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uhnanix · 1 month ago

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deeper than doubt

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pairing: changbin x fem reader

word count: 9K

authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance +++ requests are open! :)

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this ff was requested by @myrkhive

summary: You were shy. The smartest one, but never the one that stood out. Never the one that was seen. At this point? You were used to it. To always doubt yourself first. Always think it wasn’t enough. But Changbin? Oh, he saw you. Really saw you. And he was very, very determined to make you believe that you were not just enough. You were… everything.

!!!! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !!!

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warning: reader downgrades herself a lot. so, if that triggers you, take a deep breath. okay, babe?

Graduation was just a few weeks away.

You had done everything right, your classes, finished your thesis early, kept your head down. You were top of your class, probably. Quiet about it, of course. You never liked attention. You never really knew what to do with it.

Even now, with everything almost over, you still felt like you were waiting for someone to tell you all of this? Still wasn’t enough. That you weren’t enough.

You had always been like that... Shy. Careful. Always thinking two steps ahead, but never saying much unless someone asked. And even then, you’d lead with “Sorry, I might be wrong,” even when you were absolutely right.

You never raised your voice. Never took up space. Never reminded people just how sharp your mind actually was.

But he saw it.

Changbin always liked slipping into the back of the study room unnoticed, earbuds in but nothing playing, scanning the tables until his eyes landed on you.

Your hair falling in front of your face, highlighter cap between your teeth, sleeve pushed up just enough to reveal scribbled equations that weren't in any textbook.

People liked you. Well, how could they not? You were kind. Gentle. But they didn’t see you. Not really. Didn’t notice the way your hand hovered over your notebook like you were writing three thoughts at once. Didn’t catch how you would solve problems in the margins of someone else’s worksheet and then say nothing.

But Changbin noticed.

He was quiet, too, but not shy. There was something solid about him, grounded. Polite. He wasn’t loud in class, wasn’t cocky, but people listened when he spoke. When he asked a question, the room paid attention. When he walked into a space, people moved.

He said “good morning” to everyone. Thanked the teaching assistant. Helped carry chairs when no one asked. And always, always found a seat within sight of you.

He hadn’t said much to you directly. Just a few glances, a couple of shared comments in group discussions. Maybe a quiet “You were right, by the way” after someone talked over you.

He watched.

Watched how your fingers trembled before you raised your hand. Watched how your whole posture changed when you spoke, like you were apologizing just for having a thought. Watched how people smiled at you, nodded, thanked you, and then still turned to someone else for confirmation.

It pissed him off in a way he didn’t quite understand. Because you were the smartest person in the room. And the quietest. And for some reason, that combination made his jaw clench and his heart race every time you walked in.

Tonight, when the group finally trickled out, mumbling about energy drinks and deadlines, you stayed behind. Like always. Just you and your notes and that same oversized hoodie you always disappeared inside.

Changbin didn’t leave either.

He waited until it was just you both, the room humming with late-night quiet. Then he stood and walked over, slow and careful, like he didn’t want to scare off.

You didn’t notice him at first, too focused on the formula in front of you. Lips moving silently. Erasing. Rewriting.

"You're doing it again," he said softly, just behind you.

You flinched, then blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

"Changbin? Hmm- I, hi."

He smiled a little. Pulled out the chair across from you and sat down like it was nothing. Like he had done it a hundred times before.

“You finished the derivation. Then you erased it.” He nodded toward your notebook. “Why?”

You felt heat crawl up your neck. “It was a guess. It didn’t feel right.”

He tilted his head. “You always say that.”

Your fingers twitched against the edge of the paper. You kept your eyes down.

“I just— I don’t know. I didn’t want to sound like I thought I was smarter than—”

"You are," he said.

Your breath caught. Changbin didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t say it like a compliment or a pep talk. He said it like a fact.

“You are,” he repeated. “And I’m not the only one who sees it.”

You shook your head, more out of reflex than anything. “I’m not—people just think I am. Or they don’t. I don’t know.”

You didn’t mean to say it all out loud. But it came out too fast, too quiet, before you could stop it. You hated this, how your brain could calculate anything but still scrambled when it came to yourself.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table now.

“You always do that too. Downplay it. Like you’re afraid someone’s gonna call you out for being better than them.”

“I’m not better—”

“Yes, you are,” he said again, firmer this time. “And you don’t even see it.”

Silence settled between you. You couldn’t meet his eyes. Not with the way he was looking at you. Like you were something precious. Something fragile and furious all at once.

He let the silence stretch. Then:

“I’ve been watching you,” he said, softer. “For a while now.”

That made your gaze snap up.

“Not in a weird way,” he added quickly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just… I notice things.”

His voice dipped again.

“Like how you’re always ten steps ahead, but you wait for everyone else to catch up.”

He leaned a little closer.

“Like how you apologize when you’re right.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Like how you talk like you’re afraid of being seen.”

He watched your expression shift, confused, uncertain, a little overwhelmed.

"I see you. I think is finally time to tell you that."

Silence.

Your eyes flicked up, hesitant. Why was he talking to you like he knew you? Why was he saying all those things? The smarter boy in class. The one all the girls sighed when he spoke to solve a math equation. And now he's looking... at you? Nah. It doesn't make sense.

Changbin smiled, soft and warm and just a little dangerous.

Your heartbeat kicked up in your chest.

“You don’t have to keep pretending you’re not brilliant,” he said “And if anyone makes you feel like you have to… just say the word. I’ll handle it.”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to. But the voice in your head, sharp and familiar and cruel, kept whispering he’s just being nice.

"I know we're not that close. But... we could be"

You pulled your hand back.

“I should go,” you said, quietly. Too quietly.

He didn’t move to stop you. Just leaned back a little, watching you like he already knew that was coming.

“Thanks for… that,” you added, waving vaguely toward the table. Toward the compliment you couldn’t name. Toward the heat in your chest you didn’t know how to sit with. But you were already gathering your things. Shoving papers into your bag.

“You don’t believe me,” he said, not a question.

You paused. Shoulders tense. Eyes on your notebook so you didn’t have to look at him.

“I just think you’re wrong,” you said softly.

When you finally glanced back up, his expression was... sad? Calm. Still. But his eyes… They were burning. Not with anger. Not with pity. With something fiercer. Something... patient.

He nodded, just once. Like he was giving you that exit.

“Okay,” he said. Voice low, almost gentle. “You don’t have to believe me yet.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

The next Thursday, you didn’t expect him to sit beside you.

He always sat near the edge, watchful, quiet, half-distracted with one earbud in. But tonight, the chair next to you scraped against the floor, and suddenly there he was.

Close enough that your arm tensed. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, smell the faint clean scent of detergent and something darker underneath.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just dropped his bag, pulled out his notes, and leaned close enough to murmur “Relax. I don’t bite.”

You shot him a look, flustered. “You’re sitting here.”

“Observation skills: ten out of ten,” he said, smirking as he flipped open his notebook. “You don’t mind, do you?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but the TA had already launched into the session. Everyone turned forward. You sank into yourself, pulling your sleeves down to your knuckles, pretending not to notice the way Changbin’s knee brushed yours under the table.

The problem on the board was one you had solved last week. Alone. Quietly. At home. You watched the discussion unfold as people fumbled through it, wrong starts, guesses, too much talking.

And then, “That’s not right,” Changbin said casually, gesturing to one of the solutions. “You’d have to multiply here. Otherwise, the units won’t match.”

Your breath hitched.

That’s... wrong.

It was subtle. Deliberate. A single off-step in an otherwise flawless answer. You glanced at him, eyebrows drawn, but he didn’t look at you. He knew.

He was baiting you.

A few people started nodding along, scribbling the mistake down into their notes like gospel. You stared at the page. You couldn’t let them copy that.

“I, um—” Your voice cracked. Heat flushed up your neck.

Changbin still didn’t look at you. But the corner of his mouth twitched. Do it.

You cleared your throat. “It’s actually sine. Not cosine. The— the vector component would be different if it were cosine, but that’s not the case here.”

The room went quiet for a beat. The TA blinked. “She’s right. Good catch.” You ducked your head. “Yeah, hm— Sorry.”

But out of the corner of your eye, you saw Changbin finally turn toward you. No smirk. No teasing.

Just the faintest nod. Like there you are.

He starts doing it more often after that. Nothing obvious. Just a missed negative sign. A switched derivative. Small errors that give you a chance to shine without forcing it.

And every time you speak, his eyes find yours. Like he’s waiting for it. Like he’s holding the door open and trusting you’ll walk through it, even if you’re shaking.

After study group, you packed your things a little too fast. Your face felt warm. Your brain was buzzing with ten different thoughts you didn’t want to touch.

He followed you out of the building.

“You’re getting good at that,” he said.

You didn’t stop walking. “At what?”

“At making me look stupid in front of people.”

You spun on him.

“You do that on purpose.”

Changbin lifted one brow. “Do what?”

You stared him down, arms crossed, heart pounding.

“You give wrong answers. You mess things up you know. You’re trying to—what? Trick me into speaking?”

There it was. Said out loud.

His mouth twitched again, but there was something softer in his eyes now. Something dangerously fond.

“Not trick you,” he said. “Just… give you space.”

Your breath hitched.

“I don’t need space,” you mumbled, but it sounded pathetic even to you.

“No,” he said, stepping a little closer. “You need permission.”

The air shifted. Your pulse went wild.

“You need someone to say, ‘Hey, it’s okay to take up the fucking room for once.’” His voice dropped, lower now. “So I do.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. You didn’t know how to answer that. You didn’t know how to receive that.

But Changbin wasn’t done.

He leaned in, close enough that his words landed soft and warm against your skin.

“You ever think that maybe I like hearing your voice?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I do,” he said, easy now. Honest. “Even when you’re correcting me.”

You were burning.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t push. Just stood there like he could wait all night, confident, patient, dangerous in all the ways that made... your knees go weak.

So you just... left.

—

You tried to avoid him.

Took a different path to class. Sat on the far side of the study room. Left early. Arrived late. But Changbin apparently had a way of being everywhere when you least wanted to see him, and kind of exactly when you needed to.

So when you slipped out of the library that night, heart pounding from the last correction you had dared to say out loud, and found him leaning against the railing by the stairs, arms crossed, eyes already on you.

You cursed under your breath. And tried to walk past him.

“Seriously?” he said, pushing off the railing. “You’re gonna ignore me now?” You didn’t stop. “Because I see you?” he called after you. “That’s it? That’s the crime?”

Your feet slowed. He stepped closer.

“Because I look at you and see the brilliant, fucking terrifying genius that you are and actually say it out loud, that’s why you’re avoiding me?”

You spun so fast it startled him.

“Stop saying that!” Your voice cracked like thunder in the night air. “Stop saying I’m brilliant like it’s some kind of compliment—like you know me!”

His expression shifted, just slightly. But he didn’t step back.

“I do know you.”

“You don’t!” You could feel your throat tightening, heart beating too fast. “You don’t know what it’s like to second-guess every thought you have. To be afraid to open your mouth. To feel like the second you stand up, everyone’s waiting for you to fall.”

You shook your head, breath shaking.

“So stop. Just stop.”

For a second, the only sound was your breathing.

And then, “God,” he said quietly, “you really don’t see it, do you?”

You froze.

He stepped closer again, slow and steady, like you were a storm and he had already chosen to walk into it.

“You think I say this stuff because I’m being nice?” he said. “You think I throw away my answers—make myself look like an idiot—because I pity you?”

His voice broke then, just barely.

“No. I do it because when you talk—really talk—everything in the room fucking stops. And nobody else notices it, but I do. Every single time.”

You swallowed hard. And Changbin didn’t stop.

“I’m not saying you’re brilliant to make you feel better. I’m saying it because it’s true. And it kills me that you’re the only one who doesn’t believe it.”

You stood there, chest rising fast, fists clenched at your sides. Your vision was starting to blur, but you refused to wipe your face. You couldn’t, not in front of him.

But he just watched you.

No judgment. No pity. Just that same fierce, unwavering gaze he’d always had, like you were made of stars and he was just waiting for you to figure it out.

“I’m trying,” you whispered. “I’m trying to believe it, I just—”

Your voice cracked. Your lips trembled. And when your eyes finally met his, you saw the moment it broke him too.

He took one step forward.

“You’re fucking brilliant.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

His voice dropped to something hoarse, like he had been holding it in too long.

“And you’re…” He hesitated, just for a breath. Then: “You’re fucking beautiful.”

You didn’t even get the chance to respond.

Because his hands were suddenly cupping your face, warm, careful, grounding, and his lips were on yours.

No warning. No pretense. Just... everything.

Soft and desperate and sure. You froze at first, shocked, breath caught in your throat. But then, you melted.

Fingers tangling in his shirt, tears spilling hot down your cheeks, kissed away by his mouth moving over yours like he meant it. Like he meant every word.

"I really want you to see yourself the way I do."

All you could do was take a deep breath.

—

You had finally felt something shift. Like maybe, just maybe, you could be brave. Different.

So when the study group started and you found the courage to raise your hand first, voice steady, shoulders straight. You weren’t expecting laughter. Not loud. Not obvious. But enough.

"Wow,” someone said from the side of the table. “Look who suddenly found a personality.”

A few heads turned. A few chuckles followed. You froze. Changbin hadn’t arrived yet. You wished he had.

"Guess getting attention from Changbin’ll do that to a girl," someone else added, smirking. "Shy little nerd finally speaks up, guess it pays to be quiet and cute."

That one landed deep. You didn’t even want to think about what that meant. They didn’t stop. Your chest tightened. Your ears rang. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Every word dragged old insecurities to the surface: You’re not really smart. You’re just lucky. You're only noticeable when someone else wants you to be. You’re not enough on your own.

The TA didn’t say a word. No one did.

Except... The chair beside you scraped back hard.

Changbin had arrived. And he heard everything.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. But the room went dead quiet. He stood there, backpack still on one shoulder, gaze locked on the guy who had said it.

“You want to say that again?” he asked. Voice calm. Too calm.

The guy laughed awkwardly. “Dude, it was a joke—"

Changbin dropped his bag to the floor.

"Then let me joke too,” he said, stepping around the table. “Let me joke about how you couldn’t solve basic differential equations without copying her work two weeks ago. Let me joke about how the only thing you contribute in here is noise.”

“Changbin—It's okay” you whispered, panicked. You grabbed his sleeve, but he didn’t budge.

He turned back to you, finally, and your breath caught.

His face was tight. Controlled. But his eyes? His eyes were raging.

“You don’t get to say that,” he said. Not to them, to you.

One of the guys muttered something “Dude, it’s not that serious.”

Changbin turned back so fast the air snapped.

“You’re right. It’s not.” He took a deep breath. Straightened his shoulders. “Because none of you are even in her fucking level.”

Dead silence.

“I’ve seen her solve things you people don’t even understand the concept of. I’ve seen her carry this room in silence because she’s too scared to make you feel small.”

He looked back at you. Softer now. Like you were all he could see.

“She could crush every one of you if she stopped holding herself back for two seconds.”

No one moved. No one spoke. He grabbed his bag, reached for your hand, and said, “Let’s go.”

You let him lead you out of the room.

The hallway lights flickered above you, buzzing faintly. The tile floor echoed with the sound of his footsteps, and yours trying to keep up. But Changbin didn’t say a word.

Just held your hand tight as he led you deeper into the building, through turns you didn’t recognize, past classrooms you had never had, down corridors that always felt too quiet at night.

You didn’t cry. You thought you would, should.

A few weeks ago? You’d be curled in on yourself, hiding behind your hoodie, tears falling faster than you could blink them back.

But now? Now, all you felt was the pounding of your heart. And his hand wrapped around yours like an anchor.

Eventually, he stopped in front of an old wooden door.

He glanced over his shoulder.

“No one comes here after six,” he murmured. “Most people don’t even realize this door is open.”

He pushed the door open and gestured for you to follow. You stepped into a small room, cozy and half-forgotten. Old wooden tables. Bookshelves that stretched high. A tall, arched window leaking in silver moonlight.

You stared.

“I come here when I need quiet,” he said. “Or when I feel like breaking something.”

You looked at him. He shrugged.

“Secret spot,” he added. “You can’t tell anyone.”

Something about that hit you harder than it should’ve. He shared this with you. This place. His silence.

You walked to the nearest table, let your fingers brush the wood. You felt calm. Shaken. And then it came. The question that had been burning a hole in your chest.

“…Why?”

His head tilted. You met his eyes.

“Why do you care so much?”

The words left your lips quieter than you expected. But they hung there between you like thunder.

Changbin exhaled. Then walked over, leaned against the edge of the table near you. His eyes never left yours.

“Because I know what it’s like to be good at something,” he said, slowly. “And still feel like it’s not enough.”

You blinked.

He looked down, jaw flexing once.

“People expect you to be loud. To be sure. To perform. And if you’re not… they think you’re weak. Or fake. Or forgettable.”

You swallowed. That part, the forgettable, it lodged in your throat.

“But you?” he said, voice quieter now. “You don’t need to scream to be worth hearing. You just are.”

His eyes flicked up again.

“And maybe I care because I’ve seen you all this and been watching you for weeks—breaking your own brilliance down into something small. Hiding it like it’s something shameful.”

You couldn’t look away.

“And maybe I care because every time you do speak, I remember why I’m here in the first place.”

That made your breath hitch. His voice was soft now. Measured. Real. You didn’t look at him. Your eyes were locked on some distant spot on the bookshelf. Your hands were trembling, fingers clenched tight into the hem of your hoodie.

“I’m not…” Your voice cracked. “I’m not all of that.”

Silence.

You swallowed hard and shook your head before he could speak.

“Not like that. Just—” A breath. A bitter laugh. “At school, I was never enough.” You could feel the weight of the words as they fell. “Never smart enough. Not really. Not compared to the ones who could talk. Who were confident. Who didn’t stumble every time they were looked at.”

You stared harder at the wood grain in the table.

“And never pretty enough. Not the kind people liked. I was the weird one. Too quiet. Too anxious. Too… invisible.”

Still, he said nothing. So you kept going. Low and steady like bleeding out. “Never hot enough to be noticed. Never cool enough to be liked. Never enough of anything. And I guess I just got used to it.”

Your throat closed up.

“It’s easier that way. To shrink first. To beat them to it.”

You blinked fast, trying not to fall apart.

You felt his hand brush yours, gentle, grounding, but firm enough to pull. He guided you around to face him. And still, your eyes stayed down. He didn’t speak.

Just stepped into your space. Close.

And then, his voice. Low. Rough. Barely holding back.

“Do you want to know what I see?”

You didn’t answer.

He tilted your chin up slowly, carefully. Until your eyes met his.

“I see the smartest fucking person I’ve ever met.”

A pause. His thumb brushed your cheek.

“I see someone who could set the world on fire if she stopped apologizing for breathing.”

Your lips parted, but he was already leaning in.

“And god—don’t even start on pretty.”

He laughed once, breathlessly. Shook his head.

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

You froze.

“You think you’re not enough?” he whispered, eyes dark now. “Fuck, you’ve been too much since the second I saw you.”

You felt his hand slide to your waist, gripping gently, possessive in the softest way. And then he stepped forward, pressing you back into the edge of the table.

“I’ve been dying to kiss you again and again. To ruin every single lie someone ever told you about yourself.”

Your breath hitched, sharp, involuntary. He didn’t move. Didn’t push. Just stood there, eyes locked to yours, chest rising with each heavy breath like he was holding back something dangerous.

His voice dropped. Barely above a whisper.

“Can I show you?”

Your heart stopped.

“Show you how I see you?”

The question hovered in the air, thick and trembling. It wasn’t greedy. Wasn’t cocky. It was… bare. Honest. He looked at you like you were made of something sacred. And all you could do, because your throat was tight and your fingers were shaking, was nod.

Once.

And fuck, that was all he needed.

His exhale was shaky, like he had been holding his breath for a long time. Like that one nod shattered whatever restraint he had left.

He leaned in slowly, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw, his thumb ghosting over your cheek, his fingers threading softly into your hair. The other settled on your waist, pulling you to him so gently it made your knees weaken.

His forehead pressed to yours. And his voice, low and wrecked and so full of you. “You’re already everything.”

Then he kissed you. And it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry, not yet. It was deep. Intentional. Like he was pouring weeks of unsaid words into your mouth. Like he wanted to carve the shape of your lips into his memory.

You whimpered against him, fingers fisting in the front of his hoodie, needing something to hold on to.

He moaned softly at that, barely pulled back, just enough to look at you. “Come here,” he breathed, and then lifted you, hands strong and careful, until you were sitting on the table, legs dangling, knees brushing his hips. He stepped in between them, dragging his palms slowly up your thighs over your jeans, never looking away from your face.

“You still with me?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded again. This time firmer. This time like you wanted it.

“Good,” he said, leaning down again. “Because I’m not stopping until you feel it.”

His hands never rushed.

Even with how hard he was breathing, how dark his eyes had gone, he moved like he had all the time in the world. Like you were the only thing that mattered.

And right now? You were.

His fingers slid up under the hem of your hoodie, slow and careful, dragging the soft fabric up. He didn’t yank it over your head. He helped you lift your arms, then pulled it off like it was something delicate.

His hands paused just under your ribs.

“You good?” he asked, voice low. Steady.

You nodded. Whispered, “Yes.”

And his eyes softened, like that word meant something.

He bent down, lips brushing just under your jaw. Not kissing yet, learning. “You don’t even know what you look like right now,” he murmured. “So unreal.”

His hands cupped your waist. His lips found your collarbone. And then lower. He kissed along the edge of your bra, gentle, focused, and when he slipped one strap off your shoulder with a reverent thumb, he didn’t even look down.

He was watching you.

“Can I take this off?” he whispered.

You nodded again, quieter this time. He unclasped it with one hand. Easy. Familiar. And when he slid it off, he stared.

Not hungry. Not desperate.

Just... in awe.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He dropped to his knees. Right there. In the dim quiet of the library, surrounded by dust and moonlight and the pounding in your chest, he knelt in front of you like he had been waiting to.

“Changbin—”

“Shh,” he murmured, kissing your bare stomach, one hand pressed flat to your back, the other stroking along your thigh.

“I need you to feel this.”

He kissed lower. Tongue slow. Warm. Tracing the path just above your waistband.

“You’re not invisible.” he whispered between kisses.

He undid your jeans.

“You’re not a background character.”

He pulled them down slow, kissing every new inch of skin like he was undoing years of shame with his mouth.

“And you’ve never—not once—been not enough.”

You were gasping now, hands gripping the edge of the table for dear life, thighs tense around his shoulders as he slid your underwear down.

He kissed the inside of your knee.

Then your thigh.

Then looked up at you, voice gone ragged.

“Let me show you.”

His hands ran up your thighs like he was sculpting something holy. Warm, firm, grounding, palms spreading over your skin as he settled between your legs, like he belonged there.

And maybe he did. Maybe he always had.

You were already trembling. The cold air against your bare skin only made everything more electric. But his touch? It burned.

Mouth open, soft, hot, like he was savoring the taste of you long before he ever got to you.

You reached for his shoulder to anchor yourself. He leaned into the touch like he needed it just as much.

His voice was low, wrecked with restraint. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time... how bad I wanted to show how good you are.”

You whimpered.

He kissed the crease where your thigh met your hip. His nose brushed your skin. His breath fanned out over you, warm and teasing, right above where you needed him most.

And then, finally, he looked up.

His hands gripped your thighs, fingers splayed possessively.

“Look at me.”

You did. Barely. Eyes glassy, lips parted.

“Say I can taste you.”

You swallowed hard, already nodding. “Yes.”

That was it.

He leaned in, slow as sin, shoved your panties aside and dragged his tongue up your cunt like he was starving. Your entire body jolted. He groaned into you, low, guttural, like he had just been given his first breath in weeks.

“Fucking sweet,” he murmured. “You taste—fuck.”

He licked you again, slower this time. More deliberate. Tongue wide and flat, then curling up to flick over your clit so lightly it made your hips jump.

You gasped, thighs twitching around his shoulders.

But his arms wrapped around them instantly, locking you in place, not to restrain you, but to hold you through it.

“You feel that?” he whispered against your skin, voice rough. “That’s what it’s supposed to feel like when someone actually gives a fuck about you.”

He kissed your clit. Soft. Worshipful.

Then again, longer now, tongue circling, exploring, savoring.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t race toward your orgasm. He studied you.

The way your breath hitched when he sucked gently. The way your fingers gripped his hair tighter when he flattened his tongue. The way your thighs tried to close, overwhelmed, and how he just held you there, whispering:

“Don’t hide from me.”

You were panting. Moaning. Gone.

And he kept going.

Licking up every bit of you. Groaning into your cunt like he was drunk on the taste. Pausing only to breathe you in deeper, then start again with more focus, more pressure, every flick of his tongue a deliberate I see you.

He started humming then. Humming. Like he couldn’t help it. Like the sound of your whimpers was a fucking melody.

You choked on a sob. “Changbin—”

“Mmhm.” He didn’t stop.

Didn’t lift his head. Didn’t pause.

His mouth moved with such unrelenting care it hurt, not physically, but deep in your chest. Because this wasn’t just sex.

It was worship.

The way his tongue circled slow over your clit, like he was tasting something rare. The way his hands cradled your thighs, not gripping, not forcing, just holding. The way he moaned into you every time your hips rolled just a little too much.

You were shaking.

You could feel your release building, rising so high you were afraid of it. Not because of the pleasure, but because of what came after. Because this much attention? This much focus? It scared the hell out of you. And maybe he knew that. Because just when you were close, just when your muscles tensed and your lips parted in a gasp, he eased up.

His mouth slowed. His pressure lightened.

Not teasing. Not edging. Just calming you down, helping you breathe through it. One hand came up to your waist, grounding.

And his voice, oh god, his voice, came out low and warm, lips brushing your skin.

“It’s okay.”

A kiss just below your navel.

“You have to stop overthinking it and let yourself feel it all.”

You exhaled like a sob, body sinking forward into his arms, and he caught you, held you there, mouth ghosting over your belly, eyes on your face the whole time.

He kissed you once more.

And then, after a moment, pulled back just enough to look at you, flushed and trembling and too overwhelmed to move. His lips were swollen. His face was damp with you. His hair was messy from your fingers. And he still looked like he wanted more. Not because he hadn’t had enough. Because you hadn’t.

“Still with me?” he asked, voice wrecked.

You nodded.

"You want me to finish it?"

You nodded again.

You're still gasping softly when your hand moves, slow, unsure, toward his face. But your fingers find his jaw, and before you can think, before you can even breathe, you’re pulling him in.

You kiss him. Not soft this time. Not shy.

Hungry.

Lips crashing into his, your body leaning into his chest like you need to feel more, need to be closer, like you're done hiding. And he groans into it, caught off guard by how fierce you are now, how much fire is suddenly spilling out of you.

His hands find your waist. Yours slide up his chest, under the hem of his shirt, and...

Oh.

You feel it. You feel how strong he is and how he's right there beneath your fingers. Warm skin, flexing under your touch. And god, you want more.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, mouth still brushing yours.

“You want me to take this off?”

You nod.

You don’t speak. Just watch, wide-eyed, heart pounding as he grabs the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one motion.

And fuck.

You had seen him before. In hoodies, in fitted tees. You had imagined. But nothing, nothing, prepared you for this.

His bare chest rising and falling, every line of muscle catching the light just right. Broad shoulders. Strong arms.

And all of it, all of it, for you. Right there.

Your breath caught in your throat. And then you said it.

Quiet. Barely more than a whisper.

“I can’t believe someone like you would be interested in someone like me.”

The second the words leave your lips, you wish you could swallow them back. But it’s too late. They land heavy in the air between you. You feel it. The way his smile drops. The way his brows twitch like he felt it in his chest.

He looks at you like you’ve just torn something open inside him.

And then, he leans forward, like it was even possible to be closer than this. Hands back on your waist, firmer now. Grounding. Certain.

“Don’t say that,” he says, low.

You try to look down again, but he doesn’t let you. His fingers tilt your chin up gently.

“I’m not interested in you like you’re some fluke.”

His voice is softer now. Fiercer.

“I want you. All of you. I’m undone by you.”

You stare at him, mouth parted, heart thudding so hard it hurts.

He leans in, lips brushing your jaw.

“And if you knew what you looked like right now…”

He kisses below your ear.

“If you knew how fucking beautiful you are when you finally let yourself feel…”

Another kiss. The edge of your throat.

“You’d never doubt it again.”

He didn’t move right away. Just watched you.

Like he was waiting to be sure.

And when you finally met his gaze, bare, vulnerable, scared but read, he kissed you again. Slow and deep, like he was thanking you.

Then his hand moved, sliding into your panties. One long, careful stroke through your folds. You gasped into his mouth. His voice was low, a little playful. “God, you're really wet.”

You whimpered, cheeks flushing instantly, and turned your head like you wanted to hide. But his hand on your face pulled you gently back.

“No,” he whispered. “Don’t do that.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. His fingers circled your clit, featherlight, reverent, until your hips rolled into his palm like they had a mind of their own.

“I wanna see you.”

You blinked up at him, lips parted, eyes glassy. And then he slid one finger inside you. Slow. Deep.

You choked on a gasp. Your forehead dropped to his shoulder, breath catching, whole body stiffening around him.

“Shh…” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He started to move, gentle, measured, fingers curling just enough to find you from the inside out. Your hands scrambled for his arms, his shoulders, anywhere you could hold on.

“God, you feel perfect,” he whispered, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple. “So warm. So tight. Taking me so well.”

You whimpered something. Maybe his name. Maybe just air. His free hand cupped your cheek again, guiding your face back to his. And when you tried to look away, when you flushed, overwhelmed, unsure, he wouldn’t let you.

His eyes searched yours. His forehead pressed to yours.

“You don’t have to hide anymore,” he whispered. “Not from me.”

Then he kissed you again, deeper now, while his fingers moved inside you, stretching, curling, coaxing the kind of pleasure you never thought you deserved.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he said, voice rough with want. “You don’t even know.”

You whimpered into his mouth, hips bucking.

Your thighs trembled, every muscle taut like you were holding back a storm. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Your chest rose and fell in shallow, desperate gasps, your lips parted as you stared at him.

His fingers worked you open with an aching slowness, curling just right, slipping out and back in, each motion making your whole body jolt. You were soaked, dripping onto his hand, thighs slick, the sounds between your legs obscene, but you couldn’t feel embarrassed. Not when he looked at you like that.

“See?” he whispered. “Your body’s telling me the truth. Look how wet you are for me. How much you need this. How much you deserve it.”

Your breath caught. You felt it, deep in your belly, curling tighter with every stroke. You’d never been touched like this. Never been seen like this. He didn’t just want to make you feel good, he wanted you to know why you deserved to.

Every flick of his wrist, every gentle pump of his fingers, sent sparks shooting up your spine. You couldn’t hold still. Your hips bucked, your fingers clawed at his shoulders, and your mouth hung open, trying to form words, sounds, anything, but only breathless, broken moans came out.

“Changbin—” His name fell from your lips like a confession.

He groaned at the sound, hand tightening slightly against your cheek. “That’s it. I'm here.”

Your voice cracked, dissolving into a whimper as his thumb circled your clit with devastating precision. Your head fell back, neck arching, thighs shaking around his wrist.

You were unraveling, falling apart in his hands, your whole body drawn taut like a string ready to snap. And still, he was so gentle. So deliberate. His touch worshipped. His kisses steadied.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours. “I can feel it.”

You nodded frantically, eyes squeezed shut. You were right there. Right on the edge. His fingers moved faster, deeper, his thumb unrelenting as he carried you toward that final release.

“Come for me,” he whispered. “Don’t hold back. I want to see everything.”

You broke.

The orgasm hit crashing, overwhelming, tearing through your body with blinding force. You cried out, clinging to him like you’d fall apart without him, your legs trembling, your whole body shuddering in his arms.

He held you through it. Whispering soft things against your skin, stroking your hair, slowing his fingers until you twitched from the sensitivity.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered again.

—

The room was quiet now.

The kind of quiet that feels full, not empty. Heavy with breath and heartbeat, with skin still tingling, with everything unsaid resting between the two of you.

You were on your back on the table, one arm slung lazily over your stomach, the other tangled in Changbin’s hair as he lay beside you, his head on your chest, his arm across your waist, still shirtless, warm, solid.

His fingers idly traced over your ribs. Slow. Gentle.

You hadn’t spoken for a while. Just let yourselves exist. Half-naked in some forgotten library room. Hearts still racing. Mouths swollen from kissing. Legs sore from trembling.

But eventually, your voice cut through the silence.

Soft. Shaky.

“...I don’t think anyone’s ever really touched me before.”

You felt him still against you. You stared up at the ceiling, the tears threatening to prick again, not from pain. From truth.

“Not like that,” you added. “Not like they actually saw me.”

His hand stilled on your skin. And then, he lifted his head. Looked at you. His eyes were dark and tender, his jaw flexing like he was feeling everything.

“Then they were fucking blind,” he said. “Because I’ve been trying not to lose my mind around you since the first time you answered a question no one else could.”

You swallowed.

“Changbin—”

He leaned in. Brushed his nose along yours. Whispered:

“You don’t even realize what you do to people, do you?”

“I—”

“You made me nervous,” he admitted, lips twitching. “That first week in the study group? I gave the wrong answer on purpose just so you’d talk.”

Your eyes widened.

He laughed softly. “And when you corrected me? I swear I could get hard just hearing you say ‘actually…’”

You covered your face with your hands, heat rushing back to your cheeks. But he gently pulled them down, again. Looked at you.

“You’re the smartest, most beautiful fucking person I’ve ever met. And I want to ruin every single day you spent doubting that.”

You stared at him, eyes glassy, lips trembling.

Then it hit you.

A sudden crash of realization, cold and bright and sharp. Like waking up too fast. Like being seen too clearly.

You flinched, barely noticeable, but it was enough.

Your fingers twitched against his chest before you pulled away, sitting up on the table with your back to him. One hand moved to cover your chest, the other to sweep your hair aside, searching blindly for your clothes in the half-lit room. Eyes on the floor, standing up in a second, your mouth pressed in a thin line.

Changbin sat up behind you, confused for half a breath. His brows furrowed as he watched the shift.

“Hey,” he said, low. “You okay?”

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Of course. I’m fine.”

He blinked. And then something in him snapped. He stood. Stepped closer. “Don’t—” his voice cut through the quiet, suddenly rough. “Don’t fucking get shy now after drenching my hands and moaning my name.”

Your breath caught. Your spine stiffened.

But you didn’t turn around.

Didn’t face him. Didn’t answer.

“Seriously?” he said, voice tighter now, angrier—but not cruel. Not even close. “You still don’t believe you deserve to be praised like that?”

Still, silence.

So he closed the distance. Stepped right behind you, his chest brushing your back, his fingers curling softly, dangerously, around your arm.

“You let me touch you like that, let me make you fall apart in my hands,” he said, voice dropping to a dark murmur against your ear, “Then you run?”

Your breath shook. You closed your eyes.

“It’s not that,” you whispered. “It’s just… it’s hard to hear it and not feel like you’re wrong.”

That’s when his hand curled tighter around your arm, not to hurt, but to ground.

“I’m not fucking wrong about you.”

You finally turned your head, just enough to see him from the corner of your eye. And what you saw there...

Anger. Yes. Frustration, definitely.

But also something deeper. A quiet kind of devastation. Like he couldn’t believe you didn’t see what he saw.

He leaned closer, voice breaking at the edges.

“I want all of you. I meant it. Every word. Every breath. And I’m not gonna stand here and let you pretend I didn’t.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“Say something,” he pleaded, softer now. “Please.”

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out.

He watched you for one more second, one breath, one blink, and then something in him changed.

He stepped around you, between your legs, forcing you to look at him. “You didn’t hear me?”

His hand gripped your jaw, not too hard, but firm. His thumb brushing your cheek, his eyes burning into yours like he was trying to mark himself into your bones.

“I said I want to ruin every single one of those fucking thoughts.”

Your breath hitched, body already responding to the way his voice dropped, dark and dangerous, dragging heat straight to your core.

“Every time you told yourself you weren’t enough. Every time some asshole made you feel small. Every fucking second you spent thinking you had to earn what’s already yours.”

Your heart was pounding so loud you could barely hear him. But he meant it. God, you could feel it, his frustration, his need, his devotion, slamming into your chest like a wave you couldn’t outrun.

You couldn’t look away now if you tried.

His other hand slid down your body, slow but demanding, fingertips dragging across your collarbone, your ribs, over the curve of your waist, before gripping your thigh, hard, spreading you wider.

He pulled you forward, his grip iron. Your ass edged to the very lip of the table, legs falling open for him instinctively, thighs trembling already.

“You wanna run from this?” he growled. “You want to hide now?”

You shook your head, barely.

“No?” His fingers pressed just below your jaw, tilting your chin up with such care it should’ve felt gentle, but it didn’t. Not anymore. It felt like a claim.

“Then fucking take all the praises I have to give you.”

He kissed you, hard. No hesitation. All teeth and tongue and frustration. He bit your lip like he wanted to leave his mark, swallowed your gasp like he needed it more than air. You clung to his shoulders, already dizzy, already gone.

He groaned into your mouth, hips pressing into yours with a growing urgency that left no room for denial. When he pulled back, his voice was wrecked.

“Lie back.”

You obeyed without thinking. No words. No resistance. Just a sharp inhale and the sting of the table’s cold surface against your skin as you leaned back, legs open, eyes wide.

His hands were already on your hips, greedy and unrelenting. He dragged your panties down in one brutal motion, fingertips skimming your thighs on the way, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He dropped them to the floor like they offended him. Like they were in the way.

His belt clinked next, metal fast and loud in the quiet room, and your pulse spiked at the sound. His pants hit the floor. You barely had time to breathe before he was on you again, pressing in, lining up, one hand gripping your thigh, the other anchoring beside your head.

He didn’t push in.

Not yet.

Instead, he pulled his hips back just slightly, guiding himself down with one hand. You could feel the weight of him, thick and hot, the head of his cock already leaking, pressing right up against your soaked folds.

He groaned under his breath when he made contact, and you flinched, a soft, involuntary gasp caught in your throat.

Because fuck, he was big.

And you were wet, embarrassingly so, your arousal painting your thighs, your cunt swollen and desperate, aching to be filled. But instead of giving it to you, he dragged himself along your slit, slow and heavy, spreading the slick mess of his precum and your arousal together, mixing it into something filthy, obscene.

He rutted forward, the thick underside of his cock grinding between your lips, dragging up against your clit with a slow roll of his hips. You gasped, hands flying to grip the edge of the table, thighs twitching from the jolt of pleasure.

He did it again. And again.

The weight of him pressing down, sliding through the slick mess between your legs, the fat head catching on your clit just enough to make your legs jerk.

“Feel that?” he muttered, voice gravel and sin. His eyes were locked on the way his cock glided through your folds, shining with the mess he had made of you. “You’re so fucking wet for me. Look at this.”

You whimpered as he gave one more slow, deliberate drag, this time letting the tip nudge lower, down, down, until it was resting right at your entrance, pulsing there, stretching you with just that slight pressure.

Your hips bucked instinctively, chasing him, but he didn’t move. Just held himself there. Right on the edge. Letting you feel the heat, the threat of it.

“You'll let yourself feel what I have to give?” he murmured, eyes flicking to yours.

Your mouth dropped open, no words forming, only a shaky, breathless sound of need.

He grinned, dark and crooked and full of wicked affection.

“You’ll take it.”

Then, he fisted himself at your entrance, tight and slow, just the head pressing inside, just a stretch, just enough to make your walls flutter in anticipation. You moaned, back arching off the table. The burn of it was barely there, just a tease, and yet your body reacted like he was already fully inside.

His hand was still wrapped around the base of his cock, holding back, controlling the pace with a grip that made his forearm flex, made his jaw clench.

Your eyes were glassy, mouth parted, thighs trembling around his waist.

And when he pushed in, deep, rough, completely, you felt it.

Felt the stretch, the weight, the fullness. Felt the way he filled you like he was trying to carve himself into the deepest part of you. Felt the way your breath caught, back arching, mouth falling open in a broken cry.

“Fuck,” he hissed, voice low and shaking. “You feel that?”

He started moving, slow at first, but heavy, deliberate, dragging moans from your throat with every grind of his hips.

“That’s real. I see you. I want you. I’m not fucking leaving.”

Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as you wrapped your legs around his waist, trying to pull him even deeper. Your body trembled under him, overwhelmed and aching, your mind barely able to hold onto a single thought that wasn’t him.

He fucked you like a promise. Like he was burning your doubts out of you. One thrust at a time. His rhythm was rough, relentless now, hips slamming into yours with a purpose that bordered on desperate.

“You deserve this. All of this.” His voice was hoarse now, ragged, breaking with every thrust. “Say it.”

You moaned, lips parting, head tilting back against the table as tears welled in your eyes—not from pain. From being seen.

“Say it, sweetie,” he growled, pace punishing. “Say you deserve me. Say you deserve to be seen like this.”

You gasped, crying out his name as your back arched again, thighs trembling around him. Every thrust was a jolt of raw, blistering pleasure that left you barely able to breathe.

You tried to say it. Tried to speak. But all you could do was whimper and cling to him, overwhelmed, wrecked, falling apart all over again.

And he wasn’t letting up.

Your voice was a broken, breathless mess. Every time you opened your mouth, all that came out was a gasp, a moan, a desperate whimper of his name. And god, you were whiny.

Every thrust pulled another cracked little sound from your throat, soft and high-pitched, soaked with need. Your mouth fell open, eyes glassy, voice trembling with every breath. It wasn’t even conscious anymore. The sounds just kept coming, spilling out of you like your body couldn’t contain them. Helpless. Raw. You sounded like you were breaking.

Changbin felt it. He heard it.

He drove into you harder, deeper, his pace unrelenting now, hips slamming into yours with bruising force, dragging a sob from your throat that echoed off the walls.

“You crying, sweetie?” he panted, voice thick and breathless. “Huh? Why you crying?”

Your head lolled back, tears slipping past your lashes, mouth falling open as another whiny moan tore out of you.

“F-fuck—Bin—”

“You can’t even talk,” he growled, almost laughing, but it was dark and low and wrecked. “Just lying there crying for me, making those sounds—fuck.”

Your whole body jolted with the next thrust. Your walls were fluttering around him, tightening with every slam of his hips. You couldn’t stop the noise, the choked moans, the breathless gasps, the sobs. It was all too much.

But he didn’t stop.

He gripped your waist tighter, dragging you toward him with every stroke, fucking you into the table like he was trying to brand himself inside you.

“You can cry,” he hissed, eyes wild, sweat dripping down his temples as he hovered over you. “This is the only kind of cry I want you to have.”

Another whimper left you, high, desperate, nearly a plea.

He groaned deep in his chest, like the sound of you unraveling had gone straight to his spine.

“Don’t stop now,” he said, fucking into you with brutal precision. “Keep whining for me, sweetie. Let me hear it. Let me hear how good you feel.”

And you did.

You sobbed out his name again, body shaking, fingers curling so hard into his shoulders they left crescent moons in his skin. Your legs locked tighter around him, trying to anchor yourself to something, to him, while your body fell apart.

Every time his cock slammed into you, another sound came out, soft, shattered, soaked in everything you couldn’t say. And he took it all. Ate it up like it was proof.

Proof you felt him. Proof he was pulling the pain out of you, thrust by thrust, cry by cry.

He was deep. Rough. Like something had snapped and he refused to let those thoughts survive. Like he was driving every thrust into your core with the sole purpose of erasing everything that ever made you feel less than what he saw.

His hand curled under your thigh, pressing your knee up and back, opening you wider, letting him sink in deeper still, until you cried out, eyes wide, lips trembling.

You couldn't think straight.

Not when he was this deep.

Not when he was burying himself so far inside you it felt like he was trying to crawl into your bones and stay there.

“Yeah?” he panted, voice dark and twisted with emotion. “Right there? You feel how fucking deep I am?”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks from sheer overstimulation. Your body was shaking, walls fluttering around him with every punishing snap of his hips.

“I’m fucking you so deep,” he growled, teeth gritted, sweat dripping down his neck, “you won’t even remember those goddamn thoughts.”

He punctuated each word with a brutal thrust, each one knocking a breath from your lungs, stealing your mind, your doubts, your name.

“Every lie you ever believed?” Thrust. “Gone.” “Every time someone made you feel small?” Thrust. “Every time you looked in the mirror and couldn’t see what I see?” Thrust. “I’m burying that shit. Right. Here.”

He slammed into you, hips flush to yours, so deep you could swear you felt him in your stomach. You sobbed, overwhelmed, ruined, wrecked, but still reaching for more.

“You’re gonna remember this,” he gritted. “You’re gonna remember how I made you feel. How I see you.”

Your body started to tighten, a scream building in your throat, orgasm coiling like lightning in your gut, too much and not enough.

“And when you come for me?” he said, breath ghosting your ear, voice dark and sweet and terrifyingly sure, “you’re gonna say it.”

You blinked up at him, pupils blown, lips parted.

“Say you deserve this.”

“C-Changbin—”

“Say you deserve me.”

Your body broke around him, shaking, clenching, crying out as you spiraled into the kind of release that tore everything else away. And in the middle of it, on the edge of sobbing and screaming, you finally gave him what he needed.

“I—f-fuck—I'm good, I deserve it,” you gasped, voice hoarse, shaking. “I deserve you—all of you—”

He groaned like he had waited a lifetime to hear it.

And then he lost it.

His rhythm turned messy, desperate. He gripped your hips like he’d never let go, burying himself to the hilt again and again, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged and raw.

“You do,” he growled. “You deserve to be loved like this. You fucking deserve it.”

And when he came, he held you so tightly you couldn’t tell where he ended and you began.

His hips stuttered, buried deep, pulse throbbing inside you, but even then, he wasn’t done.

His hand shot up, rough and trembling, grabbing your face with a kind of urgency that made your breath hitch. He turned your head, forced you to look at him, tears streaking your cheeks, lips swollen, eyes glassy and broken wide open.

And then he kissed you.

Desperate. Open-mouthed. Deep and messy and trembling. His mouth crashed into yours like he couldn’t breathe without it, like kissing you was the only way to survive the feeling of being inside you, of seeing you this hard.

You were crying into his mouth, lips shaking against his, sobs caught between your breaths, and he kissed you like he wanted to taste every one of them.

Like he wanted to seal the truth into your lungs himself.

The room was quiet again.

He didn’t rush you. Just stayed close, still inside you for a little while longer, forehead resting against yours. And when he finally pulled back, he kissed the tears from your cheeks like they were sacred.

You let him help you dress, his fingers careful as he straightened your shirt, smoothing your hair behind your ear like he needed to touch you, needed to prove to himself you were really there. That you had really let him see all of you.

The table creaked as you stood. Your legs wobbled.

He caught you without hesitation, strong arms slipping around your waist, holding you steady. You couldn’t meet his eyes, not yet, but you stayed in his arms.

He kissed your temple.

“Let me drive you home.”

You looked up at him, surprised by how gentle his voice was after everything. You nodded.

—

The car ride was quiet. Not awkward, just soft. Comfortable.

You watched the city blur outside the window. The night humming low around you. He kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting palm-up between you, just in case you wanted to hold it.

You did.

He parked in front of your building and turned off the engine. The street was silent, washed in orange glow. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you, like he was memorizing your face in the stillness.

You opened the door. He got out too, ever the gentleman. And at the entrance, with your hand on your keys and your heart still raw, you turned to him.

“You can stay,” you said, voice soft, almost unsure.

His eyes flicked to yours.

“If you want.”

He stepped closer, brushed his thumb along your jaw, and nodded once.

“I do.”

—

It wasn’t sex this time.

It was warmth and tangled limbs and his hoodie thrown over your shoulders as you brushed your teeth beside him.

It was him folding down the blankets while you changed into shorts.

It was laughter when he nearly tripped taking off his shoes, a quiet “shh” from you because it was late, and the giggle you couldn’t hide when he shushed you back.

It was him crawling into bed beside you. Pulling you into his chest without needing to ask.

It was his lips against your hair as your breathing slowed.

“Goodnight, smart girl,” he whispered, fingers stroking your arm.

You smiled into his neck, his scent wrapping around you like a blanket.

You fell asleep safe. Wanted. Seen. For the first time, in forever.

—

+++ authors note: for this one, I didn't put the "contains" thing at the beginning of the post. do you miss knowing what kinda smut is in the fic? I've found it way more interesting not to put it… I think it's more fun to read. but pls tell me what do you think about it <333

taglist @velvetmoonlght @anjian03 @nightmarenyxx @nebugalaxy @annyeongffs @hanjisunnnng @fawnoverdawn <3 (comment or dm me to be added)

#uhnanixfaves :3

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uhnanix · 1 month ago

Text

New Beginnings - Part Six - Stray Kids x female!9th Member

Pairing: Chan x 9th Member

Summary: The break that you’ve been trying to hold back can’t help but happen when you and Chan go head to head in rehearsals. With the company putting pressure on you both leading up to the comeback, it was only a matter of time.

Warnings: There are some mentions of weight loss, avoiding food due to loss of appetite with stress

A/N: Hello hello my darlings <3 So fun fact this was so much longer but I’ve hit the max on a tumblr post soooo… next chapter tomorrow??? How are we all doing, let me know <3

Part Five

Masterlist

────୨ৎ────

Someone was shouting about socks.

Someone else had tripped over a charger cable and was now loudly blaming everyone but himself.

There was steam rising from the bathroom. Two bowls of cereal abandoned on the floor. Felix’s hoodie in the fridge for some reason.

Minho was swearing under his breath in three different languages.

Typical morning.

You stood in the middle of it all, half dressed, half focused, hands wrapped tight around a mug of coffee you didn’t even want. The bitter taste clung to your tongue. You’d already ignored the toast that Seungmin offered, then passed on Felix’s leftovers with a shake of your head. You were running on caffeine and adrenaline now. Nothing else.

“You should eat,” Minho said as he passed, not even looking up from his phone.

It sounded casual. Offhand. Like a throwaway comment tossed into the storm of noise.

But it wasn’t.

Because his eyes flicked up a second later, and they didn’t look away. Sharp. Quiet. Observing you the way only Minho could.

You tried to take another sip like it didn’t matter. Like you hadn’t skipped dinner the night before, too. Like you hadn’t skipped a lot of meals recently. Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know if it was hunger or something else. You felt his gaze still on you.

He was clocking it now. Not just noticing. Tracking.

“Didn’t you say you were going to make that soup today?” you asked, voice light, redirecting.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond.

You didn’t need him to.

Jeongin’s voice broke through the tension. “Hyung, your bag!”

Chan caught it one-handed without looking, still bent over the coffee table gathering his notes. His phone sat beside them, face-down.

You weren’t watching him. You weren’t paying attention.

Except you were.

Your eyes flicked to his phone without meaning to. Without wanting to.

And there it was.

Just the edge of it—tucked neatly inside his clear case, barely visible through the blur of stickers and scuff marks. A Polaroid border. Curled slightly at the edge.

Your fingers went cold around the coffee mug.

Because you knew what that was.

You’d searched your notebook for it last night, pages flipped frantically, hoping you’d misplaced it. But it hadn’t been there. Your only other hope being he’d taken it with him. Quietly. Without a word.

You barely hesitated.

When his back turned, you moved like instinct—smooth, quiet, practiced. You slid the phone toward you and popped the edge of the case open just far enough to see.

Your stomach flipped.

It was the Polaroid.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

But the relief didn’t come like you thought it would.

Because it wasn’t clean.

It wasn’t comforting.

It made your chest ache.

Your hands shook as you looked at it — you, caught in a moment that still lived under your skin, your face turned toward him, his shoulder brushing yours, both of you mid-laugh like it hadn’t hurt to be that close.

He’d kept it.

He’d chosen to keep it.

And it was right here, pressed against the only thing he always carried with him. Hidden behind plastic, behind all the noise, but still with him.

You didn’t know if you should feel relieved…

Or terrified.

Because if he felt even half of what you did, then why hadn’t he said anything?

Even when neither of you could speak. Even when you could barely look at each other for longer than a second without flinching. He still kept that moment. That version of you. Of both of you.

You pressed the case shut gently.

Put it back exactly where it had been.

When you looked up, he was already turning back toward you.

His eyes met yours.

Just for a second.

And in that second, you swore he knew.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t explain.

“Let’s go,” he said, adjusting his bag.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

You didn’t look at Minho, but you knew he was still watching you.

You could feel it in the silence.

In the weight of his unspoken questions.

The kind you didn’t have the strength to answer right now.

So you drained the last of your coffee like it could fix the hollow ache in your chest.

And you walked out the door with the rest of them.

Pretending everything was fine.

Even though it wasn’t.

You mentally thanked the company for sending the van this morning so you weren’t forced to walk and be forced into a conversation you weren’t ready for. What you weren’t prepared for was when you took the very back seat that Minho piled in beside you. You took a deep breath and kept your eyes locked at the window.

“It’s only a short drive.” You told yourself, the hood of your hoodie—Chan’s hoodie— up over your head.

The van was full of sound.

Jisung was singing off-key. Hyunjin was yelling at him to shut up. Seungmin was smacking someone with a rolled-up hoodie, and Jeongin was narrating the entire scene like he was livestreaming it to a nonexistent audience.

Loud. Familiar. Safe.

Except none of it touched you.

You sat in the back row, pressed against the window, fingers curled too tightly around your phone. Your stomach was hollow. Your mouth was dry. The caffeine this morning had burned against the absence of food, but it was all you could stomach.

Minho was beside you.

Chan just beyond him, slouched into his seat, headphones on. Eyes forward.

But you knew he was listening.

You’d felt his gaze on you since you stepped out of the dorm.

Minho leaned in, subtle. “You didn’t eat again this morning.”

You didn’t answer.

He blinked at you, eyes unwavering.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you said finally, voice clipped.

“Right. Just like yesterday.”

You took a deep breath.

Minho shifted slightly, angling toward you. Calm. Measured. Focused.

“You know this pattern,” he said. Quiet. Just for you. “Don’t make me name it.”

Your jaw clenched. “I said I’m fine.”

“You always say that.”

Your chest twisted.

You kept your eyes on the window, refusing to let him see the flicker behind them.

“I can handle my life,” you muttered. “You don’t have to babysit me.”

“I’m not babysitting,” Minho said. “I’m noticing.”

His voice wasn’t sharp. It didn’t need to be.

It was steady. Certain. Inarguable.

“I’ve seen you do this before,” he added. “When things get hard. When you’re hurting and pretending not to be.”

Your hands tightened.

“You stop eating. You get quieter. You smile too much. You push us back just far enough that we start to wonder if you’re even still in the room.”

Your throat burned.

”Stop.”

You didn’t want this. You didn’t want to be the one anyone had to worry about. You didn’t want Chan—especially Chan—hearing this.

Minho dropped his voice even lower. “You know I won’t back off just because you snap.”

You swallowed hard.

He wasn’t flinching from your tone.

He never did.

Because he knew it wasn’t anger. It was defense.

It was fear.

“I just…” you said, barely audible, “I don’t want anyone thinking I can’t handle my life.”

“You’re not weak because you’re struggling,” Minho said. “You’re human. And none of us are buying the act.”

You said nothing.

Minho leaned back a little, not moving away so much as giving you space to breathe. “You don’t have to talk about it yet,” he said. “But don’t lie to me. I’m not going anywhere.”

You looked down into your lap, hands still shaking. You didn’t even try to answer.

Then, without turning your head, you glanced sideways—past Minho.

Chan was still wearing his headphones.

But his jaw was tight. His grip on his own phone stiff.

His eyes never left the back of the seat in front of him.

And you knew.

He’d heard every word.

────୨ৎ────

The van doors slid open and the cool morning air hit your face like a warning. You barely heard the others behind you — their laughter, the shuffle of bags and jackets, the familiar chaos of arriving at the company. It all blurred.

You needed to move.

Because if you slowed down now, if you paused for even a second, you might break open right here in the parking lot.

Chan followed close behind.

You felt him before you saw him — that low heat, that weight of his presence just over your shoulder. He didn’t speak at first, but you knew. The tension radiated from him in waves.

You reached the door to the building and he finally caught up.

“Y/N,” he said.

One word.

Too heavy.

You didn’t look at him. “Don’t.”

His hand hovered near your elbow but didn’t touch. “Can we just—can you just talk to me for a second?”

“We don’t have a second.”

The words came colder than you meant, but you didn’t take them back. You couldn’t.

You pushed through the door before he could try again.

He followed anyway.

“I’m worried,” he said, quieter now, trying to match your pace. “You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. I can see it.”

“I said don’t, Chan.”

You didn’t raise your voice. But your hands curled into fists at your sides.

Not now. Not when you were walking into a room full of people. Not when there were cameras. Not when you had to get on that dance floor and run choreography — with him.

You barely made it down the hallway before he caught your wrist.

Not hard. Not rough. Just enough to make you stop.

“Wait.” His voice was low, breath tight. Not angry. Worried. Which somehow made it worse.

The boys carried on past you, not registering that you’d stopped. They filed into the room letting the door click behind them.

You turned, already bracing.

“Chan, don’t—”

“I need to.”

His fingers let go as soon as you faced him, but the space between you was still too small. The corridor was too quiet. Voices echoing from the practice room. You had maybe thirty seconds before someone came looking.

“Please,” he said, eyes searching yours like he could see how close to cracking you were. “You’re not okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

His voice cracked on the word, and that did it — something sharp and helpless unfurled under your skin.

“Then what do you want me to say, Chan?” you snapped. “That I’m stressed? That I’m so busy I don’t have time to eat most days? That I hate that I’m doing this, but I can’t stop? What do you want from me?”

He flinched like the words physically hit him. “I want you to stop pretending I don’t see it.”

”I know you can see it, and I hate that you can.”

“I don’t want to watch this happen to you from the outside again,” he said, voice thick.

“You think I want you to?”

His jaw clenched. “No. But you keep pushing me back.”

“I have to!” you said, louder now. “Because I can’t deal with this right now. If I talk to you about this right now—I won’t be able to hold myself together long enough to walk through that door.”

“You can talk to me,” he said, eyes burning. “I’m here for you. You’re my best friend. You’re not pushing me away—“

Your hands curled into fists.

“I can’t have this conversation with you,” you said. “Not when I’m like this. Not when we have to go in there and pretend like we’re fine.”

“But we’re not fine.”

“I know we’re not!”

The silence hit sharp.

You could hear the boys laughing distantly behind the studio door.

It made your throat ache.

Chan stepped closer, softer now. “I don’t know what to do when you start disappearing like this. I’ve seen it before. And I didn’t stop it then. I should’ve—”

“Stop.”

“You’re hurting.”

“So are you.”

He didn’t deny it.

He didn’t have to.

The air between you was heavy with everything unsaid. The care that neither of you could speak out loud. The weight of what you felt but couldn’t name.

You looked away first.

He exhaled shakily. “Just let me in, even a little.”

“I can’t. Not now.”

“Then when?”

You shook your head.

The door creaked open down the hall.

“Hyung?” Jeongin’s voice. “We’re waiting.”

You turned before Chan could say anything else. “We don’t have time for this.”

He reached out but didn’t touch you. “I’m trying.”

“I know.”

And you left him standing there.

Frustrated.

Scared.

Still hoping.

────୨ৎ────

It had been a week since that morning.

Seven days of silence stitched into rehearsals, content shoots, cramped vans, and makeup chairs. A full week of half-sentences and sidelong glances. Of too much space where there used to be none.

You hadn’t touched him.

Not even by accident.

He hadn’t asked if you were okay.

You hadn’t asked why he hadn’t.

The space between you used to be safe — a kind of stillness, a breath. Now it crackled. Now it hurt.

And the group was feeling it.

They didn’t know what happened. But they knew something had.

You’d lost weight — not enough for the cameras to catch it, but enough for the boys to notice. Enough for Felix to quietly place a croissant on your keyboard during recording. Enough for Seungmin to slide a lunchbox into your bag “by mistake” and pretend not to notice when you didn’t return it. Enough for Jeongin to offer you the last bite of his sandwich without smiling, like it wasn’t a joke anymore.

You turned them all down.

Too sweetly. Too quickly.

Smiled like you always did. Talked when you needed to. Laughed when someone else gave you the cue.

But Minho was watching. Really watching.

And so was Chan.

He didn’t say anything. He barely looked at you when the others were around. But when he thought no one was paying attention — when you were across the room, back turned, quiet — you felt his eyes on you like gravity.

He looked worse.

Thinner. Exhausted. Like sleep hadn’t been an option in days.

You saw it in the way his hands shook just a little when he adjusted his mic. In the way he snapped too fast during rehearsals, only to go silent after. In the way he let the others tease him without pushing back — like he didn’t have the energy to fight for anything.

You hadn’t paired up with him since the hallway.

Not for TikToks. Not for partner dances. Not for games on variety shows.

Fans noticed.

They always did.

The first few comments were soft.

> “Is anyone else worried? They haven’t danced together in a while.”

>“Y/N usually sits next to Chan in these shoots…”

>“Their energy is different lately. I hope they’re okay.”

Then came the edits. The side-by-sides. The comparison clips. Screenshots of you sitting with Jisung instead. Chan turning just slightly away in a behind-the-scenes vlog. Minho acting as a buffer between the two of you. Still you both kept smiling, still performing — but never quite at the same time.

No one said it outright.

Not you.

Not him.

Not the boys.

Not the fans.

But it was there — in the stillness between seconds, in the ache behind your performance smiles, in the way everyone seemed to be holding their breath at once.

Something was wrong.

And whatever it was, neither of you could pretend much longer.

────୨ৎ────

It was just past 4am.

The dorm lights were low, nothing but the hum of the fridge and the faint scuff of your shoes as you slipped down the hallway toward the front door. Hoodie zipped. Bag slung. Music cued up but not playing yet.

You were trying to be quiet.

Trying not to wake anyone.

Trying not to think.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. Maybe an hour here or there. Restless, shallow, useless sleep that left you feeling heavier instead of lighter.

You just needed to move. Get to the studio. Get inside the music before your own thoughts could catch up.

But as you turned the corner, shoulders still heavy with sleep deprivation, you nearly collided with someone coming the other way.

You both froze.

Chan.

He looked wrecked.

Hair damp from the drizzle outside. Hoodie clinging to his shoulders. Eyes bloodshot, jaw tight, steps slow and bone-deep tired. He wasn’t even surprised to see you — just… hollow.

You stared at each other.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you spoke.

For a moment, it was just breath.

His eyes dropped to your hands — still holding your water bottle, keys clenched too tight. You couldn’t meet his gaze, not really. You tried, once, then looked down. Tried again. Failed again.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

You did the same.

The silence stretched. Thicker now. Warmer. Familiar in the way grief is familiar when it’s shared.

There were a dozen things you wanted to say.

None of them were enough.

Eventually, he just nodded — barely — and turned down the hallway toward his room.

You watched him go.

Watched the slow way his hand pressed to the doorframe before he slipped inside and let it shut behind him like an apology.

You stood there another moment, blinking hard at the wall.

Then you turned and walked out the door.

And headed for the practice room.

────୨ৎ────

The studio was too bright.

Too loud.

You were already running on fumes, muscles aching from sleep you didn’t get and meals that weren’t eaten.

The others didn’t notice.

Jisung was arguing with Jeongin about snack rights. Felix was trying to stretch while being pulled into Hyunjin’s absurd dance routine. Seungmin muttered half-hearted threats from the corner as he fixed the speaker settings.

And Chan.

Chan was going to drive you insane.

Practice had started off with a stiff energy neither of you could shake. You and Chan kept missing cues, the choreography feeling off and forced rather than fluid. Small frustrations bubbled up — a sharp glance here, a clipped comment there. You’d catch him spacing out just when you needed him most, and he’d snap back about your constant tweaks to the routine. The boys exchanged uneasy looks, sensing the quiet tension growing between you two. Every attempt to correct the moves was met with a little more edge in your voices, the frustration bleeding through your words even though neither of you wanted to admit what was really underneath. By the time the warmup ended, the atmosphere felt heavier, like you were both walking on thin ice, barely holding back what you truly wanted to say.

The more you tried to keep things professional, the more the irritation showed. Chan’s sighs grew louder, his patience thinning, and your responses sharpened in kind. The usual playful teasing had been replaced with snappy remarks, and you could feel the walls closing in. Neither of you could ignore it anymore — something was breaking, and it was only a matter of time before the tension exploded into a real argument.

Chan was pacing behind the mirrored wall, jaw tight, brows drawn low, fiddling with his phone in that way he always did when he was thinking too hard. Like if he just tapped the screen enough times, the answers would appear.

You were stretching in the corner furthest from him as if the small amount of space could help with the growing distance between the two of you. No matter how much you tried, you couldn’t shake off the irritation surrounding you.

And now, instead of being able to throw yourself into a group choreography or working with the backup dancers, you had to run that stupid duet with him.

To make it even better, you had an audience for this one.

Hyunjin lay sprawled across a mat by the mirror, giving up his antics now in favour of watching you, lazily kicking his legs in the air like a bored child. Changbin was halfway through a banana and humming the beat under his breath. Felix sat cross-legged with a soft grin, clapping once as the track started to play.

“This is gonna be cute,” he said, nudging Seungmin, who just rolled his eyes as he sat down signalling the speaker was fine now.

“Depends on how many times they mess up.”

Minho leaned back against the mirror, arms crossed, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “Twenty says Chan forgets the turn in the second verse.”

“No I won’t.” Chan muttered without looking at him, already adjusting his laces.

You didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t, just rolled your eyes and took your place in the middle of the room.

The music started.

You moved.

And it was a mess.

The rhythm was fine. The steps were there. But nothing clicked.

You turned late. He stepped too close. You brushed past him instead of meeting in the middle. Your hands—meant to graze during the second chorus—missed entirely.

Jisung tilted his head. “Huh.”

Hyunjin sat up. “That looked… stiff.”

“Are they okay?” Felix asked, brows furrowing slightly.

Minho didn’t say anything, but you saw the shift in his eyes.

The music ended.

You let out a breath.

“Again,” Chan said.

The track restarted.

And it didn’t get better.

If anything, it got worse.

You tripped on the same step. He turned late. Your arms didn’t sync. You both moved like magnets that refused to face the right direction—drawn to each other, but never quite touching.

“Start it again.” You sighed

Each correction was like another piece of weight on a trip wire. Your shoulders were tense and your neck ached. Chan’s jaw was tensing more by the second, fingers flexing like he could fling the anger out of his body. The added commentary from the boys wasn’t help and you were just about keeping your anger in not wanting to lose it in front of them but when you accidentally turned the wrong way during the lift—

Chan’s frustration exploded.

“Can you just focus?!” he snapped, louder this time, voice cutting through the room like a slap.

Seungmin’s hand froze before hitting pause.

Your eyes were burning a hole in the floor as your chest heaved. You inhaled deeply before turning to face Chan.

“Do you need a minute?” Your voice was steady, even, cold.

“I…no I just—” He shook his head eventually. “Let’s just go again.”

He moved to the side again and reset, it took you a second to follow him. You nodded to Seungmin who started the song once again, you’d lost count at this point. The music lulled you into a false sense of security as you moved, until you felt Chan’s hands take yours. Your first instinct in the past would’ve been to lean into him, now though you wanted to pull away and curl into yourself.

You swallowed and pushed through it. You counted steps in your head, braced yourself for when his hands would find you, steeled your own when you reached for him. You could feel the tension radiating off him when your fingers brushed. Then as the song quitened, the final beats echoing, when you were supposed to finish and stay in that beat together as it cut to silence, you couldn’t manage it. The song had barely finished before you pushed out of his arms, not that he cared, the speed his arms had let you told everyone his feelings on the matter.

You returned to your opposite sides of the room, that was the first time you’d been able to run the choreography the full way through. To everyone else it could’ve passed, anyone who didn’t know you would assume you were finding your feet but you knew better. You didn’t do ‘passable’.

You hadn’t landed your mark. Chan’s hands had hesitated—too high, too loose. Your foot missed the count.

Minho sighed. “Do you want to reset?”

You didn’t move, contemplating if you wanted to subject yourself to that again.

“We’re off.” Chan muttered.

“No shit.” you said.

He looked up, sharply. “You want to fix it or throw blame?”

“I want to stop wasting time,” you shot back. “That’d be a good start.”

Felix coughed gently. “Maybe you should take a break—”

“We’re fine,” you said.

“Are we?” Chan snapped.

The tension tightened around the room like pulled wire.

Hyunjin exchanged a glance with Jisung. Seungmin leaned against the wall, arms crossed, silent.

You stepped forward, ignoring the tightness in your chest and shook your head. “We’ll run it again later, we’re wasting too much time right now. I want to confirm solo rehearsals for next week. We’ve got the vibes pretty much down so I want to really start solidifying everything now. I’ve already worked with everyone except you, Chan. I need to know what you want for it.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you felt the shift.

He froze.

You turned toward him, brows drawing together. “We haven’t met at all actually about yours, when are you free? We need to get started.”

Chan hesitated—too long.

“We won’t need to actually.” he said finally.

“What? Why?”

“I’ve asked someone else.”

The words hit like a slap.

Even the boys stilled.

Hyunjin blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

The silence crashed down like a wave.

You blinked, trying to process it.

“You… what?”

“I asked someone from the in-house team.”

“You didn’t even tell me?” you asked, voice quiet and sharp. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it,” he said quickly. “I just… didn’t want to make this harder.”

You let out a breathless laugh, but it wasn’t amused. “So you made the choice for me.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

You stepped toward him, each word rising with the heat in your chest.

“You think I can’t separate my feelings from my work? That I’d let whatever this is get in the way of doing my job?”

“No,” he said, a little too fast.

“Then what is it, Chan?” you snapped. “Because I’ve choreographed every single one of your solos since debut. Every group comeback. Every performance. That’s our process. You produce. I choreograph. That’s what this group is built on. You fought for me to be here. You’re the reason I’m even in this group.”

He swallowed hard. “It wasn’t about that—”

“Then what was it about?” your voice cracked. “Because to me, it looks like you don’t trust me anymore.”

“I do,” he said, voice strained.

You shook your head. “No. You don’t. You decided I couldn’t handle it. That I couldn’t be professional. You didn’t even give me a chance to prove otherwise.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he said again, lower now.

You stared at him — and your hands were trembling.

“Well, you did.”

Silence pressed in.

“Get out.”

Changbin took a small step forward. “Y/N—”

You turned toward him, eyes shining but hard. “If he doesn’t trust me to do my job, he shouldn’t be in the room.”

Chan’s mouth opened, but no words came.

“This is my practice room Chan, it has been since we debuted and it was mine even before then, you know that. I won’t say it again. Get out.”

“You’re being unfair,” he rasped.

“No,” you said, sharp again. “I’m being honest.”

And then you said it again, softer.

“If you can’t trust me to do what I’ve always done for you… then you don’t belong here right now.”

You turned your back to him.

The silence rang.

And the worst part — the part that made your chest ache — was that he didn’t say anything else.

He just left.

No argument. No defense.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence he left in his wake was loud. No movement. No breath.

Just stillness.

You stood there, shoulders tight, staring at the floor like if you moved, it would all fall apart. Behind you, the others didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Minho stayed near the mirrors, arms crossed but eyes sharp, watching you like he was waiting for a fracture.

Jisung sat on the floor with his knees pulled up, eyes darting between you and the door. Hyunjin rubbed a hand over his jaw, frowning. Jeongin looked like he wasn’t sure whether he should shrink into the corner or try to hug you.

Seungmin lowered himself into a chair in the corner, his arms still crossed but his brows knit tight.

And Felix didn’t leave your side.

He hovered just behind you, close enough that you could feel him there. His fingers brushed the hem of your sleeve once — like a kid unsure if reaching out would help or make it worse.

He didn’t say anything.

He just stayed, like a little brother refusing to walk away from his older sister when she was too proud to cry in front of everyone.

“Y/N…” Minho started, voice low.

You held up a hand, not looking at him.

“I’m fine.”

You weren’t.

“I just…” You cleared your throat. “We have a schedule.”

You turned slowly, blinking away the burn in your eyes. “Whose solo’s up next?”

No one answered right away.

They all just looked at you — hesitant, fragile, a little lost.

“I need one of you to run your piece,” you said, too controlled. “I need to work.”

Felix shifted behind you, but still didn’t speak.

Jisung stood, slowly, raising a hand halfway. “I can go.”

You nodded. “Okay. Let’s run it. From the top.”

You walked over to the speaker, tapping at your phone with a precision that was all muscle memory — all the parts of you that hadn’t given out yet.

But your hands were shaking.

You hit play.

Jisung stepped into place, posture tense, eyes flickering to you more than the mirror. But when the music started, he danced anyway.

And he made it through the whole thing.

Every beat.

Every move.

Every breath.

When it ended, you let the music fade out slowly before speaking.

“Good,” you said, though your voice caught. “That was good. Well done.”

Jisung didn’t answer, just nodded once, letting the silence hold.

And you couldn’t stay still anymore.

You turned to the boys, voice thin. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

They didn’t ask.

Felix didn’t try to stop you — but he didn’t sit down, either. He stayed standing, eyes wide and worried, watching you go like he wasn’t sure if you were coming back whole.

You walked out of the room, fury in your chest and your heart breaking louder with every step.

Because no matter how much you’d told him to leave…

You knew he hadn’t gone far.

You knew he hadn’t left the hallway.

You knew he was still standing there, behind the door, just outside the frame, caught in the same loop you were.

────୨ৎ────

You opened the door with too much force.

There he was.

Sitting on the floor against the wall, just outside the studio — arms resting on his knees, hoodie still half-zipped, head tipped back like he was trying not to feel anything at all.

You froze in the doorway, your heart thudding like it was trying to break out of your chest.

He didn’t look at you right away.

Just spoke, voice low. “Thought you were gonna hit me.”

You stepped out and let the door close behind you.

“I told you to leave,” you said.

Chan’s head snapped toward you. “And I did.”

You scoffed. “You moved three feet.”

“You didn’t say how far I had to go.”

Your hands clenched at your sides. “So you just waited? What—were you hoping I’d come out and what? Apologise?”

“No,” he said, standing now, jaw tight. “I was hoping you’d calm down before you said something else you didn’t mean.”

You laughed, sharp and humorless. “Oh, I meant it. Every word.”

“Great,” he said, throwing his arms out. “So what now? You want me to grovel for making a call I thought would protect you?”

“No,” you said, stepping closer, voice shaking. “I want you to admit that it wasn’t about protecting me. It was about protecting yourself.”

His mouth opened. Shut. “That’s not—”

“Yes, it is,” you snapped. “You didn’t want to look me in the eye while I choreographed a dance about how much pain you’re in. You didn’t want to feel it. You didn’t want to face me in it.”

“That’s not fair.”

“And you know what’s not fair?” you said, voice rising. “That you brought me into this group. That you fought for me, told the company I was the only one you trusted to help build this — and now suddenly I’m too much of a risk to handle your solo?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Chan?” you demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I’m not the person you trust anymore.”

“I do!” he shouted.

You blinked.

He took a breath, trying to steady himself — but his hands were fists and his voice was cracking.

“I trust you more than anyone,” he said. “And that’s exactly why I couldn’t ask you.”

The words hit like a slap.

You stared at him, blinking hard, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does to me.”

“Oh, well, great,” you snapped. “As long as it makes sense to you. Because God forbid we actually talk about anything like adults.”

He scoffed. “That’s rich coming from you.”

You stepped closer, nose almost brushing his. “You’ve always done this — you decide how I feel, what I need, and then act like it’s a favour.”

“You told me to leave.”

“And you didn’t.”

“I did!”

You both stood there, toe to toe, breathing like you’d run a mile.

And for a moment — just a split second — you looked at each other, really looked, and it was like you were both seventeen again. Arguing backstage. Deflecting because neither of you knew how to say what you really meant.

You weren’t angry.

Not really.

You were hurt.

So was he.

You shoved your hands through your hair, voice quieter now but still shaking. “This isn’t about choreography, Chan.”

“I know.”

“But we keep pretending it is.”

“I know.”

You looked at him — red-eyed, flushed, pacing a few steps like he couldn’t sit still in his own skin.

“You should’ve left,” you whispered as you turned around, ready to leave him in the hallway alone again.

“I couldn’t.”

The silence wrapped tight around you again.

His voice dropped into something rough. “You think it was easy for me? Sitting behind that glass and listening to you record your solo?”

You froze.

“I listened to you pour your entire heart into something and pretend it wasn’t about me,” he said, finally meeting your eyes. “And I had to sit there. Like it was just another track. Like it didn’t feel like someone was cutting my chest open with every lyric.”

You blinked hard, but the lump in your throat stayed.

Chan kept going. “You didn’t see it, but every time your voice cracked, every time it shook, I wanted to stop you. I wanted to— I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t even look at you when you came out of the booth.”

You stared at him. “So what? You decided I shouldn’t have to feel the same?”

“I didn’t want you to go through that for me.”

“You didn’t want me to feel what you felt,” you said, quieter now — but angrier. “But that wasn’t your choice.”

His face twisted. “I was trying to protect you.”

“And I didn’t ask you to.”

You stepped toward him again, voice sharp. “You don’t get to make that decision for me. You don’t get to decide what I can or can’t handle. I’m not fragile, Chan. You’re not the only one who breaks.”

He laughed under his breath — bitter and breathless. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You blinked.

“Because you’re so good at this,” he said, he stood up, arms crossed, eyes glassy with frustration. “You walk out of a fight and go straight back to choreography like nothing happened. You put on that perfect face, and I’m the one sitting here falling apart!”

“I have to be good at this,” you shouted back. “Because if I stop, if I let myself fall apart, no one is going to catch me! And you—”

You shoved a finger into his chest.

“—you don’t get to treat me like I’m fragile and then punish me for being strong.”

Chan’s breath hitched, eyes narrowing. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Isn’t it?” you said, taking another step forward. “You’re so convinced you’re protecting me — but you’re just protecting yourself from having to admit how much I matter to you!”

He flinched.

And you hated that you saw it.

“You think I don’t see it?” you kept going, voice rising. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me and then look away? You think I don’t feel it when you step back instead of stepping in?”

He snapped, “Well, maybe I’m tired of having to hide it all the time!”

“Then don’t!” you yelled.

The air split between you.

Your chest heaved.

His fists clenched.

And then—

The tension snapped.

You lunged for each other at the same time — not reaching, not kissing — colliding.

His hands gripped your waist like he needed something to anchor him, bruising in the way they clutched you. Your fingers went straight into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him gasp.

Your mouths met in a crash, all teeth and fury and heat.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was devastation.

He kissed you like you were the fire and he needed to burn to feel anything at all. Your teeth caught his bottom lip, bit just enough to make him hiss, and he responded with a hand fisting in the back of your shirt, yanking you flush to him.

You gasped into his mouth — not from shock, but from how badly you needed this.

How much it hurt.

His grip tightened, fingertips digging into your ribs like he didn’t trust himself to let go. Your hand slid down to his shoulder, nails scraping, dragging.

You wanted it to hurt.

He needed it to.

Because at least if it hurt, it was real.

Because the feelings — the years of tension, the longing, the fear — were too big to name. Too dangerous to say out loud.

So you said it with this instead.

With the bruising press of lips.

With the way he shoved you back against the wall, mouth still moving hungrily against yours.

With the way he groaned when your nails raked down his neck.

With the way you kissed him like you hated him except you didn’t. You could never

Your breath hitched when he pulled back, only to kiss you again harder — like he had to.

Your hands shook in his hair, tugging him closer, anchoring your mouths together because space was the enemy now. There was no logic. No caution. Just this shared ache that had nowhere else to go but teeth and breath and fire.

It wasn’t about resolution.

It wasn’t about forgiveness.

It was the only language you had left.

Pain. Touch. Proof.

And the unspoken truth beneath it all, burning behind your clenched eyes: If I can feel it — if it hurts — then it has to be real.

────୨ৎ────

You didn’t hear anything at first — not over the blood pounding in your ears, the crash of his mouth on yours, the bruising grip of his hands like he was trying to memorize you before he lost the chance.

But then—

“Should we check on them?” Jisung’s voice, muffled behind the practice room door.

“They’re probably yelling again,” came Hyunjin, far too close.

You both froze.

His forehead rested against yours. Your hands fisted in his hair. His breath shook against your cheek.

Neither of you moved.

His fingers flexed at your waist like he meant to step back.

You didn’t let him.

“We have to stop,” you whispered, though even you didn’t believe it.

“No,” he breathed, almost a plea. “Not yet.”

Your eyes met.

Footsteps.

Panic flared.

You grabbed his hand. “This way.”

Down the hall, past the stairwell, around the corner. You shoved open a dark, empty practice room, dragged him inside.

Everything collapsed again.

His hands were on your waist, then your thighs, dragging you into him like he couldn’t stand an inch of space. Your back hit the wall hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, but it didn’t matter.

You were already gasping for him.

Your nails scraped his spine, yanking his hoodie off. His t-shirt followed, your hands greedy, desperate, clumsy with need. You needed to feel him. To burn out whatever this ache was.

He moaned when your mouth found his collarbone, when your fingers dragged across his ribs. “Fuck—”

“Don’t stop,” he whispered.

You didn’t reply, you didn’t need to.

“I can’t,” he said, voice cracked and trembling. “I can’t think when you touch me like this.”

“Then stop trying.”

You kissed him harder, your hips rolling instinctively into his. He cursed and bit down on a sound that might’ve undone him completely.

It was frantic.

Messy.

His hands beneath your shirt, rough and reverent. Yours in his hair, tugging. His thigh between your legs, holding you steady while everything else spun apart.

You kissed him like you were starving.

He kissed you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your skin. “I didn’t mean to shut you out.”

“Chan—” You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“I should’ve trusted you.”

“Don’t say it now. Not here.”

He understood.

Because this wasn’t a fix.

This was fallout.

You kissed him again, slower, and that hurt worse. Like goodbye already lived in it.

Still, your hands stayed in his hair. Still, his touch dragged fire down your spine. One hand cradled the back of your head, threading through your hair. The other tugging your shirt up and raking across your bare skin like he could memorise you from touch alone.

He groaned. “Please. Just one more second.”

You gave it to him.

Again.

And again.

Until you were breathless. Until your knees nearly gave out.

He steadied you against the wall, forehead to yours, chest heaving. You kissed once more, slower, like maybe the world would pause for you just a moment longer.

But it didn’t.

“…probably came this way—” Hyunjin’s voice, much closer now.

“I swear, if they murdered each other, I am not doing this comeback alone.” Seungmin added.

“At least all the songs are already recorded?” Hyunjin offered.

“You know that means Minho would be the one choreographing for us then.” Seungmin sighed.

You could hear the gears turning in Hyunjin’s brain through the wall. “I should just put in the air fryer now then before he has the chance to.”

You barely held in the laugh that caught in your throat.

Chan’s head dropped to your shoulder, breath shaky but quieter now. He chuckled under his breath — not his usual loud laugh, but something smaller, fond.

“Shut up,” you whispered against his lips. “They’ll hear.”

But you didn’t stop touching him.

“Your fault,” he whispered.

“You kissed me first.” You shot back, your nose brushing his temple.

“You yelled at me first,” he murmured, voice still rough. “I was emotionally vulnerable.”

You smiled against his skin, eyes still closed.

He shifted, just slightly — pressing a kiss to the corner of your jaw this time. No heat. Just… affection. Unspoken. Earnest.

When he pulled back to look at you, something in his expression had changed. Less urgency. More reverence.

“Are you okay?” he asked, soft enough that you barely caught it.

You nodded.

“I don’t want to leave,” you admitted.

“I don’t either,” he said. “But we’ll come back. When we’re ready.”

That promise lived between your hands, still loosely curled in the hem of his t-shirt.

He brushed your hair gently behind your ear, eyes tracing your face like he wanted to remember every detail exactly as it was.

Chan’s eyes were on yours, softer than they’d been in days. Weeks. His thumb brushed your cheek like he was still grounding himself in your presence.

The words didn’t come.

But they didn’t need to.

He leaned in—one last time—and kissed you gently. Nothing desperate, nothing bruising.

Just… real.

You sank into it, exhausted.

Not from him.

From everything else.

His lips lingered, then pulled back slowly. He looked at you like he wanted to remember this version of you—hair messy, cheeks warm, wearing the echo of his kiss.

He stepped back and pulled his hoodie back on, opened the door quietly and held it for you.

You stepped out with him, still silent, your arm brushing his just once.

Not on purpose.

Not entirely by accident either.

The hallway was empty now. Whatever chaos Hyunjin and Seungmin had stirred was gone, footsteps fading in the distance.

Chan walked beside you, not touching, but closer than he had in weeks.

When the practice room door came into view, you shared one last look — nothing dramatic, nothing said. Just a small nod. A quiet we’re okay.

You pushed the door open together.

Immediately—

“There they are!” Changbin threw his arms up like he’d just seen two ghosts. “Finally. We were about to file a missing persons report.”

Felix flopped dramatically to the floor. “Do you even realize the emotional damage you’ve caused?”

“Children of divorce,” Jisung muttered, crossing his arms. “We really thought this was the day.”

Jeongin nodded solemnly. “I was about to ask Minho hyung who we’d live with.”

“Definitely not me,” Minho said flatly. “I’d sell you all before taking custody.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

You shook your head, biting back a smile. “Okay, enough. That’s enough chaos for now.”

Jisung grinned. “You’re just saying that because you know we’re right.”

“Practice,” you said, already walking toward the center of the room. “Now.”

“Yes, yes, back to it.” Seungmin teased, bowing so low it was clearly sarcastic.

Chan moved back into position next to you, quiet but grounded. He didn’t speak, didn’t joke.

But he met your eyes for a second.

And smiled.

It wasn’t big.

It wasn’t loud.

But it was real.

And this time, when the music started, it felt a little easier to breathe.

────୨ৎ────

The rehearsal picked up smoother than you expected.

You slipped back into your role—counting beats, correcting posture, running segments over and over. The boys fell into place, still teasing between takes, still loud, still them.

It helped.

The normalcy.

Even if your limbs ached and your mind still hadn’t caught up with your heart.

Chan stayed focused, quieter than usual, but his presence never strayed far. He followed your cues without question, stepped in to help correct footwork when you gestured. When you locked eyes mid-run through, he didn’t look away this time.

Just gave you the smallest nod.

That was enough.

Schedules split by mid-afternoon — some filming, some vocal training. You stayed in the practice room with Jeongin and Jisung to polish their solos, Minho popped in to fine-tune transitions. Felix and Hyunjin returned late in the day after content shoots, chaotic as ever but visibly keeping an eye on you, subtly checking in without saying anything at all.

Even Seungmin brought you water and didn’t make a joke about it.

The tension from earlier didn’t disappear completely but the boys moved through it the way they always did — loyal, loud, and learning to read the undercurrents.

By the time the sun dipped and the company lights buzzed overhead, your body was aching and your voice had dropped into something hoarse from hours of instructions.

You sent the last of them out with orders to eat, rest, hydrate, and reminded them to be on time tomorrow.

They groaned in unison.

But they left.

Eventually.

The studio was quiet, lights dimmed low and only one speaker still softly humming in the background.

You were mid-run of your solo choreography, hair pulled back, body warm with effort — focused, but fraying around the edges. You’d lost count of how many takes you’d done.

When the door clicked open behind you, you didn’t stop.

Not at first.

But the second you heard it close again, slow and careful, your body stilled.

You turned to find Chan standing near the doorway, a plastic bag in one hand, a familiar hoodie tugged over his head, curls still damp from a quick shower.

He didn’t speak immediately.

Just looked at you — quietly taking in the sweat on your collarbone, the slight tremble in your arms, the way your chest rose and fell with effort.

“I went back to the dorm,” he said finally. “You weren’t there.”

You tilted your head, curious.

He held up the bag slightly. “So I brought you something.”

You raised a brow. “Let me guess. Convenience store triangle kimbap?”

His grin was crooked. “Offended. It’s Minho’s soup, thank you very much.”

You blinked.

“Oh,” you said, quieter now. “He made that for dinner tonight.”

Chan nodded and stepped into the room. “Told me to make sure you got some. Said, and I quote, ‘Don’t let her use choreography as an excuse not to eat again.’”

You couldn’t help it — your mouth twitched at that.

“Classic Minho.”

“Classic you,” he teased softly, already unpacking the container. “You lose your appetite when you’re stressed and get too busy to remember it even exists.”

You rolled your eyes gently but didn’t argue.

He knelt by the mirror, settled in, and opened the lid. Steam rose in slow curls.

You didn’t move.

Until he raised the spoon and offered it, his expression serious but the edge of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Say ah.”

You snorted. “Really?”

“I’m committed to the bit,” he said solemnly.

You walked toward him, arms crossed, eyes narrowing playfully.

He didn’t drop the spoon.

You sighed — dramatically — then leaned down, just enough to take a sip.

It was warm and perfectly seasoned, and suddenly you realized how long it had been since you’d actually tasted something that felt like comfort.

“Mmh,” you mumbled through the mouthful, blinking. “Okay, that’s not bad.”

“Thank Minho,” Chan said, smug.

You took the spoon from him with a small shake of your head, finally sinking to the floor beside him.

He didn’t press.

He just sat there, shoulder resting against yours, warm and familiar.

And for the first time all day — you let yourself slow down.

No pressure.

No fixing.

Just the two of you, sharing soup on a studio floor, the hum of your solo still faint in the background, and the quiet peace of being with someone who knew you well enough to show up, but not push.

────୨ৎ────

You finished the last bite of soup in silence, legs stretched out in front of you, spine finally relaxing into the wall behind you.

Chan stayed close — not quite touching, but never far.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

Then—

“Tomorrow’s packed,” you murmured, glancing at the wall clock.

He nodded. “Photoshoot all day, they’ll be filming everything for content too.”

You leaned your head back with a groan. “And the comeback teaser shoot’s in a week.”

“Yeah.”

A beat passed.

Then, quietly, he added, “You ready?”

You paused.

Looked at him.

He was watching you carefully — not anxiously, not pushing. Just open.

You considered it.

Then shrugged, small and honest. “I’m getting there.”

His smile was faint, but warm. “Me too.”

Another moment.

Then, he shifted slightly. “You wanna run the duet?”

You arched a brow. “Right now?”

“No staff. No cameras. No pressure,” he said. “Just… us.”

You looked at him for a long second, heart kicking a little faster — not from nerves, but from the way he said it.

Us.

Still us.

You stood first, stretching your arms over your head.

“All right,” you said, voice light. “But if you mess up your timing again, I’m docking your coffee privileges.”

His laugh echoed off the walls — low and real. “Brutal.”

You hit play on the track, moved to your opening mark, and nodded at him.

Chan took his position.

The beat dropped.

And something clicked.

There was no misstep this time. No tension. No flinching. Just flow.

You moved through the choreography like you were breathing it — your bodies in sync in a way that only came from years of knowing each other.

When his hands found your waist, when yours slid up his arms — it wasn’t a mask. Wasn’t a performance.

It was truth.

And when the last beat echoed and the silence returned, you were both still close. Chest to chest. Breathing hard.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did you.

But you both knew.

Something was mending.

Slowly. Quietly. But surely.

────୨ৎ────

You tossed your water bottle into your bag and pulled Chan’s hoodie back over your head — oversized and warm, comfort stitched into every inch.

Chan flicked the studio lights off as you locked the door behind you. The hallway was quiet, lit in that soft blue of too-late-to-be-here.

You fell into step beside each other like it was second nature again.

“I still can’t believe I let you guilt me into dancing after soup,” you muttered.

“I didn’t guilt you,” he said, smug. “I inspired you.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “You tricked me with carbs and emotional safety.”

He grinned. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You nudged him with your shoulder — not hard, not serious. Just… playful.

As you reached the elevator, you yawned, stretching slightly. Chan hit the button.

“You sure you’re good for tomorrow?” he asked, voice quieter now.

”I’ll be fine.” You promised.

He watched you carefully.

”Ok I don’t love the idea of the photoshoot and the concept right now but I’ll be fine.”

“I get it.” He nodded.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and pulled Chan’s hoodie tighter around yourself, the warmth settling into your skin like muscle memory.

He fell into step beside you without a word as you stepped out into the night air, the JYPE building humming behind you like it was finally exhaling too.

The streets were quiet, lamplight casting long shadows over the pavement. It wasn’t cold, but his shoulder brushed yours every few steps anyway — like neither of you wanted too much space again.

“I can’t believe they want us on set at 6am.” you muttered eventually, breaking the silence.

“Hm?”

“They want us on set at six. Hair and makeup first.”

Chan winced. “I’m not in until eight.”

“You’re joking?” You shot him a look. “So while I’m getting hair sprayed into oblivion, you’ll be sleeping?”

“I mean…” he shrugged, innocent and infuriating. “Probably.”

“I hate you.”

He grinned. “No, you don’t.”

You bumped his arm again. “I do. You’re going to show up late and well-rested and smug while I’ve been sitting under fluorescent lights for two hours.”

“I’ll bring you coffee?” he offered, as if that made up for everything.

“You always bring me coffee.”

”I’ll bring you good coffee.”

“You’d better. And not just any coffee — mine needs three shots of espresso, caramel syrup, and topped with an apology."

He laughed, the sound low and warm. “An apology?”

“For making me suffer alone while you’re sleeping.”

You turned the corner together, the dorm building in sight now. Neither of you rushed it.

The quiet between you wasn’t awkward anymore.

It was soft.

Like you were learning each other again, slowly.

When you reached the hallway between your rooms, you slowed to a stop.

Chan didn’t say anything at first — just looked at you with a gentle tilt of his head.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, then hesitated. “It was a good day.”

He smiled — small, but real. “Yeah. It was.”

A pause.

Then, “You were right earlier, by the way.”

You narrowed your eyes. “About what?”

“Using carbs and emotional safety to get you to run the duet.”

You scoffed. “Unforgivable.”

“Effective,” he countered.

You laughed. That soft, tired kind of laugh that only happened at the end of a long day.

He watched you for a moment, then looked towards his door.

“You’ll be okay tomorrow before I get there?”

“I’ll survive. Just don’t forget the coffee.”

“Wouldn’t dare.”

You nodded once, turning toward your own room, but his voice stopped you again.

“I’ll bring the hoodie too,” he said, tapping your sleeve gently. “Assuming you’ll be forced to give this one up to wardrobe.”

You tugged it tighter around yourself. “I might fight them for it.”

“I’ll back you up.”

You smiled — small, soft, tired.

Then walked inside.

And for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like everything was falling apart.

────୨ৎ────

You’d been in the chair for nearly forty minutes.

The studio was still waking up — lighting rigs buzzing, cords being taped down, stylists quietly calling out for palettes and pins. Your makeup artist was focused on your eyes, gently blending shimmer along your lid, while the hair team worked on soft waves in your reflection behind her.

It was too early to talk.

Too early to think.

Your head was fogged, body stiff, and all you’d had so far was one sip of lukewarm coffee from the catering table before they’d whisked you into the chair.

6am had hit like a truck.

You were half wondering if you’d survive the day when a voice broke through the quiet, casual and just loud enough to be smug.

“You look like you’ve been here for hours.”

You blinked into the mirror — and there he was.

Chan.

Hair tousled, hoodie hanging loose around his frame, coffee carrier in one hand, and the ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You turned your head slightly, careful not to mess the makeup artist’s work, and gave him a flat look.

“It feels like it.”

He held up the tray like a peace offering. “With espresso, syrup and an apology that you suffered by yourself for 40 minutes.”

You reached for it immediately.

“Fine,” you murmured. “You’re forgiven.”

He smiled.

Not wide. Not smug anymore.

Just soft.

”I thought you weren’t supposed to be here until 8am.”

“Didn’t want you to start the day alone,” he said, quieter now. “Figured this was the least I could do.”

You didn’t answer.

You just kept sipping the coffee, letting the heat sink into your hands as he leaned against the counter next to you.

The air between you didn’t feel heavy anymore.

Just warm.

And as the studio bustled to life around you, lights flickering on, music testing through the speakers, stylists rushing past — you and Chan stayed in your little bubble of quiet.

────୨ৎ────

The morning passed in a blur of hands and voices, brushes and fabrics, the occasional sharp pull of pins and zippers. You’d been through countless photoshoots before, but something about this one sat heavier. Maybe it was the dress — long, light, and feeling far too bare. Maybe it was the silence. Or maybe it was the anticipation you didn’t want to name.

Chan had been whisked away at 8am on the dot for hair and wardrobe. You hadn’t seen him since.

The set was styled like a dream: hazy backlights, soft smoke curling at the edges, shadows and spotlights balanced to create something almost cinematic.

You were waiting near the edge of the backdrop, arms crossed and pretending the pins in your dress weren’t digging into your ribs.

“Too loose through the waist,” the stylist muttered behind you, adjusting the back. “You’ve dropped weight again.”

You opened your mouth to deflect it, but a familiar voice cut in from the other side of the set.

“She looks great.”

You turned.

And nearly forgot how to breathe.

Chan stood at the edge of the lights, dressed in layers of white, silver accessories catching the glow. His hair was styled perfectly — swept back but still soft around the edges, jaw sharp beneath the warm filters of the lighting.

You blinked once. Twice.

“You’re kidding,” you muttered. “You look like you stepped off the set of a K-drama.”

He gave you that small, knowing grin — the one that had once meant trouble and now felt like gravity.

“You’re not exactly subtle either,” he said, eyes lingering in a way that sent heat straight to your neck. “Beautiful doesn’t even cover it.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Flattery won’t make me forget you’re call time was two hours later than mine”

“Yes but don’t forget I got here earlier with coffee for you?” He offered.

You hummed in response.

“Coffee and compliments were my plan,” he said, stepping closer. “How am I doing so far?”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t move either.

The photographer clapped once, drawing your attention.

“Okay, everyone! Let’s bring them in.”

You both stepped into position beneath the lights.

Camera lenses clicked. Lighting shifted.

“Concept is tension and yearning,” the photographer said cheerfully. “Think unresolved. Think desperate. Like the thing you want most in the world is right in front of you, but you can’t have it. Got it?”

You and Chan both went still.

You turned toward him at the same moment he looked at you.

He raised an eyebrow, something dry and ironic sparking in his eyes.

You exhaled sharply, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Have they heard the song?”

”They know the general concept of it.”

The camera flashed.

“Subtle,” you whispered.

He leaned in slightly, his voice just as low. “It’s like they read your diary.”

You stifled a laugh, trying not to break the mood as the camera focused in. “I don’t have a diary, maybe they got hold of your laptop? Tell me, have you managed to forget it again and leave our entire discography behind somewhere?”

He snorted. “Maybe they installed cameras into the practice rooms?”

You dug your elbow into him.

And yet — the moment the shutter clicked again, and his hand brushed yours — it all came rushing back.

The practice room.

The hallway.

The way you’d kissed like you were drowning.

The way you’d pulled away like it nearly broke you.

And now — standing here, told to look at each other like you couldn’t have what you wanted most — it wasn’t acting.

It was memory.

It was truth.

And it took everything you had to keep it composed.

To hold his gaze without falling into it.

To not say I want this too much.

To not whisper we’re not done.

Because the camera was watching.

But so was he.

And your body remembered every moment you’d almost let go.

And now you were becoming surer than ever that you didn’t want to let him go again.

────୨ৎ────

The lights flashed again.

Shutter clicks echoed like heartbeats, the tempo only broken by the photographer’s exuberant voice slicing through the haze.

“Beautiful! That’s it! Yes — that’s what I want! Give me more of that unresolved ache!”

You blinked hard, willing your face not to react.

Chan shifted behind you, his hand ghosting along your waist, fingers grazing just enough to hold the pose — just enough to make your breath catch.

“Turn your head toward him,” the photographer called. “No, not too much. Just enough to suggest you’re afraid if you really look at him, you’ll break.”

You did.

You looked.

And immediately regretted it.

Because Chan was already looking at you.

And not just in character.

His jaw was tight. His eyes too soft. There was something in the way he watched you — restrained, careful, like every inch of him was fighting not to move.

Your breath wavered, just barely.

The camera clicked.

“Perfect!” the photographer crowed. “Now, back-to-back. Don’t touch yet — just let the energy simmer. That moment before you give in.”

You stepped into place.

Chan followed.

His arm brushed yours, but barely.

And still — you felt it everywhere.

You both exhaled at the same time.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, barely audible.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just let your pinky tap his, a soft press.

I’m still here.

The camera shutter snapped again.

“God, the tension,” the photographer moaned. “You two are ruining me. It’s like watching the finale of a drama where no one confesses until the last five minutes.”

Chan’s shoulder twitched with a laugh.

Your lips parted — a smile threatening — but you swallowed it.

Barely.

“Eyes closed,” came the next instruction. “You’re imagining what it would feel like to finally let go.”

You both obeyed.

And for a breath, a beat, a blink—

It didn’t feel like acting.

It felt like remembering.

It felt like wanting.

It felt like yesterday — your back against a practice room wall, his breath stuttering against your mouth, the two of you holding onto each other like the world was ending.

When the flash went off again, it startled you.

You blinked.

Stepped back too fast.

“Reset!” the photographer called. “You okay?”

“Fine,” you said, clearing your throat. “Just forgot to breathe.”

You glanced at Chan.

His gaze was steady.

But the corners of his mouth were twitching — not with a smile. With restraint.

And when the makeup artist stepped in to fix a strand of your hair, his hand hovered near your back without touching.

Close.

Protective.

Unspoken.

“Back into position, please,” the photographer called. “Same energy. You’re both so close to breaking — I can feel it!”

You rolled your eyes as you walked back to mark. “He’s very invested.”

“Little too much if you ask me.” Chan muttered as he joined you.

You looked at him, brows raised.

He looked right back.

No smile.

No tease.

Just held your gaze with a knowing look that made a shiver run down your back.

────୨ৎ────

You were back in the makeup chair again — touch-ups for the afternoon shoot, a second look that required more eyeshadow, more shine, more everything.

The stylist was pinning something new to your hair while the makeup artist delicately re-glossed your lips. You sat still, shoulders relaxed, but your stomach rumbled loud enough that the entire table of products vibrated slightly.

Someone snorted behind you.

“Should’ve known you’d skip lunch.”

You blinked into the mirror.

Chan stood behind the chair, holding a takeout bag with one hand and two chopsticks in the other. His shirt swapped for a hoodie, the sleeves were pushed up to the elbows, exposing forearms that looked far too good for how casual he was pretending to be.

“How long have you been there?” you asked.

“Long enough to know you haven’t moved in over half an hour.” He nodded toward the food. “Eat.”

You made a helpless gesture toward the makeup brush at your cheek.

He just stepped closer.

“I’ve got it.”

The stylist glanced at you with an amused smile but didn’t object. Chan cracked open the container and pulled out a pair of chopsticks with practiced ease.

The camera crew filming behind-the-scenes content caught the whole thing.

The way he blew softly on each bite before lifting it to your lips.

The way you rolled your eyes — but still leaned forward to eat it.

The way he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear while the stylist was focused on the pins on the other side.

The way he murmured, “Slow down,” when you chewed too fast.

And the way you didn’t even flinch when he wiped the corner of your mouth with a thumb and a napkin like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“What are they filming us for again?” you mumbled between bites.

“BTS of the shoot,” he said. “Mysterious chemistry, apparently.”

You snorted. “They’ll get more of you trying to spoon-feed me rice.”

“They’ll eat it up.”

“And then we’ll be trending again.”

He grinned. “Good. Maybe it’ll get rid of the rumours that we suddenly hate each other.”

You glanced at him sideways, watching the way he watched you.

Not like a secret.

Not anymore.

Just like someone who knew you — down to the way you’d lose your appetite when anxious, down to the moments you needed help but wouldn’t ask for it.

One of the staff called for Chan to get his wardrobe reset for the next series of shots. He started to move, then hesitated.

“You good?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “Thanks for lunch.”

His hand brushed your shoulder — quick, light.

And then he was gone.

The behind-the-scenes camera stayed on you a moment longer.

Long enough to catch the way your smile lingered.

Long enough to capture something that wasn’t acting.

Not even close.

────୨ৎ────

The final shot clicked.

The lighting dimmed.

And just like that — it was over.

The staff began packing up lights, stylists shuffled wardrobe racks back toward the van, and the hum of the studio shifted from intense focus to end-of-day chatter. You stepped off the backdrop and slipped behind a screen to peel out of the final look, now pinned and stitched to fit you better than it had this morning.

When you stepped out in your own clothes — hair still styled, makeup softened — Chan was already waiting by the door.

He held up a hoodie.

Yours. Well — his, originally.

You took it without a word and slipped your arms into it.

His eyes followed the movement, something soft passing behind them.

“Come on,” he said, voice low. “There’s a quiet corner in the back.”

You followed him down the hallway behind the set, past the dressing room mirrors and makeup stations. He opened a supply room door that had long since been cleared for extra seating and shut it quietly behind you both.

It was dim inside — just a small window letting in the end-of-day light, casting long shadows across the sofa and storage shelves.

You sat on the floor beside him, backs to the wall, both too tired to pretend anymore.

Chan tilted his head toward you.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “Tired.”

“You looked—” he paused. “You looked incredible today.”

You smiled faintly, curling your hands into the sleeves of the hoodie. “You didn’t look bad either. Very… brooding male lead.”

“Did my best.”

A quiet laugh settled between you.

And then silence.

But it was good silence.

Comfortable.

You leaned your head gently against his shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t stiffen. Just let it happen.

After a long moment, you murmured, “It wasn’t acting.”

He was quiet.

Then — “I know.”

You let your eyes drift closed. “Do you think anyone noticed?”

“They noticed,” he said softly. “But I don’t think they understood.”

Your lips curved slightly. “Good.”

You stayed like that — shoulder to shoulder, the weight of the day pressing in, but for once it didn’t feel like too much.

“I didn’t think today would feel easy,” you said eventually. “Not after everything.”

“It wasn’t easy,” he said. “It was just… us.”

You turned to look at him.

And he was already watching you.

He leaned forward, his hand settling on the side of your face and softly pressed his lips to your forehead.

You say anything, just closed your eyes and leaned into the warmth of his hand.

You didn’t need to.

The quiet between you said enough for the rest of the evening

────୨ৎ────

Taglist: @rtyuy1346 @yxna-bliss @m-325 @imeverycliche @hynjnnie @mbioooo0000 @maddy24207 @brokendols-world @alisonyus @psychobitchsthings @thedanishprince @decaffeinatomi @geni-627 @linosgrape @river121798 @chaosandcandies @xxeiraxx @ateez-atiny380 @uhnanix @elzz123 @velvetstarss @miraculous-disaster @lveegsoi @lilkittenjenjen @joie-mills @lies-loki-and-mischief

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uhnanix · 2 months ago

Text

QUEENMAKER

skz 9th member au

pairing chan x reader

genre ninth member au, angst, fluff, coming of age, social media, cancel culture, anxiety, depression, forbidden love,

summary To JYPE, the solution is simple; take the sole trainee that will not debut with your brand new girl group, and use her to replace the missing vocalist in your male group that insisted on starting as nine.

Unfortunately, to the fans and the members themselves, it isn't that simple.

status ongoing

taglist OPEN

editor in chief, through which all things are possible @rainfallingfromthesky

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

---

BONUS MATERIAL

Y/N's Lines

Ch 26 Breakdown

TAGLIST

@kokinu09 @rainfallingfromthesky @lixie-phoria @mysweethannie @chlodavids

@hanniemylovelyquokka @tfshouldidohere @lauraliisa @puppysmileseungmin @kalopsian-thoughts

@puppy-minnie @readerofallthingss @dvbkie099 @kthstrawberryshortcake-main @acker-night

@d-chagi @lynlyndoll @borahae-reads @ihrtlix @yienmarkk

@minhwa @i2innie @jinnie-ret @conwunder @amesification

@starssongs98 @weirdhumanbeinglol @morinuu @the-weird-mold-in-the-sink @bokkiesplace

@amyyscorner @jiisungllvr @skzstaykatsy @blackhairandbangs @jungkookies1002

@hyuuukais @imsiriuslyreal @thatonedemigodfromseoul @gini143 @mercurywritesstuff

@splat00z @filmbypsh @palindrome969 @crabrangoongirl25 @enzos-shit

@jabmastersupriseee @kayleefriedchicken @hynjinswrld @duhgurl @cheshireshiya

@keepswingin

#uhnanixfaves :3

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uhnanix · 2 months ago

Text

QUEENMAKER | CHAPTER 36

---

pairing chan x reader

genre ninth member au, angst, fluff, coming of age, social media, cancel culture, anxiety, depression, forbidden love,

Unfortunately, to the fans and the members themselves, it isn't that simple.

status ongoing

taglist OPEN

previous | masterlist | next

---

Below the stage, a microphone white-knuckled in the grip of your hand, you bounce on your toes and peer up from the bottom of the lift that will eject you onto the stage.

The boys stand to either side of you, an arm's length to Changbin and then Chan on the other side. They've put you in the middle for some reason. You're not even sure who made the decision - the company, or the boys, or the network employees that buzz around you in tense anticipation, their eyes turned more towards their camera angles and the production of their show than the image of your group, the dynamics between each member.

Set lists flash through your mind at the final countdown, the start of the music - stagings and marks and lights to avoid looking directly into on your way across the stage. You know it all by heart, you promise yourself, despite the flip of your stomach at the thought of all the time and preparation so many people have put into this moment only for it all to rest on the strength of your memory. How many times will you have to do this before you can trust yourself? How many times before the nerves stop climbing up your throat every time you think about stepping out in front of a crowd, worse than they ever have in your life?

At least one more time. And the platform beneath your feet starts to rise.

The lights are blinding up on the stage, the crowd reduced to the pinpricks of lightsticks waving all the way up into the sky, as if you've stepped out into some unmapped galaxy. The music is so loud that the stage shudders under your feet in time to the baseline, but you don't have time to let it take your breath away - as a line, you are supposed to walk, and stand, and sing-

The song slips away from you in the blink of an eye, choruses following the natural flow of the verses, choreography moving your limbs before you even have to think about it. The next track slides by without an issue, and another, and the crowd roar at the opening bars of the fourth, surprising you so much that you almost miss your mark, even though all you are doing is walking from one side of the stage to the other. You wave back to them even though you know the cheer is not for you, and you're sure you see smiles and waving hands in the audience that are looking at you.

By the time you get to Miroh, your troubles have faded away.

The music is infectious without the anxiety to perform attached to it, the heady beat and the energy that drives at you from all the people around you. You're lost in the euphoria of it, your body moving not to a choregraphy that you've engraved on your bones, but along with the crowd instead. You're having fun; so much, that you're not sure you've ever actually had fun singing before. The crowd, the music, the people you share the stage with-

You turn a bar before your part, your microphone lifting to your mouth, and find Chan right behind you, close enough that you walk right into him.

You steady yourself with the hand that hits his chest, using his solid weight to push yourself back on your heels. In your surprise, your voice falters at the beginning of your part, but his microphone is already there at his mouth, anticipating the stumble, his harmony subtly covering the weakness in your own note.

He finishes it out with you, complimenting but not outstaging. His eyes never leave yours, the joy in them begging for you to see it. You don't know know how he has the breath to sing like that; your chest is too tight to really put the words out, your heart thundering over the music in your ears. The beats stretch like rubber bands, counting down until-

All at once, they snao with the sound of I.N's voice somewhere upstage. Your chest fills and your eyes turn away, caught by something to the side, or maybe just driven by the primal urge to escape. You feel kind of dizzy as you part, lost on stage, your feet wandering a few steps and then stopping to look back at him, crouching on the edge of the stage. You have to force yourself to look away again. You don't know what's gotten into you.

It doesn't matter, you decide on your way to join Seungmin in some obscure corner of the stage. It fits the song anyway, this feeling; bubbles up and spills out into an ear-splitting grin when the beat drops. I ran into this jungle and I'm okay, you sing again, and you find, in that moment, that you really believe it.

It's only when you get off stage, until you sip water and rub at the deep ache in your shoulder and let the music leech from your veins, that you realise how completely and utterly screwed you are.

---

TAGLIST

@kokinu09 @rainfallingfromthesky @lixie-phoria @mysweethannie @chlodavids

@hanniemylovelyquokka @tfshouldidohere @lauraliisa @puppysmileseungmin @kalopsian-thoughts

@puppy-minnie @readerofallthingss @dvbkie099 @kthstrawberryshortcake-main @acker-night

@d-chagi @lynlyndoll @borahae-reads @ihrtlix @yienmarkk

@minhwa @i2innie @jinnie-ret @conwunder @amesification

@starssongs98 @weirdhumanbeinglol @morinuu @the-weird-mold-in-the-sink @bokkiesplace

@amyyscorner @jiisungllvr @skzstaykatsy @blackhairandbangs @jungkookies1002

@hyuuukais @imsiriuslyreal @thatonedemigodfromseoul @gini143 @mercurywritesstuff

@splat00z @filmbypsh @palindrome969 @crabrangoongirl25 @enzos-shit

@jabmastersupriseee @kayleefriedchicken @hynjinswrld @duhgurl @cheshireshiya

@keepswingin

#uhnanixfaves :3

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uhnanix · 2 months ago

Text

too close to home

pairing: none (platonic ot8 & female reader)

summary: as the only female of stray kids, you've always felt a little out of place. this comeback, the comments and criticism seem to hit a little too close to home and you start to think that maybe the group is better off without you.

word count: 8.5k

tags/warnings: 9th member au, hurt/comfort, angst, mean fans, anxious thinking, insecurities, overthinking

a/n: this is my first fic for my appreciation event! big thank you to everyone who has supported me and sorry this took so long to post.

special shoutout to @kangaracha who is basically the only reason i was able to finish this fic! she was my biggest cheerleader throughout my writing and if you would like to read an amazing 9th member fic, please please go read queenmaker.

where the heart is collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist

You had known from the start that it would be difficult being in a co-ed group. It was rare, especially in K-pop. But being outnumbered eight to one? It was unheard of.

You had been just as surprised all those years ago, when the company had pulled you into a room and offered you a position in the boy group that they were about to debut.

You had heard about the team that Chan had put together, every trainee had gossiped about how JYPE was trying something new with a self-formed team. You hadn't paid too much attention to it, you were busy enough with preparing for your own evaluations and the possibility of being included in what everybody had thought was a boys group hadn't even crossed your mind.

You had accepted the position almost immediately.

At that point, you had been a trainee for almost three years, but had only been considered for debut less than a handful of times. You knew with each line-up that hadn't worked out, you were closer to being forced to give up on the idea of becoming an idol. If you rejected the offer this time, you might not get another and you had been ready to do anything to achieve your dream.

Plus, you knew there was a high chance that they'd drop you from the group anyway. The position brought a lot of interest to the group, but you knew the company would be watching closely to determine whether it was worth the risk or not.

It had been a bit of a rocky start, but now the nine of you were close, you had to be when you spent most of your waking time together. You considered the boys to be your second family and you knew that they felt the same way.

It was just that there was clearly a difference in the dynamic when you were and weren’t with the group. It wasn’t necessarily bad just… different. The boys never excluded you or made you feel like you weren’t part of the group and you had great individual relationships with each of the members.

It was inevitable though, you had never shared a dorm with the group, especially earlier in your career when you were less familiar and it would have been entirely unacceptable. You knew that this was the main reason you didn’t feel quite as part of the group, there was just a level of closeness that was formed when you actually lived with someone.

Well, it was that and the nagging guilt because you knew that Chan had hand-picked every member of Stray Kids himself.

Every member except you.

While the members had promised that they were the ones who had the final say, you knew it wasn't quite what they had expected. All of you had been desperate to debut though and even if it wasn't ideal, nobody was going to say anything that might jeopardize this chance.

Still, you could tell that the boys did their best to include you and for the most part, they succeeded. Even early on when things had been a little bit awkward between you, they were fiercely protective. In interviews, they insisted over and over that they wanted you in the group and it had been nice to hear, even if you knew they were just saying it for the cameras.

They frequently invited you over for dinner or just to hang out, but you couldn't help feeling jealous when it was time for you to leave at the end of each night. It wasn't anything you could change though, so you just tried to appreciate their company while you had it.

So when the company brings up the idea of new dorm arrangements, you're surprised and a bit confused when they don't immediately inform you of where you'll be staying and kick you out of the meeting room. You've never participated in the discussions that the boys have regarding roommates, there has never been any reason to.

You're shocked by how easily things fall into place, even more so when Chan approaches you, asking if you'd feel comfortable living with him and Jeongin. They assure you that any of the pairings would be happy to have you stay with them though, and that they'd also understand if you preferred to live on your own.

You were hesitant at first. It had been out of the question when you had first debuted. Even if you and the boys had been comfortable with it, which you weren’t, the company would have totally rejected the idea of one girl living with eight boys.

Instead, their solution had been to force you to remain in the trainee dorm even after your debut which meant constantly listening to jealous girls criticize anything and everything about you. It had been exhausting, partly because you were getting used to balancing schedules with practice, but also because you couldn’t find it in yourself to be mad at them. You were all too familiar with the disappointment and frustration that came with watching the people around you succeeding.

You had briefly considered asking about sharing with the boys when the dorms had split in half because you knew you needed to get out of the toxic environment the other girls were creating, but then the company had offered you an apartment to yourself. It had been one of the easiest decisions you had ever made.

It had been too good to be true, though. The apartment had given you the privacy that you had craved, there were a multitude of issues that almost made you miss being in the trainee dorms. Whether you moved to a new apartment on your own or into one of the dorms with the boys, you knew that it would be an improvement.

You’re curious what living with the boys would be like and honestly, you’re a bit lonely in your current apartment. It only takes a day or two of thinking before you confirm that you’d like to join them.

The moving process is quick too, at least for you. The boys offered to help you move, but you adamantly refused. Your place had been so tiny that you didn't have the space to store many things and you didn't like shopping that much anyway so all of your clothes fit into the couple of large suitcases that you kept under your bed. Since most of the furniture had come with the room, you were able to bring everything over to the new dorm before the boys had even finished packing.

It's hard to settle in at first. You don't have any siblings and have never had to live with boys so it takes some getting used to. Luckily both Chan and Jeongin are quite careful about being respectful of your space.

It's also a relief that you get to divide up some of the housework that you used to have to do all on your own. Even though it's not too much, it's nice to have more time in your day for other things and the three of you have developed a system that works well and feels natural.

Chan is meticulously clean and although you don't think you're that messy, you’re more careful to keep things in the right place. The worst part is that you know Chan won't complain or nag you if you leave your things around, he just quietly cleans up your messes which makes you feel both touched and a bit guilty.

You have no regrets about moving in with them, especially when you start to get more busy. It's nice to be living with people who have the same or similar schedules to you so you don't have to worry about losing track of time and being late to things.

Not only that, but you feel like you have more support. Jeongin reminds you to eat regular meals and Chan checks in when he notices that you're up later than usual. The three of you chat more than you did before and now have a number of different inside jokes.

You're especially grateful because you can already sense that this comeback is going to be hard on you. It's not the songs that have you concerned, all the recording finished smoothly and you're more than happy with how your parts turned out. You also really like the concept that's being proposed for the cover art and all the music videos.

It's the dance that's the problem.

As a trainee, you had always excelled in dancing and had actually had been assigned the role of main dancer in some of the girl groups that you were considered for. It made it especially hard to come to terms with the fact that when you had joined Stray Kids, you weren't even included in the dance line. You knew that your singing was nice and your voice added diversity to the group, but it had never been what you were most confident in and you felt inadequate compared to Seungmin and Jeongin.

But when it comes to this title track, it's especially obvious why you're not considered as one of the lead dancers. By lunchtime, everyone has memorized the moves, you included, but the choreography is definitely more suited for male dancers. No matter how much you focus on trying to match the style of everyone else, you're sticking out like a sore thumb.

Most of the members take a short break for lunch, but you're determined to keep practicing and Minho is willing to coach you through the parts that you're struggling with the most. On a technical level, you're hitting most of the moves, but you still haven't been able to do a runthrough that doesn't elicit at least a few corrections. You can tell that Minho is running out of patience and you're even more frustrated than he is.

Luckily the rest of practice is working on the different formations and angles for filming the music video, dance practice, and future performances. The details are less important and everyone is mainly focused on not crashing into each other.

You try to sneak in as many solo practice sessions as you can, but by the time filming for the dance practice rolls around, you’re still not feeling confident. In fact, you’ve been dreading the schedule for days and you feel a little queasy every time you think about it. It's far from your first dance practice filming, but something about this one just feels more daunting.

The morning of filming, you force yourself to eat a decent breakfast, knowing that skipping it would just make dancing more difficult for yourself. Chan had woken up early to prepare a simple meal while you and Jeongin had helped set the table and clean up afterwards. You're a bit more jittery than usual and you're pretty sure both of the boys have noticed, but they don't comment which you appreciate.

Everyone goes through hair and makeup fairly quickly, there's no elaborate outfits and crazy makeup for a more casual video like this. Your bad feeling for today just worsens when you see that while the rest of the boys are in their usual loose fitting sweats and shirts, you've been given a tight fitting outfit that reveals a bit more of your midriff than you usually like to show off. Even though you can't deny that it's a flattering look, it just makes you self conscious, feeling like you stood out even more than you usually did standing beside the guys.

Determined to power through filming, you warm up as quickly as you can so that you can spend as much time as possible reviewing the moves with the rest of the boys before the crew finishes setting up.

Your stomach is a flurry of butterflies as you get in position to start filming, even though you know that usually the first try is a throwaway. Not only is this the first time filming for the day, but the group hasn't actually done a performance of your new single, only practices.

You monitor the recording carefully. There's a few things to improve with the camera angles and position, that was to be expected, but you still have the nagging feeling that something about your dancing doesn't match the rest of the group.

You try to make your movements bigger in the next run through, while still looking natural and staying in time with the music. It's not quite right though and each time you try again, there's more and more things that you're unhappy with.

You can tell the rest of the group isn't pleased with how things are going either. You've been doing this long enough that these dance practices usually only take a couple hours to record, but now it's been at least three and none of the takes have even been considered as a keeper. A few times you haven't even been able to make it to the end of the song before someone messes up.

Your choreographer is in the back of the room and although he hasn't explicitly called you out, you can feel his gaze on you the longer this takes.

“Come on guys,” Minho complains after a short break. “Focus! Let's get it done this time.” You watch as his eyes flicker towards where you're standing for the faintest of moments as he says it. It feels like a blow to the stomach.

You hate disappointing people, you're only human after all, but something feels even worse when you know it's the other members that you're letting down. Especially when it comes to dance, because you've always wanted to impress Minho and his notoriously high standards. The guilt sits heavy in your stomach as you push through your growing fatigue and take your position in front of the camera again.

As soon as both the director and choreographer announce that you're finished for the day, almost everybody collapses on the spot. One-takes are always the most exhausting and everybody has to focus on keeping their movements sharp because it's extremely obvious when you aren't in sync.

You, on the other hand, make your way to the screens where they're showing the playback. Sweat is dripping from your neck and forehead and you absent-mindedly swipe it away as you watch. Someone drapes a small towel over your head and you look over to see that Minho and Hyunjin have crowded behind you to take a look.

“It's good,” one of the managers comments.

Instead of agreeing, Minho hums noncommittally. You feel yourself tense up.

“What?” the manager asks. “Don't tell me you want to do it again.”

“No, no, it's fine.” Minho says mildly.

“We can do another take,” the director offers. From behind him, one of the camera people groans quietly. You try not to wince at the sound and only partially succeed.

“I think this is the best we're going to get,” Minho replies, before he turns and walks back to where his things are, effectively ending the discussion.

“Sorry for making everyone stay late,” you say quietly, bowing quickly before trailing after Minho. Hyunjin eyes you weirdly as he keeps pace.

“Why'd you say that?” he asks as he packs his bag.

“I felt bad that they had to stay so long,” you say, confused. “We normally tell them that if filming goes over.”

“No.” Hyunjin pauses his movement to study you. You can't help but shrink away, feeling a bit like a bug under a microscope “We normally thank them for their hard work. You made it sound like it was your fault.”

“It's just been a long morning,” you deflect. “Are you heading back to the dorms now?”

“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his wet hair, flicking sweat everywhere. “Have to shower and I have a bit of time before my vocal lesson. Want to head back together?”

“You go ahead first,” you reassure him. “I have a couple things left to do at the company so I'll stick around for a bit longer.”

“Sure. If you're finished early, feel free to drop by. We can have dinner or something together,” Hyunjin offers.

“Sounds good! I don't know if I'll have time, but I'll definitely see I can join,” you promise.

Lying always leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, but you know there's no way you're going to sacrifice time that you could be using to improve the dance just to hang out.

You stay late in the studio that night. Your only other schedule for the day is fittings for the music video and all the music shows, which finishes pretty quickly. Since you don't have much of an appetite anyway, you choose to skip Hyunjin’s dinner offer to continue practicing more. You had asked one of the managers to send you a copy of the dance practice and each time you replay it, the pit in your stomach seems to grow.

You lose track of time, picking apart each and every move to try and figure out what you're doing wrong. It's not until Minho knocks on the door and enters, startling you in the middle of yet another runthrough, that you realise how long you've been practicing.

“You still have so much energy?” Minho calls out as he walks closer to you.

“Just had a few things I wanted to fix up before I went home,” you explain in between breaths.

“And?”

“And what?” you ask.

“Did you fix them?” he replies, raising an eyebrow as he scans your sweaty form and the empty room. “Have you been practicing this whole time? You've been here so long that even Channie-hyung went home. He asked me if you were at our place.”

“What? I-”

“It's almost 2am,” he says gently. “It's time to go home.”

“Can I do one more run through?” you ask sheepishly. “Actually, it’s good that you’re here, I just want to make sure-”

“You've been practicing long enough.” Minho's voice turns stern and he grabs your hand to lead you to the couch to sit. “Did you even eat?”

“I wasn't hungry,” you say quietly.

“Y/n-ah,” Minho scolds you. “You need to fuel your body if you're going to work it so hard, you know we've talked about this.”

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to practice more,” you say, staring down at your hands. You’re not allowed to pick at your nails since you just got them done, so you settle for fidgeting with one of the rings that you’re wearing. The sharp edges of the gemstones prick at your fingers but you can’t get yourself to stop. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I just couldn’t get the dance right today. We had to film it so many times.”

“What are you talking about, Y/n-ah?” Minho asks, bewildered. “We weren’t- you weren’t the reason we had to redo the dance so many times.”

You look up at him finally and don’t see any of the annoyance that you were expecting. The concern and genuine confusion that you find instead catches you off guard.

“What? But- On our fourth take during the second chorus, my legwork was so sloppy compared-”

“Hannie literally forgot which direction we were supposed to move and he almost knocked into me,” Minho interrupts. “There was no way we were going to be able to use the footage, that’s why we stopped early.”

“Oh, I didn’t notice.”

Minho taps a finger to his lips, deep in thought.

“Fifth take, well that was my fault, so we're not going to talk about that. Sixth try, Yongbokkie and Innie both missed a cue and crouched later than everybody else, that one made me want to pull out my hair.” He shakes his head.

“That’s when we took a break,” you realise.

“Yeah, we were hoping it would help us have a clean run. Jinnie had sweated through his makeup and needed touch-ups anyway.”

“I thought you guys were annoyed at me,” you say in a small voice. “You didn't seem happy with the final video.”

“It wasn't my best take,” Minho admits. “I kind of wanted to do it again, but I didn't want you guys to have to stay even later.”

“Did you even see yourself?” You reach for your phone and unlock it to show the paused dance practice video. “Look, I've been trying to copy how fluid you moved in this part. See there? I looked so stiff compared to you, it's awful.”

“Y/n-ah,” Minho says carefully.

“And look at this move,” you say, skipping ahead a couple seconds. “I couldn't quite-”

You cut yourself off mid-sentence when Minho leans forward to pluck your phone our of your hands and throw it off to the side. You don't even fight him, just stare with wide eyes, scared of what he's going to say next.

“You were fine, you did well. But even if you did mess up, it's okay. This dance is tiring, it's challenging. We all have bad days and it's okay to make mistakes.”

When you don’t say anything in response, he slowly moves closer and envelops you in a tight hug. You sniffle a little bit and when he starts to rub slow but firm circles onto your back, you can't stop the few tears that escape.

“Hey, what's going through your mind, huh?” he asks in a low voice. “Why are you being so hard on yourself?”

“I just don't want to let you guys down,” you say.

“Y/n-ah, you're not letting us down if we have to do a few more takes on a dance practice,” Minho says incredulously. “Is that all that's been worrying you?”

“Yeah,” you lie. “I was just nervous about filming the dance and disappointed when it didn't go like I wanted it to.”

“Silly girl,” Minho says, ruffling your hair affectionately. “You're doing just fine. It's okay to be nervous, but you don't have to be pushing yourself so hard. Come on, it's time to go home, we have an early schedule tomorrow.”

You follow him meekly as he leads you out of the building and to where a driver is waiting to take you back to your dorm. Even though you feel a bit better knowing that you weren't the cause of the schedule overruns, you're still not satisfied with how you're dancing, but you know that it's pointless to pick a fight. Not only is Minho just as stubborn as you, he's not afraid to bring in reinforcements and you'd hate for the rest of the group to catch on to how you've been spending most of your free time. They already have enough to worry about, the last thing you want is to add to that.

Moving forward, you don't stop practicing, but you do take more care to try and pretend that it's not eating up all your free time. You stop using your favourite studio, you know the dance so well that most of the time you don't even have music playing, and you make sure not to stay out late enough that it's noticeable.

You start to feel a little silly with how much time you've devoted to this, significantly more than the rest of the members, especially when the music video filming goes by without a hitch. By the time the Studio Choom video is filmed, you're a lot more confident about the performance and even starting to enjoy yourself.

The rest of the preparations for the comeback start to fly by, especially after the album announcement goes live. There's not a day that goes by that's not filled with different photoshoots or interviews.

Before you know it, the album is released and even though your schedule is absolutely packed, you spend all your free time reading through comments and reactions. Maybe it was cliche to say, but you really did treasure hearing from Stays and comebacks were always when you felt closest to them. You especially liked being able to interact with them on a more personal level.

You were almost certain that you were the most active member on Bubble, you liked to send daily updates on what you were doing and reminders to Stay about maintaining their health. It did sting that you were also pretty certain that you had the least subscriptions and likely some of them only stuck around because you thought it was funny to send candid photos of the boys every so often.

You had always looked forward to fan signs the most though. Before you had debuted, you had loved seeing footage of the cute accessories, silly pick-up lines, and heartfelt messages from the fans. Not only that, but it was the only chance to speak to fans in person, even if it was only for a minute or two.

You were immensely grateful for everyone that supported you, but maybe it was your eager anticipation for fan signs that left you feeling so disappointed and empty. You had slowly grown used to Stays ignoring you for the boys, for always being the one that didn't receive any gifts to play with, for having the smallest stack of letters at the end of each event. But somehow you were always hopeful that the next time would be different.

Of course, it wasn't like you resented everybody else in the group. In fact, you were genuinely glad that they were enjoying themselves because they deserved it. They worked hard, were amazing performers and talented at creating music, and as a result, the fans loved them.

You, on the other hand, were just missing something, and it seemed that nothing you could do would change that. You had bounced through different positions, focused on vocals, dance, rap, music production, writing lyrics, and had enjoyed yourself thoroughly the whole time. If only the fans had liked it as much as you.

At least with fan calls, it wasn't as blatantly obvious that you were the least popular, least favourite member of the group. In fact, sometimes you were glad because you knew the boys often had crazy fans who had absurd or cringy requests while most of the time you spoke with someone who was politely feigning their interest.

It's almost funnier when the company sits you all down in the same room for the calls like they do today because you get to witness and subsequently tease the boys for the aegyo and silly poses they're forced to do. It's not like any of you can refuse anything the fans ask you to do, not with the staff breathing down your neck the whole time.

As expected, most of your calls are fairly generic and you're grateful for it. You have easy conversations about the album, which dances are your favourite, and you get to share some stories from the tour that you recently finished. You're maybe halfway through the calls when things start to take a turn for the worst.

“I even think that you would have done great as a solo artist! Are you thinking of releasing any solo music soon?” the girl that you're talking to asks excitedly.

“Oh, thank you.” You smile back even though the innocent question makes your chest ache for some reason. “I- well, solo music-” You take a deep breath to gather your thoughts. “I don't know about the future, but right now I really can't imagine releasing anything other than music as a part of Stray Kids. I love working and performing with the rest of the members and I wouldn't want to change anything.”

It's how you actually feel, but you can't help the way that your eyes dart over to check on the staff member that's supervising your call. You feel a bit better when you see their nod of approval and try to focus on the fan to finish the rest of the conversation.

Thankfully you get a quick break before the next call. You know the fan was probably trying to be encouraging, she had started off the call praising your skills and was probably just curious. Still, there's a voice in your mind that tells you that she'd prefer it if you weren't a member of Stray Kids. Or rather, she'd prefer that Stray Kids didn't have you in it.

You try to bring a positive mindset into your next call, but it's with a Stay that’s decidedly less interested in talking to you. You exchange greetings and make small talk until she seems to get an idea that makes her sit up straight all of a sudden.

“I have a question for you,” she says, eyes glinting in a way that makes you a little nervous, even though you're not sure why.

“Go ahead,” you encourage her because you're mostly feeling a bit relieved that she's finally showing some emotion other than boredom.

“Which of the boys would you say is best in bed?” she asks slyly.

You stare at her dumbly, thinking that you must have misheard her.

“Sorry,” you say, laughing uncomfortably. “I don't- I don't think I understand your question.”

“You heard me,” she scoffs. “What's the point in having you in the group if you're not sleeping with at least some, if not all of them?”

“No, I- It's not like that, I don't-” Flustered, you stare desperately at the staff, hoping they'll step in and end the call. Instead they just motion for you to continue. “I mean, we're close, but not-”

“If you want, you can just tell me your favourites,” she giggles, as if she's just asked you what songs on the album you liked. “It must be either Chan or Jeongin, if you decided to live with them.”

“No!” you exclaim.

“So it's not either of them?” she says, tapping a finger against her lip in thought.

“That's not the kind of relationship we have.”

Mortified, you find that you're tearing up a bit. You've heard the theories before, know that there's a lot of gossip and rumours because you're in a group of men, but you've never been outright accused to your face like this.

From the corner of your blurry field of vision, you see Seungmin wave bye to whoever he's talking to. He must hear the distress in your voice because he glances over, then does a double-take when he sees just how bad you're doing.

“What's going on?” he demands, stalking over. Before the staff can do anything to stop him, he leans forward and disconnects the call without a warning. “Why didn't you do anything, isn't it obvious that something’s wrong?”

“Y/n-ssi was handling it,” the staff member says. “It’s not fair to the fans if you cut a call short without reason.”

“No reason? Do you have eyes?!” Seungmin motions to where you're surreptitiously trying to blot away the tears without smudging your makeup. He's gotten the attention of everyone in the room now, even the members who are still in calls and have to pretend nothing is happening in the background. You can only hope that the phones aren't able to pick up anything being said.

“Min,” you say, voice barely above a whisper as you tug on his sleeve lightly. He glances back at you, eyes softening slightly. “It's okay, I'm fine.”

You're grateful that he's stood up for you, but all the scrutiny is getting a bit overwhelming. You just want to move on and pretend nothing happened because the last thing that you want is for the company to think you're a liability who can't even handle a nosy fan.

Seungmin crouches in front of you and studies you carefully. You're still clutching onto the sleeve of his sweater. You take a deep breath to compose yourself, then give him a watery smile.

“I was just being really sensitive today, I promise,” you plead. “Just let it go.”

He starts to say something, then cuts himself off, eyes watching something happening over your shoulder.

“Let's just take a quick break from the calls,” Chan says evenly. You didn't even notice that he came up being you and is standing behind you protectively. “We'll be back in 10 minutes.”

It's a command, not a suggestion, something that the staff would normally push back against, but for some reason they stay quiet, allowing the nine of you to filter out of the room unimpeded.

Nobody says anything until you find an unoccupied dance studio. Minho is quick to lock the door after you all pile in.

“Hey,” Seungmin says softly from where he's been stuck to your side. “You holding up okay?”

“Yeah, I don't know what happened. I'm fine now,” you say.

“Are you sure?” Felix asks from where he's sitting on your other side.

“Really, it was nothing,” you assure him.

“If you were upset, then it's something,” Seungmin insists. “We promise we won't think it's silly or anything. It's probably something we've all heard before anyway.”

You have to turn away from the way that he's looking at you with his huge, pleading eyes. But the rest of the group is also gathered around, concern lining their faces.

“She implied that the only reason I'm in the group is because I'm sleeping with all you,” you say stiffly, regretting it immediately when you feel both Seungmin and Felix freeze in place. “Which obviously is not true, so it's not a big deal.”

“Y/n, you know that's unacceptable, right?” Chan says slowly, through what sounds like gritted teeth. You finally tear your eyes away from where you've been staring at the patterns that you can see in the grain of the wooden flooring, to see that his jaw is clenched, neck muscles pulled tight.

“Fans say inappropriate things all the time, it's not like I haven't read things like that before. It comes with the job.” You shrug.

“That doesn't make it okay. This is serious. You shouldn't have to-” Chan cuts himself off when he notices that he's started to raise his voice and just pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Listen, I know. I just- I don't want this to be a big commotion. It sucks, I didn't respond well, whatever, let's move on,” you say. “She's going to post about it online, but in a few days, nobody is going to remember anyway.”

“Hyung, can't we just end the call if they do anything inappropriate?” Changbin complains.

“You know that we can't,” you remind him before anybody else can say anything. “It's part of our contract.”

“I hate these stupid fan calls!” Hyunjin passionately declares from where he's sprawled out on the floor. “Channie-hyung, can we just cancel the rest of them?”

“Don't say that,” you scold him mildly. “You love fan calls the most out of all of us.”

“I love some of them,” he argues back. “But not if that's the way you're going to be treated during them. Plus, if another person asks me to call them mommy then I'm actually going to quit being an idol.”

“Ew, your fans are weird.” Jisung wrinkles his nose in disgust.

“They're your fans too!” Hyunjin shoots back.

“Okay,” Chan claps his hands together a couple times before things devolve further. “Unfortunately, we do have to continue with the rest of the calls and we can't delay things too much. It's time to head back.”

There's a bit of casual chatter as everybody heads back, but you can tell everyone is still feeling a bit tense. Seungmin only releases your hand when he absolutely has to and you squeeze a couple times before you let go to try and reassure him that you're going to be fine.

The second you sit down, a makeup artist descends on you, tutting her tongue when she sees that you've accidentally wiped away some of your eyeshadow. You obediently stay still, watching as Chan approaches your table too, stopping to lean down and say something in the ear of the staff member that has been monitoring you. The blood slowly drains from her face and she nods rapidly in agreement with whatever he tells her. He claps a hand on her shoulder and even though it's a light and friendly gesture, you can see the way she flinches slightly.

You raise an eyebrow when he looks your way and he just smiles innocently in return and makes his way back to his seat. You don't comment, not even when you notice that the staff's fingers are trembling so hard that it takes her a couple tries to connect you to the next call. You know that it's not her fault, she's just following instructions from the company after all, but you're not feeling very sympathetic at the moment.

Instead, you just try to focus and take on an upbeat persona in the hopes that nobody realises how upset you truly feel. You're hurt and a bit wary of what the fans might do next, but you don't want to take it out on the people who haven’t done anything to you yet.

Fortunately, the rest of the calls are rather uneventful and you leave the company feeling drained, but not as terrible as you had expected.

You spend the rest of the day thinking about what you could have done differently, how you could have handled the call more gracefully, what kind of answer you should give if something similar ever happens again. But no matter what, you just get stuck pitifully thinking to yourself that it's not fair, you shouldn't have to deal with these kinds of questions in the first case. You're sure the company will give you a briefing and some scripted lines tomorrow anyway, so it's probably for the best that you just try to pretend nothing happened at all.

That evening, you try your best to avoid social media, but you knew that some of the other boys had seen videos based on the stormy expression on Jeongin's usually smiley face when you got home and the way that Chan comes back from the gym with more bruises than usual from his boxing session with Minho and Changbin.

They never say anything, but they have been extra careful around you. Chan has brought home your favourite takeout without you asking and Jeongin jumps up to clean up the second that everyone has finished eating. After you decline to watch a drama with them, you can hear one of them pacing past your bedroom every few minutes, pausing right outside your door before continuing on.

You have just decided to muster up the courage to actually watch the recording of the video, it was embarrassingly easy to find one, when Seungmin video calls you. You immediately click away from where your own stupid looking shocked face is paused on screen to answer because you know Seungmin knows that you prefer to text unless it's an emergency.

“Hey,” you greet him warily. “What's up?”

“Felix is trying to kill me,” Seungmin complains.

“What now?”

“Just look!”

Seungmin changes to his back camera to reveal their kitchen, which is littered with baking supplies and seems almost hazy for some reason.

“Is that smoke?” you ask, sitting up in bed.

“I said not to film!” Felix's voice comes from somewhere outside of the frame. Seungmin pans over dizzyingly fast to show where he's crouched in front of the oven, streaks of flour smudged on his clothes and in his hair.

“I'm not filming,” Seungmin comments, unbothered by the fact that Felix is pulling out a pan of what looks like they should be cookies but look alarmingly similar to lumps of coal. “I'm on a call. Show Y/nnie what you made,” he prompts.

“What?? Noooo,” Felix whines. “Y/n don't look!”

“What are those supposed to be?” you laugh.

“I wanted to make something to cheer you up,” Felix says miserably. Seungmin cackles, moving the camera closer so that you first get a close-up of Felix's face, then a better look at the burnt baking sheet. You keel over, stomach starting to hurt from how hard you're laughing. “I was trying to clean up while they baked and didn't hear the timer go off.”

“Well I appreciate the thought,” you say, when you can finally catch a breath. “And you definitely succeeded in making me feel better. Didn't the fire alarm go off?”

“We just got it to stop,” Seungmin says, switching the camera so that you can see his face again. “It's freezing in here now, we had to open all the windows to air out the place.”

“You poor things,” you coo, leaning back onto your bed now that you aren't concerned that they're in immediate danger. “Do you want to come over to our place?”

“I want to, but someone has to make sure that sunshine over here doesn't burn anything else.” Seungmin rolls his eyes, making you laugh again. You hear Felix yell something in the background. “I just wanted a witness in case I don't make it to our schedule tomorrow. I think I gotta go.”

“Yeah, I think you'll be busy cleaning up the rest of the night. See you tomorrow!”

You end the call, plunging your room back into darkness. You lie on your bed for a few moments before unlocking your phone again.

Even though you knew that it wasn't wise, like clockwork you found yourself scrolling through social media after every comeback. It used to be worse, when you had been living alone and would spend countless hours curled up on your tiny bed, face only illuminated by your phone.

The rest of the members all know that you had private social media accounts, they all had them too even though you technically weren't allowed to. What they didn't know was how many nights you had wasted away, watching funny compilations, reaction videos, and analysis of performances. Sometimes, it even felt like you were subconsciously searching for the negative comments, wanting to understand better the mindset of the haters.

It was an old, but bad habit, so you had tried your best to stop once you moved in with Chan and Jeongin. But tonight you just couldn't sleep. After wandering into the kitchen to get yourself a glass of water, you end up getting distracted by your Youtube recommendations.

You don't know what kind of strings the company pulled, but by some miracle, there's no clips of your disastrous fan call circulating any more, although there were still a lot of people talking about it.

There had been mixed comments. Some of the clips had excluded the terrible questions and people commented on how bad your media training must have been, but a majority of people were furious on your behalf and complained about how out of bounds the comment had been.

You should be relieved that the videos have been taken down and you are to a certain extent, but just a couple days ago the dance practice that haunted you had been posted. Just one more thing to worry about. As you feared, while a majority of the comments were nice, there's already people picking apart your performance, comparing you to the boys.

You click from one comment to another, then move onto fan made videos, inevitably falling down a rabbit hole of the many edits that exist where you had been cropped out or digitally removed. It was almost mesmerizing, watching videos of how well the group worked without you, how natural it looked to see what it would have looked like if it was just the eight of them. Some nights, you could almost forget that the edits were exactly that, edits and not the reality.

“Hey,” Chan interrupts. He is obviously trying his best not to scare you, but you were startled anyway, dropping your phone on the counter. “What are you up to so late?”

“It's nothing,” you said quickly, fumbling to lock your phone so that he can’t see the video that’s playing, but Chan had scooped it up before you had the chance to pick it back up.

“What's this-” You could see the moment that he pieced things together, the way that even in the dim lighting you could tell how his brow had furrowed and his hand had tightened around your phone. “How come you're not in these videos?”

“Hm?”

“You were definitely in this performance,” Chan says, studying the paused screen. “You're supposed to be… They removed you.” He finally realises with horror. “Why are you watching garbage like this?”

“I just want to know what Stay are thinking.” You shrug. “I saw this video and couldn't help but watch. It’s not a big deal, I was just curious.”

“They're not Stay if they're not supporting the whole group!” Chan startles you with the sharpness of his voice. He catches sight of your wide eyes and softens his tone. “Sorry, I just hate akgaes and seeing these kind of posts.”

“Oh come on,” you say. “You're telling me that you've never thought about what the group would be like if you weren't being dragged down by me?”

“Dragged down- Y/n-”

“Don't lie to me, oppa. I know you've seen what people are saying about the group, about me. Have you seen some of these edits? Stray Kids looks good as eight,” you admit.

“I’m not lying! None of us would want to be making music or performing without you,” Chan insists.

“You don't have to say that just to not make me feel bad.” You shake your head.

“We’ve been together from the start, why would I have chosen you to be a part of Stray Kids if I didn't actually want you to be on the team?” Chan asks, sounding frustrated, but also genuinely curious.

“Because the company added me to the team at the last minute?” you say, as if it's obvious. Because to you, and basically everybody else, it is. “I know I wasn't part of the group that you picked. It's okay-”

“What are you talking about? You know that I chose you too, right?” he asks slowly.

“But the company-”

“They couldn’t have just added you to the group without our say.”

“No, I know that you guys agreed it to, but-”

“Y/n-ah, we didn't just agree to it. They told me they wanted us to consider adding a female member to Stray Kids. We thought about it and said yes. I was the one who wanted that member to be you.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded.

“What?”

“Why are you so surprised? I saw your evaluations, you were one of trainees strongest in dance, probably the only one that could keep up with us, your singing has always been stable, and I know that based on your personality and work ethic, you would get along well with the rest of us. It was the obvious choice.”

“Oh.” Is all you can say, mind racing.

“You really thought the company just added your name onto the roster and we went along with it?”

“I don't know, I guess so?” you say sheepishly. “I was just so grateful to debut, it didn't matter at the time. It felt so out of the blue.”

“You know that one of the reasons that JYP didn't have you on that many of the girl group line-ups was because he was considering making you a solo artist, right?”

“Huh? There's no way,” you immediately deny. “Nobody ever mentioned that-”

“He told me when I brought up your name to add to the group. I guess they never wanted to get your hopes up.”

“I thought they were going to drop me soon,” you admit, scratching at the back of your neck. “I uh, I thought maybe I would do at most one more year of training and then move back in with my family. I had even started filling out university applications to keep my options open.”

“Y/n, you were consistently having amazing evaluations, you were being praised so much by everyone. Why would you doubt yourself?”

“Three years as a trainee and nothing to show for it. You know what it was like, how hard it was to see people come and go. It didn't matter how great my evaluations were if I never got to debut.”

“But-”

“Don't tell me that you never thought about quitting. Oppa, I thought that you of all people would understand what it was like.” You hate the way that your voice cracks.

“I thought about it all the time,” Chan says. “Sorry, I didn't mean it like that.”

“It's fine,” you mumble.

“Y/n-ah,” Chan asks tentatively, like he's afraid to learn the answer. “All these years that we've been together, did you really think we didn't want you?”

“Yes? Well, not really. I didn't think you guys disliked having me in the group per se, I just always thought that maybe you would like it more if I wasn't? And I guess it didn't help that there are a lot of people who thought the same way.”

“I'm sorry we didn't reassure you more.” Chan runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “How did we not see that you felt this way?”

“Because I didn't want you to? It's not like it was your fault anyway, I was just overthinking.”

“You know we're going to have to make it up to you, right?” Chan says, looking a little mischievous.

“Oh please no,” you say, backing away nervously thinking of how much coddling and smothering you're about to endure. You're pretty sure you're already one of the members that's doted on the most. “Things are good as they are.”

“Nope, I refuse.” Chan approaches you, reaching out and catching your wrist so that you can't get away. “We're going to give you so much love that you're not going to doubt yourself ever again.”

“No!” you squeal, trying to tug away from his grip. “I already-”

The rest of your sentence gets cut off as Chan pulls you into an embrace and your face gets smashed against his shoulder. He squeezes you tightly and contrary to your words, you just relax into his hold.

“What are you guys doing? You're being so loud.”

Both you and Chan freeze, then turn to stare as Jeongin shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes with his hair all mussed up. You turn back to Chan for a second before he replies.

“Just having a bit of a heart to heart, Innie. Come here, join us,” he invites.

“Ugh, why would I want to hug either of you?” Jeongin complains, wrinkling his nose before immediately walking over and enveloping both of you in his arms.

Even though you know you're going to have to leave for a schedule in a matter of hours, with both Chan and Jeongin's arms wrapped tight around you, you feel lighter than you have in months. You feel secure, at ease, and finally, like you've found a home in these boys.

where the heart is collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist

#uhnanixfaves :3

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uhnanix · 2 months ago

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where the heart is

[a collection of 9th member au fics]

too close to home - platonic ot8 & reader | angst/fluff | 8.5k

as the only female of stray kids, you've always felt a little out of place. this comeback, the comments and criticism seem to hit a little too close to home and you start to think that maybe the group is better off without you.

the way home - platonic ot8 & reader | angst | 0.8k

a peaceful walk home takes a turn for the worst when you notice you're being followed.

no place like home - platonic ot8 & reader | angst | 6.2k

when you start to feel unwell, you're determined to continue on as normal. as your condition worsens, you try your best to pretend everything is fine, but your body has other plans.

a/n: this is a collection of fics where the reader has debuted alongside stray kids as their 9th member. at the moment, all of these fics will be platonic. this fic is part of my appreciation event.

taglist: please reply to this post, dm me, or send in a question if you'd like to be added to the taglist for this collection! i also have a permanent taglist, so please specify which you would like to be added to.

[chahnniesroom masterlist]

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uhnanix · 2 months ago

Text

You Live Like This? - PT III

Series master list PART 2 INFO

pairing: Bang Chan x fem!reader rating: mature, dark themes summary: home invader!Chris makes good on his promise to rob your ex to avenge your painful breakup, only to find that you're already there trying to collect your belongings. In order to keep your ex-bf from including you as an accomplice in his inevitable police report, you have to pretend you don't know the robber who keeps flirting with you. (plus like a lot more)

warnings: camping, murder, Ateez mentioned, mature

word count: ~5k

Eyes dragging slowly from your Chef Boyardees at the shocked voice breaking through your serenity, you find yourself staring squarely at Chris.

“No way!” His mouth is hanging wide open, his hands full of grocery bags stuffed with garbage. “What are you doing here?”

The ravioli tastes like dirt in your mouth. “Chris?” You swallow your bite and blink at him in disbelief.

How is it that you drive three hundred miles away from home and the first person you speak to is the very man you’ve been trying to leave behind?

Why is your life a sucky sitcom?

He throws the bags down on the picnic table that belongs to the campground and moves towards you, your name an excited chuckle on his lips. “I can’t believe it’s you! How have you been?”

You lean back in your fabric chair to create the slightest bit of distance. “Why are you here? Are you following me? What the hell, Chris?”

He shakes his head quickly, a toothy grin slicing across his face. “No, no, me and some buddies are headed to a concert. It’s a whole thing. What about you? Why are you here?”

At your responding blank stare, realization dawns on his face. “No way, are you going to the concert too? Ateez?”

How are you supposed to stop fantasizing about this handsome deviant if he’s going to follow you all the way across the country? “Tell me you didn’t use—”

“ShowTripper? Damn right we did, that shit is awesome.” He drops into a crouch in front of you and takes in your choice of dinner.

Saucy ravioli served on blue and white speckled enamelware doesn’t seem to be his idea of proper camping cuisine. “That looks…hey, do you wanna eat with us? We’ve got burgers over there.”

You cannot be sucked into this man’s magnetic charm again. This can’t be happening.

There’s no way you’re going to spend nearly a week camping next to Chris, letting him play with your heart without even realizing it, only to go back home and have to forget about him all over again.

You drop your eyes firmly to your plate. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

Chris is quiet for a minute, absorbing your shuttered demeanor, easily reading between the lines of your polite dismissal. “Alright, sure. We’re right next to you, so feel free to come over if you need anything.” When his offer is received by only a short nod, he takes in a breath. “Hey,” patting your knee lightly as he stands, he flashes you a dimpled smile. “It’s great to see you.”

“Channie Hyung!” The voice comes from the other campsite, and then a young man appears, eyes alighting on Chris with a flash of recognition. “Hey, hyung, burgers are ready. Stop bothering the neighbors for scraps.”

Your gaze snaps between the new guy and Chris, who is apparently known to his friends as Channie.

He rubs his neck with an awkward chuckle. “Yeah, Chris is my birth name, but I go by Chan. I actually prefer it, so…” he drifts off when he realizes that you’re not really listening. “Okay, I’ll head back to my guys. I’ll be seeing you.”

Chan backs away from you, collecting his trash bags again. “Stay safe tonight, okay?”

You have nothing to say.

Your perfect roadtrip has just turned into an emotional bear trap.

As he disappears behind the trees to rejoin his group, you’re assessing your site. Maybe you should call it quits.

You can spend the night and then pack it all up and head back home, chalk the whole thing up as an epic failure.

It’s bound to happen at some point in your adventures. It would be no great loss to abandon this one and try again some other time.

Except that you’ve been so excited about this concert. And you’ve already sunk so much money into this trip.

Are you really gonna let one guy ruin this for you?

Are you really so incapable of just setting boundaries and refusing to be drawn in, and enjoy this trip for what it’s supposed to be?

No.

This is your adventure.

Your first big venture into the unknown by yourself, and you plan on facing all the obstacles and hurdles head on. You can’t just give up when it gets sticky.

Scraping the rest of your dinner into the embers of your fire, you snatch up your overnight bag and head to the showers.

Chris—or Chan—isn’t going to derail your life.

Not this time.

Mornings are the best part of camping. The smell of the sun hitting your tent, the rush of cool air that washes over your face when you first unzip the flap, the fresh atmosphere of a chilly morning and nature all around—nothing beats it.

Not even the nighttime campfire under the starry sky comes close to the feeling you get when you first pour your percolated coffee and sit huddled in the opening of your tent, burrowed into a warm hoodie and listening to the bird song.

You thought nothing could ruin it.

“Good morning, neighbor!”

You were wrong.

Chan shuffles over to your campsite in a pair of oversized sweats, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his hood bunched thickly around his neck, hair mussed from sleep. You hate—hate—how cute he looks like this.

He does not look like the missing piece from your perfect campsite.

He does not look like a soft and cuddly companion who should squeeze into the doorway next to you and wrap the other corner of your blanket over his shoulders.

What he does look like is the fucking home invader who inadvertently, or carelessly, played with your heart like a soccer ball.

“Good morning, Chan.” You mutter, hearing your voice come out throaty and cold. You need more coffee.

He offers a smile that scrunches his eyes and pauses to yawn, rubbing his face tiredly. “God, I got the best sleep last night, how about you?”

You shrug.

Your sleep had been fine—cozy, even, but you don’t need to be volunteering information to him while you’re trying to keep him at arm’s length.

“Woke up to the smell of coffee only to find out that Minho hasn’t even started making ours yet.” He gives you a significantly pitiful look. “I will pay you for a cup.”

“You told me you don’t like coffee.” You deadpan, remembering the hot tea that he had purchased on your coffee date. Whatever game he’s playing now, he can take it to some other poor sucker.

His expression freezes, like he can’t believe you remembered a detail from so long ago, and then his hand lifts to rub at the back of his neck again. It seems to be a habit of his, you’re noticing. “Alright, you got me. It does smell good, though. I just wanted to say hey.”

“Hey.”

He sighs, bunching his shoulders under his ears, and slides his hands back into his pockets. “Look, I get it if this is weird. We didn’t exactly have a conventional introduction. I get that. I get that you know things about me that you probably wish you didn’t—or that you know things about me that legally speaking are undesirable. But you’re a friendly, familiar face, and I think we could have a lot of fun doing this crazy roadtrip together. If you don’t want to be friendly, that’s fine. I’m just saying I would enjoy it if we shared this experience.”

His words roll around in your head with equal displeasure and desire.

It would be fun to be friendly and have camping neighbors, if he wasn’t a criminal.

It would be reassuring to know that if something went wrong, there would be someone you could ask for help, if he wasn’t a criminal.

It would even be enjoyable to convoy-camp all the way across the country, if you didn’t know that you’re likely to never see him again.

How nice for him that he would enjoy this experience with you, and then just run off and forget about you when it suits him.

“I don’t know, Chan.” You grumble into your cup. He’s ruining your coffee. He’s ruining your perfect morning with his stupid cute smile and his stupid cute sleep-mussed hair. “You’re not exactly good company.”

Hooray for you, sticking to your guns.

He clutches at his chest. “Ouch. And I thought our date went so well.”

Fuck him.

Fuck him for that.

How dare he bring that up, like it was last week? Like there’s still time for him to arrange another after an appropriate waiting period?

You quirk an eyebrow at him, soothing the indignant rage in your chest. “If it went so well why was it the only one?”

Chan doesn’t answer, hand slowly falling back to his side.

The satisfaction of earning that wounded expression is delicious.

You shake your head. “I think we should keep to our own sites and mind our own business. It was nice to see you, Chris, but you and I shouldn’t be friends.”

Besides your feelings, the warring hurt and attraction, it’s just not smart.

You can’t be friends with someone who breaks into people’s houses and threatens them—albeit emptily—with weapons. You can’t be friends with someone who looks like him. You can’t be friends with someone who talks to you like you’re the only person on the planet one second and then forgets you exist the next.

Not when your eyes keep searching for him, and your heart keeps laying down the welcome mat for him.

He’s too dangerous.

Disappointment furrows his brow, chin tucked to his chest. “You thought the date went well, too, didn’t you?”

Fuck him all over again.

You should say no. You should lie.

You should tell him that it was just another entry in the long list of bad first dates that you don’t care to remember. Give him a taste of his own bitter medicine. “Yeah. I thought it went really well.” You should listen to yourself when you’re trying to make smart decisions.

Hope flickers across his face. “Look, I’m not asking for a summer romance.” His tongue traces playfully along his bottom lip. “I just think it could be fun if we could be friends.”

You know your feelings for him aren’t friendly, that letting him in again will sink you right back into that hole of heartbreak.

You take a moment to inhale the nutty steam of your coffee. As you hear his site start to fill with noise as his companions wake up and start getting around, smelling the crackling bacon that someone is cooking, your eyes shift in the direction of his camp. “Do your friends know what you do in your downtime?”

Chan shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “No,” he says quietly. “Obviously I would prefer it if they didn’t know.”

“Your extracurricular activities aren’t just a scandalous hobby, you know. They’re serious. You have a harmful affect on people’s lives.”

He has the grace to look appropriately abashed, glancing down at his sneakers as your judgment strikes him. “Yeah, I know.”

This can’t be the first time he’s thought about this. He has to know that what he does hurts people; scares people. You can’t even trust this show of penitence that he’s giving you—because how could he do what he does without being apathetic about what it means for his victims?

“What do you expect me to say? Pull up a chair? Warm yourself by my fire and regale me with stories of helpless, frightened people whom you’ve terrorized? How did you expect this to go?” Your voice is steady, strong, betraying nothing of the warmth you’d felt towards him because he’d chosen to show you mercy.

His mouth falls open, struggling for words and stunned at your cruel appraisal. After a moment, he glances at the sky and sucks in a deep breath. “I don’t hurt people. And, if it makes any difference, I haven’t done…that in a long time. Not since I finally got my job. I was taking from people who could afford it, because I couldn’t afford anything. It wasn’t for shits and giggles. I slept in my car, and most days I didn’t eat. I did it because I thought I had to. But I don’t anymore.”

A pang of sympathy hits you like a crowbar prying up an edge of your armor, understanding of a situation like that softening your contempt.

If what he’s telling you is true, you can’t assume he had good choices to select from. You can’t assume he had friends and family to fall back on, like you did.

“I’m glad you got a job that’s working for you.” You say quietly, and it’s almost an open door.

He relaxes just slightly. “Thanks.”

You roll your shoulders back with a sigh. Assessing him once again, considering the possibilities, you find it in yourself to afford him the benefit of the doubt.

You don’t have to somehow become accountable for his life, or commit to being there for him in any long term capacity, not when he almost certainly won’t commit to you, but it doesn’t seem like being friendly for the duration of this trip would be harmful.

As long as you’re careful with your heart and stop yourself from holding it out to him every time he gives you that dimpled smile, it should be safe to at least be neighborly.

“Friendly,” you finally acquiesce, the word spoken into your coffee cup. “Just for this trip.”

He beams at you, eyes disappearing behind the magnitude of his grin.

He doesn’t like coffee, as you remember correctly—because of course you do; he asked you out for coffee and then informed you he doesn’t even like it after you got there—so you don’t have anything to offer him.

The things that you brought are only your favorite things that you couldn’t comfortably afford before, and tea only reminds you of the cheap alternative you had put up with while trying to live inexpensively.

But you gesture to your little camp chair, indicating for him to sit.

It’s better than nothing, especially when you would be perfectly happy to send him on his way and try to forget about him all over again.

He hurries to sit, eyeing the bike lock that has your table, chair, and tent all lashed together. “Wow, you’re really locked down over here.”

“It’s so you don’t steal it.” You snap back instantly, almost regretting the sheepish smile on his face that doesn’t look humored at all.

He looks the same as he did all those months ago—hair a little bit longer and clothes more casual than you’d seen before, but otherwise the same. You can tell how successful his efforts have been towards his personal training dreams, from the thick muscles peeking out around the neck of his hoodie to the strong vascularity of his hands as he rubs his knees awkwardly.

“So, you got the job you wanted.” You break the silence flatly, your face still covered by your cup. Sitting with him, conflicted by feelings of rebellious attraction and discomforted hurt over his gradual disappearance from your life, you know your cheeks are heating with color. If you’re lucky, he’ll attribute the flush to the direct contact of the steam from your coffee.

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. The tone you hit him with has him on edge, and even if he can’t see inside your head, even if he doesn’t know how often he’d been in your thoughts and dreams for the past few months, he knows there was a disconnect somewhere that you don’t understand.

“Yeah.” Chan ducks his head to dodge the harshness of your gaze. “Yeah, I got all certified and did a few apprenticeships with some mentors, just for credibility, and now I’ve got a gig at one of my local gyms.”

You got your career. He got his.

Things have changed for both of you since the last time you both saw each other, destitute and scraping the bottom of the barrel.

“That’s great.” No matter how hard you try to be neutral, to allow the conversation to start fresh without the weight of the past six months hanging off of it, your voice keeps coming out hard and sharp. “Seems like you really worked hard for it.”

His lips purse thoughtfully, hearing the sound of you more so than the words you’re saying. “I would have asked you out again.” He says softly, tipping his head to stare down at his sweats again. “I know you’re probably thinking this is weird, that I’ve been inconsistent.” His fingertips rub the outline of his phone in his pocket.

Your response comes before you even realize you’d thought of it. “I think it’s weird that you keep coming to my campsite when it’s impossible to hold a conversation with you over the phone.”

He physically winces at the words. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

Coffee heats your throat and stomach as it goes down, distracting you from the tight clench of bitterness that’s been calcifying in your chest. Instead of totally ignoring the part of you that demands a reckoning, you set your cup back down on your knees and frown at him. “Why are you here? You clearly don’t give a shit—from that stupid thumbs-up after youinvited me to text you, to that stupid coffee date that you obviously prefer to pretend never happened, to all of your non-starter ‘hey what’s up’ texts that don’t go anywhere—I don’t think it’s cute. I don’t want to play games. You’ve been wasting my time from the start. If you can’t be real for five minutes, then just go. I’m not interested in whatever you think this is.”

His mouth falls open, searching for an answer but not finding one.

You throw the rest of your coffee into the dirt, mood effectively ruined.

You need to focus on getting on the road, and forget about his corrosive presence on this trip. Turning to find your overnight bag, you rifle through it for your next change of clothes.

“I’m not good for you.”

Your hands freeze in your bag.

You can’t see him, not the way you’re halfway in your tent, but his voice pierces the polyester like there’s nothing between you.

“As soon as you sent me that first text, I knew I was in more trouble than I realized, and I knew I had to step back. I’m not good for you. Every time I wanted to reach out to you, I just remembered that I’ve got all this shit behind me that could fuck up your life even more than you were already dealing with, and I…” he pauses, a low breath whistling past his lips. “I couldn’t do that to you.”

You don’t try to look at him yet. “Then why respond at all? You could have just disappeared and pretended you never met me. Why would you keep digging it all back up the moment we were silent long enough to put it behind us?”

Chan laughs shortly, and you hear your chair creak as he moves. “Couldn’t help myself?”

Finally leaning back through the open flap to meet his eyes, you watch an embarrassed flush seep into his cheeks. He’s being honest with you, finally. Raw and vulnerable, no sign of that cocky banter that had come as part of the armor he donned to break into people’s homes.

“I wanted to get to know you so badly that I would just…” His eyes roll to the sky like he can’t bear to hold your gaze, teeth flashing in an awkward smile. “I would text you and be waiting for your reply, and as soon as I hit send, I knew I shouldn’t have. It was a shitty thing to do, I know, to keep starting and stopping like that, and I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make an excuse, because nothing has changed—my past is still my past. But I just wanted you to know,” His chest swells with an anxious breath. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you. And I know I’m no good for you. But, shit, I really wish I was.”

You’re frozen, stuck staring at the way he’s watching his tennis shoes make footprints in the dirt, his words rolling around in your head like an avalanche of memories and emotions that now all look a little different than they once had.

How much time had you spent believing you were just some play thing to interrupt his occasional bouts of boredom? How long had you been resenting his non-commitment to you, despising the way that he refused to cut you loose?

Chan breaks the awkward silence with a quick hop out of the camp chair, stretching his arms over his head before tucking his hands firmly into his pockets and grinning down at you like he hadn’t just cracked open his chest and spilled his heart all over your shoes. “Wanna come over for breakfast or do you have some other canned atrocity to reheat? We’ve got bacon, eggs, and potatoes in the works over there.”

Your cautious frown turns disapproving. “I’m fine with my canned hash, thanks.”

He shrugs. “Suffer if you must, it’s your choice.”

“Go away, Chan.”

The second day of your roadtrip carries on without a hitch. You pack up your gear and get on the road before they do, having a smaller setup and remarkably fewer people in tow than Chan’s convoy situation.

You spend the first few hours getting back into the happy headspace of solo travel, blasting your music and setting your cruise control to highway speeds, immersing yourself in the passing scenery and the familiar notes of Ateez’s latest few albums.

They’ve caught up to you by the time you make your first pit stop. The gas station is calm and serene, welcoming you with a familiar chill and the smell of freshly mopped floors and bad coffee, until their vans roll up.

Eight guys spill out of two vehicles, making enough noise to pass through the glass windows of the convenience store. When you glance up from a shelf of electrolyte drinks, you see Chan and two other guys jogging towards the building.

A tense sigh heats your lips, battling the old exciting feelings that are dusting themselves off to sit, front and center, in the threads of your thoughts.

After the conversation this morning, Chan’s presence feels like even more of a question mark than it was before. Choosing to be mindful of his impact on someone’s life is an understandable reason to be distant. Even wanting to reach out to you enough that he did it multiple times against his better judgement, if what he told you is true, is understandable.

It might even be forgivable, if you can figure out how to stop aching when you remember how special he had made you feel and then concurrently completely irrelevant. Forgettable. You had felt forgettable.

It wasn’t even necessarily that it was Chan who forgot you, in your perception of the situation.

Just that another person in your life could forget about you so easily.

The confusion lies in how he left the conversation. The abrupt abandonment of his moment of vulnerability, telling you he’d believed he wasn’t good for you without giving any indication that his mind on that had changed.

It left you with the distinct impression that you’ll be preparing yourself to consider this trip your final encounter with him.

The bell above the door jingles as they enter in a rush of laughing voices, and then the two guys that you don’t know disappear towards the restrooms.

It takes only a minute of browsing the aisles before Chan spots you. “Hey,” he greets amiably, pulling open a refrigerator and loading himself down with enough drinks for all of his friends.

“Hey.” Glancing back out to the pumps, you find a few more cars pulling up, all filled to the brim with young adults. “Jesus, how many of you are there?”

He follows your gaze. “Only eight in my group, but there are a bunch of people on our route.” His eyes return to you. “There’s a forum on the app for people to connect. It looked like there were like thirty of us. We met some of them last night, too.”

You have no intention of turning this adventure into some kind of congregational event, so the thought of sticking around to meet all the people who think they’re all in this together makes you anxious. “That’s a lot.”

The apprehension must show in your face, because Chan steps closer to you. “It’s not as crazy as it sounds. Nobody has to connect if they don’t want to. It’s not like we booked one giant tent and started a traveling commune.”

You grab a few snack foods and move in the direction of the register. “The moment I see someone throw up a tabernacle, I’m out of here.”

He snorts, following you to the checkout.

An electrolyte drink and two protein bars of dubious consistency drop onto the counter. The cashier flashes you a sweet smile, scanning the items with quick movements. “Camping trip?” He guesses astutely.

You take inventory of your choices again, searching for whatever it was that gave him the impression that you’re roughing it in the wild. “I’m sorry?”

He laughs lightly, nodding out the window to your car. “I saw the tent in your back window. You’re headed for Hydrangea Falls?”

Once again, you’re left blinking at him.

He may have seen your supplies, but none of them should have led him to correctly guessing your next campsite, which is still at least two hundred miles down the road. Even so, you’re not eager to confirm the destination where you’ll be sleeping alone in the open tonight. “Sorry, I don’t—”

He shakes his head and gestures for you to tap your card on the reader. “I’m not trying to freak you out. Everyone who comes through here with camping shit is going there. It’s kind of famous.”

This is new information to you. “Is it?”

The cashier points to something behind you, and you turn to see an entire rack of pamphlets and souvenirs for Hydrangea Falls campground. “Super popular among the ghost hunting crowd. Total tourist trap. You’re going to see the stairs?”

You keep waiting for enlightenment to strike you at some point in this conversation, where you won’t be left completely baffled by everything this stranger says to you, but you’re just staring at him. “The stairs?”

Chan sidles up behind you, a ridiculous amount of drinks and snacks cradled in his arms. Catching your eye, he throws you a clueless shrug and nods to the cashier. “We’re not up on the reputation of the place, I guess.” He tells the employee with a friendly laugh. “What’s the deal with the stairs?”

The cashier glances from you to Chan, his charming smile thinning. “The campground is famous for the Kingston Steps. It’s just a bunch of ruins—used to be an old mansion, but the only thing standing now is the stone staircase. It’s accumulated a crap ton of lore over the years; apparently the mansion was owned by this guy Kingston, who used to lure travelers into his home for a hot dinner back in the 1800s. They say he would convince them to spend the night and trap them in the rooms upstairs and keep them there until they died. Now, the lore is that if you go up to the top of the steps, you’ll be cursed by Kingston forever. Doomed to die bloody, all that shit.”

Chan gives a low whistle, elbowing you lightly. “You couldn’t have picked a better romantic getaway, babe—now we’re gonna be cursed.”

Your poor brain is staggering with whiplash, still processing the outlandish ghost story and now reeling with the absurd insinuation that Chan has spread before you with the ease of laying out a picnic blanket. When your eyes snap to the cashier, scrambling for a way to either collect your things and run, or debunk Chan’s implication, you find that his smile has gone completely tense.

He bags your items and pushes them across the counter to you with a tight flash of his teeth. “It’s just fodder for the morbid fanatics. Are you guys together?”

Chan beams innocently. “Just married, actually.”

Your brain explodes. No hope of pulling together enough comprehensible words in a sentence to refute such a thing.

The cashier’s jaw clenches. “I meant are you paying together.”

That’s your exit. You snatch up your bag and wheel away from Chan’s raucous, mock embarrassed laughter.

“Oh! No, I’m paying for this stash here.”

You’re moments away from freedom when a hand grabs your arm.

“I saw your car outside.”

This trip is going to kill you.

When you turn around to face the familiar voice, your gaze bypasses the almost accusing expression on your ex boyfriend’s face and find Chan frozen behind him, eyes wide.

Shit.

If Woosung recognizes Chan, you’ll both be in trouble. Not only will he try to haul Chan to the closest police station, but he’ll know that you were somehow an accomplice to the burglary that relieved him of all of his favorite things.

You back up, closer to the door, creating distance between your ex and Chan. “What are you doing here?” You return just as sharply.

He hooks a thumb at someone behind him. “My girlfriend dragged me into going to some concert. That group that you always used to listen to.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes at you. “Wait, you’re going too, aren’t you?” He breaks off with a laugh. “But I had to see you for myself. You, driving and camping. Give me a break.”

Unwilling to stand here and be ridiculed by someone you’ve already cut off, you yank your arm out of his grasp and shoot a searching gaze around for his new girlfriend. “Drive safe, Woosung.” You don’t see her.

It doesn’t matter.

You leave the store and get back in your car, squeaking out of the parking lot with derision swirling in your gut.

to be continued

< last part

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