#~kcs 💗 reblogss

[furioussheepluminary]

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈𝐭 𝐇𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐬

Pairing: doctor!lee know x patient!afab!reader, nonidol au

Synopsis: he was the doctor assigned to taking care of you during your last days, and you both knew how this is was going to end. But you gave him hope to do even more for others

Warnings: death, angst, comfort, medical terms, nothing else...

A/n: please do not read if topics concerning leukemia affect you! Lee knows debut fic!

Emergency Department, Seoul Medical University Hospital

Time: 3:17 AM

The stretcher slammed through the ER’s double doors with a clang, the wheels shrieking under the weight of urgency. A sharp scent of antiseptic mixed with blood and sterile gauze clung to the cold air. Nurses barked out vitals while a young intern tripped over the IV line, earning a scowl from the charge nurse. You were barely conscious—ashen skin, lips tinged blue, your breath ragged like shattered glass. Your medical ID necklace glinted weakly under the fluorescent lights.

“Twenty-four-year-old female, history of MDS—high-risk subtype. She collapsed at home. Complaints of severe bone pain, fever, and tachycardia. Suspected sepsis.”

“BP’s 80 over 48 and falling. SpO2 at 86% on room air.”

“Push one liter NS, wide open. Get a CBC, BMP, blood cultures, lactic acid, and coags STAT—”

“Where’s Dr. Lee?!”

That name—quiet but commanding—cut through the chaos like a scalpel.

Dr. Lee Minho arrived moments later, stethoscope already around his neck, white coat billowing like a silent storm cloud. His hair was slightly tousled, evidence he’d been asleep moments before but there was no hesitation in his movements.

“Move,” he said calmly.

He leaned over your body as the team parted. His fingers found your radial pulse, thready. He noted the fever in your skin, the petechiae blooming across your limbs, the raw wince when he palpated your abdomen. “Leukemic transformation,” he muttered under his breath. “Possibly febrile neutropenia with septic shock. She's neutropenic. Start piperacillin-tazobactam and vancomycin. Isolate her. I want a central line and a STAT oncology consult.”

His voice was clinical, sharp, but his eyes? They lingered. Just for a second. On your face. You blinked up at him, barely registering the surgical mask, the depth in his gaze.

“Don’t let me die,” you rasped.

He stilled. And then, softer—softer than anyone had ever heard from him—he whispered, “Not tonight.”

Over the next few hours, your body fought a battle you didn’t witness. Lab values crashed. Your blood cultures lit up like a Christmas tree. A transfusion was ordered, then another. Your oxygen saturation dipped, then slowly climbed under high-flow nasal cannula.

And Dr. Lee stayed.

He charted. Adjusted your IV. Read every previous record like it was a prophecy written in your marrow. The next morning, when the sun breached through sterile blinds, he sat at your bedside in fresh scrubs, his white coat folded neatly over a chair. He wasn't your attending, not officially. But when you woke up with a sore throat and burning muscles, he was there.

---

Seoul Medical University Hospital – Hematology & Palliative Care Wing

The fluorescent lights hummed softly above you as you lay in the private palliative room—Room 417. A gentle breeze brushed in from the cracked window, stirring the sterile scent with the lavender diffuser Dr. Lee insisted on replacing every week. He said it helped his patients sleep. But you knew it was because it helped you dream. Lee Know—Dr. Lee Minho—wasn't the type of physician who lingered unless there was a reason. Stern, efficient, and precise, like the incisions he made during his early trauma residency days. But for you, there was something different. The way his eyes softened when reviewing your lab reports, the slight delay in his steps as he left your room, or the way he’d stand at your door a second longer than needed, fingers flexing as if resisting the urge to turn back.

Your diagnosis: Myelodysplastic Syndrome with progression into acute myeloid leukemia. Your prognosis: Poor. Limited response to induction chemo. You had refused further aggressive treatments. Instead, they assigned you a permanent physician for end-stage palliative care.

Lee Know.

“Your white cell count dropped again,” he murmured, tapping at the tablet in his palm as he sat beside you. His stethoscope—cold, always cold—rested at the hollow of your clavicle, but you barely flinched anymore. “Respiratory rate’s steady. Heart’s holding. You’re stable… for now.”

His voice was gentle, devoid of pity but full of that quiet warmth that had become your only comfort. His dark hair fell slightly over his eyes, and he hadn't noticed until you reached a trembling hand to brush it aside.

“You need sleep, Doctor.”

He smiled, brief and broken.

“So do you.”

Over weeks, your body weakened. Episodes of febrile neutropenia left you gasping between nights. You could feel the silent fear in Lee Know every time he checked your oxygen saturation, his gloved hands hesitating at the pulse oximeter, his eyes betraying a flicker of dread when the numbers dipped.

And yet, he stayed. He brought you coffee-scented candles. He learned how you liked your IV tubes taped—horizontal, not looped. He never wore the white coat inside your room anymore. “It makes you nervous,” he had once said simply, hanging it on the door hook like a promise to be more than your physician, your friend.

Sometimes, he’d sit at the edge of your bed, pulling out your charts, reading labs, but eventually drifting into quiet stories. He told you about how he once missed a suturing exam because he was too busy watching a stray cat give birth behind the med school. You told him about the dreams you had, of running in forests, of dancing with the moonlight in your lungs, free from beeping monitors and blood transfusions.

“Do you think,” you asked one evening, voice barely above a whisper, “if we met somewhere else—if I wasn’t dying—would you have liked me?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took your frail hand, carefully adjusting the pulse oximeter before speaking. “I already like you. That’s the problem.” He never said the words. But you saw it in the tension of his jaw when you vomited from pain meds, in how he wiped your mouth himself when the nurse was slow to arrive. You saw it in the way he charted your decline each day with surgical sorrow—as though every entry carved deeper into his ribs.

He wasn't supposed to fall. But love, like illness, had its own pathology. Quiet, invasive. Irreversible.

---

Oncology Department – Doctors’ Lounge, Seoul Medical University Hospital

Time: 6:42 PM

The sterile hum of the oncology wing was dimmed in the late evening. Harsh fluorescent lighting overhead had been traded for a warmer amber in the doctors' lounge—a temporary illusion of comfort in a place ruled by cold facts and clinical decisions. Dr. Minho stood by the glass window, arms folded, stethoscope looped lazily around his neck. Outside, the sun dipped low behind the city skyline. Inside, silence hovered, until a voice broke through.

“Lee,” Dr. Chan’s voice was casual, but firm—the kind of tone reserved for both praise and warning. “You’ve been taking a lot of time with Patient Y/N.” Minho didn’t turn. “She needs it.”

Chan stepped inside, sliding the door shut with a soft click. In his hands: your file. Bulky, already stained with color-coded stickers, urgent consults, infectious disease reports, oncology charts, and now… palliative care briefs. “Her numbers are deteriorating,” Chan said. “Hemoglobin’s down again. Platelets are almost transfusion-dependent. And the last marrow biopsy?” He sighed. “Blasts are over thirty percent.”

Minho finally turned. “I know.”

“Do you?” Chan's brow lifted. “You’ve been her doctor for—what—three weeks now? That’s a long time to stay attached for someone not even in your primary caseload.”

Minho stepped forward, expression unreadable. “She’s lucid. Cognitively sharp. No signs of neurological decline. Yes, she’s declining systemically—but she’s still fighting. She deserves someone consistent.”

“And she has someone consistent,” Chan replied gently. “But I need to know if that someone is still you as a doctor—or you as something else.” That made Minho pause.

Silence stretched between them. He didn’t deny it. Not exactly. Not in the way he usually would.

“…She reminds me why I do this,” he said, voice low. “She jokes with the nurses even after chemo wipes her out. She thanks the interns who can’t look her in the eye. She smiles when she’s vomiting. And she knows she’s dying.”

Chan softened slightly. “And that’s why you need to be careful.”

“I’m not crossing any boundaries.”

“Yet.” Minho turned again, staring back out at the window. The reflection of your chart glimmered faintly in the glass, as if your story lived in both worlds, the real and the mirrored.

“She asked me today if I thought heaven had hospitals,” he murmured.

“…And what did you say?”

“I said heaven’s wherever she doesn’t need one.”

Chan exhaled, slow. He walked to the table, placed your file down, and rested a hand on it.

“Just remember—when she lets go, you can’t fall with her.”

---

Scene: Oncology Wing, Room 417

Time: 11:34 AM

The clink of metal cutlery against porcelain was gentle, hesitant. Like the tremble of her hand didn’t want to disturb the quiet peace of the room. A tray sat on the rolling table in front of Y/N, barely touched. Watery porridge, a half-opened yogurt cup, and a slice of apple that looked more like a challenge than a fruit. Lee Know sat beside her bed—not on the visitor’s chair, but on the side of the mattress itself, white coat wrinkled at the hem, stethoscope tucked into his pocket. He had been doing that more lately—sitting with her, not over her. No longer just her doctor. Something else. Something heavier.

“You don’t have to force it,” he said quietly, watching her struggle to lift the spoon to her lips.

“I’m not,” she smiled. “I’m just... negotiating with it.”

He gave a small huff of amusement. “How’s the negotiation going?”

“Not well,” she muttered, then blinked at the spoonful of porridge. “I offered it friendship. It responded with betrayal.”

Minho let out a quiet laugh, but it was laced with something fragile. This was how it had been since she arrived. At first, their exchanges had been clinical. Precise. Symptoms, meds, charts. But then—between the rounds, after the lumbar punctures, during late nights when her pain spiked—something shifted. She saw through him. Saw past the doctor title and straight to the person.

And somehow, he’d let her in. “Do you ever eat with your patients?” she asked, resting the spoon back in the bowl. “Or am I just the favorite?”

He glanced at her tray. “Only when they’re winning battles.”

“I’m trying to,” she whispered. That whisper—quiet and honest—echoed too loudly in the room. And just as she turned back to try another bite, it happened.

Her stomach clenched. Her face went pale, eyes watering as the nausea hit hard. She dropped the spoon, clutched at her abdomen, and gagged. Minho was on his feet instantly, reaching for the basin, supporting her frail frame as she threw up into it. Her body convulsed against his hands, trembling violently. The food—what little there was—splashed into the basin with a horrible sound. He held her hair back, one hand on her back, rubbing gently in circles.

“It’s okay, it’s okay…” he muttered, voice cracking as he steadied her.

She coughed, then collapsed against his chest, weak and clammy. And despite himself—despite years of training to never get attached—he blinked hard to fight back the tears. He had watched tumors shrink and grow, watched hearts stop and restart. But nothing prepared him for the devastation of watching her suffer.

Still, she chuckled. Breathless. Whispery. But a chuckle nonetheless.

“You know... you look like you're about to cry,” she teased. He swallowed hard. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

He helped her lie back down, gently adjusting her IV line. Her breathing was shallow but even now, calm. She stared up at him, cheeks pale, lips dry—but eyes bright with something peaceful. Accepting. Not fighting anymore. Just… being. “Lee Know,” she murmured, using his name without the title. She always did that when it was just them. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded.

“If it were you in this bed… would you want someone to stay? Or would you rather be left alone so it hurts less when they’re gone?”

He looked at her for a long moment, silence weighing between them.

“…I think I’d want someone to stay,” he finally answered. “Even if it hurt.”

She smiled. A soft, serene thing. “Then don’t leave me yet.”

Minho froze. She didn’t say it with desperation. She wasn’t begging. She was just… reminding him that his presence, his stubborn daily visits, his quiet company—it all mattered. Even as her body failed, her heart still reached for him.

“I’ll tell the nurses to come check on you,” he said suddenly, standing, voice tight.

“Minho,” she said, this time more softly. “It’s okay to care, you know. Just don’t let it drown you.”

He paused at the door. His hand clenched the edge of his white coat.

Without turning back, he said, “You always say things like you’re already gone.”

And with that, he walked out, expression unreadable, throat burning, heart heavy.

Outside, the hallway smelled like antiseptic and ghosted hope. But inside Room 417, you were smiling, your frail hand resting calmly on your chest, as if you’d just whispered a secret the universe would have to hold for him now.

---

Hospital Hallway, Oncology Department

Time: 9:47 PM

The hum of overhead lights was dull, almost weary—like even the hospital itself was tired. Most of the nurses had clocked out. A few interns lingered at their desks. The corridor to Room 417 was dimmer now, the once-bustling ward quieting down as the night shift settled in. Minho stood alone at the end of the hall, back pressed against the cold wall near the nurse's station, arms folded. He hadn’t moved in a while. His coat was still on, but his badge had been unclipped, tucked into his pocket, like he didn’t want to carry the weight of the title anymore. A clipboard rested beside him. Unused. Blank.

Chan, who had just finished his rounds and was headed toward the elevators, slowed when he caught sight of him. The head doctor’s footsteps softened as he approached, reading the tension like it was printed on the walls.

“You still here?” Chan asked, brows lifting.

Minho didn’t answer immediately. Chan looked him up and down. “Have you eaten?”

“Yeah,” Minho lied. His voice was quiet. Distant. “I’m fine.” Chan didn’t believe him, but he nodded anyway, giving him room.

“What are you doing here this late?” Chan asked gently, glancing toward Room 417. “She asleep?” Minho nodded slowly. “Yeah. She vomited earlier. I stayed to monitor her vitals. Just in case.” Chan sighed softly. “Minho… you’ve been here longer than anyone. Every night. You know her numbers as well as her chart does.”

Silence.

“Go home,” Chan said carefully. “You need rest. You’ve done more than enough.”

Something shifted in Minho’s face. Not big, not loud, but enough for Chan to feel it. His jaw clenched, shoulders tightened, and his voice shook.

“No,” Minho said, harshly. “I haven’t.”

Chan blinked. “Minho…”

“I haven’t done enough. If I had—she wouldn’t be like this. She wouldn’t be so damn calm about dying. She wouldn’t be making peace with it while I’m just—just standing there acting like I know how to save her when I can’t.”

His voice broke. It startled Chan—Minho never let himself break.

Minho turned away slightly, breathing hard, hands curling into fists at his sides. “You know what the worst part is? She’s the one comforting me. I hold the chart, I deliver the news, I monitor her stats—and she just smiles at me like that’s supposed to make it okay. She’s dying, hyung. She’s dying, and she’s still trying to protect me.”

Chan’s lips parted, stunned into silence. Minho let out a sharp breath, and suddenly, it was there.

Tears.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet, stinging tears that sat in the corners of his eyes and refused to fall. Like he was still trying to keep it together, still trying to be the strong one. And then Chan saw it like an echo surfacing from deep memory:

Minho stood in the hallway outside Room 206, white coat brand new, face too young for the grief etched into it. Inside, a little girl lay still. Leukemia. He’d tried everything. She'd written him a thank-you note the day before she passed. He hadn’t cried then. Just stood there while Chan told him, “Some patients you lose... and it never stops hurting.” And Minho had said, “If this is how it starts, I don’t know if I can keep going.”

Now, years later, Minho was still standing in the same place, different room, same ache.

Chan stepped forward slowly, rested a hand on Minho’s shoulder. His voice was softer this time. “She’s not asking you to save her, Minho. She just wants you to be there.”

Minho didn’t respond but his shoulders shook once. Just once. “You’ve done more than enough,” Chan said again, firmer now. “Let yourself rest. Let yourself feel.” Minho finally looked at him, eyes rimmed red, jaw trembling. But he didn’t argue.

Chan gave his shoulder one last squeeze, then slowly pulled away.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said quietly. And then he left, footsteps echoing down the quiet hall.

Minho stood there for a moment longer, staring at the linoleum floor like it might offer him answers. Then, without a word, he turned and walked down the opposite corridor. Past the breakroom. Past the surgical prep wing. Into his small, dimly lit office.

He locked the door behind him, dropped onto the couch, and didn’t even bother turning off the lights. He didn’t cry again. He just sat there.

Awake. Listening to the silence and pretending that somewhere in it, maybe she was still smiling.

---

2:17 AM. Y/N’s Room. Room 417. Desk Lamp On.

The hospital room was quiet, save for the distant hum of a monitor and the soft scribble of pen on paper. Y/N sat propped up on a pillow, shoulders trembling under a thin blanket, her oxygen line carefully tucked beneath her nose. Her hands shook as she wrote not from nerves, but from the toll her body had taken. Every breath was a fight, every movement a surrender.

But her eyes were calm.

She paused occasionally, her gaze drifting toward the window where the moonlight bled through the curtains, then back to the letter in her lap. Her words came slowly but purposefully.

To Dr. Lee Minho (but mostly, just Minho),

If you're reading this… then the day has come. And I’m sorry. Not because I’m gone—but because I know you’re hurting. You always thought you had to carry everything on your own. You wore your silence like armor. You thought if you cared too much, it would ruin you. I saw that… even when you didn’t say a word.

But you cared anyway. For me. You were never just my doctor. You were my first real friend in all of this. My anchor. You made this place feel less like a countdown and more like a home. I know you’ll want to blame yourself. You’ll think maybe there was something more you could’ve done. But please… don’t let this become another ghost you carry.

You gave me so many more days than I ever thought I’d have. You gave me your time, your kindness, your silence when I needed it and your voice when I couldn’t find mine. You made me laugh. You listened to all my weird dreams and terrible jokes and watched me cry without trying to fix it. You didn’t run from me, even when I was slipping away. I feel like after I write this things may not go the way we want, and maybe this is selfish… but I need you to promise me you’ll keep going.

I want you to eat real meals, sleep in your bed—not your office. I want you to keep caring for people… even if it hurts. Because you’re good, Minho. So good. And if one day someone asks what happened to your patient in Room 417, you can say, “She lived.” Not for long, maybe—but she lived. Because you gave her reasons to.

I hope you find joy again. I hope someone loves you the way you deserve. And if you ever miss me… just look up. I’ll be in the stars, whispering terrible jokes at you.

Thank you for staying.

Love,

Y/N.

---

4:36 AM. Lee Know’s Office. Monitor Beep. Incoming Call.

Lee Know startled awake, head jerking from the desk, his heart already racing.

“Code Blue – Room 417.”

“No.”

The word was immediate. Guttural. Terrified.

No. No. No. No. No.

His coat was halfway on before he even realized it. The hallway blurred past him—white walls, overhead lights, a nurse calling out his name—and then he reached her door.

Chaos. Inside, nurses worked frantically, pressing paddles to her chest. A senior physician barked vitals. A respiratory therapist adjusted the ventilator. The monitor screamed.

Flatline. Minho’s legs felt heavy. His chest constricted. It was happening again.

“BP still crashing—come on, push epi!”

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Then he saw it.

The letter. Folded neatly. Propped against the metal table near the foot of her bed. His name scrawled across the front. His trembling hands reached for it as the chaos unfolded behind him.

He opened it. Each line etched into his brain like a slow, deliberate wound.

She knew.

She knew. The longer he read, the harder it got to see the page, tears spilling, lips parting in silent disbelief. He pressed a hand to his mouth as her words sank deeper and deeper, breaking him open in a place he'd spent years barricading.

A sob broke from his throat. And just as his eyes reached the final line—

Thank you for staying.

—The monitor gave its final, single beep.

And then—

Silence. Stillness. No more rhythm. No more fight. No more noise. Lee Know’s fingers slipped from the letter. It floated down to the cold tile floor like the last petal of something once blooming.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stood there, eyes locked on her still form, breathing in the heartbreak that would live with him forever.

“Time of death,” Dr. Yoon murmured, glancing at the monitor before lowering her head.

A nurse gently confirmed, “5:03 A.M.” For a moment, no one moved. The air in the room was heavier than usual. The kind of heavy that crawled into the lungs and sat there, refusing to let go.

Lee Know stood frozen, letter limp in his hand, the final words still echoing in his ears as her body lay motionless before him. Her eyes were closed. Her lips slightly parted like she might still be whispering something into the veil between this world and the next.

“Let’s give Dr. Lee a moment,” Dr. Yoon said softly, ushering the staff toward the door. One by one, they left. Machines powered down. Monitors silenced. The room, once frantic with life-saving attempts, fell into a hush so still it screamed.

Then the door clicked shut. And Minho broke. He staggered forward, fingers gripping the foot of her bed as the sobs came in waves, unfiltered and raw.

“Why… why did it have to be you?!” he whispered, voice crumbling under the weight of grief. “You weren’t supposed to be next…”

His shoulders shook violently as he collapsed into the chair beside her bed, head bowed, hand reaching—slow, trembling—until it found hers. Cold. Too cold.

He held it anyway. The letter trembled in his lap, her words now carved into the softest, most shattered parts of him.

“I wasn’t ready,” he choked. “I wasn’t ready to let you go. I didn’t want to say goodbye yet. I still had more to tell you…”

Tears spilled endlessly onto his hands, her sheets, her skin.

“You were so brave,” he whispered, voice nearly gone. “You never gave up. Even when you were in pain. Even when you knew this was coming…” He squeezed her hand like it might bring her back. Like maybe this time, if he held on tightly enough, the outcome would be different.

But it wasn’t. The silence stayed. So, he wept freely, brokenly, like the man behind the coat and stethoscope was nothing more than a boy who had just lost someone irreplaceable.

And for the first time in years…

He let himself grieve.

---

On-call Room, Three Weeks Later

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the vending machine and the occasional footsteps of nurses beyond the door. Lee Know sat slouched on the small couch, a half-empty coffee cup in one hand, Y/N’s medical journal in the other. It was worn from her fingers, the pages slightly curled at the corners. Her handwriting danced across every page—sometimes shaky, sometimes strong—but always hers. Her voice in ink.

He’d read the first few pages a dozen times already, but tonight… tonight he couldn’t stop.

April 4th, 2:03 AM

"Dr. Lee said my blood pressure’s better today. I think he’s just trying to be nice. But he also brought me a banana (I hate bananas), and I ate the whole thing because he looked proud. I think… I’m starting to care too much. That’s dangerous."

He exhaled a quiet laugh, eyes misting. “You always hated bananas.” He flipped to another page.

May 17th

"I dreamt last night I was healthy again. I was running and Dr. Lee was yelling at me to slow down. I told him, ‘Catch me if you can!’ He didn’t. He just stood there smiling. I wish dreams could keep you alive."

Lee Know’s jaw clenched. He turned to the very last entry.

June 1st

"He sat with me for an hour today. Said nothing. I didn’t either. I think we both knew I was slipping. But the silence didn’t feel empty—it felt full. I think that’s how you know you love someone. When silence speaks more than words."

A tear landed on the page. And another.

He gently closed the journal, pressing it to his chest as he leaned back against the couch, eyes shut tight, trying to breathe through the pain. The quiet around him was vast, endless until the door creaked open.

“Minho?”

He looked up. Chan stood there, lab coat half-buttoned, eyes lined with fatigue—but soft with concern. Lee Know quickly wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. “Hey.”

Chan stepped in, closing the door behind him. “You’ve been here since the funeral.”

Lee Know gave a small nod. Chan eyed the journal. “Her handwriting?”

“She wrote every day,” Minho whispered, voice cracking. “Even when she couldn’t speak. Even when the pain was so bad her fingers locked up. She… didn’t want to be forgotten.”

Chan sat beside him slowly. “She won’t be.”

Minho shook his head, his fingers curling around the book. “I lost her, hyung. Just like the first one. Just like that kid three years ago… Remember? The one in PICU? I swore I’d never feel that helpless again.”

Chan let out a breath. “I remember. That broke you.”

“This…” Minho looked down. “This shattered me.”

Chan placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “And yet—you’re still here.”

Minho closed his eyes. “You're still reading her words. Still mourning her right,” Chan continued. “That means she mattered. And it means you did your job—with everything you had.”

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” Minho whispered. “Not if every goodbye hurts like this.”

Chan smiled gently. “But you will. Because this isn’t about not hurting. It’s about choosing to keep going, knowing it hurts. That’s what makes you the doctor patients remember—even after they’re gone.”

Lee Know looked at him, eyes glassy. Chan leaned forward, squeezing his shoulder. “You loved her, Minho. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.” Just then—an overhead voice pierced the stillness.

“Code Yellow. Cardiac arrest. ER, Room 12.”

Minho froze. Chan looked up, then back to him.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s go save someone else.” Minho stared at the journal one last time… then carefully set it on the table, kissed his fingers, and brushed them against the cover.

“For her.”

And he rose.

They both did—coats flying behind them, stethoscopes swinging—two doctors stepping back into the fire. Because the world hadn’t stopped. And neither would they.

@pessimisticloather @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @alisonyus @rockstarkkami @burntbang @morkleesgirl @yoongiismylove2018 @imeverycliche @katchowbbie @pixiefelix @maisyyyyyy @necrozica @nebugalaxy @katyxstay @iknowyouknowminho @bbokvhs @imagine-all-the-imagines @jc27s @igotajuicyass @sh0dor1 @jeonginnieswifey @leeknow-minho2 @lillymochilover @depressedarlling @iknow-uknow-leeknow @maxidential @ebnabi @ari-hwanggg @xxxxmoonlightxxx @rossy1080 @hanniebunch @tricky-ritz @woozarts @zerillia @queenofdumbfuckery @lorialia  @btch8008s @jamroses

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~kc 💗

[furioussheepluminary]

So many kind words thank you so so so so much 💕

May 2025 Must-read

Our recommendation list for this Month!

Ten beautiful masterpiece you can read to improve your day!

Genre: fluff

1 per member (and 3 for Jisung)

Mr Husband Material

by @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor - Chan x fem! reader,

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Slice of Life

SFW fic

Warnings: None

Summary: It starts with a simple statement, one that has Chan grinning ear to ear, and he can’t help but tease his girlfriend a bit on the matter. Imagining what his life would be like being married to the love of his life, is certainly one way to pass time.

Why I Recommend It: It’s short and sweet, but it sticks with you, this is the type of fluff that will warm your heart for days after you read it. This drabble is the definition of good things coming in small packages. I also recommend this as your daily happy pill, especially if you need a quick fix of Skz and fluff. Also, domestic Chan, like literally that’s all I have to say.

Language Barrier

by @dreaming-medium - Minho x fem! reader.

Genre: fluff, first meeting, first kiss, strangers to lovers

SFW fic ~7k words

Warnings: None

Summary: When the power goes out while you’re in an ATM vestibule, you come to realize you’re stuck inside until the police come to open the door. But there’s one problem, you don’t speak a lick of Korean, and the man inside doesn’t seem to speak an ounce of English.

Why I Recommend It: Have you ever read something so good that it was as if you just watched a full-length feature film? If you haven’t and you want to look no further than Language Barrier. The dynamic between Minho and Y/n is masterfully constructed and expressed through such strong writing, the charm and beauty of this fic is that each read feels like you’re reading it for the first time. There is so much weaved into this, and it really is such a good depiction of two people from different worlds coming together to experience a love that is so real and genuine. It’s just so moving and sweet.

The future in his eyes

by @4linos - Changbin x fem! reader,

Genre: fluff, smut

MDNI/ NSFW fic ~3.4k words

Warnings: fluff, marriage/wedding talks, smut (towards the end)

Summary: After accidentally catching the bouquet at a wedding, Changbin opens up about his feelings, revealing his quiet hopes for a future with you, no pressure, just love.

Why I recommend it: One of my favourite portrayals of Changbin ever, you can just about see his cheeky smile and hear his adorable laugh. This is literally so sweet, I don’t know how to express how good this is, the wedding setting is just the perfect setting that highlights the special dynamic between Y/n and Changbin. Plus, this really is just so wholesome, the romance feels so real and believable, you really feel like y/n.

Promised you forever

by @jeonginsleftcheek – Hyunjin x fem! reader.

Genre: fluff, smut, pinch of angst

MDNI/NSFW fic

Warnings: multiple sex scenes, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, creampies, oral (m and f), fingering, breeding kink, mentions of pregnancy

Summary: After 6 years of being away from the village you grew up in, you're finally visiting your grandparents. You're excited to spend time with them, but your heart beats faster at the thought of seeing your first love.

Why I Recommend It: A diamond in the rough. It’s not often that you stumble across something that changes your outlook on life and romance, but this is such a beautiful, moving piece. This is such a good depiction of Hyunjin, and he really is the perfect man in this. Perfectly imperfect at times but amazing, nonetheless. Ozzy has written something that needs to be read and appreciated in its entirety, it’s no small feat to write a story like this. There is no better feeling than to fully immerse yourself into being y/n and experiencing the love Hyunjin has her. This fic flows like soft stream and envelops you in the ultimate form of love and comfort.

The Happiest

by @hanibalistic - Jisung x fem! reader.

Genre: fluff, angst, romance/ soulmate au, strangers to lovers au

SFW fic ~19.2k words

Warnings: None

Summary: When you found out Jisung was your soulmate, you made the difficult decision to lie to him about it.

Why I Recommend It: This is an adventure and a half and so much more. It explores so much yet over its duration, yet you really can’t get enough of it. THE HAPPIEST is such a unique take on your typical soulmate au-type piece and the eloquent writing style truly does justice to the story. Not to mention this whole thing is just so dreamy and beautiful, if poetry took the form of a fic. I recommend this purely for the sheer excitement you feel when the story starts evolving and going into a direction that you hadn’t anticipated. This is an experience and one that everyone needs in their life.

The Hero Of A Hero

by @furioussheepluminary - Jisung x fem! reader.

Genre: fluff, superhero au, comfort

SFW fic

Warnings: suggestive but make it tooth rotting, injuries, sappy make out session

Summary: When he's done being the hero of the city, he needs saving from the only one who can.

Why I Recommend It: There is something that feels so classic about superhero au’s, and this one is that extra bit classy. Seriously this is honestly such a good take on Spider-man and making this a Han fic is literally perfection, the way KC goes about writing this is one of a kind. It really captures what Spiderman is, down to the world building that is subtle but notable. Also, this is legitimately one of my favourite characterizations of Han Jisung, this entire thing is so him. If you were going to test the waters with a superhero au look no further.

After Hours

by @jisunggy - Jisung x fem! reader.

Genre: office!au, low-key secret dating, low-key forbidden love, fluff, slight angst, suggestive ((Implications of sex but nothing too explicit))

SFW ongoing written series

Warnings: so much bad flirting and banter, dirty thoughts, this whole thing is just me thirsting after Jisung tbh, kissing/ making out, cursing, lying, sexual tension, implied sexy time but nothing too explicit

Summary: You keep coincidentally running into your supervisor after work hours. It's getting harder and harder not to flirt with him...especially since he can't seem to stop flirting back.

Why I Recommend It: Okay, if you want something that is peak K-Drama in every single aspect look no further. This is a pretty popular one that’s been on a recommendations list at least once, but this is for such a good reason. Even if you don’t like office romances or forbidden love, you’d be a fool to not get in on the After Hours trend. This fic series has absolutely everything- lame jokes, not so lame love and it is written so well that you never get tired of the office setting, like this really is such a great series and each part is as good as the last.

Playlist Confessions

by @skzstarl0ver - Felix x fem! reader.

Genre: Classmates to lovers, Slow burn, Smut, Fluff

MDNI/NSFW fic

Warnings: sex, strong tension, cursing, teasing, dirty talk

Summary: Despite partially loathing the idea of adding a song to a shared class playlist, Y/n finds herself perusing the playlist, stumbling across a beautiful low-fi track. The fact it was low-fi was odd enough considering her class almost never took the class playlist seriously, but hidden in the lyrics was a confession from the quiet boy who sat behind her in class.

Why I Recommend It: This is literally so underrated! The set up of this one is so dreamy and magical, the project that Felix and Y/n are paired up to do is such a powerful writing tool to get them to express themselves. This fic is so reminiscent of a coming-of-age story, down to the way Felix expresses his feelings, it feels so youthful and fresh. One of my absolute favourites on this list. If you like feelings expressed through music, you’ll enjoy this one,

Let Go of the Reins

by @kokinu09 - Seungmin x fem! reader,

Genre: strangers to lovers, romance, fluff, slight angst later, happy ending, social media, not meant to be, someday.

SFW ongoing SMAU series

Warnings: None

Summary: Australia is considered home for two of the eight members. When two tour dates are scheduled for the land down under, the boys can’t help but want to spend a bit more time there to visit family and do a little sightseeing. So how do they convince the company that they need to stay a couple weeks? Filming some SKZ Code episodes.

A local riding school just outside the city with amazing reviews for their skilled instructors and beautiful horses is hosting a very popular kpop group to film their experiences. Y/N knows the group well and she just so happens to be their star working student.

Why I Recommend it: Sometimes a series just feels like a home away from home, from the way this is written to having this story set in a riding school in Australia, this is literally such an ideal story, It’s reminiscent of a cozy and quirky romcom. The amount of effort that was put into this series isn’t lost on the reader, trust me, this series will catch you off guard with how cute Y/n and Seungmin’s love story is. It’s framed in such a nice way too, like the touch of realism combined with a cheesy romcom is so charming and makes for such an enjoying read!

How to braid a heart

by @dearmini - Jeongin x fem! reader.

Genre: fluff

SFW fic ~4.3k words

Warnings: pure love, intimacy, cursing, unfunny jokes, bickering, rain (again).

Summary: When you walk in on him learning to braid hair.. for you?

Why I Recommend It: How to braid a heart is elegance from head to toe, and it is a wonderful addition to the selection of fluffy Jeongin works that are out there, and this also happens to be my favourite amongst them. Nerding out for a moment, the visual of this piece really gives you an idea of how absolutely beautiful dearmini’s writing is. From the first sentence you just know you’re going into something that is a treat. You can almost feel exactly what Jeongin is feeling when you read this, which is the standout, you are getting an idea of each facet of Jeongin and Y/n’s relationship and it is so so cute.

Let us know if you enjoyed em!

(We’re pretty sure you will!)

List suggested and curated by: Armani

Users tag list: @lov3rachan , @lovetaroandtaemin , @fenyasnonsense , @aneldrichentity , @blueohs , @ggomanii-fancy-you

[furioussheepluminary]

Aww baby I've got tissues!! 🤧🤧

𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞: 𝐘𝐨𝐮

Pairing: hearingimpared!seungmin x afab!reader, established relationship

Synopsis: After many years of seungmin being deaf and slightly struggling in your relationship (which you always reminded him that it wasn't a struggle) you finally earn enough money to take him to the audiologist and get him better hearing aids

Warnings: angst, comfort, teeny fluff, quite emotional, seungmin cries when he hears reader clearly for the first time

A/n: if you have extra eyes for errors no you don't.

Seungmin wasn’t born deaf.

He still remembers faint traces of his childhood filled with laughter, music, and the soft hum of his mother’s lullabies. But everything changed when he turned ten.

It started with a high fever—nothing unusual at first. A week of being bedridden, some ear pain, dizziness. But when he finally stood up again, the world had gone muted. At first, it was like everything had just quieted. He thought his ears were clogged. But days passed, then weeks, and the silence never lifted. Doctors diagnosed him with sudden sensorineural hearing loss, likely triggered by the viral infection.

His parents tried everything from treatments, therapies, to hearing aids that whistled and buzzed more than they helped. But nothing brought back the clarity. Every sound was either muffled beyond recognition or screeching and distorted. The world became distant, like he was behind thick glass, watching everyone else live while he stood still. But it changed him. He grew quieter, more observant. The boy who used to hum songs while tying his shoelaces began to avoid music altogether. It was like losing a color from the spectrum life was still beautiful, but something fundamental was missing. 

At the time his disability was newly discovered, school was hell. He couldn’t keep up. People spoke too fast, teachers got frustrated repeating themselves, and classmates started calling him “broken.” He learned to lip-read out of survival, forcing himself to focus on mouths and facial expressions. But it was exhausting. Misunderstandings piled up. He withdrew. He smiled less. He began associating sound with failure.

The hearing aids became a source of shame. They were clunky, outdated, unreliable and they never worked right. Conversations turned into guessing games. He hated the pitying looks, the way people shouted slowly like he was stupid. Eventually, he stopped wearing them altogether. What was the point? Silence was at least consistent. He learned to exist in it.

Music, which once comforted him, became a painful memory. He’d press his fingers against the speaker, feeling the beat, closing his eyes to pretend he could hear the notes. But it wasn’t the same. He longed for the way voices used to sound and the way someone would say his name.

Years passed. He adjusted. His world was quiet, but he adapted. He became fiercely independent, doing everything he could not to burden anyone. But deep down, he still felt like he was constantly missing something like he was always one step out of sync with the world.

Then he met you.

You didn’t shout. You didn’t over-enunciate. You just... communicated. With patience, with handwritten notes, soft smiles, gentle touches. You asked how he preferred to talk. You learned his signs.

You were volunteering at a community arts center, helping organize a mixed-media class for differently-abled youth. Seungmin was there to support his younger cousin, who was on the autism spectrum. You caught his eye from across the room not because of anything loud or showy, but because you smiled at him like you already knew him. And when you introduced yourself, you didn’t speak first. You signed.

It was clumsy, adorable signing “Hi, me name… Y/N?” but it made Seungmin laugh, a breathy, silent sort of chuckle that made his shoulders shake. You looked up, startled, then broke into a grin. That moment cracked something open in him.

You started seeing each other more at events, over coffee (even though Seungmin didn't drink it), through text messages and quiet walks at night where he’d watch your lips move and you’d trace your fingers on his palm when the world was too dark for words. He never told you at first, but he thought you were magic. Not because you tried to fix anything but because you never treated him like he was broken.

And Seungmin, quiet but patient, would take your hands gently—never too long, never too forward—and guide them into the right shapes. You learned not just words, but expression. He taught you how emotion lives in the eyebrows, the tilt of a chin, the flicker of fingers.

It took weeks for you to realize he was looking forward to seeing you too. That he waited for you hesitantly, pretending to browse when he was really just hoping you’d show up.

Seungmin, who had long learned to carry silence like armor, found your presence disarming. You never flinched when he took a moment to respond. You never laughed when his voice slipped out softer, unsteady, after years of disuse. You spoke with your hands and eyes, letting him meet your where he was comfortable.

Their first date wasn’t even supposed to be one. They ended up walking home together after a sudden downpour soaked the city, and you insisted they find shelter in a late-night bookshop. It was there, under dim lights and the smell of paper, that she signed with a grin,

“This counts as a date, right?”

He had chuckled. Hands moving, sincerely.

“I guess it does.”

But falling in love wasn’t easy for Seungmin.

He had spent so many years blaming himself for being “too much.” Too silent. Too broken. Too hard to love. His old relationships had left scars with people who meant well but didn’t know how to stay. People who said things like “I just wish you’d talk more,” or “It’s hard when I can’t always reach you.”

He’d internalized it all, folding it into his chest like poison.  Like when he didn’t hear the doorbell and thought he missed your surprise visit. Or when he sat through a movie with you and couldn’t follow the storyline because the captions were out of sync, and he tried so hard to laugh when you did but his timing was off. You saw it in his eyes. That flicker of distance. That urge to shrink away from you because he felt like a burden.

Even though you learned sign language just for him, even though you took your time when speaking so he could read your lips, even though you’d repeat yourself over and over again without a hint of frustration he still felt the doubt creeping in.

Sometimes he’d pull away from you without warning. A bad day with static-filled hearing aids. A cruel memory triggered by something innocent. An accidental miscommunication that left him spiraling. He’d retreat, cold and distant, signing with sharp movements:

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this. With me.”

It crushed you every time. Not because he pushed her away, but because he truly believed he wasn’t worth staying for.

One night, after he pulled his faulty hearing aids out and tossed them across the room, his voice cracked in anger,

“I can’t even hear you properly. What kind of boyfriend is that?”

You sat beside him in silence for a moment, then gently took his trembling hands in hers. Slowly, you signed,

“You listen to me better than anyone ever has.”

Then you said it out loud, knowing he could read your lips and feel the words vibrating in your chest:

“Your silence has never scared me.”

And that night he cried.

Seungmin wasn’t someone who cried easily, but with you every dam he’d built up over the years broke. The guilt, the loneliness, the longing to be understood… it all poured out, and she held him through it. Not trying to fix him. Not trying to speak over it. Just there, solid and soft, like a light left on for him to find his way back.

You made a habit of leaving him small sticky notes when you left early. You practiced a little more sign language every night, even when he wasn’t around. You learned the difference between when he needed space and when he needed to be held. And Seungmin, he began to believe, slowly, that he was worth loving in full volume, even if he couldn’t hear it.

Loving Seungmin had always been a quiet kind of magic. Not because it was easy—no, love with him was layered, complex, and sometimes achingly delicate—but because it was real. It lived in the space between glances, in fingertips tracing signs in the air, in soft gazes across crowded rooms. It was in the way he’d tilt his head to better read your lips, or the subtle squeeze of his hand when he understood your joke a beat later than everyone else.

You never once saw him as a burden. But you knew he saw himself that way sometimes.

And it broke your heart.

From the very beginning, she made it your mission to never let him feel like he was lacking. You learned sign and KSL with aching fingers and late-night YouTube tutorials. You practiced in mirrors so your signs would be smooth, her expressions more natural, your hands quicker. You slowed down when you spoke not because you thought he was slow, but because you wanted to meet him where he was. Still, you saw it in his eyes sometimes. That flicker of shame. That silent wish that he could hear your laugh, hear his own voice clearly again, hear the world.

That’s when the idea took root.

You knew how much he hated his old hearing aids. He’d told you about them more than once the way they whistled when they weren’t supposed to, how the static from them made everything sound like muffled underwater echoes, how they were so bulky and outdated that he’d just stopped wearing them altogether. Seungmin had resigned himself to a life in silence, the hearing aids nothing more than an accessory to the inevitable.

But you couldn’t stand the thought of him living in that silence any longer. You wanted him to have the chance to hear your voice again, clearly, without the static that always filled the gaps. You wanted him to hear the world more fully the way he’d once done before it all changed. You wanted him to feel heard again.

So, without ever telling Seungmin, you decided to take matters into her own hands.

It wasn’t easy. You worked long shifts at the coffee shop, your fingers blistered from the constant motion of making drinks and wiping tables. You picked up freelance graphic design work, staying up late into the night, your eyes straining in front of your laptop screen. Every penny you earned, you set aside, hiding it away in a small envelope marked simply: For Seungmin. There were days when you nearly broke down from exhaustion, when your back ached from the weight of carrying your dreams for both of you. But every time you felt like giving up, you’d imagine the look in Seungmin’s eyes when he heard you  clearly again.

And then, after months of scraping together whatever she could—cutting back on coffee, on her usual weekend dinners, sometimes even selling old clothes—she had enough.

You researched hearing aids for weeks, making sure you found the ones that would work best for Seungmin, something lightweight, discreet, and most importantly, functional. You reached out to Seungmin’s audiologist and got the opinions of others who’d experienced similar challenges. You wanted to make sure that what you got for him wouldn’t be just another disappointment. You spent hours on forums, researching the best options, reading testimonials from other users who had finally found something that worked.

Eventually, you found them. Sleek, modern hearing aids that promised clearer sound and better comfort than anything he’d ever had before. They were expensive, but after months of hard work, you’d earned every dollar The day you bought them, your heart raced. You could already picture the look on Seungmin’s face. It was a mix of excitement and fear, but, you were afraid he wouldn’t accept them, that he’d feel overwhelmed, maybe even insulted by the gesture. But you pushed those fears aside. This was for him. For them. For the future you wanted to share with him, where their voices could reach each other across the space that silence had created.  So, you made a plan.

It started like any ordinary morning, or at least, Seungmin thought it did.

You had woken him up gently, brushing her fingers through his hair and signing, “Let’s go out today. There’s somewhere I want to take you.”

He’d blinked up at you, confused but trusting, nodding sleepily. He didn’t ask questions, you had a way of guiding him like that, always full of soft surprises.

You took the train, the city humming around them in its distant, quiet way. Seungmin watched you more than he watched the view. You kept looking at your phone, nervous fingers tapping your thigh, eyes flicking up to meet his every so often. You was trying to hide your excitement, but he knew you too well.

When they reached the small clinic, his brows furrowed. His heart sank. He stared at the clean white sign with the word Audiology on the glass door. He looked at you, confused, guarded. “Why… are we here?” he signed slowly, the motion tight, cautious. “You know I don’t—”

“It’s just a check-up,” you signed quickly, gently. “No pressure. Just trust me, okay?”

He didn’t want to go inside. His stomach twisted. But your hand slipped into his, warm and certain, and he couldn’t say no to that.

Inside, the receptionist greeted them warmly, and you leaned in to speak to her quietly while Seungmin filled out a short form. What he didn’t know was that you was whispering, “I made the appointment. Please don’t say anything about the hearing aids yet, it’s a surprise. I already spoke to Dr. Jin. He knows.”

The receptionist gave a small nod and smile. Everything was in place.

Soon enough, Dr. Jin came to the waiting area and welcomed them in. He was an older man, calm-eyed and kind-voiced, someone Seungmin had seen before years ago when he was still trying to find hope in outdated machines. They sat down in the exam room, Seungmin looking around nervously. Dr. Jin smiled gently at him and signed a little before switching to spoken words.

“Just a few questions, Seungmin. Nothing scary.”

Seungmin nodded, arms crossed over his chest. The doctor asked about any ear pain, if he’d experienced pressure or dizziness, if he ever had headaches with silence. Standard questions. Seungmin answered in a mix of voice and sign, slow but clear. He still had a beautiful voice—soft, low, and rarely used.

And then Dr. Jin leaned back in his chair, expression shifting.

“Seungmin…” he said softly. “This wasn’t just a check-up.”

Seungmin’s body tensed, eyes snapping to you.

Dr. Jin smiled. “She bought you new hearing aids.” Seungmin’s lips parted slightly. He didn’t sign. He didn’t speak. He froze.

“She saved up. Came to us. Asked all the right questions. Chose the model carefully. She wanted it to be a surprise. You didn’t know, right?”

Seungmin slowly turned to look at you.

You was already looking at him, your hands nervously clasped together, a soft smile playing on your lips gentle and trembling. Your eyes were glassy with emotion, and your fingers moved slowly: “You deserve better. You deserve to hear clearly again. To not suffer with broken things.”

Seungmin’s jaw trembled. His eyes shimmered.

Dr. Jin stood and walked to the drawer, pulling out a small, sleek black box. “These are top-grade. Lightweight. Fully programmable. Bluetooth compatible. And custom-tuned to your profile.”

He opened the box and held them out to Seungmin, who stared in disbelief.

“Do you want to try?” Dr. Jin asked softly.

Seungmin nodded, slowly. Silent. Tears clinging to his lashes. With practiced hands, Dr. Jin gently placed the hearing aids into his ears and began the tuning process, tapping the tablet in front of him.

Then he paused, looked at you, and nodded. You stepped forward, nervous and close to tears.

“Seungmin?” you said softly.

It hit like lightning.

Clear. Warm. Perfect.

No static. No distortion. No lag. No underwater echoes.

It was you. Your voice. For the first time in so long, he heard you as you were.

His face crumbled. He turned to her slowly, chest rising with a shaky breath. His lips parted in wonder, then broke into a sob. The kind of cry that shook his whole body. His hand flew up to his mouth, as if trying to hold the emotion back, but it was useless.

You reached out, taking his hand in yours, squeezing it tightly.

“I love you,” you whispered.

He heard it. He heard it. He collapsed forward, pressing his forehead to her shoulder, arms wrapping around her as if anchoring himself to the moment. Tears soaked into your shirt as he clung to your, silent no longer not because he needed to speak, but because she had already said everything he ever needed to hear.

And this time, he heard it all.

Dr. Jin, patient and warm, gave them a moment before gently asking, “Seungmin, can you hear me clearly?”

Seungmin nodded through the tears, wiping his cheek with his sleeve.

“Any whistling? Buzzing? Pain?”

He shook his head.

“Do the sounds feel natural? Not too sharp or mechanical?”

Seungmin managed a breathy, “Yeah… they sound real.” His voice cracked.

Dr. Jin smiled and turned to you. “They’ll need a few days to settle in. The brain takes time to readjust. Avoid crowded, high-noise places for now. Charge them overnight. Keep them dry. And…”, he looked between the two of you, “talk to him a lot. Let his ears fall back in love with your voice.”

You nodded, your heart swollen.

The train ride back was quiet, except for the world.

And that was the part that made Seungmin cry again. He looked around as they sat side-by-side. A baby giggling a few seats down. Someone tapping their foot against the train floor. The distant intercom voice announcing the next station. The wind brushing against the door seams. YN breathing beside him.

Sounds he’d grown used to missing were now everywhere.

Tears clung to his lashes again, and he tried to swipe them away discreetly, but you saw. You reached over, laced their fingers, and squeezed his hand.

When they finally got home, Seungmin didn’t even take his shoes off properly. The door had barely shut behind them before he turned and pulled you into the fiercest hug he'd ever given you.

He clung to you like a storm wth his arms tight around your waist, face buried in your neck, his whole body trembling. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You shouldn’t have saved all your money for me. That’s too much. That’s everything. Y/N… that’s everything.”

“Exactly,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to cup his face, your thumbs brushing his wet cheeks. “You’re worth everything. Every coin, every hour, every little saving. You deserve to hear again, Minnie. You deserve this and so much more.”

He looked at you—truly looked at you—and then leaned in without a single ounce of hesitation. The kiss was deep, desperate, soaked in tears and gratitude. His lips trembled against yours, and your hands curled into his hair as if anchoring him in the present. He kissed you like your voice had brought him back to life. Like he’d been drowning in silence and your love pulled him up for air.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed, Seungmin whispered, voice barely holding,

“Thank you… for giving me back the world. And for being the loudest, most beautiful part of it.”

And you just smiled, brushing her nose against his, whispering, “Welcome back, Seungmin.”

Seeing as he's a singer that kinda gave me inspo for this. Crying cleanses...trust

Taglist: purple means I can't tag you

@lillymochilover @imeverycliche @pessimisticloather @iknow-uknow-leeknow @burntbang @ari-hwanggg @pessimisticloather @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @alisonyus @rockstarkkami @morkleesgirl @yoongiismylove2018 @imeverycliche @katchowbbie @pixiefelix @maxidential @maisyyyyyy @burntbang @iknowyouknowminho @igotajuicyass @sh0rdor1 @jitrulyslayyed @leeknow-minho2 @jeonginnieswifey @necrozica

Check out my pinned if you want to be added to the taglist!

~kc 💗

[furioussheepluminary]

Thank you for noticing I have a style ☺️

𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐲

pairings: hyunjin x afab!reader, non idoal au, strangers to lovers

synopsis: after flunking a test her friend persuades her to get her mind off it with stuff. instead of getting high with the substance, she gets high on the seller.

warnings: suggestive, crack, candy (don't do drugs)

a/n: heyyy babes! im partially back, but i just did this to overcome my block. i am better ofc but now im busy catching up on what i missed in my real world so...ill be back, enjoyyy, if you have extra eyes for errors no you dont

You.

The sweetheart with the pressed skirts and the highlighters neatly lined up on your desk. You had a planner for every semester, color-coded tabs, sticky notes filled with quotes about hard work and ambition. Scholarship student. Honor roll. Volunteer work on weekends. You were the kind of girl professors remembered—the kind who made the alumni board smile and shake hands a little tighter.

And baby, you wore that pressure like a second skin.

Because being "good" wasn’t just for you. It was for your family back home who had scraped together every dream they could just to send you here. It was for the neighbors who pointed at you like a success story. It was for the little girl you used to be—the one who promised she would make it out and make it matter.

You stayed away from parties.

You stayed away from boys.

You stayed away from trouble.

You had to.

---

The campus library was cold.

Not just in temperature, the fluorescent lights buzzed like dying flies overhead, casting everything in that weird sterile glow, like a hospital for broken dreams. You stared down at the crumpled paper in your hands. Big red letters slashed across it like fresh wounds.

D+.

You blinked at it. Once. Twice. Maybe if you blinked hard enough, it would change. Maybe it would rearrange itself into a B...a C...Anything but what it was.

You had studied so damn hard. Flashcards, mock tests, late-night cramming sessions until your eyes burned. You drank the coffee, you skipped the parties, you wore yourself thin because you knew the stakes. And still, here you were.

A failure.

You felt the heat rising behind your eyes before you could even stop it.

"Y/N!"

Your best friend's voice came soft, careful, like she already knew you were teetering on the edge of something dangerous. She rushed over, dropping her own books with a thud, her brows knitted in concern.

She crouched beside you at the study table, laying a hand gently on your shoulder.

"Hey... hey, it's okay. It's just one test, darling. It's not the end of the world—" You yanked your shoulder away before she could finish, your whole-body stiff and trembling.

"Don't—!"

The word came out sharper than you meant, jagged and raw, and your friend's eyes widened slightly. But you were past the point of caring. Your voice cracked as you stood up too fast, the chair screeching backward obnoxiously loud.

"I did everything right," you choked out. "Everything. I worked my ass off. I did everything they told me to do, and it still wasn't enough! It’s never enough!" You felt it break then your anger giving way to the helpless sob sitting stubbornly in your chest. Your throat burned. Your hands trembled.

"Y/N..."

She caught you this time when you stumbled, gathering you into a hug as the dam finally burst. You shook in her arms, silent tears leaking down your cheeks, your body going limp with exhaustion. She rubbed soothing circles on your back, whispering soft nothings like "it's okay" and "you’re not alone," but the words barely registered over the static screaming in your mind.

When you finally pulled away, she tucked your hair gently behind your ear, giving you a look that was all understanding and mischief tangled into one.

"You need to blow off some steam," she said, her tone shifting into something lighter, coaxing a weak, watery laugh from you.

"I mean it. You're gonna combust if you don’t. Listen—there’s this party happening Saturday. Off-campus. Lowkey but... not really. I know some people who could seriously help you forget this week ever happened."

You sniffed, wiping at your eyes like a kid caught crying in the playground.

"A party?" you muttered, half-horrified, half-tempted.

It wasn’t like you.

But God, wasn’t that the point?

Your best friend smirked a little, knowing she had you halfway convinced already. She leaned closer, dropping her voice into a conspiratorial whisper.

"I’ll introduce you to my guy friends. They're... cool. Different. You'll like them."

You hesitated. Your heart hammered at the idea of stepping even one foot off the carefully paved road you’d spent years walking. But sitting here, broken and tired and humiliated, you realized—

The road hadn’t saved you. Maybe it was time to step off it. You wiped your hands over your face, took a deep, shaky breath, and finally, finally nodded.

"Fine," you mumbled.

"One night."

Your friend grinned like she’d just won a bet.

"Atta girl."

---

You stood stiffly in front of the mirror, your hands clenching the hem of your skirt so tightly it crinkled. The reflection staring back at you didn’t even feel like you. Your friend was crouched in front of you, lipstick in one hand, a determined glint in her eyes.

"Stop moving," she said, grinning. "You’re gonna look so hot, it’s criminal."

You tried to smile. It came out weak, strained at the edges.

The outfit she chose for you was way outside your comfort zone—tiny black skirt, strappy crop top, leather jacket thrown over your shoulders to "ease you into it" (her words).

Your makeup was bolder than anything you ever dared to wear.

Smoky eyes, glossy lips. A version of you that looked ready to set the night on fire, even though inside, you felt more like soggy wood.

Your legs shifted nervously in place, the heels feeling foreign, unsteady. "Are you sure this isn’t... too much?" you asked, biting your lip. You stared at yourself again, trying to reconcile the you you knew with the you you were pretending to be.

Your best friend stood up, placing both hands firmly on your shoulders.

She leaned in, locking eyes with you in the mirror.

"Y/N," she said firmly, "you are gorgeous. You just don’t let yourself see it most days. Trust me tonight, okay?"

You hesitated, the weight of your nerves thick in your chest.

Then you nodded.

A tiny, scared nod, but a nod nonetheless.

"Atta girl," she smiled, bumping her forehead lightly against yours.

She grabbed her keys, swinging them around her finger with a casual confidence you could only dream of, and tossed you a wink.

"Let’s go blow some minds."

The drive to the party felt both too long and too short. The city lights blurred past the windows, all neon and chaotic, matching the buzz under your skin. Your friend sang along softly to the music she put on something bass-heavy and lazy, like it didn’t care who it seduced.

You twisted your fingers together in your lap, trying not to think too hard.

As she pulled onto a quieter street, you saw the house in the distance.

Already, there were people spilling out onto the lawn, solo cups in hand, voices raised in wild laughter. Music thudded from inside low and thick, a heartbeat you could feel in your ribs.

Your stomach twisted.

At the red light before the turn, your friend reached over and squeezed your hand.

"Hey," she said, voice soft now. "Listen to me. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, okay? One wrong vibe, you say the word, and we’re out. No questions, no guilt trips. Pinky promise."

She held up her pinky, wiggling it in front of your face. You smiled for real this time—small, grateful—and hooked your pinky with hers. It was stupid and childish but somehow exactly what you needed.

"Thanks," you whispered. "Always, baby girl," she grinned, letting go as the light turned green. The car rolled up toward the house, headlights catching flashes of students you recognized and a whole lot you didn’t. Somebody was already half-passed out on the front porch. You swallowed hard. This wasn’t your scene. This wasn’t your world. But tonight, for just a little while you were stepping off the road. Your friend parked a little ways down, turning off the ignition and turning to you with a wicked smirk.

"Ready to get a little stupid?"

You laughed, nerves and adrenaline tangling in your chest.

"Not really," you said honestly.

She bumped her shoulder against yours. "Perfect. That’s when the best shit happens." You both climbed out into the night, heels clicking on the pavement, leather jacket heavy across your shoulders. You tugged it tighter around yourself like armor.

Inside, the house pulsed with life.

The door swung open before you could knock, laughter and smoke curling out like welcoming arms. The house swallowed you whole the moment you stepped inside.

It wasn’t just noise it was living. The bass of the music slammed into your chest like a second heartbeat, making your ribs vibrate. Everywhere you looked, there were people draped across furniture, spilling drinks onto worn hardwood floors, laughing too loudly, moving in rhythms half a beat too slow or too fast. The air was thick, syrupy sweet, tainted with something almost electric.

A haze clung near the ceiling—smoke from god-knows-what—and the sharp bite of cheap alcohol hung in every breath.

The lighting was low, a chaotic mess of fairy lights strung carelessly along the walls, some blinking, some dead altogether.

It threw the whole room into this weird, half-lit dream where nothing looked quite real.

You clutched your jacket tighter around yourself, swallowing hard. God, you already felt out of place. Like a sore thumb dipped in glitter. But your best friend—beautiful, fearless, reckless—grabbed your hand and tugged you deeper into the crowd with a grin.

"C'mon, meet my people," she said, practically yelling over the music. You followed, weaving through bodies until you landed in a somewhat less suffocating corner where a group was huddled around a sagging couch. There were introductions you barely caught names flung casually into the smoke, faces blurred by the strobe of some dying LED light. Someone handed you a drink (you didn't ask what it was, and you weren’t sure you wanted to know), and for a while—surprisingly—you almost relaxed. The laughter was contagious, the jokes easy, the chatter flowing like warm river water.

You even laughed once. A real laugh, the kind that caught you off guard.

It felt... good. Foreign, but good.

You started thinking, Maybe this isn’t so bad. Maybe I needed this.

Until—

"Hey," your best friend's voice cut through the fog, soft and careful, right by your ear.

You turned to find her smiling at you—a little too sweetly. Immediate alarm bells.

"What," you said flatly, narrowing your eyes. She rocked back on her heels, trying to play it casual. "Okay, so... I didn’t just bring you here to, you know, socialize." You stared at her. Her grin widened sheepishly.

"Oh no," you said immediately, taking a step back.

"No. Whatever it is, no."

"Wait, wait!" she laughed, grabbing your arm to steady you.

"You’ve been so stressed lately, baby, I just—listen, there’s this new candy going around."

Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "It’s not like the usual shit. It’s different. Good different. Like—light, clean, almost makes you feel like you're floating."

You recoiled like she’d just offered you a live grenade.

"Candy?" you echoed, disbelief painting every syllable.

She nodded eagerly, her eyes sparkling.

"Yeah, yeah! It's like—flavored now too. Blue raspberry, strawberry, mango... You barely taste the chemical. It’s honestly amazing."

You shook your head, hard. "I’m not trying any—anything," you hissed.

"Especially not from a party full of strangers who can't even stand up straight."

She pouted dramatically. You crossed your arms. "Even if I wanted to," you said, voice dripping sarcasm, "which I don’t—who here would even have it?" That’s when her expression changed.

Just a flicker. The tiniest, guiltiest little smirk pulling at her lips.

Your stomach dropped. "No," you said instantly, hands coming up like you could physically push the idea away.

"No. No. Hell no—absolutely not—"

She laughed, biting her lip to keep from laughing harder, and leaned in closer like she was about to tell you the world’s worst-kept secret.

"I know a guy," she whispered.

You stared at her like she’d grown a second head.

"A guy?" you repeated, deadpan.

She nodded, looking way too pleased with herself. "He’s here tonight," she added, voice sing-song. " You’ll know him when you see him." You glared at her, heart hammering against your ribs.

"I hate you," you muttered.

"You love me," she winked, already tugging you by the sleeve toward the deeper part of the house, where the lights were darker and the music hit heavier. "And trust me," she called over her shoulder, voice lilting, teasing, almost daring—

"Once you meet him, you’re gonna thank me."

"You’re insane," you hissed, your hand locked around your best friend’s wrist as she dragged you through the crowd. She didn’t even look back. Her smile was wide, wild, laced with that glint she always got when she was about to ruin your life “for fun.”

"You’ll live," she sang, tossing her hair over her shoulder like this was some kind of spa retreat instead of a warehouse party that smelled like sweat and sins.

“I don’t want to do this—” you started.

“—But you will,” she interrupted sweetly, spinning around just enough to walk backward in front of you. Her grin widened. “Because deep down, you’re curious.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “Curious about death?”

“No, baby. Curious about him.”

That shut you up. Just long enough for her to find the host—tall, tatted, and shirtless with a joint tucked behind one ear.

She leaned in, whispered something into his ear, and you saw the shift immediately.

He looked at you. Then looked away. Then nodded, jerking his thumb toward the staircase like it was some kind of sacred passage. Your heart thudded. You weren’t sure if it was nerves or instinct or maybe some chemical floating in the air that was already getting to you. The host didn’t say much. He just started walking.

You followed. Up the narrow stairs, the music from below muffled with every step, swallowed by thick carpet and the weight of something else something unspoken.

The second floor was nothing like the first. It was quieter. Cooler. Dimmer. The walls were bathed in low amber light, shadows kissing the corners of the ceiling. The smell of weed still lingered but it was cleaner here. No bodies pressed up on you. Just tension. You and your bestie stopped in front of a plain beige door except there was nothing plain about it. Not the way the host stood before it, like he was entering a goddamn chapel. Not the way your pulse surged in your ears.

He knocked in a rhythm.

Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.

Three beats. Deliberate.  You barely had time to ask what the hell that meant before the door creaked open.

And then—

There he was. Hwang Hyunjin. Not a man. Not a boy. A myth standing in flesh, leaning into the doorframe like sin was second nature. Thick black sunglasses hid his eyes, but you felt them.

Watching you. Eating you alive. A leather jacket hung off one shoulder, worn and heavy, the collar dipped low enough to show the soft stretch of his collarbone beneath an army-green tee.

There were rings on nearly every finger—silver, heavy, clicking softly as he tapped one against the wood of the door.

The campus knew of him long before they knew him.

Hwang Hyunjin—the name alone carried this weighty, smoky air like a legend passed around in dorm rooms and late-night parties. No one really knew where he came from exactly; transfer student, runaway, trust fund rebel—every rumor had a different flavor, but they all agreed on one thing:

He was untouchable.

Hyunjin rolled through campus like a storm dressed in leather and silver. White hair buzzed, gold chains, heavy rings, combat boots that thudded against the marble floors. And those sunglasses... indoors, at night, during exams—no one questioned it anymore. Because Hyunjin wasn’t just a student.

He was the Candyman.

If you needed something to survive a brutal week—pills to stay awake, smoke to mellow out, a little powder to blur the edges of a rough night—Hyunjin was the one you found. Or, more accurately, he found you. It wasn’t about the money for him, not really. He had it. It wasn’t even about power, even though the campus bent and buzzed around him like bees to honey.

It was about control. About being the one thing everyone secretly needed but no one dared to claim in the daylight.

 His lips curled into a lazy smirk. That type of smirk. The kind that says, I already know what you’re gonna ask… and I already know you’ll beg for it.

"Yoo," he greeted your bestie casually, voice low and smooth as dark honey.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek like it was tradition. Like she was just another regular in his church of temptation. Your stomach twisted. He hadn’t even looked at you yet. Your friend tilted her head toward you.

"This is my girl," she said, smiling like this was some kind of glorious gift she was offering him.

"She’s curious."

That made him move.

His head turned—slow, precise.

And then—finally—his eyes landed on you.

Even behind the glasses, you felt it. The shift. The sting. The trap. He didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just looked at you like you were something breakable and delicious all at once. You felt your heart stumble. The hallway air seemed to thicken, weighed down by his silence, by the way he looked at you. Slowly, he stepped aside. Just enough to let the door open wider.

He didn’t ask your name. Didn’t ask what you wanted.

Just said, quietly,

"Come in."

When you stepped past the threshold, it hits you like a velvet slap. The smell. It’s thick. Heavy. A mix of sweet syrupy grape-flavored smoke, musk, and something spicy like cinnamon gum and danger. Not the kind of weed scent that clings to a hoodie after a backyard sesh. No, this is premium, imported, rolled by hands that know rituals better than religion.

And the room? It’s a vibe. The lighting’s low and moody—just a few red LED strips curling along the corners of the ceiling like blood vessels, and a neon pink sign over the bed that reads:

 SWEET TOOTH.

There’s no overhead light. Just shadows dancing in corners. A king-sized bed with deep wine-colored silk sheets lies untouched, perfectly made like it hasn’t been used yet tonight but the couch, the couch is war-torn. It’s low to the ground, plush, velvet, L-shaped, and crowded.

Four people lounge across it—two girls, legs tangled, laughing with their heads thrown back like everything’s funny when you’re high enough. One guy with dyed blue hair lazily exhaling smoke from a rose gold vape pen, letting it curl around the room like a spell.

And another guy with locs and a septum ring sitting shirtless on the floor in front of them, nodding to the bass playing low from a speaker tucked into the shelf—some underground R&B that makes you feel drunk just listening.

There’s a low glass table in the center. On it? Everything from edibles shaped like gummy bears to powdered "candy" in sleek, silver tins. A tray with perfectly rolled joints stacked like cigars. A black lighter shaped like a skull. Half-drunk wine glasses and three bottles of expensive vodka with the caps missing. It’s organized chaos. It’s the kind of place where secrets are currency. Where loyalty is shown in silence. Where rules are only suggestions…unless Hyunjin makes them.

And he?

He glides in like he owns the air itself. His buzzcut looks almost metallic under the light—white-blond and razor-sharp, adding edge to the smoothness of his presence. He doesn’t say much. Doesn’t need to. He snaps his fingers once—not loud, just casual—and someone tosses him a joint. He catches it one-handed, lights it with that skull lighter, then turns to your bestie with a smirk that says this ain’t her first trip.

Your friend? She slides right in. She throws herself onto the couch, instantly welcomed like a sister of the smoke. One of the girls lifts her legs for her to sit, then plops them right back in her lap. The guys dap her up. One even kisses her hand.

She fits here. Like velvet to velvet. She’s already laughing, already high, already home.

And you? You’re standing at the door like a wide-eyed lamb in a room full of predators with perfect cheekbones. Hyunjin notices. Of course he does. He walks past you—not looking, not touching, but his presence brushes against you like a breath of hot air.

He leans down by the table, grabs a tin of candy, and offers it to your best friend without a word.

She pops one into her mouth, hums, and turns to you.

"Still nervous, baby?" she teases, licking her bottom lip. "You don’t have to do anything. Just… feel it. Try it. Or don’t. But you gotta breathe."

You’re about to respond when Hyunjin finally speaks. Soft. Lazy. Velvet-over-glass. “You brought her to the garden,” he says, eyes still not on you.

“She can pick the fruit if she wants to.” And now? Now he turns. Finally looks at you, jawline clenched slightly from the drag of the joint between his fingers. His voice is lower this time, smoky.

"What's your name, angel?"

You tell him your name. It comes out soft, stuck somewhere between your lips and the tightness in your chest. He hums it. Slowly. Like he's letting it melt on his tongue.

“Pretty,” he says, letting the word linger in the low fog between you. And then he leans in.

Closer.

He’s not even touching you, not really, but somehow his heat is crawling up your spine like your nervous system has been hijacked. He cocks his head, eyes half-lidded but locked in, and asks,

"So… why’d you come here?" Your throat closes up.

You blink—once, twice—trying to form a sentence that doesn’t sound like “because you look like sin and salvation at the same time.”

Instead, your voice comes out breathy.

“I-I didn’t plan to… My friend, she—she said— I mean I wasn’t gonna—”

Hyunjin grins.

Not mocking. Not smug. But slow and warm like he finds your panic endearing. He raises an eyebrow and taps the side of the tin in his hand.

“You ever tried any before?”

You shake your head quickly. “No. Never.”

“Mmm,” he murmurs. “Then we’ll start with something light.”

He reaches into the tin. Fingers poised. And just before he picks, you blurt it out—

“No—wait!”

Your voice cracks, a little too loud for the hush in the room.

Some heads turn but your bestie just watches, wide-eyed and hopeful like she’s seeing you shed skin for the first time. Hyunjin freezes. His eyes flick up.

You swallow hard.

“I don’t want light,” you whisper. “I want to forget. I want to forget what happened. Please.” It slips out of you, ragged and raw—like someone tore the band aid without warning. Hyunjin stares at you for a long moment. The music fades into background haze. Then he exhales smoke through his nose, slow and thoughtful.

“…Are you sure? Whatever happened can’t be that bad?” Your best friend chuckles from the couch “Yes, yes it was.” And even though your lungs tighten and your stomach flips, you nod.

“Yeah.”

He holds your gaze for a beat longer. Something unreadable flickers in his expression. He doesn’t smile this time. Instead, he reaches into the tin and pulls out a candy glossy, smooth, faintly lavender in color.

“Okay,” he says. “This one’s special.”

You take it with trembling fingers. Place it on your tongue. Let it melt. The taste hits slow at first—floral, citrusy… like honey and thunderstorms.

And then—

Your body begins to slip.

The floor becomes the sky. The air is liquid silk sliding against your skin.

Everything feels warm not hot. Not burning. Just… comfortable. Like slipping into a tub the exact temperature of your soul. Your head lolls back, and a lazy giggle escapes before you can catch it.

“I feel like... like the air is... hugging me,” you slur, your voice soft and half-lidded. “Hugging... hugging real tight.” Hyunjin’s beside you now, arm supporting your back before you even realize your knees started to give. You fall into him. And he lets you. His hand finds your hip like it was made to sit there. The other one gently cups the back of your head, guiding it to rest against his chest. His shirt smells like smoke and sandalwood and something lemony, something fresh.

“You’re okay, angel,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. Your hands clutch his shirt like it’s the only solid thing left in this world. Your words spill like syrup.

“I—mm, I thought you’d be mean... like cold and scary, you know? But you’re... you’re like... warm. Like toast." Hyunjin chuckles. Soft. “Toast, huh?”

“Mmhm. Fancy toast. Like... croissants.”

He laughs again, low and fond, and something about that sound sends goosebumps all down your spine. Meanwhile, your best friend is squealing half-laughing, half-sniffling.

"Look at her! Oh my god, she’s so gone—finally! It’s what she needed."

But Hyunjin doesn’t let you fall apart in public. He gently lifts you, one arm around your waist, the other keeping your head steady against his shoulder.

“Come on,” he says, mostly to himself. “Let’s sit somewhere quieter.”

He guides you to a corner of the room just far enough from the noise. Still low light, but more cushion. A loveseat covered in faux fur and velvet pillows. He settles down, pulling you gently into his lap like it’s instinct. You curl into him, face hidden in his neck. And his arms stay locked around you, firm but not suffocating. Like he’s not going to let you drift too far.

You sigh into his skin.

“Your heart's loud... I can hear it...” Your fingers rest on his chest.

And Hyunjin? He doesn’t say anything. He just lets you listen.

Your body’s loose.

Your thoughts, liquid. You’re sprawled in his lap like he was made to catch you, and maybe he was because he hasn’t let go of you since the second you melted into him. You’re safe here. You know that. But your lips still ache. And your fingers start to wander first curling into the cotton of his tee, then trailing up his chest, brushing the silver chain around his neck. Absent-minded. Delirious.

And then—

You tilt your head up, eyelids heavy, gaze glazed and pleading.

“Hyunjin…”

He hums, low in his throat, not quite a word. His hands rub slow circles into your back. You lick your lips.

“I wanna kiss you.”

Hyunjin goes still. The air changes—like the music pulled back, the shadows leaned in. He clears his throat. “You’re high,” he says softly. “You don’t want that. You just think you do.”

“I do want it,” you mumble. “Been wanting it since you said my name.” He sighs through his nose. “You don’t mean that.”

“Do too,” you pout, slurring. Your fingers slide up to his jaw, tracing the sharp edge of it. “You’re so pretty. You’re like—like an angel that smokes weed and paints with blood.” That pulls a laugh out of him. Raspy, reluctant. But real.

“Jesus,” he mutters, and tries to look away—

But your hand tugs his chin back to face you. “Can I?” Your voice drops into a whisper.

“Can I kiss you? Just a little?” His jaw tightens.

He’s quiet. And you can see it in his eyes—the war. The part of him that wants to be good. Respectful. Safe. But also the part that’s been dying to know what you taste like since you first sat across from him. “You’re not thinking straight,” he murmurs, but it’s not a no. You hear it—the edge in his voice. Like it’s costing him everything to stay still.

“Please, Jinnie…”

The way you say his name? He flinches. Almost imperceptible. But his hand clenches the velvet cushion behind you. You lean in. Close. Lips brushing his cheek, then trailing toward his jaw.

“I just wanna feel something real,” you whisper. “And you feel… real.”

And that’s when he breaks. A breath. Shaky. Shattered. His hand slides to the back of your head. The other curls around your waist like instinct.

“…Just one,” he warns, his voice gravel, threaded with restraint. “Just one and we stop.”

But you’re already leaning in, lips parted—

And when they touch his? Everything stops. The kiss is supposed to be soft. Chaste. But it isn’t. Not when your mouth still tastes like that candy sweet, citrusy, dizzying. Not when your lips part for him so easily. Not when you moan his name into the kiss like you’ve been holding it back for days. Hyunjin groans low in his throat, like the taste is hitting him. The drug lingers on your tongue magnetic, devastating. And it messes with his head.

His grip tightens. The kiss deepens. Your hands find his chest, sliding up his neck to tug at the back of his buzzed hair, and his lips open wider, tongue slipping into your mouth like a man starved. It’s not careful anymore. It’s hungry. You shift in his lap, thighs sliding over his hips, and he lets out a hiss between kisses, one hand falling to your hip to steady you. (But God, he doesn’t want you to stop moving.)

“Shit,” he gasps against your lips. “We shouldn’t—fuck, we shouldn’t—”

But he doesn’t stop. His mouth finds yours again, sloppier this time. Open. Wet. Wanting. You’re gasping now soft, whimpering sounds between kisses, hands all over him like your body’s trying to memorize every ridge of him before the high fades.

Hyunjin is losing it. Your taste, your voice, the way your thighs bracket him so carelessly it’s driving him insane. He pulls back for a second, breath heaving, eyes wild.

“God, you’re gonna ruin me,” he says, voice wrecked.

You smile, dazed and drunk on more than the drug.

His lips are flushed.

Yours are glossy. The air around you is thick with weed smoke and tension, the kind that clings to skin and sinks into your lungs. Music thumps in the background, the kind of rhythm you feel in your chest more than your ears. Someone’s laughing on the other side of the room, but it sounds miles away.

Because all you can focus on is him.

Hyunjin. Eyes gleaming under the hazy lights. Hands warm around your waist. Lips still wet from the last kiss you gave him like he was air and you were drowning.

You giggle against his jaw, all dazed and mischievous.

“You taste like peach gum.” Hyunjin huffs a breathy laugh, cheeks pink, eyes dangerously soft.

“You taste like trouble,” he murmurs.

“And you like trouble, don’t you?” you tease, tilting your head so your lips graze under his jaw dangerously close to that pulse that jumps beneath his skin. He opens his mouth to respond, but you don’t give him the chance.

You kiss him again. Harder this time. Your hands tangle behind his neck, and you press your chest to his like your body already knows exactly where it belongs. His head tips back slightly, letting you take the lead—inviting it, even. Hyunjin’s hands have found your thighs now, gripping gently, but tight enough to let you know he’s still hanging on.

Barely. You move your mouth to his neck, and the second your lips latch onto that soft patch of skin under his ear? He chokes on a breath. His fingers dig in just a little. You start to suck.

Hyunjin swallows hard. “Y/N… f-fuck…” His voice is so wrecked you barely register the click of a phone camera a few feet away. But your best friend sees it all.

Her eyes widen. She zooms. She snaps the picture. And then—

Finally, your bestie calls your name loud.

“Y/N!”

You blink, half-lidded and high, and lazily pull back from Hyunjin’s neck. “Huh?” She points at you from across the room, phone still in hand. “Get off of him! You’re embarrassing yourself, babe!”

You pout like she just took away your favorite toy.

“No…” you murmur, nuzzling back into Hyunjin’s neck. “I wanna stay with him. He’s warm…”

Hyunjin laughs under his breath, half flustered, half wrecked. “You’re really not making this easy, you know that?” You wrap your arms tighter around his neck like a koala. “Don’t wanna be easy.” Hyunjin bites his lip. “Oh my god,” your best friend groans, stomping toward you. “Get your lips off his neck before I come drag you!” You glance at her then back at Hyunjin.

And with the most impish grin?

You go right back in. Hyunjin makes a noise—somewhere between a groan and a laugh—his hands now trying to gently push you off. “Okay, okay, hold on—wait—nope, not the neck again, that one’s still—oh god—Y/N!”

But he’s laughing. He’s loving it. Your lips drag against his throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses as you giggle, high and loose.

Until—

“GIRL, I SWEAR—”

You’re yanked off of him by the arms. “NOOO!” you whine, kicking gently as your best friend pulls you away like an angry mom removing her child from a boy at the playground.

“Let me goooo, I was gonna kiss him again!” Hyunjin leans back on the couch, dazed, buzz a dissarranged mess, neck marked and shining, smiling so wide you’d think he just won the lottery. “You’re insane,” your best friend hisses. “She’s cute,” Hyunjin says with a wink, his fingers brushing the hickey you gave him. “Kinda possessive though.” You reach out for him again like a drunk kitten. “Hyunjinnnnn—”

And he just laughs, shaking his head as he watches your best friend drag you off knowing damn well the second, she lets go? You’ll probably come running back. Hyunjin stands now, eyes low, playful smirk still tugging at his lips as he walks over and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. You stare up at him like you’ve just a god.

“One more kiss?” you whisper, voice barely there.

Hyunjin pauses—like he’s considering, fighting every bit of logic in his head—but then he sees your pout. Your hands on his chest. The way your high has made you all gooey and clingy and sweet.

He sighs softly, then tilts your chin up.

“Alright. One more.”

He kisses you gently—slower this time. Less rushed. Less high, more… lingering. His fingers slip into your coat pocket mid-kiss, sliding in something small and smooth. Then—

He leans in again, lips barely brushing your ear.

“Call me when you’re sober. I want to know what you’re like when you remember everything.”

Your breath catches. Your body reacts before your brain can even register it. Goosebumps. Heart hiccuping. He pulls back just enough to see your fluttery expression, then smirks. Your best friend, holding another little bag of candy, gives Hyunjin a nod. “Thanks for the hospitality. She’s gonna be crying about you the entire way home, just so you know.”

He only shrugs, eyes locked on you. “Let her.”

---

You’re slumped in the back seat, head against the window, glossy eyes staring out at the blur of streetlights. The city looks like a dream—golden, liquid, not quite real. Kinda like how your lips still feel. Like he’s still kissing you.

Your best friend glances back at you. “You good?”

You sniffle. “No.”

She sighs. “What now?”

“I miss him…” you whisper dramatically, eyes welling up again. “He was so… perfect. Did you see his lips? Did you feel his voice? Why did you make me leave? Why did you do that to me?!”

Your best friend can’t help it. She laughs. “You’re gonna be so embarrassed tomorrow.”

“I don’t care,” you sniff, pouting. “I wanna call him. I’m gonna call him and tell him I love him.”

“You don’t love him, baby, you’re just high.”

You sit up, teary-eyed and passionate. “No. I love him. And his buzzcut. And his pants. And his hands. And—and the way he whispered in my ear like he meant it!” Your best friend grabs your phone before you can unlock it. “Nooope. You’re not drunk texting a man named Hyunjin at 2am while still tripping.”

“But he put his number in my pocket like a movie, girl…”

“Exactly why you’re not texting him.”

You sniff again, quiet for a beat… then—

“I’m gonna marry him.”

“Oh my god—”

“I’m gonna marry him and we’re gonna have a cat named Bento and he’s gonna kiss me like that every morning—”

“Lord have mercy.”

You curl into the seat, hugging yourself, eyes glassy but soft. “He was so sweet, though… and so pretty…”

And back in the party? Hyunjin’s still sitting on the couch, head tilted back, lips still tingling. Smiling to himself. Your gloss is still on his mouth.

And he doesn’t wipe it off.

---

The second you stumble into the dorm, the scent of Hyunjin—cologne, weed, and that warm skin-sweetness—follows you in like a ghost. You barely make it two steps before your best friend gently tugs on your arm and sets the mini first aid bag she keeps (because she’s that kind of responsible) on the kitchen counter.

“Alright,” she says, flipping the light switch, “before you go all ‘oh-my-god-he’s-the-love-of-my-life’ again, take this.”

You blink down at the painkiller and water bottle she hands you, pouting like she just asked you to eat your vegetables. “Whyyyy?”

“Because your body isn’t used to being blitzed, princess,” she sighs, brushing your hair back, “and tomorrow morning I’m not waking up to you crying in the toilet because your brain feels like scrambled eggs.” You groan dramatically but take it anyway—tossing the pill back and gulping the water down. Then you just stand there, slightly dazed, like you forgot what your body was supposed to do next. Your best friend nudges you toward your bedroom. “Go. Shower. You smell like a party and desperation.”

You scoff, wobbling off with a muttered, “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, bitch…”

You undress slowly, the cool air hitting your flushed skin. Every movement makes your brain feel like it’s lagging, but the moment the hot water hits your back?

He’s there.

Hyunjin. That smirk. That voice. Those lips.

Your fingers brush over your own mouth and you swear you can still feel him. Taste him. It’s like the water only wakes up the memories instead of washing them away. You press your forehead to the wall and groan. “God… I kissed the hottest man alive… and then moaned on his lap like a freakin’ drugged-up romance novel…”

And you didn’t regret a single second. You pad out into your room, towel still wrapped around you, head dizzy—not just from the drugs wearing off, but from something more dangerous: anticipation. You yank open your closet, tug on your oversized sleep shirt with trembling fingers, and then pause… eyes locked on your jacket hanging from the chair.

You rush over and plunge your hand into the pocket like it’s hiding treasure—because it is.

And there it is. Folded. A little crumpled. But still carrying the ghost of his fingers. Hyunjin’s number. Written in quick, slanted handwriting. With a small arrow. And a dumb little smiley face. Like he knew you’d be freaking out about it.

You grab your phone with sweaty hands, unlock it, and type his number in so fast your thumbs trip over themselves. Then you just stare at the message box. What do you even say to a man who kissed you while you were high and whispered the softest threat of obsession into your ear?

Eventually, you settle on something simple. Soft. Just barely flirty.

Y/N: “I’m home. Don’t think I’ll forget your face anytime soon.”

Then you hit send. And drop your phone like it’s radioactive. You climb into bed, sheets cool against your skin, body still thrumming. Every time you close your eyes, he’s there. Every time you breathe, it feels like he’s still on your lips.

You turn over. Then again. Then back. Still nothing. You reach over and check your phone. No reply yet. You groan and throw it on the pillow beside you.

“Hyunjin…” you whisper into the dark, cheeks flushed. “Please don’t ghost me, you beautiful demon…”

And that’s the last thing you remember before the painkiller kicks in, your lashes flutter shut, and you drift off…

Dreaming of slow kisses and smirks that should come with a warning label.

---

The light bleeding through your window is offensive. Aggressive. Your eyes crack open with the kind of regret that clings to your bones. Mouth dry. Muscles sore. Thoughts? Scattered like your dignity at that party. You try to sit up—bad idea. The world does a cute little somersault. You flop back down like a Victorian woman mid-faint.

“…am I dying?” you croak, your voice sounding like a gremlin’s first words.

Your phone buzzes somewhere beside you. You fish around, knock it off the bed, cuss dramatically, then finally snatch it up like a beast reclaiming its prey.

Your screen lights up with two notifications:

 Hyunjin: Couldn’t forget you if I tried. Let me know when you wanna kiss me while sober.

Crazy AHH: 4 Attachments. Caption: MY GIRL WAS GONEEEEEE LMAOOO

Your soul leaves your body. Ascends. Then crash-lands straight back into your chest with a painful thump. You open the photos. And boom—there you are.

—Straddling Hyunjin’s lap.

—Your hand in his buzzcut.

—Your face halfway eaten by his.

—One pic is blurry because you’re literally giving him a hickey with enthusiasm.

You let out the most horrified gasp known to man. “I WAS A MENACE.” You don’t bother changing. You don't brush your teeth. You're marching down the hall like a woman on a mission—shirt askew, socks mismatched, your hair doing post-apocalyptic things.

You throw open your best friend's door like you pay rent for it. “WHAT. THE. FUCK.” She’s sitting cross-legged, happily eating dry cereal out the box. Doesn’t even flinch. “Good morning, slut.”

“DELETE. THOSE. PHOTOS.”

She squints, pops another Frosted Flake into her mouth. “Hmm... no.”

“YOU TOOK A PICTURE OF ME TONGUING A STRANGER—”

“Technically not a stranger. Technically a drug-dealing, underground-party-hosting, buzzcut-having, Greek-god-lookin’ legend.” She grabs her phone and waves it. “And technically? I took four.”

You groan and faceplant into her bed. Your muffled voice whines, “I gave him a hickey… I think I begged him to kiss me…”

“Oh, you begged all right,” she hums proudly. “Full-on ‘please daddy I need it’—like a champ.”

“Kill me.”

“Can’t. You’re finally interesting now.”

You roll over, dazed. “God… I barely remember anything. It’s like flashes. Warm hands. Cold couch. His mouth…” She sits beside you, patting your thigh. “I gotchu. Here's the SparkNotes version: You showed up, shy. He showed up, hot. You tasted one slightly rebellious candy drug and then proceeded to fall in lust like a Disney princess on molly.”

You groan again, pulling a pillow over your face. “I have to apologize. Like, actually. To his face. I was so embarrassing—he probably thinks I’m a psycho.” She gives you a look. “Babe… you kissed him like the rent was due.”

“EXACTLY. I need to apologize or die trying.”

“Well, good luck with that,” she chirps, hopping up. “You’ll probably never see him again. Hyunjin doesn’t do public appearances like that. Man’s like the final boss of a video game. Rare sightings only.”

You blink. “Wait… seriously?”

She shrugs. “I’ve only seen him four times. And once was in a dream. Whenever he’s doing transactions and stuff he’s rarely the one delivering by himself.” You sit there, pillow clutched to your chest, brain slowly rebooting. You want to laugh. Cry. Apologize to the ghost of your sober self. Then you grab your phone again and reread his message.

Couldn’t forget you if I tried. Let me know when you wanna kiss me while sober. Your heart does a little somersault.

You whisper, almost reverently, “Maybe… just maybe... I’m his glitch.”

Your best friend throws a sock at you.

“Get your high ass up and drink some water, Romeo.”

Back in your room, the walls feel too quiet. Like they’re watching you. Judging you. Whispering behind your back like, “That’s the girl who turned into a Greek tragedy over a man with cheekbones.”

You shut the door and lean your forehead against it. You exhale.

“…okay,” you murmur to yourself. “Okay. Breathe. Be normal. Apologize. Then die.”

You shuffle over to your bed, plop down like you’re made of wet laundry, and snatch your phone again. Hyunjin’s message is still glowing on the screen like a taunt:

Couldn’t forget you if I tried. Let me know when you wanna kiss me while sober.

Your thumbs hover.

You type:

Hey, I'm so sorry—

Backspace.

Hi, I really didn’t mean to—

Backspace.

This is embarrassing but—

Delete.

You sigh, fingers shaking like you’re defusing a bomb. Then you finally send:

Hey. I’m so sorry for last night. I was out of it. Like... a lot. I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable or weird you out. I never do that. I’m not even the type to go out like that. I literally came for candy and my best friend.

You watch the little “Delivered” icon appear. Then panic sets in. So you send another.

Like, I’ve never even smoked anything before. Not even cigarettes. Or like… cinnamon sticks. Okay that’s not a drug but you get what I mean.

Another.

The point is I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a mess. You were really sweet and I probably acted like a drunk toddler and I kissed you without permission even though I begged and like—

You don’t stop.

—you probably think I’m crazy now but I promise I’m not I just had a lot on my mind and I kinda wanted to forget everything and you were there and you were really hot and then your lips tasted like strawberry sin and I kind of malfunctioned—

Before you can finish another unhinged paragraph, your phone buzzes violently.

Incoming Call: Hyunjin

You stare at it like it’s a mirage. Then, after a full 3 seconds of panic-screaming into your pillow, you pick up.

“H-Hello?”

There’s a chuckle. Low. Warm. Smooth like velvet soaked in caffeine.

“Damn, angel. Did your thumb get possessed or something?”

You groan, already facepalming. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. That was a spiral. I spiraled. I tunneled. I backflipped into hell.” “Yeah, I could tell,” he laughs. “I was trying to respond, but you were texting like your life depended on it.”

“It did!!” you cry dramatically. “I defiled you in public and now I’m gonna get banned from every party within a five-mile radius.”

“Oh please,” he snorts. “If anything, you just made the party memorable. And gave me a free neck tattoo.” You whimper. “You moaned, didn’t you?”

“…A gentleman never confirms nor denies such things.”

You groan again and flop backward on the bed, phone against your cheek.

Then, quieter, “I just… I really didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’ve never been that out of it before.” His voice softens. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable. I was just trying to be careful with you.”

A pause. “Did you mean what you said? About trying to forget something?” You swallow. “Yeah. I just had a rough week. And for a second, when I was with you, it felt like none of it mattered.”

The line goes quiet. Then he murmurs, “Well… for the record? I liked holding you. You talk a lot when you’re high. But it was cute.”

“…I talk a lot when I’m sober too,” you mumble, a bit shy now.

“I know,” he says smugly. “I read your entire novel in real-time.”

You both laugh, and the sound makes your chest warm. Then he hums, voice deepening just a touch. “So… you still wanna kiss me while sober?”

Your breath catches.

“…maybe.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

You’re curled up on your bed, tangled in your sheets like some post-drama princess, phone still pressed to your ear like it’s a lifeline. Hyunjin’s chuckling softly on the other end, and your cheeks are still warm from the way he said “I’ll take that as a yes.” Like it was obvious. Like you were already his.

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile too wide.

Then he drops it, real casual:

“So… when can I take you out?”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

“A date, babe,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You, me, daylight. I wear a shirt with sleeves. We eat food. Talk without the scent of questionable choices in the air.”

You sit up a little. “…You wanna take me out.”

“Mhm.”

You frown, trying to piece together the logic. “But… I’ve never seen you on campus. Like ever. You just—appear at parties like the final boss of temptation and then vanish.” You hear his breath hitch in a laugh. “The final boss of temptation, huh? That’s a new one.”

You shoot back, “Don’t dodge it. Seriously. Why now? Why start showing up now?” There’s a pause. A short one. Then he exhales through his nose.

“I don’t really hang out on campus unless I have to. Most of my classes are online this semester, and… I guess I just keep to my space. Fewer people, less noise.”

He adds after a beat, “I’m not… sketchy. No offense taken. I get why you’d think that. I just know when I’m in the right place, with the right people, and when I’m not.”

You stay quiet. Processing.

“And about last night,” he continues, voice steady. “That wasn’t me out of control. I don’t take anything unless I know I can handle it. There’s always someone there I trust, and I don’t make it a habit. No addiction. No spiraling. Just sometimes… I need a little quiet in my head too. You get that?”

You do. God, you do.

“So…” he says again, soft and sweet like caramel left too long in the sun. “Give me a chance. Let me show up. No candy, no smoke, just me. Sober. Present. And I promise you—”

You hear the smile in his voice.

“—the sober kiss will be worth it.”

You groan, flopping back against your pillows with your arm thrown over your face. “You’re so annoyingly smooth.”

“I really am,” he agrees smugly.

You exhale. Your heart’s doing that annoying thing again thudding way too fast for someone who was just whining into her pillow about this man twenty minutes ago. But then you smile, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

“…Okay.”

“Yeah?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, Hyunjin. You can take me out.”

He exhales dramatically. “Thank God. I was one dramatic inner monologue away from begging.”

You snort. “I was already there last night.” “I remember,” he teases. “Vividly.” You’re already regretting this. And also looking forward to it way too much.

---

Parked just outside the gates of your dorm area, it’s warm in the backseat of Hyunjin’s car. Not temperature warm, energy warm. Like the windows are fogged with heat they didn’t even notice rising. Your fingers are tangled in the lapels of his jacket, your lips still tingling from the last breathless kiss, and Hyunjin’s hands are at your waist, thumb tracing soft, unconscious circles against your top. You both pause, lips inches apart, breathing each other in, and then he laughs. Quiet. Airy. Disbelieving.

“How did we even get here?” he mutters, forehead brushing yours.

You grin, leaning back just enough to raise a brow.

“Oh, I’ll tell you how,” you say, poking his chest, and he watches you like you’re a slideshow of every one of his favorite moments.

 Earlier That Night

It started at that art café you never knew existed—dim lights, jazz playing low, the scent of coffee and paint lingering in the air. Hyunjin had booked one of the private studio pods in the back. You raised a brow when you walked in and saw the two canvases and all the paint.

“Don’t tell me we’re painting each other,” you teased.

“I was gonna say your soul,” he replied dramatically. “But sure, your face works.”

You both ended up painting… chaos. He painted a cartoon version of you with exaggerated lips and a crown of Cheetos, and you drew a sad pigeon with his hairstyle. You laughed so hard your stomach cramped, and Hyunjin got paint on your nose—on purpose. Then he wiped it off with his sleeve like a gentleman, only to accidentally smear green on your cheek.

Afterward, he took you for tacos. Not a fancy restaurant. A literal taco truck parked near the river with plastic chairs and napkins that flew if you didn’t hold them down.

“I like it simple,” he said with a shrug, handing you a bottle of Jarritos. “Besides, the best dates end with oil stains on your shirt.”

“Bold of you to assume this is one of the best,” you teased.

He tilted his head, smiled lazily. “It is.”

You tried not to blush. Failed. He noticed.

Then came the riverside walk. He didn't rush it. You talked about favorite movies, bad habits, weird childhood dreams. You found out he used to write poetry. He found out you used to pretend you were on a reality show whenever you were alone in your kitchen.

“I still do,” you admitted, and he laughed so hard he tripped over a pebble.

The stars came out. You leaned into his side.

And now—backseat of his car. Lips swollen. Breath short.

“So yeah,” you whisper now, fingers tugging gently at his jacket. “That’s how we got here. From pigeons to tacos to… tongue.”

Hyunjin grins, gaze flicking to your lips. “What a cinematic journey.” You hum, thumb brushing over his cheek. “Can we go back to making out now?” His grin turns slow and sinful. “Sure thing, baby.” You slap his chest. “Don’t—call me that.”

He leans closer. “Why not, baby?” You whine, actually whine, and smash your lips to his.

The kiss that follows is messier than the last. Greedier. No pauses this time. His hands find your thighs, your fingers curl in his hair, and he moans quietly into your mouth when your teeth graze his bottom lip.

It’s intoxicating—the way you fit, the way the tension coils tighter with each touch. His jacket ends up discarded somewhere between the seats, and your lipstick is absolutely wrecked. He doesn’t care. Neither do you.

And when he pulls away for breath, pupils blown and lips swollen, he smirks.

“We should get lost more often.”

The windows of Hyunjin’s car are fogged over, the air thick with warmth and echoes of every kiss traded like secrets. Now, your head rests on his shoulder, your fingers curled lightly into the folds of his sleeve, and his arm is slung lazily around your waist like he couldn’t let go even if he tried.

It’s silent for a while.

Not awkward—comfortable. Like the universe finally stopped spinning for just the two of you.

You sigh, tilting your head slightly to look at him. “Can I ask you something?” Hyunjin turns his gaze down to you, that soft half-smile forming again. “You already are, aren’t you?”

You flick his chest gently. “I’m serious.”

“Okay,” he chuckles, shifting so he’s facing you a little more, one leg folded up on the seat. “What’s on your mind, pretty?” You play with the hem of his hoodie for a second, then look up. “How’d you get into… all this? The candy. The job. Everything.”

His smile dims—not in a sad way, more in a way that says he wasn’t expecting that, but he’s not running from it either. He looks away for a beat, his thumb still stroking circles into your side.

“It started with my cousin,” he says after a moment. “He was older. Got into the wrong crowd, dragged me along when I was still trying to figure out what the hell to do with my life. First time I ever touched anything was at a house party with him. I hated it.”

You glance up at him. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “I hated how it made me feel like I wasn’t in control. But then… life kept hitting. My parents got divorced. I flunked out of a program I didn’t even care about. Everyone expected me to be something I wasn’t, and—” he sighs, resting his head back against the seat. “Taking just the right amount? Made me feel like I had room to breathe again.”

You nod slowly, your hand finding his and holding it. “Do you take it often now?”

“Not really.” He looks at you again. “I know my limit. I help people who don’t. I only ever take it when I’m sure of myself. When I’m in control.” You study his profile. He looks so different in the dark. Less cool. More real. More Hyunjin, less the mystery boy with perfect lips and a car too nice for a college kid.

You lean your head on his chest. “What would you be doing if you weren’t in that world?”

His voice is quiet, but honest. “I’d be painting.” You blink. “Painting?”

“Yeah.” He chuckles softly. “I actually got a partial scholarship to an art school. Didn’t take it. Thought it was stupid. Thought I was stupid.”

“You’re not,” you say immediately, looking up at him. “I think you’re—actually… you’re kind of amazing.” He lets that settle between you two for a second, then smiles—one of those real ones, the ones that tug at the corner of his lips slowly and warm his entire face.

“You think so, huh?”

You nod, cheeks heating. “Mhm.”

“Even after I gave you that sneaky light candy?”

You gasp in betrayal. “You lied to me?!”

“I saved you from passing out,” he laughs, nudging you with his shoulder. You’re both still giggling when you check your watch and—shit.

“Crap,” you sit up straighter, reaching for your phone. “I didn’t realize it’s so late. I have a lecture at eight, and if I show up hungover from sugar and spit-swapping, my professor will literally murder me.” Hyunjin chuckles, adjusting his seat so you can climb out more easily. “You sure you have to go?”

You look at him, biting your lip. “I really want to stay.”

He shrugs, running a hand through his hair. “Then make me your reward for surviving class.” You roll your eyes. “Wow. Humble.”

“But honest.” You lean forward, kiss his cheek. “Thanks for tonight.”

He tugs your wrist gently before you go, pressing one last kiss to your lips, softer than the others. “Sweet dreams, pretty. Text me when you get to your room, yeah?”

You smile. “I will.” And as you step out into the night, the cold biting against your skin, you swear you feel a little warmer than before.

---

The next morning, Hyunjin’s car still smelled like her.

Faint traces of her perfume clung to the back seat—warm, soft, something expensive-smelling but chaotic, like her. Like a scent that didn’t belong to one person, but to a thousand moments all tangled up together. The memory of her fingers curled in his shirt, the whimper she made when he bit her lip too gently, of her voice whispering “Can we go back to making out now?”—

Yeah. He was doomed. Hyunjin leaned back in the driver’s seat, now parked outside his place, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers. His phone buzzed beside him. Not a notification. Not even a new text. Just the screen lighting up every few minutes from him checking it over and over again.

No new messages yet.

She’d made it back to her dorm. Texted him that she was in. Sent a sleepy, slurred voice note that said something like “Tell your backseat I said thanks for the ride, and your lips, too.”

God, he’d replayed it three times.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. She’s unhinged. He liked it. More than liked it. There was something wild about her. Something he couldn’t predict, couldn’t label. One minute she was pressing kisses down his neck like she owned him, the next she was asking him about his past with eyes full of genuine curiosity—not pity. Not judgment.

Real. She was real. In a way nothing else in his life had been for a long time. Most people flirted with him because they liked the thrill of his mystery, the edge of danger that came with his name. But not her. Not Y/N. She didn’t want the high. She wanted him. She asked him about his cousin. His art. His stupid dreams. Stuff no one ever cared about unless they were trying to get something.

She wasn’t trying to get anything.

Except maybe another kiss. He groaned, grinning at nothing. He hated being soft. He despised it.

And yet…

The softest he’d ever been was last night—his hands running down her spine as she giggled against his lips, her voice sleepy in his car, her smile tucked into his chest like it belonged there.

He grabbed his phone again. Opened her contact. No message yet. He typed something out. Deleted it. Tried again. Deleted that too. Eventually, he just saved her contact name as Backseat Bandit and laughed to himself. God, he was so gone.

Hyunjin turned the engine off, leaning forward to rest his head on the wheel. “What am I doing?”

Then his phone buzzed. A new message.

From her.

[YN]: Hey. Made it to class. Barely. I blame you. Also my lips still tingle. I think I hate you. But not really. Just a little. Okay bye.

Hyunjin smiled down at the screen like a complete fool.

Then typed out his reply:

[Hyunjin]: Still thinking about last night? Same. Hope your lecture’s boring so you think about me more. Also—I miss your lip gloss. And your mouth. In that order.

Send. He tossed his phone onto the passenger seat, smirking.

Let the chaos begin.

the picture did a number on me and i don't care if its edited.

Taglist: purple means i can't tag you

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~kc 💗

[furioussheepluminary]

Your beautiful ❤️

𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞: 𝐘𝐨𝐮

Pairing: hearingimpared!seungmin x afab!reader, established relationship

Synopsis: After many years of seungmin being deaf and slightly struggling in your relationship (which you always reminded him that it wasn't a struggle) you finally earn enough money to take him to the audiologist and get him better hearing aids

Warnings: angst, comfort, teeny fluff, quite emotional, seungmin cries when he hears reader clearly for the first time

A/n: if you have extra eyes for errors no you don't.

Seungmin wasn’t born deaf.

He still remembers faint traces of his childhood filled with laughter, music, and the soft hum of his mother’s lullabies. But everything changed when he turned ten.

It started with a high fever—nothing unusual at first. A week of being bedridden, some ear pain, dizziness. But when he finally stood up again, the world had gone muted. At first, it was like everything had just quieted. He thought his ears were clogged. But days passed, then weeks, and the silence never lifted. Doctors diagnosed him with sudden sensorineural hearing loss, likely triggered by the viral infection.

His parents tried everything from treatments, therapies, to hearing aids that whistled and buzzed more than they helped. But nothing brought back the clarity. Every sound was either muffled beyond recognition or screeching and distorted. The world became distant, like he was behind thick glass, watching everyone else live while he stood still. But it changed him. He grew quieter, more observant. The boy who used to hum songs while tying his shoelaces began to avoid music altogether. It was like losing a color from the spectrum life was still beautiful, but something fundamental was missing. 

At the time his disability was newly discovered, school was hell. He couldn’t keep up. People spoke too fast, teachers got frustrated repeating themselves, and classmates started calling him “broken.” He learned to lip-read out of survival, forcing himself to focus on mouths and facial expressions. But it was exhausting. Misunderstandings piled up. He withdrew. He smiled less. He began associating sound with failure.

The hearing aids became a source of shame. They were clunky, outdated, unreliable and they never worked right. Conversations turned into guessing games. He hated the pitying looks, the way people shouted slowly like he was stupid. Eventually, he stopped wearing them altogether. What was the point? Silence was at least consistent. He learned to exist in it.

Music, which once comforted him, became a painful memory. He’d press his fingers against the speaker, feeling the beat, closing his eyes to pretend he could hear the notes. But it wasn’t the same. He longed for the way voices used to sound and the way someone would say his name.

Years passed. He adjusted. His world was quiet, but he adapted. He became fiercely independent, doing everything he could not to burden anyone. But deep down, he still felt like he was constantly missing something like he was always one step out of sync with the world.

Then he met you.

You didn’t shout. You didn’t over-enunciate. You just... communicated. With patience, with handwritten notes, soft smiles, gentle touches. You asked how he preferred to talk. You learned his signs.

You were volunteering at a community arts center, helping organize a mixed-media class for differently-abled youth. Seungmin was there to support his younger cousin, who was on the autism spectrum. You caught his eye from across the room not because of anything loud or showy, but because you smiled at him like you already knew him. And when you introduced yourself, you didn’t speak first. You signed.

It was clumsy, adorable signing “Hi, me name… Y/N?” but it made Seungmin laugh, a breathy, silent sort of chuckle that made his shoulders shake. You looked up, startled, then broke into a grin. That moment cracked something open in him.

You started seeing each other more at events, over coffee (even though Seungmin didn't drink it), through text messages and quiet walks at night where he’d watch your lips move and you’d trace your fingers on his palm when the world was too dark for words. He never told you at first, but he thought you were magic. Not because you tried to fix anything but because you never treated him like he was broken.

And Seungmin, quiet but patient, would take your hands gently—never too long, never too forward—and guide them into the right shapes. You learned not just words, but expression. He taught you how emotion lives in the eyebrows, the tilt of a chin, the flicker of fingers.

It took weeks for you to realize he was looking forward to seeing you too. That he waited for you hesitantly, pretending to browse when he was really just hoping you’d show up.

Seungmin, who had long learned to carry silence like armor, found your presence disarming. You never flinched when he took a moment to respond. You never laughed when his voice slipped out softer, unsteady, after years of disuse. You spoke with your hands and eyes, letting him meet your where he was comfortable.

Their first date wasn’t even supposed to be one. They ended up walking home together after a sudden downpour soaked the city, and you insisted they find shelter in a late-night bookshop. It was there, under dim lights and the smell of paper, that she signed with a grin,

“This counts as a date, right?”

He had chuckled. Hands moving, sincerely.

“I guess it does.”

But falling in love wasn’t easy for Seungmin.

He had spent so many years blaming himself for being “too much.” Too silent. Too broken. Too hard to love. His old relationships had left scars with people who meant well but didn’t know how to stay. People who said things like “I just wish you’d talk more,” or “It’s hard when I can’t always reach you.”

He’d internalized it all, folding it into his chest like poison.  Like when he didn’t hear the doorbell and thought he missed your surprise visit. Or when he sat through a movie with you and couldn’t follow the storyline because the captions were out of sync, and he tried so hard to laugh when you did but his timing was off. You saw it in his eyes. That flicker of distance. That urge to shrink away from you because he felt like a burden.

Even though you learned sign language just for him, even though you took your time when speaking so he could read your lips, even though you’d repeat yourself over and over again without a hint of frustration he still felt the doubt creeping in.

Sometimes he’d pull away from you without warning. A bad day with static-filled hearing aids. A cruel memory triggered by something innocent. An accidental miscommunication that left him spiraling. He’d retreat, cold and distant, signing with sharp movements:

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this. With me.”

It crushed you every time. Not because he pushed her away, but because he truly believed he wasn’t worth staying for.

One night, after he pulled his faulty hearing aids out and tossed them across the room, his voice cracked in anger,

“I can’t even hear you properly. What kind of boyfriend is that?”

You sat beside him in silence for a moment, then gently took his trembling hands in hers. Slowly, you signed,

“You listen to me better than anyone ever has.”

Then you said it out loud, knowing he could read your lips and feel the words vibrating in your chest:

“Your silence has never scared me.”

And that night he cried.

Seungmin wasn’t someone who cried easily, but with you every dam he’d built up over the years broke. The guilt, the loneliness, the longing to be understood… it all poured out, and she held him through it. Not trying to fix him. Not trying to speak over it. Just there, solid and soft, like a light left on for him to find his way back.

You made a habit of leaving him small sticky notes when you left early. You practiced a little more sign language every night, even when he wasn’t around. You learned the difference between when he needed space and when he needed to be held. And Seungmin, he began to believe, slowly, that he was worth loving in full volume, even if he couldn’t hear it.

Loving Seungmin had always been a quiet kind of magic. Not because it was easy—no, love with him was layered, complex, and sometimes achingly delicate—but because it was real. It lived in the space between glances, in fingertips tracing signs in the air, in soft gazes across crowded rooms. It was in the way he’d tilt his head to better read your lips, or the subtle squeeze of his hand when he understood your joke a beat later than everyone else.

You never once saw him as a burden. But you knew he saw himself that way sometimes.

And it broke your heart.

From the very beginning, she made it your mission to never let him feel like he was lacking. You learned sign and KSL with aching fingers and late-night YouTube tutorials. You practiced in mirrors so your signs would be smooth, her expressions more natural, your hands quicker. You slowed down when you spoke not because you thought he was slow, but because you wanted to meet him where he was. Still, you saw it in his eyes sometimes. That flicker of shame. That silent wish that he could hear your laugh, hear his own voice clearly again, hear the world.

That’s when the idea took root.

You knew how much he hated his old hearing aids. He’d told you about them more than once the way they whistled when they weren’t supposed to, how the static from them made everything sound like muffled underwater echoes, how they were so bulky and outdated that he’d just stopped wearing them altogether. Seungmin had resigned himself to a life in silence, the hearing aids nothing more than an accessory to the inevitable.

But you couldn’t stand the thought of him living in that silence any longer. You wanted him to have the chance to hear your voice again, clearly, without the static that always filled the gaps. You wanted him to hear the world more fully the way he’d once done before it all changed. You wanted him to feel heard again.

So, without ever telling Seungmin, you decided to take matters into her own hands.

It wasn’t easy. You worked long shifts at the coffee shop, your fingers blistered from the constant motion of making drinks and wiping tables. You picked up freelance graphic design work, staying up late into the night, your eyes straining in front of your laptop screen. Every penny you earned, you set aside, hiding it away in a small envelope marked simply: For Seungmin. There were days when you nearly broke down from exhaustion, when your back ached from the weight of carrying your dreams for both of you. But every time you felt like giving up, you’d imagine the look in Seungmin’s eyes when he heard you  clearly again.

And then, after months of scraping together whatever she could—cutting back on coffee, on her usual weekend dinners, sometimes even selling old clothes—she had enough.

You researched hearing aids for weeks, making sure you found the ones that would work best for Seungmin, something lightweight, discreet, and most importantly, functional. You reached out to Seungmin’s audiologist and got the opinions of others who’d experienced similar challenges. You wanted to make sure that what you got for him wouldn’t be just another disappointment. You spent hours on forums, researching the best options, reading testimonials from other users who had finally found something that worked.

Eventually, you found them. Sleek, modern hearing aids that promised clearer sound and better comfort than anything he’d ever had before. They were expensive, but after months of hard work, you’d earned every dollar The day you bought them, your heart raced. You could already picture the look on Seungmin’s face. It was a mix of excitement and fear, but, you were afraid he wouldn’t accept them, that he’d feel overwhelmed, maybe even insulted by the gesture. But you pushed those fears aside. This was for him. For them. For the future you wanted to share with him, where their voices could reach each other across the space that silence had created.  So, you made a plan.

It started like any ordinary morning, or at least, Seungmin thought it did.

You had woken him up gently, brushing her fingers through his hair and signing, “Let’s go out today. There’s somewhere I want to take you.”

He’d blinked up at you, confused but trusting, nodding sleepily. He didn’t ask questions, you had a way of guiding him like that, always full of soft surprises.

You took the train, the city humming around them in its distant, quiet way. Seungmin watched you more than he watched the view. You kept looking at your phone, nervous fingers tapping your thigh, eyes flicking up to meet his every so often. You was trying to hide your excitement, but he knew you too well.

When they reached the small clinic, his brows furrowed. His heart sank. He stared at the clean white sign with the word Audiology on the glass door. He looked at you, confused, guarded. “Why… are we here?” he signed slowly, the motion tight, cautious. “You know I don’t—”

“It’s just a check-up,” you signed quickly, gently. “No pressure. Just trust me, okay?”

He didn’t want to go inside. His stomach twisted. But your hand slipped into his, warm and certain, and he couldn’t say no to that.

Inside, the receptionist greeted them warmly, and you leaned in to speak to her quietly while Seungmin filled out a short form. What he didn’t know was that you was whispering, “I made the appointment. Please don’t say anything about the hearing aids yet, it’s a surprise. I already spoke to Dr. Jin. He knows.”

The receptionist gave a small nod and smile. Everything was in place.

Soon enough, Dr. Jin came to the waiting area and welcomed them in. He was an older man, calm-eyed and kind-voiced, someone Seungmin had seen before years ago when he was still trying to find hope in outdated machines. They sat down in the exam room, Seungmin looking around nervously. Dr. Jin smiled gently at him and signed a little before switching to spoken words.

“Just a few questions, Seungmin. Nothing scary.”

Seungmin nodded, arms crossed over his chest. The doctor asked about any ear pain, if he’d experienced pressure or dizziness, if he ever had headaches with silence. Standard questions. Seungmin answered in a mix of voice and sign, slow but clear. He still had a beautiful voice—soft, low, and rarely used.

And then Dr. Jin leaned back in his chair, expression shifting.

“Seungmin…” he said softly. “This wasn’t just a check-up.”

Seungmin’s body tensed, eyes snapping to you.

Dr. Jin smiled. “She bought you new hearing aids.” Seungmin’s lips parted slightly. He didn’t sign. He didn’t speak. He froze.

“She saved up. Came to us. Asked all the right questions. Chose the model carefully. She wanted it to be a surprise. You didn’t know, right?”

Seungmin slowly turned to look at you.

You was already looking at him, your hands nervously clasped together, a soft smile playing on your lips gentle and trembling. Your eyes were glassy with emotion, and your fingers moved slowly: “You deserve better. You deserve to hear clearly again. To not suffer with broken things.”

Seungmin’s jaw trembled. His eyes shimmered.

Dr. Jin stood and walked to the drawer, pulling out a small, sleek black box. “These are top-grade. Lightweight. Fully programmable. Bluetooth compatible. And custom-tuned to your profile.”

He opened the box and held them out to Seungmin, who stared in disbelief.

“Do you want to try?” Dr. Jin asked softly.

Seungmin nodded, slowly. Silent. Tears clinging to his lashes. With practiced hands, Dr. Jin gently placed the hearing aids into his ears and began the tuning process, tapping the tablet in front of him.

Then he paused, looked at you, and nodded. You stepped forward, nervous and close to tears.

“Seungmin?” you said softly.

It hit like lightning.

Clear. Warm. Perfect.

No static. No distortion. No lag. No underwater echoes.

It was you. Your voice. For the first time in so long, he heard you as you were.

His face crumbled. He turned to her slowly, chest rising with a shaky breath. His lips parted in wonder, then broke into a sob. The kind of cry that shook his whole body. His hand flew up to his mouth, as if trying to hold the emotion back, but it was useless.

You reached out, taking his hand in yours, squeezing it tightly.

“I love you,” you whispered.

He heard it. He heard it. He collapsed forward, pressing his forehead to her shoulder, arms wrapping around her as if anchoring himself to the moment. Tears soaked into your shirt as he clung to your, silent no longer not because he needed to speak, but because she had already said everything he ever needed to hear.

And this time, he heard it all.

Dr. Jin, patient and warm, gave them a moment before gently asking, “Seungmin, can you hear me clearly?”

Seungmin nodded through the tears, wiping his cheek with his sleeve.

“Any whistling? Buzzing? Pain?”

He shook his head.

“Do the sounds feel natural? Not too sharp or mechanical?”

Seungmin managed a breathy, “Yeah… they sound real.” His voice cracked.

Dr. Jin smiled and turned to you. “They’ll need a few days to settle in. The brain takes time to readjust. Avoid crowded, high-noise places for now. Charge them overnight. Keep them dry. And…”, he looked between the two of you, “talk to him a lot. Let his ears fall back in love with your voice.”

You nodded, your heart swollen.

The train ride back was quiet, except for the world.

And that was the part that made Seungmin cry again. He looked around as they sat side-by-side. A baby giggling a few seats down. Someone tapping their foot against the train floor. The distant intercom voice announcing the next station. The wind brushing against the door seams. YN breathing beside him.

Sounds he’d grown used to missing were now everywhere.

Tears clung to his lashes again, and he tried to swipe them away discreetly, but you saw. You reached over, laced their fingers, and squeezed his hand.

When they finally got home, Seungmin didn’t even take his shoes off properly. The door had barely shut behind them before he turned and pulled you into the fiercest hug he'd ever given you.

He clung to you like a storm wth his arms tight around your waist, face buried in your neck, his whole body trembling. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You shouldn’t have saved all your money for me. That’s too much. That’s everything. Y/N… that’s everything.”

“Exactly,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to cup his face, your thumbs brushing his wet cheeks. “You’re worth everything. Every coin, every hour, every little saving. You deserve to hear again, Minnie. You deserve this and so much more.”

He looked at you—truly looked at you—and then leaned in without a single ounce of hesitation. The kiss was deep, desperate, soaked in tears and gratitude. His lips trembled against yours, and your hands curled into his hair as if anchoring him in the present. He kissed you like your voice had brought him back to life. Like he’d been drowning in silence and your love pulled him up for air.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed, Seungmin whispered, voice barely holding,

“Thank you… for giving me back the world. And for being the loudest, most beautiful part of it.”

And you just smiled, brushing her nose against his, whispering, “Welcome back, Seungmin.”

Seeing as he's a singer that kinda gave me inspo for this. Crying cleanses...trust

Taglist: purple means I can't tag you

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~kc 💗

[furioussheepluminary]

Awww thank uuuu very much 💗💗

𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞: 𝐘𝐨𝐮

Pairing: hearingimpared!seungmin x afab!reader, established relationship

Synopsis: After many years of seungmin being deaf and slightly struggling in your relationship (which you always reminded him that it wasn't a struggle) you finally earn enough money to take him to the audiologist and get him better hearing aids

Warnings: angst, comfort, teeny fluff, quite emotional, seungmin cries when he hears reader clearly for the first time

A/n: if you have extra eyes for errors no you don't.

Seungmin wasn’t born deaf.

He still remembers faint traces of his childhood filled with laughter, music, and the soft hum of his mother’s lullabies. But everything changed when he turned ten.

It started with a high fever—nothing unusual at first. A week of being bedridden, some ear pain, dizziness. But when he finally stood up again, the world had gone muted. At first, it was like everything had just quieted. He thought his ears were clogged. But days passed, then weeks, and the silence never lifted. Doctors diagnosed him with sudden sensorineural hearing loss, likely triggered by the viral infection.

His parents tried everything from treatments, therapies, to hearing aids that whistled and buzzed more than they helped. But nothing brought back the clarity. Every sound was either muffled beyond recognition or screeching and distorted. The world became distant, like he was behind thick glass, watching everyone else live while he stood still. But it changed him. He grew quieter, more observant. The boy who used to hum songs while tying his shoelaces began to avoid music altogether. It was like losing a color from the spectrum life was still beautiful, but something fundamental was missing. 

At the time his disability was newly discovered, school was hell. He couldn’t keep up. People spoke too fast, teachers got frustrated repeating themselves, and classmates started calling him “broken.” He learned to lip-read out of survival, forcing himself to focus on mouths and facial expressions. But it was exhausting. Misunderstandings piled up. He withdrew. He smiled less. He began associating sound with failure.

The hearing aids became a source of shame. They were clunky, outdated, unreliable and they never worked right. Conversations turned into guessing games. He hated the pitying looks, the way people shouted slowly like he was stupid. Eventually, he stopped wearing them altogether. What was the point? Silence was at least consistent. He learned to exist in it.

Music, which once comforted him, became a painful memory. He’d press his fingers against the speaker, feeling the beat, closing his eyes to pretend he could hear the notes. But it wasn’t the same. He longed for the way voices used to sound and the way someone would say his name.

Years passed. He adjusted. His world was quiet, but he adapted. He became fiercely independent, doing everything he could not to burden anyone. But deep down, he still felt like he was constantly missing something like he was always one step out of sync with the world.

Then he met you.

You didn’t shout. You didn’t over-enunciate. You just... communicated. With patience, with handwritten notes, soft smiles, gentle touches. You asked how he preferred to talk. You learned his signs.

You were volunteering at a community arts center, helping organize a mixed-media class for differently-abled youth. Seungmin was there to support his younger cousin, who was on the autism spectrum. You caught his eye from across the room not because of anything loud or showy, but because you smiled at him like you already knew him. And when you introduced yourself, you didn’t speak first. You signed.

It was clumsy, adorable signing “Hi, me name… Y/N?” but it made Seungmin laugh, a breathy, silent sort of chuckle that made his shoulders shake. You looked up, startled, then broke into a grin. That moment cracked something open in him.

You started seeing each other more at events, over coffee (even though Seungmin didn't drink it), through text messages and quiet walks at night where he’d watch your lips move and you’d trace your fingers on his palm when the world was too dark for words. He never told you at first, but he thought you were magic. Not because you tried to fix anything but because you never treated him like he was broken.

And Seungmin, quiet but patient, would take your hands gently—never too long, never too forward—and guide them into the right shapes. You learned not just words, but expression. He taught you how emotion lives in the eyebrows, the tilt of a chin, the flicker of fingers.

It took weeks for you to realize he was looking forward to seeing you too. That he waited for you hesitantly, pretending to browse when he was really just hoping you’d show up.

Seungmin, who had long learned to carry silence like armor, found your presence disarming. You never flinched when he took a moment to respond. You never laughed when his voice slipped out softer, unsteady, after years of disuse. You spoke with your hands and eyes, letting him meet your where he was comfortable.

Their first date wasn’t even supposed to be one. They ended up walking home together after a sudden downpour soaked the city, and you insisted they find shelter in a late-night bookshop. It was there, under dim lights and the smell of paper, that she signed with a grin,

“This counts as a date, right?”

He had chuckled. Hands moving, sincerely.

“I guess it does.”

But falling in love wasn’t easy for Seungmin.

He had spent so many years blaming himself for being “too much.” Too silent. Too broken. Too hard to love. His old relationships had left scars with people who meant well but didn’t know how to stay. People who said things like “I just wish you’d talk more,” or “It’s hard when I can’t always reach you.”

He’d internalized it all, folding it into his chest like poison.  Like when he didn’t hear the doorbell and thought he missed your surprise visit. Or when he sat through a movie with you and couldn’t follow the storyline because the captions were out of sync, and he tried so hard to laugh when you did but his timing was off. You saw it in his eyes. That flicker of distance. That urge to shrink away from you because he felt like a burden.

Even though you learned sign language just for him, even though you took your time when speaking so he could read your lips, even though you’d repeat yourself over and over again without a hint of frustration he still felt the doubt creeping in.

Sometimes he’d pull away from you without warning. A bad day with static-filled hearing aids. A cruel memory triggered by something innocent. An accidental miscommunication that left him spiraling. He’d retreat, cold and distant, signing with sharp movements:

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this. With me.”

It crushed you every time. Not because he pushed her away, but because he truly believed he wasn’t worth staying for.

One night, after he pulled his faulty hearing aids out and tossed them across the room, his voice cracked in anger,

“I can’t even hear you properly. What kind of boyfriend is that?”

You sat beside him in silence for a moment, then gently took his trembling hands in hers. Slowly, you signed,

“You listen to me better than anyone ever has.”

Then you said it out loud, knowing he could read your lips and feel the words vibrating in your chest:

“Your silence has never scared me.”

And that night he cried.

Seungmin wasn’t someone who cried easily, but with you every dam he’d built up over the years broke. The guilt, the loneliness, the longing to be understood… it all poured out, and she held him through it. Not trying to fix him. Not trying to speak over it. Just there, solid and soft, like a light left on for him to find his way back.

You made a habit of leaving him small sticky notes when you left early. You practiced a little more sign language every night, even when he wasn’t around. You learned the difference between when he needed space and when he needed to be held. And Seungmin, he began to believe, slowly, that he was worth loving in full volume, even if he couldn’t hear it.

Loving Seungmin had always been a quiet kind of magic. Not because it was easy—no, love with him was layered, complex, and sometimes achingly delicate—but because it was real. It lived in the space between glances, in fingertips tracing signs in the air, in soft gazes across crowded rooms. It was in the way he’d tilt his head to better read your lips, or the subtle squeeze of his hand when he understood your joke a beat later than everyone else.

You never once saw him as a burden. But you knew he saw himself that way sometimes.

And it broke your heart.

From the very beginning, she made it your mission to never let him feel like he was lacking. You learned sign and KSL with aching fingers and late-night YouTube tutorials. You practiced in mirrors so your signs would be smooth, her expressions more natural, your hands quicker. You slowed down when you spoke not because you thought he was slow, but because you wanted to meet him where he was. Still, you saw it in his eyes sometimes. That flicker of shame. That silent wish that he could hear your laugh, hear his own voice clearly again, hear the world.

That’s when the idea took root.

You knew how much he hated his old hearing aids. He’d told you about them more than once the way they whistled when they weren’t supposed to, how the static from them made everything sound like muffled underwater echoes, how they were so bulky and outdated that he’d just stopped wearing them altogether. Seungmin had resigned himself to a life in silence, the hearing aids nothing more than an accessory to the inevitable.

But you couldn’t stand the thought of him living in that silence any longer. You wanted him to have the chance to hear your voice again, clearly, without the static that always filled the gaps. You wanted him to hear the world more fully the way he’d once done before it all changed. You wanted him to feel heard again.

So, without ever telling Seungmin, you decided to take matters into her own hands.

It wasn’t easy. You worked long shifts at the coffee shop, your fingers blistered from the constant motion of making drinks and wiping tables. You picked up freelance graphic design work, staying up late into the night, your eyes straining in front of your laptop screen. Every penny you earned, you set aside, hiding it away in a small envelope marked simply: For Seungmin. There were days when you nearly broke down from exhaustion, when your back ached from the weight of carrying your dreams for both of you. But every time you felt like giving up, you’d imagine the look in Seungmin’s eyes when he heard you  clearly again.

And then, after months of scraping together whatever she could—cutting back on coffee, on her usual weekend dinners, sometimes even selling old clothes—she had enough.

You researched hearing aids for weeks, making sure you found the ones that would work best for Seungmin, something lightweight, discreet, and most importantly, functional. You reached out to Seungmin’s audiologist and got the opinions of others who’d experienced similar challenges. You wanted to make sure that what you got for him wouldn’t be just another disappointment. You spent hours on forums, researching the best options, reading testimonials from other users who had finally found something that worked.

Eventually, you found them. Sleek, modern hearing aids that promised clearer sound and better comfort than anything he’d ever had before. They were expensive, but after months of hard work, you’d earned every dollar The day you bought them, your heart raced. You could already picture the look on Seungmin’s face. It was a mix of excitement and fear, but, you were afraid he wouldn’t accept them, that he’d feel overwhelmed, maybe even insulted by the gesture. But you pushed those fears aside. This was for him. For them. For the future you wanted to share with him, where their voices could reach each other across the space that silence had created.  So, you made a plan.

It started like any ordinary morning, or at least, Seungmin thought it did.

You had woken him up gently, brushing her fingers through his hair and signing, “Let’s go out today. There’s somewhere I want to take you.”

He’d blinked up at you, confused but trusting, nodding sleepily. He didn’t ask questions, you had a way of guiding him like that, always full of soft surprises.

You took the train, the city humming around them in its distant, quiet way. Seungmin watched you more than he watched the view. You kept looking at your phone, nervous fingers tapping your thigh, eyes flicking up to meet his every so often. You was trying to hide your excitement, but he knew you too well.

When they reached the small clinic, his brows furrowed. His heart sank. He stared at the clean white sign with the word Audiology on the glass door. He looked at you, confused, guarded. “Why… are we here?” he signed slowly, the motion tight, cautious. “You know I don’t—”

“It’s just a check-up,” you signed quickly, gently. “No pressure. Just trust me, okay?”

He didn’t want to go inside. His stomach twisted. But your hand slipped into his, warm and certain, and he couldn’t say no to that.

Inside, the receptionist greeted them warmly, and you leaned in to speak to her quietly while Seungmin filled out a short form. What he didn’t know was that you was whispering, “I made the appointment. Please don’t say anything about the hearing aids yet, it’s a surprise. I already spoke to Dr. Jin. He knows.”

The receptionist gave a small nod and smile. Everything was in place.

Soon enough, Dr. Jin came to the waiting area and welcomed them in. He was an older man, calm-eyed and kind-voiced, someone Seungmin had seen before years ago when he was still trying to find hope in outdated machines. They sat down in the exam room, Seungmin looking around nervously. Dr. Jin smiled gently at him and signed a little before switching to spoken words.

“Just a few questions, Seungmin. Nothing scary.”

Seungmin nodded, arms crossed over his chest. The doctor asked about any ear pain, if he’d experienced pressure or dizziness, if he ever had headaches with silence. Standard questions. Seungmin answered in a mix of voice and sign, slow but clear. He still had a beautiful voice—soft, low, and rarely used.

And then Dr. Jin leaned back in his chair, expression shifting.

“Seungmin…” he said softly. “This wasn’t just a check-up.”

Seungmin’s body tensed, eyes snapping to you.

Dr. Jin smiled. “She bought you new hearing aids.” Seungmin’s lips parted slightly. He didn’t sign. He didn’t speak. He froze.

“She saved up. Came to us. Asked all the right questions. Chose the model carefully. She wanted it to be a surprise. You didn’t know, right?”

Seungmin slowly turned to look at you.

You was already looking at him, your hands nervously clasped together, a soft smile playing on your lips gentle and trembling. Your eyes were glassy with emotion, and your fingers moved slowly: “You deserve better. You deserve to hear clearly again. To not suffer with broken things.”

Seungmin’s jaw trembled. His eyes shimmered.

Dr. Jin stood and walked to the drawer, pulling out a small, sleek black box. “These are top-grade. Lightweight. Fully programmable. Bluetooth compatible. And custom-tuned to your profile.”

He opened the box and held them out to Seungmin, who stared in disbelief.

“Do you want to try?” Dr. Jin asked softly.

Seungmin nodded, slowly. Silent. Tears clinging to his lashes. With practiced hands, Dr. Jin gently placed the hearing aids into his ears and began the tuning process, tapping the tablet in front of him.

Then he paused, looked at you, and nodded. You stepped forward, nervous and close to tears.

“Seungmin?” you said softly.

It hit like lightning.

Clear. Warm. Perfect.

No static. No distortion. No lag. No underwater echoes.

It was you. Your voice. For the first time in so long, he heard you as you were.

His face crumbled. He turned to her slowly, chest rising with a shaky breath. His lips parted in wonder, then broke into a sob. The kind of cry that shook his whole body. His hand flew up to his mouth, as if trying to hold the emotion back, but it was useless.

You reached out, taking his hand in yours, squeezing it tightly.

“I love you,” you whispered.

He heard it. He heard it. He collapsed forward, pressing his forehead to her shoulder, arms wrapping around her as if anchoring himself to the moment. Tears soaked into your shirt as he clung to your, silent no longer not because he needed to speak, but because she had already said everything he ever needed to hear.

And this time, he heard it all.

Dr. Jin, patient and warm, gave them a moment before gently asking, “Seungmin, can you hear me clearly?”

Seungmin nodded through the tears, wiping his cheek with his sleeve.

“Any whistling? Buzzing? Pain?”

He shook his head.

“Do the sounds feel natural? Not too sharp or mechanical?”

Seungmin managed a breathy, “Yeah… they sound real.” His voice cracked.

Dr. Jin smiled and turned to you. “They’ll need a few days to settle in. The brain takes time to readjust. Avoid crowded, high-noise places for now. Charge them overnight. Keep them dry. And…”, he looked between the two of you, “talk to him a lot. Let his ears fall back in love with your voice.”

You nodded, your heart swollen.

The train ride back was quiet, except for the world.

And that was the part that made Seungmin cry again. He looked around as they sat side-by-side. A baby giggling a few seats down. Someone tapping their foot against the train floor. The distant intercom voice announcing the next station. The wind brushing against the door seams. YN breathing beside him.

Sounds he’d grown used to missing were now everywhere.

Tears clung to his lashes again, and he tried to swipe them away discreetly, but you saw. You reached over, laced their fingers, and squeezed his hand.

When they finally got home, Seungmin didn’t even take his shoes off properly. The door had barely shut behind them before he turned and pulled you into the fiercest hug he'd ever given you.

He clung to you like a storm wth his arms tight around your waist, face buried in your neck, his whole body trembling. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You shouldn’t have saved all your money for me. That’s too much. That’s everything. Y/N… that’s everything.”

“Exactly,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to cup his face, your thumbs brushing his wet cheeks. “You’re worth everything. Every coin, every hour, every little saving. You deserve to hear again, Minnie. You deserve this and so much more.”

He looked at you—truly looked at you—and then leaned in without a single ounce of hesitation. The kiss was deep, desperate, soaked in tears and gratitude. His lips trembled against yours, and your hands curled into his hair as if anchoring him in the present. He kissed you like your voice had brought him back to life. Like he’d been drowning in silence and your love pulled him up for air.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed, Seungmin whispered, voice barely holding,

“Thank you… for giving me back the world. And for being the loudest, most beautiful part of it.”

And you just smiled, brushing her nose against his, whispering, “Welcome back, Seungmin.”

Seeing as he's a singer that kinda gave me inspo for this. Crying cleanses...trust

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