off the bathroom counter, his gut telling him it’s even worse than it looks.

When he returns, you haven’t moved an inch. He can feel the heat radiating off your skin—too much heat. He presses the thermostat to your forehead, brows furrowing as he waits for the reader. You barely react, only a small shiver running through you as your fever-ridden body instinctively tries to curl in on itself. It takes what feels like forever, but when it beeps, he glances down, and something uneasy curls in his stomach. San frowns, rubbing a hand down his face before muttering a curse under his breath. Your fever is alarmingly high. Not quite emergency-room bad, but enough that it’s making him start to second-guess himself, enough that he debates calling Seonghwa. But you look so out of, that he knows you wouldn’t even handle a phone conversation.

“Great,” he mutters under his breath. He watches the way your fingers tremble when you try to adjust the blanket. The way your breathing hitches like even the slight move takes effort. And it pisses him off—not at you, but at the situation, at the fact that you’ve let yourself get this bad. He continues to let himself move on autopilot, pouring out the right amount of medicine, making sure you take it, then setting the soup on the nightstand. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this, why he’s taking the extra time to sit beside you, to tuck the blanket more securely around your shoulders, to make sure you’re warm but not overheating, his hand lingering there.

He shifts his grip on you, adjusting his hold so you’re not slumped at an uncomfortable angle. One arm supports your back, the other steadying your shoulder as he slowly eases you down against the pillows. His touch is careful and firm, like he’s worried you’d break under too much pressure. His fingers stay put for a moment longer than necessary before he pulls away, scowling at himself.

For a moment, he debates leaving. But then his gaze flickers to the soup, still untouched on the nightstand. If you couldn’t even drink your water… With a sigh, he picks it up, scooting closer to your bedside. He dips the spoon into the broth, blowing on it slightly before bringing it to your lips. “You need to eat,” He pauses, before continuing. “If Seonghwa found out I let you starve, he’d kill me,” San mutters, mostly to himself. At first, he tells himself that’s the only reason he’s doing this—because Seonghwa would want him to, he wouldn’t hear the end of it if he left you like this. But as he watches you struggle to keep your eyes open, something settles into his chest.

You make a weak sound of protest, barely turning your head away, but San isn’t having your nonsense. He nudges the spoon against your lips, watching as you hesitantly part them. You only take a tiny sip before exhaling heavily, like even that was too much effort. But he keeps at it, patient, spooning small amounts until you’ve had at least something.

You’re already drifting off again, half-asleep, fever-drunk and unaware of the way San’s gaze lingers. Your voice is soft, barely above a murmur, but it still makes him freeze.

“You’re not as bad as I thought,” you mumble, voice slurred. Then, even softer, “I don’t hate you, you know.”

San doesn’t move, barely even breathes as your fingers weakly reach out for his sleeve, gripping onto it with the last bit of your strength. You don’t let go.

He should pry your hand off, it wouldn’t be that difficult anyways. He should pull away, let you sleep, leave you be.

But he doesn’t he just stays, watching you, listening to the quiet feverish murmurs that make something in his chest shift, something he doesn’t want to answer to.

He finds himself once again tucking the blanket closer around you, making sure you have water within reach, lingering a little too long as he watches your breathing even out just a little.

And then he catches himself staring, when he realizes the weird, uncomfortable pull in his chest, he scowls once more. This isn’t his problem. You aren’t his problem.

“This is stupid,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. But he doesn’t leave.

Not yet. He can’t.

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