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estellan0vella · 3 months ago

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The Secret Sound of Us: B.C Bang Chan x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 18.5K

CW: Sexual Content, Implied and referenced sexual activity, Anxiety and Mental Health, Injury and Medical Treatment, Suicidal Ideation (Discussions about wanting to die out of embarrassment)(Multiple exaggerated jokes and comments from Y/N about throwing herself into the Han River), Threats of Violence, Accidental Voyeurism, Dramatic references to gagging and dry heaving

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

It’s mid-afternoon in Seoul, and the sun is spilling golden light through the partially closed blinds of Felix’s bedroom at the Alpha Phi frat house. Felix’s triple monitor setup hums quietly, Attack on Titan playing across all three screens in a chaotic mosaic of Titans and dramatic stares.

You’re lying on Felix’s bed, limbs tangled between Felix and Jisung like a mess of lazy cats, all three of you bundled in pyjamas you probably should’ve washed a couple nights ago. You’re in your favourite Spiderman pyjama trousers, a black cropped camisole that’s more spaghetti strap than actual shirt, and the matching Spiderman slippers that make the softest little thump-thump sounds on the floor when you walk.

Jisung’s got on his Garfield pyjama trousers and a white vest that’s already stained with something suspiciously orange. His matching Garfield slippers, slightly too big, keep falling off his feet and hitting the floor with soft plops. And Felix, because he’s Felix, is wrapped in Hello Kitty pyjama trousers and a pink vest that reads A Slay Gay in glittery cursive.

You’ve been rewatching Attack on Titan for the sixth time, but really, no one’s watching anymore. You’re jotting down more lines for your latest song, working on your fifth verse and your handwriting’s getting a little messy from the constant motion of Jisung’s foot bouncing against your knee.

“Okay, but like, Miche? The fucking shoulders on that man? He could carry me, my emotional baggage, my unresolved trauma, my dead body, fucking everything.”

Felix snorts, not looking up from his phone. “You say that about every man with biceps.”

“And I’ll keep saying it,” Jisung says, offended. “I’m a simple guy. Give me a tragic backstory and tree-trunk arms and I’m done for.”

You laugh and close your notebook with a little thud, tossing it on Felix’s desk. “I’m all for women being independent, you know, like, strong as fuck, but I would be Levi’s housewife in an instant. I’d be in an apron, barefoot, making stew or some shit.”

Jisung props himself up on one elbow, raising a brow. “Always in a little summer dress to get fucked?”

You shrug. “Absolutely.”

“Respect.”

You giggle, pushing Jisung’s leg slightly off your lap to sit up straighter. “Forget the men. You know where it’s at? Hange. The most beautiful 2D they I’ve ever seen. And Nanaba could punch me and I’d say thank you.”

Jisung makes a gasping sound, rolling onto his stomach and grabbing your hand for another fist bump. “As another proud pansexual, you’re so fucking right. Hange is unhinged and sexy, and Nanaba? The power. The femininity. The rage. She’s mother.”

Felix hums. “As a fully gay man, I think I could get it up for Hange. Androgynous icon. They could wreck my shit.”

You cackle, burying your face in your hands. “God, Felix.”

“I’m just being honest!” he says, throwing a pillow at your shoulder. “I’m sexually liberated.”

Jisung sits up suddenly, eyes lighting up. “So, Y/N, is takeout on you tonight?”

“Why would it be on me? Is it because I’m a woman? That’s sexist.”

Felix boos dramatically, flinging both arms around you. “Booooo! Boo this misogynist!”

Jisung holds up his hands. “No! No, it’s because you have a steady income! Secret Sound Programme, remember?”

“Shhh! Someone could hear you!”

“Bitch, you can sing. Embrace it! I do. I make it everyone’s problem that I’m musically gifted and chose to pursue journalism instead.”

“I’d die if anyone besides you two found out it was me,”

Felix rubs your back in circles. “Because you’re super shy, super shy.”

Jisung sings, “But wait a minute while I make you mine, make you mine!”

Felix looks at Jisung and says, “That was very gay of us.”

Jisung pretends to gag. “Ugh. Disgusting. Queerness.”

“Look, if I was ever gonna make money off singing, what I’d do is sing my songs for some girl who can’t sing, and she’d lip-sync on stage and I would be happily rich and anonymous.”

Felix gasps. “Like Milli Vanilli?”

You nod vigorously. “Exactly.”

Jisung blinks. “Hello? Incheon boy here? Born in Korea, raised in Korea and Malaysia? What the actual fuck is a Milli Vanilli?”

Felix gasps, sitting upright. “Oh my GOD. You unwesternised gremlin. It was a scandal! A SCANDAL none of us were even alive for, and yet, the drama remains!”

Jisung’s eyes widen. “What happened?!”

“Okay, picture this. Two hot dudes. They can’t sing for shit, right? But they LOOK like they could. So the record label’s like, boom, we got something. They get actual singers to do the vocals, but the hot dudes are the faces of the band. They win a Grammy. A fucking Grammy. And then BOOM. Exposed. The whole world finds out they didn’t sing a single goddamn note.”

“I want to do that but, like, smartly. So I don’t get caught. I will forever remain anonymous. Singing. Rich. In a house full of plants. While someone else takes my credit. That’s my life goal, I think.”

Felix sighs dramatically and leans back again. “You and your fucking plants.”

“They’re not just plants,” you say quickly, voice rising with the speed of your ramble. “They’re emotional support organisms. Like, I can’t talk to people. But I can talk to my string of turtles. And my monstera is so fucking pretty. I have one that’s growing a fenestrated leaf for the first time and I almost cried when I saw it because I’ve had it since freshman orientation and it didn’t even like me for six months and now it’s thriving and I’m like, that’s growth, literally and figuratively-”

“Jesus,” Jisung says, watching you with wide eyes. “You and I are the same person. I talked to my fucking desk cactus during midterms.”

“Don’t shit on emotional support foliage,”

Felix is giggling again, the kind of giggle that makes his shoulders shake. “You two have negative common sense between you. I swear to god.”

“Not true,” you say, poking his side. “We have a combined IQ of, like, a lot.”

Jisung raises a brow. “Name three bones in the human body.”

“Funnybone,” you say.

“Dick bone,” Jisung adds.

“Backbone,” Felix finishes, high-fiving both of you.

“See?” you say proudly. “Fucking geniuses.”

“Oh, Y/N,” Felix says, way too brightly, “time for your fucking medicine.”

“Noooooo,” you whine, already kicking your legs like a toddler. “I don’t want to do the drops. They make my eye feel weird. It’s like, cold and stingy and too fucking clinical. And my eye keeps twitching. And I hate people touching my eye. And it always feels like they’re gonna poke it into the back of my skull-”

Jisung snorts. “Jesus, you sound like you’re describing a horror movie. It’s just eyedrops.”

“Just eyedrops?” you squeak, sitting up suddenly. “Jisung. I have to get these fucking things four times a day, and you remember how I got this, right? Or were you too drunk to retain any memory of my tragic fucking trauma?”

“Okay, that’s dramatic, even for you,” Jisung teases, booping your nose.

“Let the girl be dramatic, she hit her face on the fucking kitchen counter!” Felix says, already reaching towards his desk where he keeps your dexamethasone drops. “You were drunk off your ass. You tripped over your own fucking Spiderman slipper and just BAM! Counter to the face. You slid down like a character in a video game. It was horrifying and honestly kind of graceful"

“It was not graceful. It was traumatic. I couldn’t even see out of my right eye, and then Minho had to drive me to the hospital because you two fuckers were useless.”

“That’s fair,” Jisung admits. “I was, like, seventeen tequila shots deep. I thought the inside of the freezer was a portal to Narnia.”

“And I passed out on the beanbag and woke up covered in Cheeto dust,” Felix adds casually, shaking the eye drop bottle. “You should be thankful Minho was sober. That man is, like, terrifyingly competent.”

You remember it vividly. Waking up on the kitchen floor, half-blind in your right eye, your face throbbing, Felix trying to pour water on your head like that would fix a head injury. Jisung trying to google how to heal a busted eye with a spoon and a towel. And Minho who came storming in with his hair still damp from a shower and calmly said, “Get in the car,” like a fucking protagonist in a thriller.

Then at the hospital, he held your hand while the emergency ophthalmologist examined you, and by held your hand, you mean he pinned your arms down because you wouldn’t stop flailing and trying to escape.

“Minho had to physically restrain me while they looked at my eye,”

“And now we have to restrain you while we put in your drops,” Felix says cheerily, already climbing over Jisung to get closer. “This is a group effort.”

“No! Noooo!” you cry, trying to scoot backwards off the bed, but Jisung grabs your ankles and yanks you back with a victorious shout, laughing his ass off as you flail.

“Get the arms!”

Jisung throws a leg over your thighs and pins you down, giggling madly while Felix straddles your chest.

This is not hygienic! I have RIGHTS! I hate you both!”

Felix frowns. “Fuck, she’s twitching again. I can’t get a clean shot. Her eye’s moving around like she’s being electrocuted.”

“I’m nervous! My eye is vulnerable and wet and you’re attacking it with chemicals!”

“We need backup,” Jisung announces solemnly, grabbing his phone and texting at the speed of light. “Summoning the Eye Drop Task Force.”

“Oh god,” you whisper as the door slams open.

First comes Hyunjin, looking freshly moisturized and vaguely annoyed, shirtless in grey sweatpants and blinking like he just woke up from a nap. “Is it time?”

“Yep,” Jisung grins.

Jeongin waltzes in wearing a silk robe and sipping a protein shake and Seungmin trails in behind him, yawning, phone still in hand, dressed in all black like he’s attending a funeral, and mutters, “I had just started a game.”

Finally, Changbin storms in, cracking his knuckles like he’s ready to brawl. “Is the patient resisting again?”

“Okay, Jeongin, you’re on eye duty,” Felix commands like a general. “Hyunjin and Seungmin, arms. Changbin, head stabilization. Let’s do this.”

“I swear to god-” you begin, but then it’s too late. Suddenly, you’re being held down like a lab rat, Jeongin climbing over you with his perfectly manicured fingers prying your eyelids apart.

“Holy fuck, why is her eye twitching so much?” Jeongin asks, squinting at your face. “It’s like trying to hold open a possessed clam.”

Felix dives in with the bottle, tongue poking out in concentration. He angles it just right, and plop. “Got it!”

“IT’S COLD. IT’S IN MY FUCKING BRAIN. I CAN TASTE IT THROUGH MY SINUSES.”

“Side effect,” Seungmin says dryly, already letting go of your arm and stepping back.

“Goddamn,” Changbin says, brushing off his hands. “You put up a fight. That was like wrestling a raccoon.”

“Do raccoons scream about injustice and cry while getting medical treatment?”

“Only the very dramatic ones,” Jeongin says, patting your head.

As the boys file out, muttering things like “good luck with the next dose” and “text if she tries to bolt next time,” Jisung flops back on the bed beside you, breathless.

“You know what I need?” he says, staring at the ceiling. “I need a nap.”

“Me too”

The two of you immediately curl up together like a pair of exhausted kittens, dragging the blanket up to your chins. Felix sighs loudly, clearly pretending to be annoyed, but you can hear the fondness in his voice. “Oh my god, you two nap more than my halmeoni. It’s three in the fucking afternoon.”

“Naps help with anxiety,”

“And the crushing weight of existing in late-stage capitalism,”

The kitchen is quieter than usual for a mid-afternoon at the Alpha Phi frat house, save for the occasional distant shout of "FUCKING HEADSHOT!" echoing from the game room next door.

That can only mean one thing, Felix is gaming. And if Jisung isn’t glued to Felix, then there’s a one-hundred-percent chance he and you are currently passed out upstairs in Felix’s bed, dead to the world.

Chan sits alone at the kitchen island, hunched over his laptop, his elbows planted on either side of his black over-ear headphones as he scrolls through the Secret Sound Programme submission list. He’s been at it for over an hour now, the audio files blurring together, some decent, some good, a few outright painful, but none of them have what he needs.

The request he submitted for this batch was specific, a cover of Good Day by IU. A notoriously difficult song because of those three high notes. Chan knows exactly what he wants, and it’s not mediocrity.

And then he sees it. #8847.

The number jumps out like it’s glowing, not because of anything on the screen, but because he knows it. He’s heard this one before. Not this exact file, but this submitter. This voice. This goddamn voice.

Chan clicks and the sound that pours through his headphones is nothing short of magic. He exhales sharply, sitting back like the wind just got knocked out of him. It’s not forced. It’s not shaky. It’s confident without sounding cocky, emotional without being overdone.

From behind him, there’s the steady sound of chopping. Minho is at the stove, stirring a pot of guksu jangguk with his usual laser focus. His hair is pulled back with a makeup headband with little cat ears perched on top.

Minho doesn’t look up. “You’re listening to your singing Cinderella again, aren’t you?”

“How the fuck do you always know?”

“You get that same dumb dreamy look every time,” Minho says, flicking sesame seeds into the pot. “Like you’re in a Disney movie and the forest animals are about to start harmonizing.”

“Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all, yeah. I am. But listen to this.”

He yanks the headphone jack out of his laptop and hits play again, letting the voice fill the kitchen.

Minho finally pauses, tilting his head as he listens. “Damn. That’s a good voice.”

Chan shakes his head. “That’s not a good voice. That’s perfection. This girl should be an idol. Not getting paid like twenty thousand won a clip to sing anonymously for my student projects.”

Minho gives him a sideways glance, smirking. “You’re in love with a voice. What if she’s ugly?”

“What the fuck, Min?”

“I’m just saying. Someone with a voice like that could still look like she crawled out of a fucking swamp.”

Chan stares at him in horror. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

Minho shrugs. “I’m concerned. My objectively attractive friend is developing a parasocial crush on an anonymous voice. And if this girl turns out to be fugly, and you fall in love and make ugly babies, I will have to lock them in a cupboard when I babysit. I’ll feed them, I’m not a fucking monster, but it’ll be with a slingshot because I’m not trying to have their ugly asses within eyesight.”

“You’re fucking insane.”

“I’m serious,” Minho says, pointing a wooden spoon at him. “No one in this frat is allowed to have ugly babies. Everyone in Alpha Phi? Hot as fuck. It’s not a coincidence.”

Chan laughs, running a hand through his hair. “So you're saying we’re hot by design?”

“Yes!” Minho slams the spoon down with emphasis. “You think Seungmin’s still here because he’s our future lawyer? No. It’s because he is photogenic as shit. You, me, Changbin, Hyunjin, Jisung, Felix, Jeongin, we’re a fucking visual lineup. This is curated beauty. It must be preserved.”

“You’re ranting about eugenics right now. You’re cancelled. You’re done.”

“I’m not saying we sterilize ugly people,” Minho says, like that somehow makes it better. “I’m just saying ugly people should fuck other ugly people. And beautiful people should fuck beautiful people. Like you. And oh, I don’t know. Off the top of my head. Y/N. Just as an example. For the sake of argument.”

Chan doesn’t say anything for a moment because his brain is suddenly glitching between two very inconvenient truths. One, he has a stupid, growing crush on you. You, the anxious, soft-voiced, ramble-prone botany major who trips over nothing and drinks tea out of mugs shaped like frogs. Two, he’s also falling in love with a voice, this anonymous, elusive voice from the Secret Sound Programme that keeps showing up in his project folders and sounding like a dream.

“I mean, think about it,” Minho continues, now ladling broth into little bowls for later. “You and Y/N would make the most disgustingly pretty kids. The kind of babies that get sponsorship deals before they can talk. And she’s sweet. She’d probably grow an entire herb garden for their baby food. You’d write lullabies. It’d be domestic as fuck.”

Chan groans and drops his head onto the counter. “Can you not?”

“I’m just helping,”

“You’re matchmaking with my crush on a person I barely talk to,” Chan mumbles into the granite.

Minho laughs and drops a pair of chopsticks beside him. “Eat your soup and stop fantasizing about your mystery songbird. She probably has four teeth and a criminal record.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Chan mutters, “You’re lucky your food is good,” and starts eating.

But even as he sips the warm, rich broth, the voice lingers in his head. That smooth, almost haunting clarity, the way she hits those notes like it’s effortless. Like she was born to do it. And something in his chest aches, not just from musical admiration, but something... deeper. He tells himself it’s professional curiosity. That’s what he always says.

But part of him wants to find her. And another part wonders what he’ll do if she’s not who he imagined at all.

The music department hallway is buzzing in that quiet kind of way. Chan’s on his way to the studio he booked out for the next few hours, planning to layer some beats and maybe work on that track he’s had in his head all week, the one meant for the mystery vocalist who’s been haunting his laptop like some siren made of MP3 files and vocal perfection.

He’s brought to a dead stop by a shriek so loud it makes him jump, followed by someone yelling, “Just keep your eye open! You need your drops!”

There’s another, more dramatic shriek, and then a loud laugh, one that sounds very familiar.

Chan’s head turns immediately, brow furrowed, and a second later, the door to one of the Secret Sound recording rooms swings open. Out tumble you and Jisung, both laughing, you blinking rapidly and wiping at your right eye while Jisung pumps both fists in the air.

Chan watches the scene unfold like a confused bystander caught in the weirdest flash mob ever. His brain is already spinning, because that’s the studio for Secret Sound students only. No one’s supposed to know who’s in there. The program is built on anonymity.

Singers submit under ID numbers, files get encrypted, and only the admins know who’s behind which voice. Even the production majors working with the clips get no names, no faces. It’s been the most creatively exciting part of his projects recently, this total mystery.

And now he’s staring at the two people he least expected walking straight out of that studio.

You blink up at him, your right eye still a little red and watery. “Oh, hey Chan! We, uh- Hi!”

Jisung jumps in, saving you without hesitation. “Hey! Didn’t know you were gonna be here! Haha, yeah, we were just doing some stuff."

Chan blinks. “Were you just in the Secret Sound studio?”

Jisung nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, yeah, totally. I needed some extra cash. Figured I’d lend my angelic vocals to the student masses.”

You make a little squeak of a noise beside him and try to smile. “I just tagged along. Moral support. Very moral. Supportive. Morally supportive.”

Chan looks between the two of you. You’re wearing a dark blue cropped denim jacket layered over a black lace bralette, the jacket sleeves pushed halfway up your forearms. Your high-waisted denim mini skirt barely skims your thighs, and your thigh-high black boots are so well-fitted it’s almost unfair. A small black handbag dangles from your shoulder, your fingers clutching it like a lifeline.

Jisung’s coordinated to match you, dark blue button-up shirt and pants covered in white stars, a chunky silver chain around his neck, a black crossbody bag slung across his chest, and white high-tops scuffed in a way that screams style and chaos in equal measure. He always looks like he’s about to perform or rob a very fashionable store.

“Oh, cool. I didn’t know you guys were part of Secret Sound. Obviously. Considering the secret part.”

You laugh nervously, clutching your bag tighter. “Oh no, uh, not me. Just Jisung. I can’t even sing. And if I did, which I don’t, I wouldn’t do it publicly. Even secretly. That’s not- Anyway, I was just here to support Ji, because he, um, gets nervous. Not that he needs to. Because he’s amazing. But support is good.”

“Uh huh, yep. Just me singing. Not Y/N. I just needed support hitting the high notes and who better than Y/N, right?”

Chan tries not to raise an eyebrow. “Right. Well, good for you, Ji. Maybe now you can stop making a point of belting Defying Gravity during your late-night showers.”

“And deny my fellow frat housemates the pleasure of my high notes? That’s a hate crime.”

You giggle beside him, and Chan’s heart does this stupid little lurch in his chest that he immediately pretends not to notice. You always laugh like you’re surprised by it, like the sound escaped you on accident. It’s adorable in a way that really shouldn’t affect him as much as it does.

You tap Jisung’s arm gently. “Ji, we have that thing, remember?”

“Oh! Right! Yes, the thing. The very important thing. Top secret.”

Chan raises an eyebrow. “What thing?”

“We’re working on a present,” Jisung says, grabbing your hand and dragging you a step backwards. “For Felix. He’s been feeling kind of homesick lately.”

Chan blinks. “Need help? I know the feeling.”

Jisung waves a hand. “Nah, it’s cool. I’ll text you if we need backup. Y/N’s Aussie too, so she’s got, like, all the outback wisdom stored in her brain.”

You nod, eyes wide and innocent. “Yup. Koalas. Kangaroos. Tim Tams. Deeply ingrained generational trauma. The whole shebang.”

Chan laughs softly despite himself. “Sounds very authentic.”

“We try,” Jisung says brightly, already half-turning to go. “Anyway, gotta dash! Bye!”

You offer a tiny wave and a breathless smile. “Bye, Chan.”

You barely make it halfway down the hallway before you’re spiralling. Jisung keeps pace beside you effortlessly, hands shoved into the pockets of his star-covered pants, but he’s watching you from the corner of his eye with increasing amusement and a hint of concern. You, on the other hand, are mid-freak-out.

“Oh my fucking god. He knows. I know he knows. He looked at me. Like actually looked. He’s going to figure it out. He’s going to fucking figure it out and I’m going to have to fake my death. I’ll jump into the Han River. With rocks in my pockets. And bricks. Around my ankles. And maybe a couple of dumbbells, just to be sure.”

Jisung snorts. “Little dramatic.”

“I am serious, Jisung! Dead. Serious. Nice knowing you. Tell Felix he can have all my skirts. And thigh-high boots. He can have the whole fucking closet. The two of you can split it. You’ve both got the waists and the legs for it, make sure it goes to good use. But also, listen to me. This part’s important.”

He nods solemnly, lips twitching. “Go on.”

“If I die and you use an ugly picture of me for any memorial posts, I swear to fucking god I will haunt you. Forever. I’ll be one of those sad suicide ghosts, dripping water all over your stuff and whispering your name in the middle of the night.”

“Oh my god-”

“And I’ll do it when you’re trying to fuck Felix,” you continue without pause. “Like literally when you’re mid-thrust. I’ll pop up out of the closet, soaking wet, mascara dripping down my cheeks, looking like the Babadook’s depressed sister. You will never get hard again. I will be a phantom boner killer for the rest of your goddamn life. Not even the little blue pill will save you.”

Jisung stops walking. “Okay, first of all, how fucking dare you use the words phantom boner killer like that in public. Second of all, I love you, but what the actual shit is wrong with your brain?”

You inhale like you’re about to start again, but he holds up both hands.

“No, wait, don’t answer that. I already know. You’ve got anxiety and imagination trauma, it’s a potent fucking combo. But listen, I have a plan.”

“Go on.”

Jisung steps closer like he’s about to whisper state secrets. “If Chan starts getting close to figuring out that you’re one of the Secret Sound students, we’ll redirect.”

“To what?” you ask slowly.

“To someone else,” he says confidently. “Someone more obvious. Someone who could very realistically be a musical mystery girl. Someone who’s already obsessed with him. You know who I’m talking about.”

You blink. “Please don’t say-”

“Eunjung,” he says with a wicked grin. “That girl from the theatre department who’s been foaming at the mouth for Chan since the start of the semester.”

“Oh god,” you groan. “You want to Cinderella Story him.”

“Yes,” he says immediately.

“The one with Lucy Hale?”

He nods again, all enthusiasm. “Absolutely. That one was a fucking masterpiece.”

You bite your lip. “It might actually work.”

He beams. “It will work. It’s flawless. And if he does find out, don’t worry. I’ll cause a scandal so big, Chan’ll be too busy trying to fix the frat’s PR image to even remember what his name is.”

You blink. “Scandal?”

“Oh yeah,” he says, eyes gleaming. “I’ll wear a skirt. No panties. To the next frat party.”

You choke. “You what?!”

“I’ll show everyone the Jischlong,” he declares proudly. “I’ll twirl. I’ll bend over. I’ll dance on the fucking beer pong table. Chan’ll spend weeks managing the fallout. He’ll be too busy for fucking anything else.”

“You are completely unhinged.”

“Thank you,” he says, bowing slightly. “I do it all for you, my sweet spooky suicide ghost.”

“I cannot believe this is the plan.”

“It’s foolproof. Either he doesn’t figure it out, or he does and is immediately hit with a flash of thigh and psychological damage so intense, he forgets what music is.”

The Alpha Phi kitchen is bathed in the kind of dim, flickering light that only comes from a single overhead bulb deciding whether or not to give up. It’s 2 a.m., the hour where everything feels a little fuzzy around the edges and the air itself hums like it’s trying to lull you into sleep, except none of you are going to sleep anytime soon.

There’s an open tub of cookie dough ice cream in the middle of the island with three spoons shoved haphazardly inside, and a half-empty bottle of red wine sitting next to it. Felix is nursing his glass like a suburban housewife, perfectly manicured fingers holding the stem delicately as he stares at you and Jisung like you’ve just shat in the wine.

“I love you both with my whole fucking heart,” Felix says, pausing dramatically. “Y/N, you’re my platonic soulmate, my twin flame, my own piece of Sydney that I smuggled into Korea with me like an emotional support kangaroo. And Jisung, you’re my boyfriend with the fluffiest hair I’ve ever buried my face in, and I love you and your beautiful, girthy, wide, fat cock that my ass has literally shaped to at this point-”

“What the actual fuck-”

“-but,” Felix continues smoothly, “that is the dumbest fucking idea I’ve ever heard in my entire life. You want to Cinderella Story Chan?”

Jisung blinks at him, wide-eyed. “Yeah!”

“We didn’t say it was a good plan. Jisung said it was a plan. I never committed verbally. Or emotionally.”

Felix closes his eyes like he’s praying to some higher power to give him strength. “It is hands down the worst idea you two have had. And that’s a high fucking bar. You two are complete pabos.”

“That’s a little harsh,” Jisung pouts.

“No, it’s not,” Felix says flatly. “Chan would figure it out in less than twenty-four hours. He’d sniff out the bullshit before Eunjung even opens her mouth. And what if he asks her to sing? What if she sounds like a fucking dying cat?”

“She’s a theatre major!” Jisung says defensively. “She has to be able to sing!”

“Not if she’s just focusing on acting,” Felix snaps. “If she wanted to sing, she’d be in musical theatre. She’s probably never hit a high note in her fucking life. If you put her up as the mystery voice and she opens her mouth and starts croaking like a frog with laryngitis, Chan will know.”

You press the side of your face to the countertop dramatically. “I’m going to die.”

“No, you’re not, we’ll think of something else.”

Felix huffs, taking another sip of his wine. “Back to the drawing board then.”

You groan. “The problem is, like, Chan is way too hot for me. Like, not even a little. Like full-blown fictional-level hot. He’s a twelve. I’m a five. Maybe. And that’s without the uveitis. With it, I’m probably a three. Or a very solid haunted Victorian child, which might get me points with the goth community, but Chan is not goth-”

Felix doesn’t even let you finish. He whacks you on the arm with the back of his hand and glares. “Don’t talk shit about my best friend.”

Jisung slaps your other arm with the flat of his spoon. “You’re hot as fuck! Stop saying weird shit like that!”

You flinch. “I bruise easily!”

“And I will keep bruising you if you keep talking about yourself like that,” Felix threatens, jabbing a finger into your forehead. “You’re hot. You’re smart. You’re kind. You’re so pretty it makes me want to shove you into traffic sometimes, just to balance the universe.”

“Wow. Okay. Love you too, I guess?”

Jisung nods solemnly. “You are the sexiest haunted Victorian child I’ve ever seen, and if Chan doesn’t think so, then he’s an idiot. Or blind. Or possibly both. In which case, you’ll still have us and your uveitis, and honestly, that’s a powerful trio.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm, and you feel the beginnings of a smile creeping in despite the lingering self-pity. “It’s not about being hot, though. He’s so talented. He’s focused. He’s the head of Alpha Phi. And he produces these tracks that sound like actual professional shit. Real question here. What the fuck kind of situation is this?”

“Honestly? If Chan’s already sampled one of your recordings, Y/N, he’s going to figure out it’s you no matter what fucking teen movie you two try to rip off.”

You suck in a sharp breath like you’ve just been stabbed in the chest with a very small, very accurate knife. “Fuck, okay, well, that’s like completely within the realm of realistic thought, and I get it, I totally get it. I just- I was really hoping that the level of sheer insanity in the plan might buy me some kind of cosmic protection, you know? Like, surely no one is this stupid and therefore I would be safe.”

Felix points at you. “That’s the problem. You are that stupid. You and this idiot.” He nods toward Jisung, who salutes like this is a badge of honour.

“Maybe he hasn’t heard any of mine.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Jisung straightens in his chair like he’s just been struck by divine inspiration. “What if we try She’s the Man?”

Felix and Jisung both squint at you, scanning your face like they’re trying to solve a very intense mathematical equation. Felix frowns. “She couldn’t play being a man. Too pretty.”

You snort, disbelieving. “Okay, you’re just saying that because you love me.”

“Yeah, and I have eyes,” Felix says. “Look at you.”

“But Felix,” Jisung argues, turning to his boyfriend. “You’re too pretty to be a man and you are an actual man with a dick and balls, which I have seen and can certify are there.”

“But I speak and it gives it away. My voice is deep as shit. Y/N is prettier in a softer way, it’s not the same vibe. She couldn’t pull off being a dude in disguise. So, next idea.”

Jisung hums, poking the side of the ice cream tub with his spoon. “Okay, Parent Trap?”

Felix doesn’t even hesitate. “Pass. She’d panic and confess within thirty seconds of opening her mouth.”

“Fair,” you admit.

“Okay, okay, Juno?”

You look him dead in the eye. “I’m not getting pregnant for a bit. Next.”

“Boooooo! Boring! Do it for the plot!”

“Imagine me with excess hormones,” you say, eyes wide. “Imagine that. I can barely survive my period. You want me to throw pregnancy hormones into this already delicate soup of dysfunction?”

Felix shudders. “Next.”

Jisung doesn’t miss a beat. “Camp Rock?”

Felix squints. “Literally nothing about that is secret. She just shows the back of her head.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, “and then fully turns around with a weird leg position. What part of that was meant to be a secret identity?”

“She was brave!” Jisung defends, mouth full of melted cookie dough.

“She was an idiot,” Felix says. “Next.”

Jisung sighs, flopping his arm over your shoulder dramatically. “Hannah Montana. Next time we go to the studio, we stick you in a wig.”

“Not bad.”

“Not bad at all.”

Jisung perks up. “You guys agree with me?”

Felix points at his boyfriend. “Mark this moment. Write it down. We agreed with Jisung.”

You’re already spiralling again, tapping your spoon nervously against your leg. “What kind of wig, though? Like full blonde? Should we do highlights? A bob cut?”

“Okay, you need to chill,” Felix says, clapping a hand over your mouth. “Let me handle the disguise.”

You nod under his palm, and he releases you with a sigh.

“We can dress her in something she’d never fucking wear,” he says, already in stylist mode. “Slap a face mask on, sunglasses, a cap, something that screams undercover idol. Give her some weird clothes, maybe fake lashes or a beauty mark somewhere. Something to throw him off. Make her a whole new bitch.”

You squint. “Can we call her something? Like, an alter ego name?”

Jisung leans in. “Ooh, what about Aurora Borealis?”

Felix frowns. “That’s not a name, that’s a natural phenomenon.”

“Exactly,” Jisung whispers dramatically.

You’re halfway through another sip of wine when the idea finally settles in, and then you mutter, “And if that doesn’t work, suicide.”

“WHY IS THAT YOUR GO-TO AT ANY MINOR INCONVENIENCE?!”

"Because it’s failproof!”

Jisung throws his head back and groans. “Oddly, I feel like you’d fail at suicide.”

“I would, I’d trip on the way to the bridge. Or fall in and somehow end up winning a local swimming competition instead.”

Felix is on his feet now, pacing dramatically like a lecturer at the edge of a breakdown. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard you say that shit since we were thirteen? Thirteen! The first time was after that goddamn school assembly about mental health, and you stood up after and went, ‘If I ever have to ask for help, just let me walk into the sea with rocks in my pocket.’”

“I meant it,” you say solemnly, twirling your spoon.

Felix throws his arms in the air. “And I’ve had SEVEN YEARS OF THIS SHIT. Seven! It’s 2025 now, and I’m still getting suicide monologues at two in the fucking morning over boys and bad ideas and whether or not you have too many freckles on your nose-”

“I do,”

“You do not!”

You’re giggling now and Jisung is cackling beside you, cheeks flushed, his arm around your shoulder as you both sway gently like seaweed in the tide of your collective nonsense.

“I swear to god, if I have to listen to one more fake death plan involving rivers or ghosts or you becoming a vengeful spirit just because someone looked at you too long, I’m going to walk into the Han River myself.”

You lean your head on Jisung’s shoulder and smile. “You’d miss me.”

“I’d haunt you,”

You sigh, eyes closing briefly. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately,” he mutters, but he’s already reaching across the table to top off your wine.

You, Felix and Jisung walk through the halls of the music department like you’re part of a covert black-ops mission. Your boots click-clack sharply on the linoleum, tall stiletto heels echoing like war drums. The leather trousers are so tight you can practically hear them scream for mercy with every step, and your bandeau crop top is small enough to be considered legally insignificant. The red, black, and white racer jacket swishes slightly as you walk, its colours bold against your all-black base. The red wig sits perfectly under your black cap. A black surgical face mask hides the lower half of your face, and oversized black sunglasses obscure your eyes entirely.

Behind you, Jisung walks like he owns the floor, a fitted black long-sleeve shirt hugging his lean frame, silver chain glinting around his neck. His black cargo pants hang low on his hips and the way his boots stomp makes it sound like he’s daring someone to challenge his drip. Felix is all sharp contrast in his white jacket over a black crop top, baggy black cargos making his tiny waist look even smaller, white Converse practically glowing against the dull floor tiles.

“This is fucking perfect,” Felix whispers. “Thank god for my leather trousers, huh?”

“Her ass looks better in them than yours does.”

Felix doesn’t even blink. “True.”

“Can we please not talk about my ass? I’m sweating in places I didn’t know I could sweat.”

“You’re doing amazing, sweetie,” Felix whispers dramatically.

The hallway bends around to the left, and the Secret Sound studios come into view and unfortunately, so does Chan. His black hoodie is pulled up over his beanie, and he’s wearing those black joggers that hang off his hips like a threat. He’s looking down at his phone until he hears your boots and lifts his head. The smile he gives when he spots Felix and Jisung is soft and lazy, and your stomach twists into a knot.

“Oh hey, Lix, Ji,” Chan greets, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Who’s your friend?”

You freeze. You can feel your heartbeat in your ears. Jisung, ever the chaotic saviour, jumps in without hesitation.

“She’s in my journalism course!” he blurts, a little too loudly. “Yeah, she, uh, doesn’t talk much. Kind of shy. She had this really bad car accident like, last year? Or maybe earlier this year. Definitely recent. Yeah. It, uh, left her with this big facial scar and- Uh- she doesn’t like to show her face in public. Also, she lost her left eye. So that’s why she’s got the sunglasses. And the mask. And the hat. You know, protection. From the sun. And from stares. She’s really private. So we’re just helping her feel normal. And, you know, supporting her. Because she’s super talented and- yeah.”

Felix just nods solemnly and hooks his thumb into the waistband of his pants. “Yeah. She’s got some serious vocal chops. Real hidden gem kind of vibe.”

Chan nods slowly, face unreadable. “Oh, wow. Shit. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Jisung winces dramatically. “Yeah, it was rough. She doesn’t like to talk about it.”

Chan tilts his head. “So, where’s Y/N?”

Felix groans like he’s been asked to recount a war story. “She has a botany assignment. I tried to convince her to leave it till the last minute but nooooo. Plants are more important than human connection.”

Chan laughs softly. “Sounds like her.”

“Tragically,” Felix agrees, folding his arms.

“So,” Chan gestures vaguely toward you. “What’s your friend’s name?”

“Mina,” Felix says immediately.

Jisung nods too quickly. “Yeah, Mina. Yep. That’s her name. Mina. Choi Mina"

Chan smiles again, soft. “Well, nice to meet you, Mina.”

You nod. Just a nod. One slow, single dip of your head. You don’t trust your voice. You don’t trust your limbs. You don’t trust any of your senses right now because you are absolutely, violently unprepared for this backstory and this name and the absolute nerve Jisung had to throw in facial disfigurement. You were prepared to pretend to be anonymous. Not a one-eyed, scarred tragedy heroine.

Felix grabs your arm, all but yanking you toward the booth door. “Okay, well, time’s ticking, gotta get her in there before her nerves kick in.”

Jisung reaches around Chan like he’s diffusing a bomb and shoves the studio door open. “Yeah, she gets real jittery if she waits too long.”

And before Chan can say another word, the two of them hustle you into the studio like a pair of overly invested stage moms and slam the door shut behind them. You’re barely upright, your heart thudding so loud you think you might pass out.

“What the fuck was that?!”

Felix looks unbothered, already fussing with the mic stand. “Mina has range.”

“I panicked.”

“Jisung, you said I lost my eye in a car crash!”

“You do have uveitis!”

“Which is not the same thing!”

“Details!” Jisung waves you off. “You were brilliant.”

Felix spins to face you, grinning like a proud parent. “You’re a star.”

“I want to die.”

Felix pats your shoulder. “Not until we get this track down. Come on, Mina. Let’s get to work.”

Chan stands outside the Secret Sound studio like he’s rooted to the goddamn floor, still staring at the door Jisung and Felix just dragged Mina through. The last thing he expected when he showed up to grab some gear and check his booking schedule was to be slammed in the face with a brand new mystery. He’s not sure if he should be suspicious, confused, or maybe just concerned.

He’s about to leave, finally pulling himself away from the door, when he hears it. A voice. Soft at first. Just a breath. Then it sharpens, strengthens. Builds. His chest goes still. Because that voice, he knows that voice. It’s her. His secret singer.

Chan leans closer to the door, straining to hear every note like it might change something in him. His hand lifts slowly, resting against the frame. The song flows and when it hits the high, delicate bridge, it fucking soars. His heart clenches. His mouth goes dry. He knows this performance. He knows this voice like he knows his heartbeat.

But instead of the satisfaction he thought he’d feel when he finally found her, something cold settles in his gut. Something bitter.

He thought it was you.

He hoped it was you.

He can’t even pinpoint when it started, when his mind began attaching the fantasy voice to your face, your laugh, your nervous little rambles. The secret hope grew slowly, secretly, like a weed he let take root in a corner of his heart he didn’t want to acknowledge. Maybe it was the way you speak in metaphors when you’re tired and off-guard. Or maybe it was just wishful fucking thinking. Whatever it was, it’s shattered now. Because Mina isn’t you.

Chan turns away from the door and starts walking down the hall, trying to shrug off the disappointment that clings to him. He tells himself not to be dramatic. That he didn’t know anything for sure. That he never asked. Never had proof. Just a dumb fucking crush and a voice he romanticized until his heart made up its own conclusions.

The walk back to the Alpha Phi house is slow, not because his legs are tired, but because his thoughts won’t shut the fuck up. He’s spiralling just a little, in that annoying way where he knows he’s being irrational but can’t stop himself anyway.

When he finally steps into the frat house, the smell of food smacks him in the face like a warm, comforting punch. He finds Minho in the kitchen, hair pushed back with his cat-ear headband that he only ever wears when he’s deep into chef mode. He’s flipping kimchi pancakes in one pan and sautéing bulgogi in another.

“I know who my singing Cinderella is,”

Minho doesn’t turn. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Chan sighs again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Someone on Jisung’s journalism course. Felix said her name’s Mina. Choi Mina”

Minho finally looks up from the pan, raising a brow. “Why so glum, sugar plum?”

Chan leans his elbows on the counter. “I thought it was Y/N.”

Minho pauses mid-flip, then carefully turns the pancake and drops the spatula onto a paper towel. “Oh.”

“I mean, it was dumb,” Chan says quickly. “Wishful thinking. I just, I don’t know, I thought maybe- Fuck, I don’t know what I thought. I’m being fucking dramatic. Forget it.”

“No, no, we don’t suppress feelings here. We just drown them in oil and carbs.”

Chan chuckles weakly and watches as Minho plates the bulgogi with clinical precision.

“So,” Minho says casually, “what’s the deal with this Mina girl?”

Chan exhales again, digging his fingers into his hair. “She was in a bad car accident. Got facial scars. Lost an eye. Doesn’t talk much. Jisung said she’s shy, keeps to herself, covers up a lot. Sunglasses, mask, all that.”

Minho hums. “Poor girl.”

“Yeah,” Chan mutters. “She didn’t speak, just nodded. And then Lix and Ji shoved her in the booth like they were hiding stolen art or something.”

Minho finally brings the plate over and drops it in front of Chan, followed by a smaller one with kimchi pancakes stacked high. “Y/N wasn’t with them?”

“Nah,” Chan says, grabbing his chopsticks. “Felix said she had a botany assignment. Tried to convince her to skip it but she’s a total nerd about her plants.”

Minho makes a noncommittal sound and reaches for his chopsticks, twirling them slowly between his fingers.

Chan digs in, groaning at the first bite. “Jesus fuck, Minho. You’re a blessing.”

“I know,” Minho says, but his tone’s distracted.

He watches Chan eat for a minute, silent. Something about the story doesn’t sit right. Felix and Jisung show up with some girl no one’s ever heard of before, conveniently while you’re busy. A mystery girl who’s all covered up and shy and also just so happens to be the voice Chan’s been obsessed with. A girl with a damaged eye, no less.

Minho knows you. Has watched you wrestle Jisung to the ground to avoid eyedrops. Has watched the way you fluster when anyone compliments your handwriting, how you trip over your words and apologize for existing when someone looks at you too long. A

and one thing Minho prides himself on more than anything else is his nose for bullshit. And this is Grade-A, top-tier, gourmet bullshit.

But he doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He’ll get the truth. He’ll waterboard Jisung if he has to. Strap Felix to a chair and interrogate him like it’s a fucking spy movie. Whatever it takes.

For now, he watches Chan shovel bulgogi into his mouth with zero grace and reaches over to pinch his nose. Chan grunts. “What the fuck?!”

“Eat faster. You sound sad. Sadness is a symptom of hunger. We’re treating it.”

“I’m gonna choke.”

“You’re gonna heal.”

Chan glares at him but keeps eating.

Minho doesn’t let his expression waver. But inside, he’s already planning. If Mina’s who he thinks she is, if you’re the girl behind the voice, then shit’s about to get messy. But Minho lives for messy.

It’s around 6 p.m. when you, Felix, and Jisung fully abandon any concept of productivity and end up flopping in a tangled, colourful heap on Felix’s bed.

All three of you are dressed in matching Minion pyjama pants. The pants are an eye-burning bright yellow with Minions printed all over them, and the fabric is already pilling, but you love them. You and Felix are both in cropped blue camisoles, and Jisung is wearing a yellow pyjama top to complete the horrifying aesthetic. And somehow, the three of you have ended up deep in a very serious, absolutely unhinged debate about terminal velocity.

“I’m telling you, humans have to fall at, like, 120 miles per hour to die. It’s basic physics.”

You nod solemnly in agreement with Jisung. “That’s why it’s called terminal velocity. Like, terminal. Like death. You fall that fast, you die. Anything under that, you’re probably fine. Maybe a broken ankle, but, like, alive.”

“Thank you! Y/N gets it. Someone here has a brain.”

Felix, perched at the head of the bed with his knees drawn to his chest and a hand pressed to his temple like he’s nursing a migraine, looks completely done. “You two are the reason the educational system is collapsing. That is not what terminal velocity means. Terminal velocity is the maximum speed an object can fall through air, like, due to drag and gravity. It has nothing to do with whether you die or not. Galileo is fucking weeping right now. Newton just rolled over in his grave. You’re killing science with your mouth words.”

You frown, raising your head just slightly. “But like, if terminal means death-”

“It doesn’t!” Felix groans.

Jisung throws a hand in the air. “It’s terminal. Terminal velocity. Ergo, the velocity at which you get terminally fucked.”

“So just so we’re on the same page, what you two have essentially just said to me is that if I fall from the top of Lotte Tower and I fall at 119 miles per hour, I’ll be totally fine. But if I hit 120? Instant death?”

You and Jisung nod, completely in sync, like two cult members agreeing with their charismatic, chaotic leader.

Felix groans into his hands. “This is so fucking bleak. It’s tragic, really. I’m dating a man who thinks drag equals death and my best friend genuinely believes physics works on horror movie logic.”

You sit up a bit more, crossing your legs awkwardly on the mattress. “Okay, but isn’t it possible that, like, there’s a speed where the body just shuts down? Where your organs go nope and everything just gives up?”

Felix is mid-scream when the door swings open and Minho steps in, shutting the door behind him with a click, his presence immediately shifting the energy and he looks like he’s about to ruin your lives.

“Important conversation happening. Do not interrupt. Y/N and I are proving Felix wrong with scientific fact.”

“You’re not. You’re both aggressively wrong. You’re big stinky pabos. I am right. Me. The only person in this room who apparently paid a slither of attention during physics.”

Minho walks over slowly, arms folded. “Jisung,” he says calmly. “You would have mentioned ages ago if some girl on your investigative journalism course got mangled in a car crash.”

You, Jisung, and Felix all turn your heads toward Minho at the exact same time, in perfect sync, like the three heads of a hydra all swivelling to face the knight who just stumbled into their cave.

“Okay, what the fuck, that was creepy as shit. Never do that again. But seriously.” He narrows his eyes, and now he’s not looking at Jisung anymore. He’s looking at you.

“Who is Choi Mina?”

Your stomach drops through the floor. You can’t breathe for a second. Your fingers curl around the Minion blanket on your lap and you’re suddenly very aware that Minho’s eyes are cutting through your entire soul.

His gaze slides from you to Jisung. Then to Felix. All three of you press your lips together like it’ll stop the truth from spilling out on its own.

Jisung crumbles like a soggy wafer, like the full intensity of Minho’s bullshit detector has melted every last ounce of resistance in his body.

“Okay! Fine! Fuck, I’ll talk, Jesus!” he blurts out. “Fuck, okay, yes, we lied, we’ve been lying, it was a whole thing, a whole complicated spiralling thing that started like, not even on purpose! I mean it sort of was, but also not in a like, malicious way!”

Felix groans into his pillow. You pull your knees to your chest, eyes wide with guilt and panic and the beginnings of a spiralling anxiety attack, because Minho hasn’t blinked once.

“So,” Jisung continues, flailing like he’s conducting his own confession, “We were coming out of the Secret Sound studio, me and Y/N, because she had just finished recording something and I was there for moral support, which I provide often and generously by the way, and we ran into Chan in the hallway. It was just bad luck or maybe karma, I don’t know, I still think I’m a good person but that’s subjective at this point! Anyway! Chan saw us, right? And we panicked, obviously, because the whole point is anonymity and mystery and intrigue or whatever, so I, being the genius that I am, said to Y/N, hey, what if we Cinderella Story this shit? And she was like, bet. Let’s go.”

You bury your face in your hands as Jisung barrels forward with the energy of a man who’s been holding in a secret for far too long.

“But then,” he goes on, “later that night we were drinking wine and brainstorming more movie plots and Felix said the Cinderella Story plan was stupid, and I mean, he wasn’t wrong, but it hurt my feelings a little. So I started considering other movies! Like, She’s the Man, but Y/N’s too pretty to be a convincing guy and her voice is too soft and nice and Felix pointed that out, and then I considered Juno, but she wouldn’t get pregnant for the plot, which I still think is kinda selfish-”

“Jisung,” Minho snaps.

“Right! Sorry! So anyway, we landed on Hannah Montana, and next thing we know, Y/N’s in a red wig, black cap, black face mask, and sunglasses, looking like she's on the run from Dispatch. Chan sees us again, and I panic and come up with the whole backstory on the spot! Car crash, facial scar, lost eye, emotional trauma, super shy, boom, instant mystique. And Felix-”

“I picked the name. Mina just sounded right.”

Jisung points at him. “Exactly! So now we’ve got Mina, tragic backstory girl, and it worked! Or it seemed like it did. And that’s all. That’s the whole fucked up tale. There was never any malicious intent. Just wine, anxiety, and a collective lack of fucking common sense!”

Minho is quiet for a full beat and when he finally speaks, it’s not the reaction you expect. “Why don’t you want Chan to find out?”

“It’s not just Chan,” you say, your voice too soft and a little shaky. “I don’t want anyone to find out. Like, at all. Chan’s just the most likely to figure it out. But he probably hasn’t even heard my recordings. So maybe he never even got mine. It’s fine. I like being invisible. It’s safe. It’s comfortable. I don’t want to give that up just because I opened my mouth and sang into a mic in a soundproof booth. That wasn’t the point.”

“Well,” Minho says slowly, “your fucking ridiculous plan worked. Chan’s obsessed. Like, full-on emotionally attached. He now thinks his obsession-causing recordings came from some beautiful, broken girl who survived a car crash and lost an eye. You know what that means?”

You say nothing. Just stare at him like he’s got a knife pressed to your anxiety.

“It means,” Minho continues, “he’s not just curious anymore. He’s invested. You could’ve just left it. Let the anonymity do its fucking job. Maybe he’d connect the dots, maybe not. But now you’ve given him a whole fucking tragedy. He thinks his muse is someone who’s been through hell.”

“Oh my god, I’m the worst person alive.”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “Honestly, Y/N, from what Chan said about meeting Mina, well, you, but you know what I mean, you didn’t actually say anything. You stood there in silence. So really? This is all Jisung and Felix’s fault.”

Felix sits up straight. “Excuse the fuck out of me?!”

“You’re right! You’re so right. Jisung made up the car crash story on the spot! And Felix named me! You guys humanised me!”

“Oh, fuck you! I gave you a name because he asked! What was I supposed to say? Oh, this is our mute mystery friend with no identity? That would’ve been worse!”

“And I panicked!” Jisung huffs. “Chan looked at me and my whole brain fried! I thought I was doing improv under pressure! You try lying to Chan’s face when he’s smiling at you like he trusts you not to be full of shit!”

“You are full of shit!” Minho snaps.

“We’re all full of shit!” Felix throws his hands up. “This whole fucking situation is made of shit! We’re in a pyramid of lies built entirely on drama and zero fucking logic!”

“I want to die.”

“You’re not allowed,” Jisung says, nudging you. “You need to finish recording those lyrics next week.”

Felix glares. “And if we’re going down, we’re all going down together. I am not taking the fall alone for this melodramatic novella of fuckery.”

Minho crosses his arms. “You’re all idiots.”

“Well, I’m back to the plan of tossing myself into the Han River. I think the timeline’s sped up. I was giving it, like, two to three working days, but honestly? It’s giving now. Where are my shoes? Someone find my shoes.”

“Oh god, she’s spiralling! Felix, she’s spiralling again!”

“It’s always fucking suicide,” Felix says, voice deadpan. “We should get her some therapy. Honestly, we should get you therapy while we’re at it, Ji.”

“You’re gonna be a ghost with anterior uveitis,” Jisung says, pointing at you like that’s the real tragedy here. “That’s what they’ll find in your autopsy report. Drowned with a funky eye. That’s your legacy. That’s what’s going in the newspapers. Local uni girl found dead in the Han River, had one weird eye and a Minion obsession.”

You gasp and dramatically press a hand to your chest. “That’s not my legacy! I refuse! I need a hot outfit, a white dress, something that makes a statement. So that if a scuba diver finds me or a fisherman pulls me out or whatever, at least I look iconic. I’m not dying in these fucking Minion pyjamas, that would be so embarrassing. There’s no dignity in death when you’ve got Stuart smiling on your left thigh.”

Felix snorts into a pillow, trying not to laugh but completely failing. “Okay, but if you do go, can I have your Minion pants? I’ll wear them every year on your death anniversary. With a crop top and a single tear.”

“You may,”

“And I’ll give a speech,” Jisung adds, one hand over his heart. “Something like, She faked an entire identity, and the weight of it crushed her. She wore Minion pants but died a main character.”

You start waving your hands, speaking too fast for your own brain. “The dress needs to be white, yes, but with, like, delicate beading. Floor-length with a train, but not too dramatic. Maybe a halter neckline? Or something backless. And it needs to cling in just the right places. I want the police divers to be like, Wow, this corpse slayed. Like tragic but hot. People should look at my photo and say, I wish I died that pretty. And my makeup has to be waterproof, because if I’m being dragged out of a river and my eyeliner’s smudged-”

Felix makes a strangled sound. “Please. Please stop planning your corpse glam.”

“I need bricks,” you continue, barely pausing for breath. “And rocks. Big ones. I need to not resurface. I can’t just be floating like some half-assed corpse on day two. It has to be dramatic. Final. Someone find me something heavy. Where are my fucking shoes?”

Minho’s hand appears from seemingly nowhere and plants firmly on your shoulder, shoving you back down with just enough force to make you collapse backwards onto Felix’s bed with a whine and a flail of your limbs.

“You’re not drowning yourself, pabo,”

“I have a new plan, I attempt to fight Changbin. There’s no way I make it out of that situation alive. He’s built like a prize stud bull”

“Okay, solid,” Jisung nods, immediately supportive. “We just throw you at him like bait and let him finish you.”

“Or,” you continue, gesturing wildly now, “I go and just annoy Seungmin for, like, a second. That’s all it’ll take. One second. He’ll smite me where I stand. No hesitation. His words will be so cutting I’ll disintegrate on the spot. Where is Seungmin?”

Minho sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Seungmin won’t smite you. He thinks of you like a little chick. Like, all fragile and in need of protection.”

You pause, blinking. “So back to the Changbin plan.”

“Tell him he’s not as babygirl as he thinks he is. That’ll do it.”

Felix groans. “You guys are so fucking stupid.”

You flop back onto the bed, arm flung over your face. “Well, make sure I’m wearing something good when I go. White dress. Beaded. A little mystery.”

“I’m going to actually call a therapist,” Felix mutters.

“Make it a group session,” Jisung says, flopping dramatically across your legs.

Minho just watches the three of you with the most unimpressed look on his face, arms crossed like he’s trying to decide whether to lecture or lobotomize the entire room. “You’re all getting matching straitjackets.”

“I’ll bedazzle mine,” Felix offers.

Jisung nods. “Mine needs room for snacks.”

The evening drags itself forward in the sluggish, golden way only post-dinner fatigue can manage. The bulgogi had melted in Chan’s mouth, the kimchi pancakes were crispy and just sour enough, and the fried garlic rice hit the kind of spot that made grown men emotional.

But Chan doesn’t feel comforted. Not really. And Minho had vanished upstairs immediately after dinner with a vague-ass, suspicious line about needing to rearrange the bookshelf in his closet, which was definitely code for something potentially illegal and inhumane.

Chan’s still chewing on the bitterness of the day. His stupid, fucking idealistic brain had been so certain, so sure it was you. He let himself believe it. That his crush on the girl who somehow made spiralling anxiety endearing could collide with the obsession he had for the voice that kept showing up in his tracks like it belonged there. One big messy crush. That’s what he wanted. Something easy. Something real. But then there was Mina.

He sighs, heavy and sharp, and makes his way back to campus on autopilot. His feet lead him toward the music building, into the quieter corridors, until he’s standing in front of the Secret Sound studio again. He shouldn’t be here.

The room’s still faintly warm from the last session, and there’s a faint scent of shampoo lingering in the air, something sweet and floral that tickles the back of his memory. He squints in the low light, blinking slowly, and then he sees it. A notebook on the desk. It’s covered in stickers, most of them are Attack on Titan characters, Levi, Jean, some tiny chibi versions of Mikasa and Armin in the margins. There’s even a foil sticker of mullet Jean near the top that looks like it’s been peeled off and restuck about six times.

The notebook looks familiar. Chan furrows his brows, steps closer, and picks it up gently. He flips it open without even meaning to.

The pages are chaos. Swirls of lyrics and scrawled lines, some crossed out with violent strokes, others underlined or starred or circled multiple times. Doodles in the corners, little ghosts, vines, hearts, the occasional eyeball. He reads the first full set of lyrics he lands on, and his stomach clenches. It’s like reading a heart laid bare. And they’re good. Like, insanely good. He flips again. Another song. Then another.

He keeps flipping. Page after page. And then he hits the front. The inside of the front cover has three lines of writing scrawled in different colours. The first is small, neat, and in the upper right-hand corner: L/N Y/N. His stomach lurches.

The second is messier, written in dark green marker with little stars around it, Jisung Was Here!! and he underlined was three times, the idiot.

The third is written in pink gel pen, all glittery and slightly smudged, Felix is the best friend EVER and this is a legally binding statement <3.

Chan stares at the names like they’ve personally betrayed him. Because that’s your name. This is your notebook. He knew he’d seen it before. You carry it around all the fucking time. It’s always poking out of your tote bag or lying on top of your textbooks. He’s seen it on Felix's desk, in your lap, on your knees when you’re curled up next to Jisung like a cat.

Taped onto the inside cover, right next to the names, are two Polaroids. One of them is old and slightly faded, corners curling, dated to 2010. A tiny six-year-old you grinning next to a matching six-year-old Felix, both of you with your front teeth missing and holding hands, standing in some park somewhere in what has to be Australia. The caption underneath, in pink glitter pen, just says: Look at these ICONS.

The second photo is newer. You’re on Jisung and Felix’s shoulders at a frat party a few months ago, dressed as Velma from Scooby-Doo. Felix is Fred, Jisung is in a full purple Daphne outfit, purple dress, wig and all. Your arms are in the air like you’re the queen of the world, and they’re both grinning up at you like you hung the fucking moon.

Chan flips back through the pages, faster now, like he’s desperate for confirmation. And he gets it. Notes for the song he requested complete with scribbles of ideas and reminders. There, at the top of the margin, is your Secret Sound ID number.

Chan knows that number because it’s the ID connected to the voice he’s been building his entire fucking sound library around for the past six months.

There is no car crash victim. No scarred, mysterious girl who sings like she’s bleeding and holds her pain in silence. It’s you, the anxious, rambling, messy girl who’s always talking about soil acidity and carries around homemade iced coffee in mismatched tumblers. It’s you.

Chan yanks out his phone with trembling fingers and hits Minho’s contact. His thumb stabs the call button and he paces the studio like a man with way too much adrenaline and not enough places to put it.

Minho picks up on the second ring. “What?”

“The singer, it’s been Y/N this whole fucking time.”

There’s a pause. Then the shuffling of movement on the other end. “Give me a moment, I’m with them right now.”

Chan starts pacing faster, his footsteps echoing slightly off the walls. “What do you mean you’re with them right now?”

Minho pulls the phone away from his mouth but doesn’t hang up. Chan hears it all, clearly as if he’s in the room. “He knows,”

There’s a sharp gasp, your gasp, and then immediate chaos.

“Y/N, no! You have so much to live for, don’t jump in the Han River!”

“Grab her before she can get out of the house!”

“We should section her!”

Chan stares at his phone in disbelief, then presses it closer to his ear, heart climbing higher into his throat.

Minho comes back on the line, sounding like he’s just wrestled a small animal. “It’s bad over here, man. You should get here fast.”

“Y/N! Get your head back inside! Do not jump out the window! Jisung, don’t join her!”

“What the fuck, Jisung?!”

Chan spins on his heel and bolts from the studio, not bothering to turn off the lights or shut the door. “I’m on my way.”

“Y/N! Jisung! Both of you get back in the window right now! Mommy Minho is putting his fucking foot down!”

Chan sprints across the campus, shoving his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he runs. He can hear everything, the crashing, the rustling, someone stomping, and then-

“Oh my god! She’s stripping! Her tits are out!”

“Y/N!”

“I am not dying in minion pyjamas! Felix, you have a perfectly nice white dress! I’m putting it on!”

“This is a hate crime! I’m gay and you showed me titties! Wait! When did you get your nipples pierced?!”

“A few months ago! I got drunk and Seungmin took me! Jisung, zip me up!”

“Okay!”

Chan’s lungs are burning but he keeps running. He cuts across the central quad, barely looking where he’s going. Someone almost crashes into him and he swerves around them without slowing down, phone still wedged tight against his ear.

“Why do you look better in my dress than I do?!”

“Because I have perky boobs and pierced nipples! Now find me a cinderblock to tie around my ankle for launching myself into the Han River!”

“All zipped up!” Jisung says with the energy of a man who thinks this is somehow helpful. “You look hot! Very tragic sexy corpse ready!”

“Great! Now get me to the Han River!”

Chan nearly chokes on a breath. He can’t tell if this is a fever dream or just your usual level of absolutely unhinged behaviour but turned up to eleven.

“What the fuck is happening over there?”

Minho doesn’t even answer. He doesn’t even seem to remember he’s still on the phone, because the yelling continues without a single update for Chan.

“Stop trying to open the window again! I swear to god, Y/N, I will tie you to this fucking bedpost myself.”

"You got piercings and didn’t tell me?! We’ve been getting changed in front of each other for months and you just hid them like you've got some kind of nipple shame?!”

“I was gonna tell you! But then you were busy baking and the moment never came up and also I forgot!”

“Who the fuck is throwing hangers?!”

“I’m accessorising! She needs a choker! Something slutty but dramatic!”

“I have a silver one with a dagger charm!”

“Yes! Give me that!”

Chan is breathless now, sprinting past the convenience store near the frat house, nearly slipping on the pavement.

“Where the fuck is the dagger necklace?!”

“In my second drawer under the mesh tops!” Felix replies. “Move the leather harness!”

“You own a leather harness?!” Minho shouts.

“Multiple! Don’t judge me!”

Chan is still breathing hard when he bolts up the frat house stairs, his sneakers pounding against the steps like a fucking war drum. His chest is tight, his heart slamming like it’s trying to punch through his ribs, but none of that matters, because the noise coming from Felix’s room is escalating.

He hears yelling. Thudding. Something crashing. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t knock, just grabs the handle and throws the door open like he’s kicking down the gates of hell.

The chaos hits him like a brick wall.

Jisung is crouched near the window, fluffing the skirt of Felix’s silky white party dress like he’s prepping a bride for a high fashion shoot, except this bride is you, standing on the bed, barefoot, hair a frizzy mess, tugging aggressively at the ends to give it volume.

The dress hugs you perfectly, clinging to your body like it was tailored for you. Your lips are glossy and a little puffy from nerves, your eyes are wide with panic, and the straps of the dress are slightly askew from being yanked on too fast. There’s a silver choker tight around your neck, a tiny dagger charm resting just above your collarbone.

The moment your eyes land on Chan, something wild flickers in them. He watches the shift in your expression, recognition, fear, and then sudden, chaotic resolve.

Minho moves like a fucking linebacker. He lunges across the room and tackles you mid-air, dragging you down just before your knees hit the windowsill. Jisung leaps on top of him. Felix dives a second later, all three of them crashing into a chaotic, grunting pile of limbs and screaming. You let out a muffled yelp as they all collapse on top of you, pinning you to the floor.

“Oh my god! Ow! Jisung, that's my face!”

Minho is flat on top of your chest, arms wrapped around your shoulders. Jisung is splayed on top of Minho, one leg thrown over his back like he’s making himself comfortable. Felix, somehow, ends up at the very top of the pile, half-sliding down Jisung’s side and shouting something about wrinkles in his trousers.

You squirm beneath them, your voice straining. “This is another way to die. I see the light. It’s that scene where Levi says ‘Two fingers is all I need.’ Heaven is glorious. Let me go.”

“We’re killing her!”

Chan grabs your wrists and yanks you up, dragging you out from under the pile of bodies like you’re some half-conscious ragdoll. You gasp when the air hits your lungs again, your legs flailing and the skirt of the dress riding up mid-rescue. Chan catches you just before you hit the floor.

You jerk away from him the second your feet hit the ground.

“Wait, Y/N-”

You bolt from the room like a deer being hunted, barefoot and breathless, heart pounding so hard it makes your vision tunnel. You don’t even think. You just run. Because there’s only one room in this house that represents safety. One room you know you won’t be followed into unless invited. And Seungmin? Seungmin is order. Stability. Rationality. Seungmin is your last hope.

You skid around the hallway corner and slam into his bedroom door, shoving it open so hard it bounces off the wall behind it.

Seungmin looks up from his laptop, one brow raised. He’s wearing glasses and a big hoodie that says CIVIL LAW IS SEXY. There’s a cup of tea on his desk and he has lo-fi beats playing softly from his speakers.

“I need sanctuary.”

“Did you commit a felony?”

“I committed emotional fraud,” you say. “Please, don’t ask questions.”

You slam the door shut behind you and throw yourself into his bed, diving under the covers like you’re burrowing to hide from the shame monster.

Seungmin turns his chair and stares at the mountain of blankets you’ve become. “So, who do I have to sue?”

“Me. I fucked up. I fucked up so bad. I’m going to become an international embarrassment.”

He sighs and climbs into the bed next to you, grabbing the edge of the blanket and tugging it back until your face peeks out. He wraps the blanket tighter around you, burrito-style, tucking it in at the sides like he’s swaddling a baby.

“Okay, start from the beginning.”

You do. Between wheezes and dramatic sighs and occasional gasps for air, you tell him everything. You tell him about Secret Sound and how you never told anyone but Felix and Jisung. You tell him about how you started submitting stuff anonymously, how you thought you’d stay invisible. You tell him how you walked out of the studio with Jisung, only to run into Chan himself.

You tell him about the panic, the Hannah Montana inspiration, the wig, the name, the backstory Jisung invented like a gremlin on five Red Bulls. You tell him how Minho figured it out. How he confronted you. And how, somehow, Chan found out too.

“I was fine!” you exclaim. “I was so fine! It was anonymous! I could be fucking mysterious and tragic and safe! I didn’t want anyone to know it was me! And now Chan knows! And I’m not even wearing a bra!”

Seungmin strokes your hair gently. “You’re also not wearing shoes or dignity.”

“Thank you,”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I’m spiralling.”

“Clearly.”

You hiccup and stare at the ceiling. “What if he hates me?”

“He doesn’t.”

“What if he does?”

“He doesn’t.”

“What if he sues me for emotional damage?”

“I’ll represent you. I’m only charging five thousand an hour.”

“You’re my emotional support friend, not my lawyer!”

“Not anymore.”

You groan and shove your face into his chest. “Just let me die. In peace. In your bed.”

Seungmin pulls the blanket tighter around you and sighs. “I swear to god, you dramatic little fungus, you’re going to be fine. You just need to breathe and stop inventing new ways to traumatise your friends.”

“I didn’t invent them. I just accidentally implemented them.”

He rests his chin on your head. “And you’re gonna fix it. But first, you’re going to stay in here, breathe, and stop stripping in front of people.”

You nod miserably and in that tiny, warm room, swaddled in blankets and humiliation, you let yourself believe that it might be okay. Eventually. Maybe. If you survive this next hour.

For the next two weeks, the Alpha Phi frat house becomes a battlefield. A holy sanctuary of peace violently guarded by one very sleep-deprived, very unhinged civil law major. Seungmin doesn’t just put up metaphorical walls, no, he becomes the wall. The moment Chan tries to make even the slightest approach toward you, Seungmin is there. Always.

It begins subtly. A casual lean across your body when you’re seated on the couch. A suspiciously timed accidental door closing before Chan enters a room you’re already in. But it escalates. Fast.

By day three, Seungmin is pulling a travel-sized can of hairspray from the sleeve of his hoodie and flicking a lighter beneath it to create a two-foot fireball in Chan’s direction. Chan nearly drops his protein shake in horror as a streak of flame wooshes past his face and scorches the wall.

“What the actual fuck, Seungmin?!”

Seungmin raises the can calmly. “Back the fuck off.”

And he does.

The frat house enters an era of quiet warfare. Everyone learns quickly. If you see a glint of silver and hear the hiss of aerosol, turn and run. Seungmin is not above arson to protect you, and he makes that clear every single day.

He shadows you everywhere. Not in a creepy way, more like in an overbearing, extremely overprotective way, which for Seungmin, is just another day of the week. You can’t pee without him hovering by the door. He has a notebook of your eyedrop times. He knows which mug is your favourite and which brand of hot chocolate calms you down fastest. Your anxiety is high, like a constant, heart-thumping, shoulder-tensing high, and Seungmin sees the signs before you even open your mouth.

You don’t go back to your dorm. Not once. Seungmin had demanded that you stay in his room after the Chan incident, and when you’d tried to protest about being a burden and how your dorm room was fine, he’d shut it down immediately.

“You’ll spiral alone,” he’d said, deadpan. “and then I’ll have to drag your limp, dissociating body back here anyway. Skip the middleman.”

And that was that.

Seungmin even sent Changbin, who was still halfway through his dinner, to your dorm to pack a bag for you. Big mistake. Changbin, sweet, buff, confused Changbin, shows up thirty minutes later with a gym duffle filled with four hoodies, a single tube of lip balm, three pens, one slipper, and a fucking black lace thong.

Seungmin stares into the bag for ten full seconds. “What the fuck is this?”

Changbin blinks. “You said comfy shit-”

“A lacy thong?” Seungmin holds it up with two fingers like it’s biohazardous. “This isn’t comfort, this is slutty depression. I meant halmeoni panties, dumbass.”

“I WAS TRYING TO HELP!”

“She’s fragile, not trying to get dicked down by a ghost.”

After that, Seungmin makes a very detailed packing list for the next trip. He writes it in Sharpie on Changbin’s arm.

Changbin also gets daily plant duty. Every morning at nine a.m., without fail, Changbin goes to your dorm, sends a photo of each plant to Seungmin for inspection, waters them under exact supervision via video call, and sends back one final image of your dorm door locked tight. He’s never been more afraid of messing up in his life.

But the worst of it? The worst of it is eyedrop hour.

Four times a day, every day, you need them. Dexamethasone, right eye, two drops, four times a day, minimum. But you’re a twitchy, dramatic mess about it. And Seungmin is militant. So he enlists help.

The task force includes Changbin, shoulder duty, Hyunjin the head stabiliser, Felix the eyelid pryer, Jisung and Jeongin, the leg wranglers, and of course, Seungmin himself, the drop master. It’s a full fucking operation. They call it Operation Eyeball.

“She’s kicking again!”

“Jesus fuck, she almost bit me!”

“Y/N, breathe!”

Felix has his pinky wedged under your eyelid. “I’m doing the lord’s work!”

And then two tiny, icy cold drops of medicine hit your eye.

“I hate everyone,” you whisper from beneath the pile.

They roll off you, one by one, and Seungmin adjusts your blanket burrito back into place like nothing just happened.

Eight days in, Felix and Jisung finally crack. They corner you in the kitchen with ice cream and puppy eyes. They sit you down and talk gently. About Chan. About maybe, just maybe, talking to him. They try to be careful, try not to push. Try to remind you that Chan is probably spiralling too.

And that’s the moment Seungmin comes in, sees the scene, and hisses like a feral raccoon before he lunges.

Jisung yelps and throws himself over the back of the couch.

Felix screams, “SEUNGMIN NO-”

But it’s too late. Seungmin’s already got a hold of Jisung’s hand and bites down hard enough to leave deep crescent marks. “OW OW OW! Fuck!”

Felix tries to intervene and Seungmin bites him too. Now both of them are nursing identical bite marks and cursing Seungmin’s ancestry in three languages.

From then on, the others give you a wide berth. Well, most of them. Hyunjin and Jeongin get sent in on day eleven. They bring you bubble tea and sneak into Seungmin’s room while he’s brushing his teeth.

“We come in peace,”

“Please just think about talking to him,”

Seungmin appears in the doorway, toothbrush in mouth, toothpaste foaming. And in his hand is a fucking frying pan. He doesn’t even say a word. Just starts swinging.

Jeongin yelps, drops the bubble tea and runs. Hyunjin follows, flailing. Seungmin chases them halfway down the stairs, still in his slippers. And you just sit on his bed, wrapped in a blanket, watching it all like you’re at the theatre.

The only one Seungmin doesn’t go after is Minho. No one fucks with Minho. Not even Seungmin. It’s unspoken. But everyone’s pretty sure Minho carries a switchblade in his sock. No one has ever seen the switchblade. But everyone believes it exists. Even Seungmin.

So when Minho strolls into the room, arms crossed, Seungmin sighs, steps aside, and lets him in. Minho doesn’t say much. He sits beside you. Slides you a steaming mug of tea. Restocks your emergency snacks pile on the desk. Tells you dumb stories about the freshmen in his veterinary class who tried to bathe a cat with no gloves. Makes you laugh.

He doesn’t push. Just sits. Breathes with you.

And you finally pick up your lyric notebook again. You stare at the page for hours. Just stare. But eventually, you write one line. Then another.

And Minho sees it. And he nods. Because maybe, just maybe, you’re coming back to yourself. Even if Seungmin has to burn the whole fucking house down to keep you safe while you do it.

Chan is sprawled on the living room couch in that particular state of existential half-consciousness that only Hannah Montana reruns and the weight of two weeks of unresolved romantic frustration can inspire. He stares at the TV blankly, one leg hooked over the back of the couch, hoodie bunched around his stomach, and a bag of crisps slowly going stale on the coffee table next to him.

The sound of a soft knock on the doorframe pulls him out of his spiral. You’re standing there.

Clutching your notebook like it’s your last line of defence between you and the outside world. You’re dressed in a pair of grey sweatpants and a massive hoodie that swallows you whole. Your hair’s up in a loose bun with a pencil sticking out of it. There’s no makeup on your face. You look soft, sleepy and terrified.

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

You shake your head almost immediately. “No. No, I’m not. I mean, I’m not dying but also I feel like if I blink wrong I’ll have a meltdown. And also I feel bad. For not talking to you. And the whole Seungmin the bodyguard from hell thing. He might have rabies. I’m kind of concerned.”

Chan lets out a breath of a laugh, eyes soft.

“Anyway,” you ramble on, voice speeding up, “I’m here to talk to you. And the notebook is like my emotional shield. I will be holding it to my chest the whole time. Like soft armour. Don’t judge me.”

Chan nods once, seriously. “I would never judge your emotional armour.”

You cross the room and lower yourself awkwardly onto the beanbag next to the couch, curling your knees up and clutching the notebook so tightly your knuckles crack.

“I’m sorry, I freaked out. Big time. Like, full-on breakdown mode. Because singing- Okay, like, I know I’m good. I’m not trying to be humble. But also attention? Makes me shrivel like cold balls.”

Chan snorts, shoulders shaking with a half-laugh.

You groan and immediately yank your hood up over your head, hiding inside like a turtle retreating into its shell. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” he grins. “I feel like I’m gonna stroke out every time I submit a piece for assessment. doesn’t matter how confident I am, the moment someone else listens to it, I lose the ability to breathe.”

You push the hood back slightly and peek at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. Music’s personal. It’s like ripping your chest open and hoping people like what falls out.”

You blink at him. The room is too quiet, the glow of the TV casting flickers of light across both your faces. Your heart thuds against your ribs.

Chan shifts on the couch and leans forward a little. His voice drops, softer than before. “While we’re getting it all out there, you should know that I have a massive crush on you.”

You freeze. Your eyes go wide. Your brain forgets how to function. He watches you, amused, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Uh oh,” he mutters. “She’s buffering.”

You don’t move. You just keep staring at him.

Chan raises his eyebrows, then smiles wider. “How does a date sound? Just me and you. I’ll book the studio for a few hours. We can get takeout, and wear the comfiest, ugliest clothes we own. No expectations. Just fun.”

You immediately shrink into the hoodie. “Sounds good"

“You okay?”

You stick your hand out of the hoodie hole and give him a shaky thumbs-up.

Chan bursts out laughing. “Does that mean you like me too?”

You don’t respond. You just curl tighter into yourself, holding your notebook up in front of your face like a riot shield, hiding everything except your eyes.

“Oh my god,” he laughs, wheezing. “You’re so shy it’s weaponized.”

You peek out slowly, just enough to see his face. He gets off the couch and moves to crouch in front of you, his eyes twinkling.

You squeak quietly. It’s embarrassing. Your hands fly up to cover your face. Chan immediately loses his balance from laughing too hard and falls on his ass, flopping backwards onto the floor.

You burst out laughing. The kind of laugh that shakes your shoulders and makes your chest ache. “Seeing you fall like that helped actually. That was super embarrassing for you.”

Chan doesn’t even move. He lies there, sprawled out on the floor, arms spread like a starfish, and gives you a thumbs up from the ground. You wipe at your eyes, still giggling, your hoodie bunched up around your neck now. Your notebook rests in your lap like it just witnessed the most awkward rom-com moment in history.

For the first time in weeks, the knot in your chest loosens. Just a little. Just enough.

Chan is seated on the edge of the couch in the Alpha Phi frat house living room, knees spread just slightly, elbows resting on his thighs. His legs are bouncing at different speeds, his left one jittering erratically while the right taps out a steadier rhythm like he’s trying to keep time with the lo-fi beats playing from the TV. He’s already been sitting here for twenty-five minutes. Not that he’s counting. He’s absolutely counting.

He wipes his hands down the front of his grey sweatpants for the third time. They’re soft and slouchy and objectively comfortable, but nothing about him feels relaxed. His black tank top clings to his chest in a way that makes him feel slightly exposed, no matter how casual the outfit was meant to be. He’s freshly showered, hair still a little damp at the ends and fluffed up in the back from nervous towel-drying and pacing. He ran his fingers through it too many times and now his fringe flops crooked over his forehead.

The studio reservation isn’t for another twenty minutes, but he can’t just sit still. The television is on, visuals of Tokyo backstreets and neon lights rolling across the screen as soft instrumental beats play beneath. It’s supposed to be calming. It’s not. Every two seconds, his eyes flick to the stairs. He listens for the sound of footsteps, of soft socked feet on the stairs, of you coming down to meet him.

He reaches for his phone and checks the time again. Six minutes since the last check. He groans and drops his head back against the couch cushion. He’s not even sure what to call this. A not-date-but-totally-a-date. Studio time with takeout. A maybe moment. A crush confession follow-up session.

The second he lets out a sigh through his nose, a shadow falls across the entrance to the living room. Chan looks up, his heart lifting, then slamming straight back into his stomach.

It’s not you. It’s Seungmin. Leaning against the doorframe with the casual air of someone who isn’t holding a large box of rat poison in one hand and a very real, very sharp kitchen knife in the other.

"What the actual fuck?!”

“Pick one.”

Chan squints. “Huh?”

Seungmin lifts both hands slightly. “Rat poison or stab wound. You get to choose how you die. I’m generous like that.”

There’s a moment of complete silence as Chan just stares at him, trying to decide if this is a joke or the start of a true crime documentary.

“Okay,” he says slowly, raising his eyebrows. “Well, context would be super helpful right now.”

Seungmin nods toward the stairs. “If you make her sad. If you so much as look at her wrong. If one single fucking tear falls from her eyeball because of you, I will end your bloodline.”

Chan breathes in deep, drags his hands down his face, then exhales through his teeth. “Cool. awesome. Love that. Love the loyalty. Very mafia of you.”

“Don’t fuck with her, Chan,” Seungmin says, voice completely calm. “She’s been hanging on by one thread and that thread is currently me, a frying pan, and a half-empty bottle of melatonin. I have nothing to lose and a lot of rage.”

“So just one stab wound then?”

“No,” Seungmin says without hesitation. “Multiple. Very slow. Very painful. You’ll bleed out like a little bitch.”

Chan gestures vaguely toward the poison box. “Then I choose poison.”

Seungmin shrugs like that’s a perfectly reasonable choice. “Respect.”

Chan clears his throat. “Okay, but just to confirm, is this like, a hypothetical threat or an actual plan you’re actively working on?”

Seungmin leans forward, knife glinting faintly in the low light. “If you break her heart, I will break your spine.”

Chan swallows hard. “Duly noted.”

Seungmin gestures with the knife again. “Also, in case you thought I was bluffing, I’ve got backup. Jisung, Felix, Changbin, Hyunjin and Jeongin all said they’d help me get rid of your body.”

“And Minho?”

The faintest hint of a smile touches Seungmin’s lips. “He said he gets to go first. Said something about acid and slicing your tendons.”

Chan visibly shudders and Seungmin nods in satisfaction, like he’s just completed a group project early. He starts to turn, pauses, then adds over his shoulder, “She doesn’t know I’m threatening you, by the way. She’s upstairs with Jisung and Felix still freaking out over her hoodie strings being uneven. Figured I’d use the time wisely.”

And then he walks out of the room like he didn’t just casually deliver the most detailed murder threat Chan’s ever received.

Chan sits there in stunned silence. He blinks once. Then again. He leans back against the couch, rubbing his hands down his face again like that will somehow reset his entire nervous system. It doesn’t. He adjusts his tank top, tugging it down slightly like that’ll fix how exposed he feels.

He glances up at the staircase again, even more nervous than before. Because now, apparently, his ability to hold a date together determines whether or not he gets a knife in the kidney. Or drinks poisoned coffee. Or whatever other horrific plan Seungmin’s got scribbled in his chaotic little planner.

Chan looks up the second he hears the telltale sound of footsteps on the stairs. Not the heavy thuds of Changbin or the dramatic stomps of Jisung, but the quiet, careful, almost tiptoeing steps that only one person in this house makes like you’re trying not to bother the floor.

And then you appear.

Chan sits up straighter, completely forgetting to breathe for a second. You step into the living room, fidgeting slightly with the drawstrings of your hoodie. You’re wearing a light grey hoodie, the sleeves too long and the hem dipping over your hips. Underneath, he can see the edge of a fitted white crop top, peeking out each time the hoodie shifts. Your wide-leg sweatpants are the same shade of grey, loose and soft, paired with chunky white sneakers that make your legs look longer.

Your hair falls in soft, loose waves around your face, perfectly tousled like you didn’t try at all, but Chan knows better. He knows you. You definitely tried. There’s the faintest shimmer on your cheekbones and flawless natural makeup that makes you look so glowy it’s honestly kind of unfair.

You stop in the doorway and blink at him, notebook clutched against your stomach like it’s armour again.

“Hey,” you mumble.

Chan smiles and pushes himself to his feet. “Hey. You ready?”

You nod quickly, too quickly. “Yep. definitely. one hundred percent. I’ve never been more ready for anything in my entire life, which sounds like sarcasm but it’s not. I’m just talking a lot because I’m nervous and I’m shutting up now.”

Chan’s grin widens. “Please don’t. I like it.”

You blink, caught off guard, and then offer a shy smile. “Okay.”

The walk across campus is quiet but warm. You walk close enough that your arms brush every few steps. You keep your head ducked slightly, and Chan pretends not to notice how you keep looking up at him, then quickly away like your brain hasn’t caught up with the reality of this actually being a date.

When you reach the studio, Chan unlocks the door and slides the IN USE tab across. You both step inside, and the moment the door shuts behind you, the air feels different, quieter, more intimate, like a bubble. Chan sets his bag down in the corner and turns to you with a smile.

“Okay,” he says. “First things first. Let’s relax. I propose we get all the embarrassing stories out right now. No secrets on the first date.”

You nod, eyes wide, still clutching your notebook. “Okay. I’m warning you, mine are bad.”

“Good,” he laughs, dropping onto one of the padded stools near the console. “I’ll go first. One time, at a party, I was super drunk and accidentally peed on Changbin’s bedroom wall.”

Your mouth drops open and then immediately splits into a grin. “I remember that!”

Chan groans and drops his face into his hands. “Oh god. you were there.”

“Oh, I was there,” you say, laughter bubbling out of you now. “Changbin caught you pants down, in his room, pissing on his wall. I’ve never seen him so horrified.”

“I got lost on the way to the bathroom!”

“You were yelling that the toilet was too cold!”

“It was a wall, Y/N. A fucking wall. I was hallucinating the porcelain.”

You shake your head, giggling. “That story’s never going to stop being funny.”

“Your turn,” Chan says, pointing at you.

You take a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, mine’s really bad. Like, secondhand embarrassment levels of bad but we’re doing full honesty, right?”

“Yep.”

“Alright,” you say, clutching your notebook tighter. “So one time, Jisung and I were in Hanam. We’d taken the wrong train because we were trying to go to Hongdae and got distracted by a guy playing the saxophone in the station and ended up getting on the wrong train.”

Chan’s brows lift. “Off to a strong start.”

“Yeah, so we’re in Hanam, very much not where we’re supposed to be, and we get off and we’re trying to figure out where the fuck we are when two police officers come up to us.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” you say, nodding seriously. “They said they had some questions and we panic immediately because we’re dumbasses with anxiety. So Jisung starts flapping his hands like he’s trying to summon a weather change and I immediately assume we’re going to prison.”

Chan is already laughing, hand over his mouth.

“And then I start retching.”

Chan’s eyes widen. “Oh no.”

“0h yes,” you say again, mimicking a loud retching noise that makes him wheeze. “like full dry heaving. because I’m so panicked. the officers are trying to calm me down and I’m just there on the sidewalk like-”

You make another retching noise, louder this time and Chan nearly falls off the stool.

“And then,” you say, giggling now, “Jisung’s anxiety skyrockets because I’m panicking, and that little monster starts retching too. We’re both dry-heaving on the sidewalk like we’re in a horror movie. And the officers are just standing there like ‘What the fuck is happening?’”

“Please tell me someone saved you.”

“Felix, he's my emergency contact. They called him. He got Changbin to drive him all the way down and the officers had to wait with us while we hyperventilated on the pavement.”

Chan’s laughing so hard his eyes are watering. “And what did the officers want?”

“They were just looking for witnesses. Someone stole like eighty-thousand won worth of clothes from a boutique. They just wanted to ask if we’d seen anything.”

Chan wheezes. “And instead they found two retching anxiety goblins.”

You point at him with your pen. “Yes. Anxiety goblins. That's us.”

Chan leans back in his chair, still laughing. “God, I love this.”

You blink. “What?”

“This,” he says, waving a hand between you. “Talking. Laughing. You being an absolute fucking weirdo. It’s the best.”

"Why’d you have to say that? Now I’m all embarrassed again.”

Chan leans forward, chin on his hand, still grinning. “Good. Keep telling me embarrassing shit. I’m collecting stories.”

“Okay. your funeral.”

Two hours later, the studio smells like fried chicken and soy garlic sauce, the floor is covered in empty takeout boxes, and the lights are dimmed low, just the glow of the monitors illuminating the space in soft blue light, and your face glows in it. You haven’t stopped talking in the last five minutes, and Chan hasn’t stopped listening.

“Okay, okay, wait,” you say, licking your thumb clean, “Play that one again. The one that had, like, that weird little echo-y beat before the drop? The one that sounded like you sampled a creepy music box but made it sexy?”

Chan is leaning over his laptop, poking through folders with his brows furrowed, grinning the whole time. “This one?”

You nod quickly, leaning forward to get a better look at the waveform, and you accidentally bump your knee against his thigh. “Yeah! That one! Okay, play it again.”

He does. The eerie little melody starts to roll, delicate and distorted, and you sit forward even more, your eyes locked on the screen like you can somehow see the way the music moves.

“Okay,” you say slowly, “so, like, I don’t know how to explain this without sounding completely batshit, but it’s giving haunted carousel in an abandoned theme park vibes, but like, if you also want to have sex at the same time.”

“You have the weirdest fucking metaphors.”

You grin and shrug, picking up your can of soda and sipping it. “But am I wrong?”

He replays the track again and tilts his head, eyebrows raising. “Actually, now that you say it-”

“I’m just saying, you could easily blend in, like, some harsher drums right before the drop, make it really go from eerie to sexy as hell.”

Chan lets the track run as he slides open his beat pad and pulls up the midi layer. “You mean something like this?” He taps out a rough loop, nothing polished, just rhythm.

“Yes! Yes, exactly! That! It’s got punch but still matches the spooky aesthetic.”

He’s laughing again, but he keeps going, tweaking the reverb slightly and layering it under the drop, adjusting the volume and fade as you rattle off thoughts like your brain’s on overdrive.

“I’m not a producer, obviously,” you say, “but like, I hear things and it just, my brain makes weird little connections. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but that was- Yeah, that worked.”

Chan leans back, turning his head to look at you fully. “You’re really good at this.”

“I’m not, like, good good. I just say shit and hope it makes sense. Most of the time it doesn’t. Felix and Jisung usually just tell me to shut up. Or they laugh. Sometimes both.”

“Well, they’re idiots. You’ve got a good ear. You should trust that.”

“God, you’re so nice. Why are you so nice? I can’t handle that level of kindness. My system short-circuits. I’m gonna combust. You’re gonna have to scrape my ashes out of this chair.”

Chan’s grin doesn’t fade as he watches you dramatically hide your face in your sleeves, mumbling about combusting and cremation and how your ashes better be scattered somewhere meaningful.

The track continues to loop behind you, eerie and seductive, and you glance up shyly, suddenly very aware that the two of you are alone in a room designed for acoustics and intimacy, the light barely illuminating the planes of Chan’s face as he turns back to his laptop.

He's relaxed. Happy. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, veins visible in his forearms, his fingers flying across the keyboard like muscle memory. The curve of his smile is soft and content, like he’s exactly where he wants to be. He is.

Because this? Right here? This is the best fucking date he’s ever been on.

It’s not just the music, or the food, or even how hilarious you are when you retell stories. It’s not even the way you keep getting excited about the simplest things, like the slider automation on one of his older mixes or the way a particular reverb sounds like a whisper behind the vocals.

It’s just you.

He wants so many more of these. Late nights. Studio sessions. Takeout boxes and wild metaphors and you, in all your chaotic, anxious glory. All of it. Forever, if he can manage it.

It begins, like most of their worst ideas do, with seven idiots coming up with an idea. They’re dressed like they’re in a low-budget spy movie. All black from head to toe, including hoodies, cargo pants, and even knit beanies. They are the least stealthy group in the world. But they’re determined.

Minho said that there was a possibility, however small, that someone needed to be stopped before emotions spiralled out of control or Chan made a fool of himself, which was very likely. And Seungmin was bribed into tagging along by Hyunjin, who promised to let him slap Jeongin if he misstepped even once.

So now, here they are, crouched around the corner from Studio C, breathing heavily from the effort of tiptoeing across two buildings and ducking under a janitor cart on the way.

“Alright,” Minho whispers, eyes narrowed. “Jisung, you peek.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the nosiest. and you’re fast,” Seungmin adds. “If they see you, you can pretend you were having an anxiety episode”

“Do you know how many times I’ve had to use that excuse this semester?”

“It’s believable,” Jeongin shrugs. “You’re jittery as fuck.”

Felix grins and ruffles Jisung’s hair. “You’re our chaos compass, baby. Now go.”

Jisung groans, drags his palms down his face, then begins his approach like he’s infiltrating a mafia hideout. He tiptoes dramatically across the corridor, pressed to the wall, pausing every few steps like there are lasers he needs to avoid. He stops right at the studio door, hand hovering just above the handle.

Jisung takes a deep breath, lowers himself into a squat, then very slowly pushes the door open just a crack. There’s a beat. Then he pulls it shut.

He turns, stumbles backwards like he’s been shot in the chest, one hand slapped over his eyes. He doesn’t say a word. Just makes a strangled whimper and collapses onto his knees, crawling away from the door like he’s being dragged by invisible demons.

“Ji?”

“What the fuck did you see?”

Jisung lets out a small, broken sob and covers his eyes with both hands.

“Jisung, what happened?”

Still nothing. Jisung just keeps crawling away, whimpering like a kicked puppy, muttering something incoherent under his breath.

“Jisung, speak, what did you see?”

“What are they doing? Were they kissing? Cuddling? Talking about feelings?”

Jisung doesn’t respond. He just keeps crawling. Faster now. Like a fucking hamster trying to escape its enclosure.

“He’s in shock,”

“Or he’s being dramatic,”

Felix frowns, worried now. “Jisungie, baby, come on. Breathe. Tell us what you saw.”

Jisung hits the corner of the hallway and turns it like he’s on autopilot, crawling on hands and knees like that scene from The Ring, but more pitiful.

“He’s broken,”

“Someone reboot him,”

“I don’t wanna touch him. What if he’s contagious?”

“He’s your boyfriend,”

“Yeah, but not right now.”

The six of them start following him slowly down the hallway, walking in a group like ducklings behind their broken leader. They keep their voices low, worried about making too much noise and tipping you and Chan off.

“Oh my god, he’s gone. He’s fucking gone.”

“Someone call a therapist,”

“Should we just leave him?”

They follow around the corner as Jisung crawls into an empty classroom and collapses in a heap by the whiteboard, hugging his knees to his chest. He lets out a soft, shuddering breath and presses his face into his arms.

Felix sighs and pulls out his phone. “I’ll go find a juice box and a priest. Whichever one helps first.”

It’s been three months since your first studio date with Chan, and the frat house has never been the same. You and Chan have been official for just over a month now, though the twice-a-week date routine had started long before the actual relationship label.

It became a habit, him showing up outside your dorm with snacks, or you sneaking into the Alpha Phi house with your notebook clutched to your chest and a six-pack of peach iced tea.

Sometimes it was takeout and movie nights in the studio, other times it was long walks through the greenhouse on campus while you told him facts about moss and carnivorous plants like you were narrating a fucked-up nature documentary.

The others adjusted pretty quickly. Minho was smug about being right. Felix cried when you told him, loud, emotional, dramatic sobs that included declarations like “my baby girl has a boyfriend, oh god, my child is growing up.” Changbin fist-bumped Chan so hard it nearly dislocated his shoulder. Jeongin screamed. Hyunjin made you promise to make a playlist for your makeout sessions. Seungmin demanded weekly updates and swore he’d castrate Chan if you so much as frowned.

But Jisung? Jisung’s been weird.

Every time he sees the two of you together, his whole body tenses like he’s going through trauma. He’ll stare for exactly three seconds too long and then run in the opposite direction, or he’ll make a high-pitched sound and vanish through the nearest door like a Scooby-Doo character.

At first, you thought it was jealousy. Or maybe some unresolved feelings. But when Felix asked him gently if he was okay, Jisung just whispered “no” and clutched his own head.

Now, three months into domestic bliss, you’re sitting on the kitchen island in the Alpha Phi house, sipping from a mug Chan made for you, extra milky coffee with a swirl of whipped cream and cinnamon on top. Your hoodie is oversized, your sweatpants are comfy, and Chan is standing at the counter buttering a slice of toast.

He turns and looks at you. You raise an eyebrow. “You’re doing the thing again. The thing where you look like you’ve got something to say but you’re scared you’ll get stabbed.”

Chan sighs, sets the knife down, and runs a hand through his hair. “I have to ask him.”

You blink. “Ask who what?”

“Jisung. Why he’s acting like I’ve murdered his pet hamster every time we’re in the same room.”

You snort into your mug. “Oh god, are we finally doing it?”

Chan nods grimly. “It’s time.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He turns and storms out of the kitchen with the kind of dramatic purpose that only Alpha Phi boys seem to possess. You swing your legs gently, sipping your coffee, content to be the peanut gallery as you hear footsteps shuffle, and then-

“Jisung.”

“No.”

“Jisung, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I said no.”

“I haven’t even asked anything yet!”

“I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE GONNA ASK.”

You lean slightly to the side, watching Chan corner Jisung near the pantry like a predator about to interrogate a witness. “I just want to know why you’ve been acting like I’m actively stabbing you in the soul every time I hold my girlfriend’s hand.”

Jisung’s shoulders shoot up to his ears. “Because you are.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

Jisung clenches his jaw. You can see the internal struggle like he’s weighing whether or not to ruin his own life.

“I SAW YOU EATING Y/N OUT IN THE STUDIO,” he blurts, voice strained, wobbling on the edge of hysteria.

The silence that follows is the kind that drops like a boulder off a fucking cliff. You freeze, mug halfway to your lips. Chan stares at Jisung like he’s just confessed to war crimes.

“We all went to spy on your first date, okay? It was supposed to be recon! Intel! And they made me peek! THEY MADE ME PEEK.”

You cover your mouth, but it’s too late. The laugh rips out of you like a car backfiring.

Chan’s mouth falls open. “Oh my god.”

Jisung is crying now. “I opened the door. I peeked in. And I saw-” he chokes, covering his mouth. “I saw you tongue-deep-”

You choke on your coffee and Chan bursts out laughing. Full, loud, belly laughter.

“I saw toe curlage, Y/N! TOE! CURLAGE!”

You nearly fall off the island. Chan lurches forward and catches you by the waist, doubling over with laughter, dragging you off the counter and into his arms.

“I’m never gonna unsee it! His fucking HEAD, Y/N. It was shaking side to side like a bobblehead on steroids! I can't believe you put out on the first date!”

You’re crying now, tears running down your face as Chan laughs into your shoulder. Your knees buckle, and you both sink to the kitchen floor, howling.

Jisung drops to his hands and knees. “THE OTHERS MADE ME DO IT. THOSE SIX FUCKERS!”

You’re gasping for air, curled against Chan’s side as you both lie sprawled on the cold tile, bodies shaking with laughter.

“YOUR TOES CURLED, Y/N! I SAW IT! YOU LOOKED POSSESSED!”

“I’m gonna piss myself! Oh my god, I swear I’m gonna pass out or piss myself, possibly both, someone get a mop.”

Chan has tears running down his face. “He’s crawling, he’s actually crawling, oh fuck, I’m gonna die.”

“I’M CALLING MY THERAPIST! FELIX! FELIX, BABE, THEY’RE BULLYING ME!”

You watch through teary eyes as he scrambles out of the kitchen on all fours like a feral raccoon, sobbing into the floor, shrieking for his boyfriend, his socks sliding against the tile as he crawls at top speed.

And then he’s gone. Just gone.

The house falls silent again, save for your breathless wheezing and Chan’s uncontrollable giggling as you lie there on the floor like two emotionally broken idiots. Your face is damp. Your stomach hurts. Your hair is a mess. And still, you’re laughing.

Chan turns his head to look at you. You’re sprawled on your back, one hand over your chest, eyes squinting up at the ceiling as you try to catch your breath. Your face is glowing, not from makeup, but from joy. Your nose crinkles every time you let out another wheezy laugh, your lips stretched into the kind of grin that’s impossible to fake.

And Chan, lying there on the kitchen floor next to you, thinks you are it. You’re the source of the warmth in his chest and the ache in his cheeks from smiling too much. You’re the voice he wants to hear singing over every track he ever finishes. You’re the reason his playlists sound softer now. The reason his mornings feel brighter and his nights feel easier. You’re everything.

You notice him staring and blink at him, smiling despite the tears in your eyes. “What?”

He just shakes his head, smiling softly.

“Nothing,” he whispers. “you’re just my favourite.”

And in that moment, with your laughter still echoing through the Alpha Phi kitchen and Jisung crying in the hallway somewhere, Chan knows there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than right here with you.

Forever.

Bang Chan Taglist: @0haerireah0

General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx @velvetmoonlght @annafee_bou @mlink64 @intoanothermind @furfoxsake22 @daaaph-lol @tirena1 @yu-winchester @cristy-101

Proofread by the wonderful @hwangjoanna <3

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