luckymilkshakerebel

[luckymilkshakerebel]

Hate You Less Every Day | K.Seungmin

Pairing: Seungmin x F.Reader

Word Count: 12,711 words | Reading Time: 45-ish mins

Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers | Angst | Slow Burn | Fluff | College AU

Trope: Grumpy x Grumpy | Forced Proximity | Academic Rivals | Soft for Her Only

Warnings: Mentions of past abuse, physical altercation, bruises, strong language, emotional vulnerability, first person pov {I, my, mine, etc}, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

Synopsis: You’ve hated each other since first year. He’s cold, sarcastic, and always seems one insult away from combusting. But when a university project forces you together — and fate keeps trapping you in the same orbit — cracks begin to form in the walls around your hearts. Turns out, there’s more to Seungmin than biting words… and more to this "hate" than either of you expected.

Author’s Note: For the girls who fall for the quiet, mean ones that secretly remember your favorite snack. If you’ve ever wanted to punch a man and then kiss him right after — this one’s for you.

-

The syllabus landed on my desk with a final, echoing thud, the sound reverberating through the otherwise quiet lecture hall like a death knell. Its weight, a deceptively thin stack of papers, mirrored the leaden dread that instantly settled in the pit of my stomach. My eyes, usually quick and efficient at skimming academic jargon, now moved with agonizing slowness across the printed words: "Semester's main project: group collaboration." Just three words, innocuous on their own, yet together they possessed the sinister power to unravel my meticulously planned, already stressful academic year. I gripped the edge of the desk, my knuckles white, as I desperately scanned the list of assigned partners. My heart, usually a steady drumbeat, now pounded a frantic, irregular rhythm against my ribs, each beat a desperate plea for a miracle. And then I saw it, the name that made my blood run cold, freezing in my veins: Kim Seungmin.

A strangled gasp escaped me, a mortified little sound instantly regretted as a few curious heads snapped in my direction. This couldn't be happening. Of all the hundreds of students in our vast, anonymous cohort, the universe, in its most twisted, sadistic sense of humor, had conspired to shackle me to him. My mind raced, frantically searching for an escape route, a loophole, anything. I’d honestly rather be hit by a bus – repeatedly, slowly, painfully – than endure a semester tethered to Kim Seungmin.

Our first, and frankly, only, true encounter had solidified our antagonistic dynamic during freshman year, carving an indelible scar into my university experience. It was a miserable, drizzly Tuesday morning, the kind that promised a day as dreary as my mood. I, perpetually clumsy even on the best of days, had been attempting to navigate the crowded hallway, juggling an armful of weighty textbooks and a steaming, scalding coffee from the campus café. Rounding a blind corner in the bustling corridor too quickly, my foot caught on an invisible crack, and I’d lurched forward, colliding with a solid, unyielding force. It was him. Seungmin.

My coffee, a dark, bitter cascade of liquid, exploded upon impact, drenching his pristine, freshly ironed white shirt. The hot liquid seeped instantly into the fabric, blossoming into an ugly brown stain right on his chest. "Oh my god, I am so, so sorry!" I’d stammered, my voice high with panic, my hands fumbling frantically for the few crumpled napkins I always carried. He hadn't uttered a single word. Instead, he’d simply stared at me, his eyes twin pools of glacial ice, promising an eternity of unadulterated damnation. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle twitching just beneath his skin, his perfect eyebrows narrowed into furious, accusatory slits, and the sheer, palpable disdain radiating from him was a physical force, pushing me back. Even after my torrent of profuse apologies, my desperate offers to pay for dry cleaning, to buy him a new shirt, to literally bow at his feet, his expression remained rigidly unchanged. He simply turned on his heel and stalked away without a backward glance, leaving me standing in a rapidly expanding puddle of my own making, utterly, completely mortified, the lingering scent of burnt coffee clinging to the air. That was three years ago, a lifetime ago in university terms, and he had never, not once, let me forget it. Every fleeting, accidental glance across the lecture hall, every unavoidable proximity in the cramped hallways, was met with the same chilling contempt. He’d perfected the art of looking through me as if I were a particularly annoying smudge on the wall, an inconvenience he tolerated only because he had to breathe the same air.

Now, here we were, bound by the cruel, unyielding dictates of academia, forced to become "collaborators." I took a deep, shaky breath, trying to mentally prepare myself for the inevitable onslaught. Our first "collaboration" meeting was set for that afternoon in one of the library’s designated group study areas, a glass-walled box that offered no escape. I arrived a full fifteen minutes early, determined to project an air of professional calm, to be the unequivocally mature one in this impending disaster. I spread out my notebooks, pens, and laptop, trying to look busy, in control. He sauntered in precisely five minutes late, his backpack slung with an almost arrogant carelessness over one shoulder, his expression as unreadable and cold as a blank slate. He didn't acknowledge my presence, didn't make eye contact. He simply pulled out a chair opposite me, the screeching scrape of the legs against the tile floor grating against my already frayed nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. He settled in, crossing his arms, his posture radiating an air of bored indifference that was somehow more irritating than outright hostility.

"So," I began, clearing my throat, the sound ridiculously loud in the quiet study zone. "For the project, I was thinking we could start by brainstorming some ideas for the theoretical framework, and then perhaps divide the research tasks based on our initial findings?" I tried to keep my voice even, professional, my tone a polite invitation for cooperation.

He didn't even let me finish. His eyes, though not directly on mine, were sharp and dismissive. "Let’s just get this over with," he cut in, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth, resonating with a familiar, barely concealed disgust. "The sooner we finish this, the sooner I don't have to look at you. Or hear you. Or, god forbid, smell your cheap coffee again. Is that even what it was? Smelled more like regret."

My jaw tightened, a muscle throbbing with instant irritation. I could feel a flush creeping up my neck. I took another deep, fortifying breath, counting slowly to three in my head, reminding myself of the scholarship, of my future. "Look, Seungmin," I forced a strained smile, trying to inject some semblance of humor into the abysmal situation, "I know we're not exactly going to be braiding each other's hair or exchanging friendship bracelets, but we have to work together. For the sake of our grades, can we at least try to be civil? Just for the next few months?"

A humorless smirk, sharp and cutting like broken glass, played on his perfect lips. "Civil? What's the point? It won't change the fact that you’re probably going to be a dead weight, clinging to my academic success like a barnacle to a ship. Knowing your track record for… 'accidents'." His gaze flickered meaningfully to my hands, then to the clean, empty table between us, a clear, unwelcome reminder of the coffee incident. The implication was that I was inherently clumsy, unreliable, and bound to mess up.

A sharp, furious retort sprang to my tongue – something about his own questionable social skills, his perpetually sour expression, his inability to interact with another human being without radiating hostility – but I bit it back, hard, my teeth digging into the inside of my cheek. "My GPA is just as high as yours, Seungmin, if not higher, actually," I stated, my voice losing its cooperative edge, becoming colder, more defensive. "I assure you, I'm perfectly capable of doing my share, and I won't 'drag your grade down'."

He leaned back further in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, his posture radiating an air of superior disdain. His gaze swept over me with an almost clinical detachment, as if evaluating a specimen under a microscope, or perhaps a particularly persistent pest. "Right. Just try not to trip over your own feet this time, or spill anything important. Or accidentally set the library on fire with your sheer lack of grace. My patience is already thinner than a single strand of hair, and frankly, I don't have enough spare brain cells to deal with your particular brand of… enthusiasm for misfortune."

My hands clenched into tight fists under the table, my nails digging into my palms, the physical pain a dull anchor against the sharp sting of his words. This was going to be an impossibly long, agonizing semester. We forced ourselves through the initial brainstorming session, the entire process punctuated by his relentless passive-aggressive comments and my increasingly strained, brittle politeness. Every single suggestion I made was met with a skeptical hum, a dismissive wave of his hand, or a thinly veiled criticism disguised as constructive feedback. "That's… an idea," he'd say, his tone suggesting it was the worst idea he'd ever heard. Or, "Are you sure you understand the parameters? Because that sounds wildly off-topic." Every time he spoke, it felt less like a productive conversation and more like a tiny, precise cut, each one a fresh wound.

As the meeting finally, mercifully, drew to a close, I began packing my things with an almost frantic speed, relief flooding through me like a cool, cleansing wave. "Okay, so I'll work on researching the historical context of the topic for the first section, and maybe you can look into the contemporary case studies for the second part of the draft?" I suggested, trying desperately to end on a cooperative, forward-looking note, a futile attempt to salvage some semblance of normalcy, to make it seem like we were two rational human beings capable of collaboration.

He merely grunted, already halfway out of his chair, seemingly desperate to escape the vicinity of my very existence. He paused beside the table, his shoulders squared, his eyes, dark and piercing, finally locking onto mine with an intensity that made me instinctively flinch, a sudden predatory gleam in their depths. His voice dropped, losing its usual mocking, sarcastic edge, becoming a low, chilling whisper that was somehow infinitely worse than any shouted insult, cutting deep into the thin veneer of my composure. "If I never see you again," he articulated each word slowly, deliberately, his gaze unwavering, "it still won’t be long enough."

He said it with such absolute conviction, such raw, unadulterated animosity, that it momentarily stunned me into silence. For once, my mind went blank, devoid of any snappy comeback, any witty retort to deflect the blow. My shoulders slumped, the last vestiges of my manufactured composure crumbling, leaving me feeling exposed and raw. All I could manage was a weary sigh, a heavy exhalation of defeat, and a slow, deliberate roll of my eyes, a silent admission that he had, for once, truly disarmed me. He watched my reaction for a second longer, a flicker of something unreadable – was it satisfaction? A cold triumph? – in his dark gaze, before turning sharply and walking away without another word. He disappeared around the corner, his retreating figure seeming to dissolve into the bustling library, leaving me utterly alone in the vast, echoing silence of the study area, the bitter, undeniable truth of his hatred hanging heavy in the air, a suffocating shroud. This project wasn't just going to be difficult; it was going to be pure, unadulterated torture. And somehow, I knew it had only just begun.

-

The initial dread of working with Seungmin had, against all odds, morphed into a fragile, strained routine. Weeks blurred into a grueling cycle of forced proximity and thinly veiled animosity. Our project, a complex analysis of ancient civilizations, was slowly, agonizingly, progressing. Every collaborative session felt less like an academic meeting and more like a minor diplomatic battle. Seungmin remained consistently cold, his every utterance a barbed wire fence between us, his expressions a constant, unyielding mask of disdain. I’d perfected the art of the subtle eye-roll and the tight-lipped nod, a silent, mutual agreement to endure for the sake of our grades, our coveted GPAs looming large as the ultimate prize. It was a miserable truce, a slow poison, but a truce nonetheless.

Then came the announcement that sent a fresh wave of ice-cold dread through me: the university's annual geology excursion. A mandatory, week-long camping trip to study rock formations and ecosystems, miles from campus, very useless yet helped in the grades. The moment the detailed itinerary landed in my inbox, my heart sank lower than a geologist's pickaxe hitting bedrock. Group assignments for tents. I scrolled down the PDF, my eyes scanning the list of pairings, my heart a leaden weight in my chest with each name I passed. And then I saw it, stark and undeniable, right below mine: Kim Seungmin. Of course. Just my luck. The universe truly did possess a cruel, sadistic sense of humor, determined to see just how much misery it could inflict upon my existence.

The bus ride to the remote campsite was a torturous blur. Jammed shoulder-to-shoulder with excited, chattering students, I mostly tuned out the cacophony, opting for oversized headphones and a grim, determined silence. Each bump in the road felt like a premonition of the discomfort to come. Upon arrival, the campsite was pure, unadulterated chaos – a sprawling expanse of muddy ground where tents were being erected like mushrooms after rain, equipment unloaded haphazardly, and hundreds of students milled about, their youthful energy a sharp contrast to my internal gloom. I located our designated plot, a patch of slightly less muddy earth where two flimsy pieces of canvas lay discarded, somehow constituting a shelter. Seungmin was already there, his movements precise and efficient, meticulously unrolling his sleeping bag inside what would soon be our shared enclosure. His back was to me, his broad shoulders squared, already staking his claim. He hadn't even waited.

"Great," I muttered under my breath, loud enough for him to undoubtedly catch the biting sarcasm. "Just fantastic."

He turned slowly, a dark eyebrow raised in that characteristic, disdainful arch. "What's 'fantastic'? The thrilling opportunity to spend a week in the unforgiving wilderness with someone whose primary skill seems to be being a persistent, irritating nuisance?" His voice was low, laced with his usual biting sarcasm, each word a perfectly aimed dart. He didn't even bother to look me in the eye.

"No, what's 'fantastic' is being trapped in a glorified cloth sack, barely big enough for one person, let alone two, with someone who treats me like I’m a particularly unpleasant germ," I retorted, dropping my heavy backpack with a thud that kicked up a puff of dry dust, a small act of defiance. "Did you even consider trying to get the tent assignment changed, Seungmin? Or are you just reveling in this, enjoying torturing me slowly, inch by agonizing inch?"

He let out a short, scoffing laugh, devoid of any genuine amusement. "Why would I? This is just part of the grand tapestry of my life, I suppose. Enduring minor annoyances for the greater good. Like passing this class with a decent grade, despite the handicaps I'm clearly being assigned." He unzipped his backpack, pulling out a thick geology textbook and a pen, as if he were about to start studying right there, mocking my frustration with his sheer indifference.

"You really are unbelievable," I spat, yanking my own sleeping bag out of its compression sack with unnecessary force, almost tearing the fabric. The tent, once just a visual, now felt impossibly small, a claustrophobic box that was already stealing my breath. Just the thought of breathing the same stale air as him, night after night, for five consecutive nights, sent a shiver of genuine dread down my spine. This wasn't just a project anymore; it was psychological warfare.

The first two days of the trip were a precarious, exhausting dance of avoidance. We hiked in separate groups whenever humanly possible, ate at opposite ends of the muddy picnic tables, and spoke only when absolutely, unequivocally necessary for the project tasks – identifying rock types, mapping geological features. But the evenings, oh, the evenings. Trapped in the shared tent, the air crackled with a suffocating silence, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of his sleeping bag, his deep, exasperated sighs, and my own jaw clenching so tight it ached. The unspoken tension was a live wire stretched taut between us, waiting for the smallest spark.

It finally snapped on the third night. A vicious, unseasonal storm had rolled in, turning the entire campsite into a muddy, miserable quagmire. Rain lashed against the thin tent fabric like thrown gravel, and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance, shaking the very ground beneath us. We'd been huddled inside, trying to go over some field notes by the weak, flickering glow of a single, battery-operated lantern. The damp cold had seeped into my bones, making my temper dangerously short.

"This data collection is sloppy," Seungmin stated, his voice cutting through the incessant drumming of the rain, sharp and dismissive as he jabbed a finger at my notebook. His tone was always one of cold authority, never of genuine help. "Did you even pay attention during the rock identification lecture? This is completely wrong. Look at these sketches. Are you drawing a cloud or a mineral sample?"

My patience, already worn thinner than old paper by the damp cold, the cramped space, and his constant, relentless criticisms, evaporated instantly. "It's not 'sloppy'!" I snapped, my voice rising, fueled by raw frustration. "It's a first pass, Seungmin, and the light out there was terrible! And honestly, your handwriting isn't exactly calligraphy either, Mr. Perfect! At least mine's legible even if my sketches aren't up to your impossible standards!"

"My handwriting doesn't affect the accuracy of the observation, unlike your apparent inability to distinguish between granite and quartzite," he shot back, his voice rising, a cold, controlled anger seeping into each syllable. His eyes, usually so impassive, now held a dangerous glint. "You know, for someone who claims to have such a high GPA, you really do struggle with basic concepts. Or perhaps you just trip your way into good grades like you tripped into me that day?"

The jab was unexpected, raw, and it hit a nerve that had been festering for three years, a deep-seated wound of humiliation and injustice. My vision narrowed, the weak lantern light suddenly blurring. The rain outside seemed to amplify the sudden, ringing silence in the tent as I took a ragged, trembling breath. This was it. I was done.

"Oh, so we're going there, are we?" My voice was low, dangerous, a low growl of pure, unadulterated fury. "Still hung up on a coffee stain from three years ago? Get over yourself, Seungmin! It was an accident! I apologized a hundred times! What is your actual problem? Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to deserve this constant, bitter, nasty attitude from you, huh? Was it just a bad hair day that morning, or are you just fundamentally incapable of being a decent human being?"

His eyes, usually so impassive, now flared with something akin to genuine rage. His face was pale in the flickering light. "My problem? My problem is having to tolerate your existence! You're clumsy, you're annoying, you're always trying to play the victim! You're like a loud, persistent buzzing in my ear that I can't swat away! Do you know how many times I've tried to avoid you? You're like a bad rash that keeps reappearing no matter what I do!"

"A bad rash?" My voice cracked with a mixture of disbelief, humiliation, and a surprising, deep well of hurt. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them back fiercely. I would not cry in front of him. "You think I enjoy this? You think I enjoy being around someone who looks at me like I'm dirt under his shoe? I've tried to be civil! I've tried to be professional! I've tried to ignore your petty insults! But all you ever do is tear me down! What, is it that hard for you to see someone else succeed? Is it that hard for you to just be a decent human being for five minutes without making someone else feel small and insignificant?" My voice was rising, trembling with suppressed rage and a surprising amount of genuine pain. "You are cold, Seungmin. You are just utterly, completely cold. You're a walking, talking glacier! And frankly, I'm sick of it! I am sick of you and your self-important, hateful attitude!"

The last words hung in the air, echoing in the claustrophobic space, punctuated by a particularly loud clap of thunder that rattled the tent. We stood there, glaring at each other across the tiny expanse of the tent floor, our chests heaving, the air thick and crackling with the intensity of our raw, exposed resentment. His perfect composure was finally, irrevocably shattered. For a long, drawn-out moment, his eyes, usually so hard and unyielding, softened, just a fraction. A flicker of something crossed his face – was it surprise? Vulnerability? A hint of hurt beneath the anger? – a fleeting, almost imperceptible emotion that was so unlike him, so utterly human, that it caught me off guard. It was the first crack in his meticulously constructed wall, a tiny, almost imperceptible fissure, but it was unmistakably there. And for the first time, in the midst of all the anger and hatred, I felt a strange sense of something beyond pure fury. A tiny, almost unnoticeable shift.

The raw, echoing silence that followed our explosion in the tent on that stormy night was almost more deafening than the relentless drumming of rain outside. The air still vibrated with the violent echoes of shouted words, of exposed nerves and bruised pride. Seungmin had simply stared at me for another long, unblinking moment, that fleeting, unreadable flicker in his eyes, before turning abruptly to face the tent wall, effectively ending the confrontation. There was no apology, no acknowledgment of the raw emotions that had just flared. He just… shut down. I lay rigidly in my sleeping bag, back to him, listening to the persistent drumming rain and the frantic, chaotic beating of my own heart, a drumroll of lingering anger and a strange, unsettling vulnerability. Sleep didn't come easily that night, disturbed by the ghost of his unspoken emotions and the replay of my own desperate accusations. The next morning, a fragile, unspoken truce had settled between us, heavy and awkward, a layer of thick, uncomfortable frost.

The remaining days of the camping trip were a masterclass in uncomfortable coexistence. We moved through the schedule like two separate, carefully orbiting planets, never quite colliding, never quite separating. Our interactions were clipped, functional, and strictly academic. "Pass the map," he’d utter, his voice flat. "Did you record the pH levels for this soil sample?" I'd respond, my tone equally devoid of emotion. "The coordinates are slightly off here," I might point out, and he’d merely hum in acknowledgment. There were no more direct insults, no more snide remarks. But there was also no warmth, no easing of the tension that still hummed like a live wire beneath the surface. Each hour was a slow, agonizing countdown until we could return to campus, to the blessed anonymity of our separate lives, where the only shared space was a large lecture hall.

Yet, even in this strained quiet, amidst the mud and the mandated group activities, I started to notice things. Small, almost imperceptible moments that chipped away at the monolithic image I had built of him – the "walking glacier," the "cold, hateful Seungmin."

One afternoon, while hiking along a particularly steep, rocky trail, the air thick with damp earth and the scent of pine, a younger student in our group, clearly struggling with a heavy backpack and an armful of rock samples, slipped on a loose patch of shale. Their bulky sample bag tumbled down the incline, scattering carefully collected specimens everywhere. Before anyone else could react, before even the professor could shout a warning, Seungmin, who had been several paces ahead, his eyes usually fixed on the path, paused. He looked around quickly, a swift, almost furtive glance, as if checking if anyone was watching. Then, without a word, he silently walked back down the treacherous slope. He knelt down, his expensive trekking pants getting covered in mud, and began to help the flustered, embarrassed student gather their samples, even reaching into difficult crevices to retrieve a few that had rolled far. His expression remained neutral, unreadable, giving nothing away, but the act itself was undeniably, undeniably kind. He then offered a steady hand to help the student back up the slippery incline, a silent, supporting anchor. He hadn't said a word, just did it, then strode off quickly, resuming his place at the head of the line, leaving the student stammering their thanks to his retreating back. I watched the entire exchange, half-hidden by a cluster of thick, damp trees, a surprising, almost unsettling warmth spreading through my chest. The "walking glacier" had a hidden current, after all. A quiet, unexpected decency.

Another evening, back at the campsite, the air chilled and damp, we were trying to go over the day’s complicated data. The battery in our shared lantern flickered ominously, threatening to die, plunging us into darkness. I muttered, annoyed, about how impractical and inefficient it was. Without looking up from his notes, or even pausing his rapid scribbling, Seungmin reached into his own meticulously organized bag and pulled out a fresh set of batteries. He tossed them onto my lap with a soft thud. "You need these," he said, his voice flat, but without a hint of his usual derision. "It's inefficient to work in the dark. Your notes are illegible enough as it is, no need to worsen them by adding shadows." It was still a jab, a reference to my supposed clumsiness and incompetence, but the gesture itself was… helpful. Practical. And for the first time, it didn't feel entirely malicious. It felt less like an insult and more like a statement of fact, coupled with a solution.

"Thanks," I said, genuinely surprised, picking up the batteries. I waited, bracing myself, expecting a sarcastic retort, a follow-up barb. But he just grunted, a noncommittal sound, continuing to scribble furiously in his own notebook. The silence that followed wasn't entirely hostile. It was just… silence. A comfortable, almost companionable silence, broken only by the distant sounds of the camp and the scratch of our pens.

On the final morning, as we packed up our muddy gear to leave, a palpable sense of relief permeated the air. As I struggled with a particularly stubborn tent pole, Seungmin, already finished with his own packing, unexpectedly reached over and expertly untangled it with a single, swift movement. "You're doing it wrong," he stated, but this time, there was no contempt in his voice, just a simple observation. It was infuriatingly helpful.

Then, as we waited for the bus, he actually initiated a conversation that wasn't solely driven by immediate necessity. It was about our project, of course, the ever-present anchor of our interaction, but it was the first time we’d spoken without the air crackling with resentment, without the invisible barrier of animosity.

"We need to finalize the structural analysis section as soon as we get back to campus," he stated, his voice a low, even tone, completely devoid of its usual sharp edges. He glanced at his own notes, then back at me. "I've started drafting some of the geological arguments, integrating the new field data. And, I have to admit…" He paused, as if the words were physically painful to utter. "I think you've actually got a decent grasp on the historical context, surprisingly. Your research on the ancient trade routes was quite thorough."

I paused, midway through zipping my overstuffed backpack. My eyebrows raised in genuine amusement, a small, involuntary smile playing on my lips. "Surprisingly?" I echoed, a hint of playful sarcasm in my voice. "I thought you were utterly convinced I was going to drag your precious GPA down to the academic abyss, Mr. 'Clumsy-and-Annoying'."

He straightened up then, turning to face me fully, meeting my gaze directly. His lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, in what might have been the fleeting shadow of a smirk. It was so subtle, I almost missed it. "Well," he began, his voice a low drawl, "let's just say you're not entirely useless. Your research skills aren't as catastrophically bad as your spatial awareness, or your ability to handle a simple cup of coffee." The insult was still there, woven into the fabric of the reluctant compliment, yes, but it was delivered with a different cadence, a lighter touch. It felt less like a genuine attack and more like… banter. And instead of feeling hurt, instead of feeling the familiar sting of his contempt, I felt a strange, bubbling urge to laugh. I managed a scoff instead, shaking my head. "Coming from Mr. Perfect, the human embodiment of flawless execution, I'll take that as a glowing commendation."

He let out a soft sound then, a quiet huff that was almost, almost a genuine chuckle. The sound was so unexpected, so entirely out of character, that for a split second, I froze. He caught himself quickly, though, his face settling back into its usual carefully constructed stoic expression, his shoulders straightening. "Don't get used to this," he muttered, his voice regaining a hint of its usual dryness as he hoisted his heavy backpack onto his shoulders. He didn't look at me as he started to walk towards the idling university bus. "Our GPA depends on it, nothing more. A means to an end." And with that, he was gone, blending into the stream of students, leaving me standing there, a small, unexpected smile still touching my lips. The truce was still fragile, built on the shifting sands of academic necessity, but maybe, just maybe, it wasn't quite so miserable anymore. Marks mattered, after all, and for the first time, I felt like we might actually achieve them without either of us ending up in the infirmary. Or jail.

-

The subtle shift that had begun in the muddy, cramped confines of the campsite continued to unfurl, slowly but surely, back on the sprawling, familiar grounds of campus. The bitter, acidic edge that had defined our every interaction for so long began to soften, imperceptibly at first, then with a gradual, almost shy consistency. It wasn't a sudden transformation, but a nuanced evolution, like ice melting into a slow trickle. The "truce" we'd forged for the sake of our precarious GPAs started to expand beyond just academic necessity. Our weekly project meetings, once dreaded endurance tests I approached with a pit in my stomach, now held a strange, almost enjoyable rhythm. The insults were still very much present, Seungmin wouldn't be Seungmin without them, but they were lighter, less aimed to wound and more to playfully prod, to challenge. It was a new kind of verbal fencing, where the foils were blunted.

"Are you absolutely certain you formatted that bibliography correctly?" Seungmin would ask, leaning over my shoulder, his voice a low, dry murmur that no longer sent shivers of annoyance down my spine. "I wouldn't want your general clumsiness to extend to proper citation; that would be a catastrophic academic event."

"And I wouldn't want your overly critical eye to miss the actual, groundbreaking point of the research, Mr. Perfect," I'd shoot back, a small smirk playing on my lips. "There's more to a thesis than just impeccable formatting, you know." The old sting was gone from his words, replaced by a subtle challenge that I found myself, to my surprise, genuinely enjoying. The air between us, once thick with unspoken animosity and unspoken threats, now carried a faint, almost playful current, like static electricity before a summer storm. We’d even started to fall into step with each other sometimes, walking in the same direction after class, a comfortable silence settling between us that hadn’t existed before.

One particularly grueling afternoon, buried under a literal mountain of research papers in a secluded corner of the library, we were locked in a heated, albeit now less hostile, debate about the merits of a particularly obscure historical theory. My brain felt like it was melting from lack of sleep and too much caffeine. As I, perhaps overly dramatically, tried to explain a convoluted point, I made a rather wild, exaggerated gesture with my hands, accidentally knocking my pen off the table. My reflexes, surprisingly quick for my current state of exhaustion, allowed me to catch it mid-air with a dramatic, somewhat theatrical flourish.

"See?" I exclaimed, trying to look nonchalant, as if I did that all the time. "Not so clumsy after all, am I? Perhaps I'm evolving."

Seungmin, who had been watching me with his usual critical, assessing gaze, a faint frown line between his brows, suddenly let out a sound. It wasn't a scoff, or a grunt, or a sarcastic remark. It was a genuine, startled burst of laughter. A short, sharp sound that quickly died, quickly muffled, but undeniably, unequivocally a laugh. It came out of him so unexpectedly, so out of character, that both of us froze. His eyes widened slightly, the barest hint of a surprised flush creeping up his pale neck. My own eyes went wide in response, my breath hitched. We stared at each other for a beat, two beats, an eternity, the faint echo of his laughter still hanging in the quiet library air like a phantom. It was the first time I had ever made him laugh. The first time I'd even heard him laugh, period. The moment stretched, awkward and profound, before he quickly averted his gaze, clearing his throat loudly, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," he muttered, his voice a little gruff, a little rougher than usual, as he immediately picked up his pen and pretended to be deeply, urgently engrossed in his complex notes. "Beginner's luck. A fluke. Don't expect a repeat performance."

I didn't press it, didn't dare to. But a warmth spread through me, something more potent and comforting than the library's stuffy heating. The tension that had snapped between us was no longer the familiar, searing anger, but a new, exhilarating kind of awkwardness, a feeling of having stumbled upon something fragile and unexpected.

Our project work often ran late, pushing us into the quiet hours of the campus, long after most students had retreated to their dorms. One evening, after a particularly intense, four-hour study session that had left my brain feeling like scrambled eggs, we emerged from the almost-empty library. The campus lights cast long, stark shadows across the deserted pathways, and the usual daytime bustle had died down to a hushed murmur of rustling leaves and distant traffic. It was a crisp, cool night, the air carrying the subtle scent of damp earth. We started walking, quite naturally, in the same direction, towards the main gate.

"Which way are you headed?" he asked, his voice low, breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen between us. It wasn't a question delivered with forced politeness, but with a natural curiosity, a casualness that surprised me.

"My apartment is just a few blocks past the main gate, near the old bookstore," I replied, gesturing vaguely into the darkness.

"I'll walk with you," he said simply, not as a question asking for permission, but as a statement of fact, a decision already made. And he did. We walked in comfortable silence, the kind that didn't need to be filled with forced conversation or the tense expectation of a verbal attack. There was no longer the oppressive weight of his animosity, no need to brace myself for a cutting remark. It just… was. The silence felt okay. More than okay, it felt surprisingly pleasant, even companionable. I found myself stealing quiet glances at his profile, illuminated intermittently by the yellow glow of the streetlights, feeling a strange, unexpected sense of peace settle over me. It felt less lonely than walking home by myself.

These small shifts weren't just in our shared, silent walks. They began to appear in smaller, more meaningful gestures, quiet acts of thoughtfulness that built up like tiny, invisible bricks. I remembered one afternoon when I was struggling with a particularly complex statistical problem for another class, completely unrelated to our project. I had mumbled my frustration aloud during a brief coffee break, half to myself, half just releasing steam. Seungmin, who had been engrossed in his own notes, seemingly oblivious, had, without a word, taken my textbook, scanned the problem, and then, with frustrating ease, explained the solution in a few concise sentences, patiently, clearly. He didn't mock me for not understanding it, didn't make me feel stupid for needing help. He just… helped. Simply. Efficiently.

Another time, I’d been working late in the campus study lounge, feeling a familiar, insistent grumble in my stomach. I'd mentioned offhand to no one in particular that I was starving, wishing I had my favorite brand of spicy snack crackers, the ones they only sold at the small convenience store off-campus. The very next day, after our project meeting, as I was packing up my bag, I noticed a small, crinkly bag tucked almost hidden under my notebook. It was my favorite snack, the exact brand, still perfectly sealed. I looked up, my eyebrows raised in surprise, to catch him already walking away, his back to me as he pushed open the heavy library door. But just before he disappeared, I caught the barest hint of a smirk, a flicker of something almost smug, on his face. He knew I’d seen it.

Banter had replaced bitterness, and small, unexpected acts of thoughtfulness were slowly, painstakingly chipping away at the seemingly impenetrable walls he'd built around himself, revealing quiet, fleeting glimpses of the person beneath the cold, sharp exterior. We weren't friends yet, not by a long shot. The word felt too big, too fragile for the tentative connection forming between us. But the vast, seemingly impassable chasm that had once separated us was slowly, tentatively, beginning to bridge, one quiet moment, one shared laugh, one thoughtful gesture at a time. I found myself wondering, more than once, what else lay beneath Seungmin's carefully constructed facade.

The subtle shift in our dynamic continued, growing more pronounced with each passing week. The library, once a battleground, had become a quiet, almost comfortable space for us. Our project was nearing completion, its impending success a testament to our strange, evolving partnership. The teasing from Seungmin still came, sharp and witty, but now it felt less like a threat and more like a secret language, a peculiar form of affection only we understood. He’d ruffle my hair sometimes, a quick, almost imperceptible gesture, and once, during a particularly stressful moment with a malfunctioning printer, he even offered a brief, solid hug when I finally got it to work, then immediately pulled back as if burned.

It was during one of our late-night study sessions that I overheard fragments of his past. I was grabbing water from the cooler when a few students, huddled in a hushed conversation near the entrance, mentioned his name. My ears perked up, against my better judgment. They spoke of his family, hushed whispers of abuse and a tortured upbringing, how he had moved out at a young age, essentially cutting ties, building walls around himself to survive. They were saying things like:

"Did you hear about his parents? Apparently, they were completely awful. Like, physically and emotionally." "Yeah, someone said his dad was violent. And his mom just… let it happen." "No wonder he's so cold. He probably never learned how to have normal relationships." "He moved out at 16, right? I heard he was basically homeless for a while…..dunno how he still affords such expensive clothes though" "must be his cousin's lending him money, they say he was close to his cousin brother" "he betrayed him too, he was the one who abused him as well, no?"

It painted a picture so stark, so devastatingly different from the stoic, arrogant Seungmin I knew. He hadn’t just been born cold; he had been made cold, forging his defenses in a crucible of pain. A wave of unexpected sympathy washed over me, a profound understanding for the seemingly impenetrable fortress he had built around his heart. The arrogance wasn’t arrogance at all, I realized; it was a shield.

A few days later, the tables turned. A group of self-important jerks from the history department, known for their obnoxious gossip and condescending attitudes, started loudly speculating about Seungmin's reserved nature and his family background right in the common room. They snickered, making crude jokes about him always being alone, about how he must have 'issues' because he never seemed to interact with anyone outside of academic necessities.

They were saying things like:

"Seriously, what's his deal? Is he, like, incapable of human emotion?" "Probably has some deep-seated trauma. Daddy issues, maybe?" "I heard his parents were monsters, honestly his whole family. Explains a lot, actually." "He probably ran away because he couldn't handle it. What a drama queen." Fury, sharp and instant, coursed through me. I didn't think, I just reacted.

"You know," I interrupted, my voice cutting through their obnoxious chatter, "it's pathetic how you manage to sound so utterly clueless while having such loud mouths. Worry about your own sorry excuses for lives, instead of dissecting someone else's. Some people actually have real problems, unlike your biggest concern, which seems to be how many brain cells you can collectively lose in a day."

One of them, a bulky guy with a smug grin, sneered at me. "Oh, look who it is. His little protector. What, did he finally deign to speak to you?"

"He doesn't need a protector," I retorted, stepping closer, my voice low and dangerous. "But he does need a break from pathetic losers like you who get their kicks from tearing down people they don't even know. You want to talk about issues? You're the ones with issues if this is how you feel good about yourselves."

The smug grin vanished, replaced by a sneer. "Watch your mouth, girl. You don't know who you're talking to."

"Oh, I know exactly who I'm talking to," I shot back, my patience evaporated. "A bunch of overgrown 'toddlers' who probably think their farts smell like roses. Get a life, or better yet, get a clue." The next few minutes were a blur. Words escalated, shoves turned into pushes, and suddenly, I was in the middle of a full-blown brawl. I knew how to handle myself; my older sister had taught me a few things growing up. I landed a solid hit on one guy's jaw, ducked under another's wild swing, but their numbers were overwhelming. I felt a sharp pain in my neck as someone tried to suffocate me, then a blow to my cheek and lip. I fought back, kicking and punching, until a few other students intervened and broke it up, leaving me with throbbing knuckles, a sore neck, and a busted lip.

Later, sitting in a quiet corner of the library, I cleaned up my bruised knuckles and dabbed ointment on my split lip. The fight had been stupid, reckless even, but I didn't regret it. Not for a second.

Meanwhile, Seungmin, having heard garbled rumors about a fight involving me and some jerks from the history department, felt a cold knot of dread form in his stomach. He didn’t know why, but the idea of me being hurt made his chest tighten. He ran to the nurses’ office, his usual calm replaced by a frantic urgency he rarely felt. He searched the empty room, calling my name, his heart pounding. Panic flared when he didn't find me there. He searched the common rooms, the lecture halls, his internal alarm growing louder.

Finally, at the far end of the university grounds, near the main gate, he saw me. I was walking home, slowly, my head down, my backpack slung low. He ran, closing the distance quickly, his breath catching in his throat when he finally reached me. He grabbed my arm, gently, his fingers surprisingly hesitant.

"Y/N!" His voice was rough, laced with a fear I'd never heard from him. "Why? What happened? Are you okay?" He pulled my hand to inspect my knuckles, then gently tilted my chin to look at my neck and face. His eyes widened further at the sight of my busted knuckles, the faint red marks and developing bruises on my neck where they'd tried to suffocate me, the swelling on my cheek, and the ointment over my busted lip. His composure utterly crumbled. "Why would you do that? You look like you got run over by a truck!"

I just nodded, a small, tired smile on my injured lip. "I'm okay, Seungmin. Just a little bruised."

He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. "But… why? Who were those guys? Why did you get into a fight?" His voice was softer now, full of a vulnerability that struck me more than any of his earlier anger ever had.

I hesitated, then decided to be honest. "They were talking about you," I admitted quietly, looking away. "Saying stupid, cruel things about your family, about you. I just… I couldn't stand it."

He froze, his grip on my arm tightening almost imperceptibly. His eyes searched mine, a whirlwind of emotions swirling within their depths – surprise, shock, a hint of something fragile, something like gratitude. He didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, he let out a slow, deliberate breath, and started walking beside me, towards my apartment building, the familiar path now feeling profoundly different.

"You really… you stood up for me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, almost disbelieving.

"Yeah," I mumbled. "Someone had to. They were being complete jerks."

He walked in silence for a few more minutes, the soft glow of the streetlights painting long shadows ahead of us. Then, he spoke again, his voice even softer, laced with a raw vulnerability I’d never imagined I would hear from him. He began to talk, not about the fight, but about his past, about the loneliness, the walls he built, the constant vigilance. He didn't offer a dramatic confession, but a quiet, almost reluctant sharing of the burdens he carried. It wasn’t a torrent of emotion, but a steady, painful drip of truths that explained everything. He spoke about how he didn't trust easily, how he always expected people to eventually let him down, or worse, to use his vulnerabilities against him. That’s why he pushed people away. That’s why he had pushed me away. My heart ached for the younger Seungmin who had endured such pain….. the abuse, the mental scar left on him….and the physical scars his father had left with his beloved belt on his back. And worst? His mother the one who brought him to the world had been far worse, she didn't hit him, no. Her words were worse than being stabbed all over continuously until there was no more blood left inside him. 'I wish you died in my womb itself, useless disgrace' he had mumbled what his mom had said ragefully when he was eight, returned from school with a 'B' grade. He explained how he came from a family of scholars and multi-talented people….he was just good at academics, music at times he liked it, but 'pop' which his family never approved. And how he had ran away at 16.

We reached my apartment building, the familiar brick facade a welcome sight. I turned to face him, my lip throbbing slightly. He looked down at my face, a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

"You're not as annoying as I thought," he said quietly, a faint, almost shy smirk touching his lips. Then, his eyes met mine, a flicker of genuine concern replacing the usual sarcasm. "And hey… don't jump into dog fights 'cause people say something about someone."

I couldn't help but smile, a genuine, if slightly lopsided, grin. "That someone is you, idiot." I chuckled softly, despite the pain. "We're friends, right? Of course, I would beat up someone for you. You do the same for me someday, okay?"

He didn't reply, just stood there, watching me. I waved goodbye, the small bag of snacks still tucked into my backpack, my knuckles aching, but a strange warmth spreading through me. I walked inside my apartment building, leaving him on the pavement, a quiet understanding finally settled between us. The walls hadn't just cracked; a section of them had crumbled completely.

-

The fight, my busted lip, and Seungmin’s raw, unexpected honesty had undeniably cracked something fundamental between us. The lingering tension wasn’t gone, but it had morphed into something entirely different—a charged awareness, a silent understanding that hummed beneath the surface. The careful, almost fragile friendship that had begun to blossom now deepened rapidly, like a plant suddenly given ample sunlight. He joked more often, his dry wit a surprising, almost addictive source of amusement that often caught me off guard, making me laugh despite myself. His teasing, once a weapon, was now a familiar banter, a peculiar form of affection only we seemed to understand. He’d ruffle my hair so frequently it became a comforting, almost instinctive gesture, a brief brush of his fingers that sent a curious warmth through me. And once, during a particularly stressful moment with a malfunctioning library printer, when I finally coerced the ancient machine into spitting out our perfectly formatted document, he even offered a brief, solid hug – a fleeting, tender weight against my shoulder – before immediately pulling back, as if burned by the contact. The touches were small, almost imperceptible, non-committal, yet each one sent a ripple through me, a quiet acknowledgment of the shifting, undefinable landscape of our relationship.

A few weeks later, with our major project nearing its final submission, I was buried deep in a new set of notes in the sprawling, echoing library, trying to make sense of a particularly convoluted philosophy reading. The familiar scent of old books, dust, and quiet ambition filled the air, a comforting constant in my often-chaotic academic life. I was so engrossed, I didn't immediately notice him. But then, a subtle shift in the energy of the room, a prickle of awareness at the back of my neck, told me he was there. Seungmin walked in, his presence immediately noticeable even amidst the rows of diligently working students. He scanned the room with a quick, decisive sweep, his eyes landing on me. It was becoming undeniably clear that our project meetings were no longer the sole reason for our shared time. We just… wanted to spend time together, whether it was to work, or just to exist in the same space.

He started walking towards my table, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips, a rare, relaxed curve. But then, just as he was about to reach me, a figure detached itself from a nearby study group. It was Mark from my statistics class, a guy who had always been a little too friendly, a little too persistent for my liking. Mark stopped by my table, leaning in, his voice a little too loud, a little too familiar, jarring the quiet academic atmosphere. "Hey Y/N! Still struggling with those regression analyses? I saw you looking stressed in lecture today. I could always tutor you later, if you want. My place, maybe?" His grin was wide, suggestive, and made my skin crawl.

I felt an immediate surge of annoyance, a flicker of warning bells clanging in my head. "No, thanks, Mark. I've got it," I replied, trying to keep my voice polite but firm, my gaze pointedly on my textbook.

Before Mark could press the issue, a shadow fell over our table. Seungmin had arrived. His pleasant expression had vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense coldness that made Mark visibly flinch and take a half-step back. Seungmin didn't say anything, but his eyes, sharp and predatory, fixed on Mark. His jaw was subtly clenched, his posture radiating a silent, dangerous warning. The silent threat was palpable, heavy in the air. Mark, sensing the dramatic shift in the atmosphere and Seungmin's unspoken, yet potent, displeasure, stammered awkwardly, "Uh, right. Later, Y/N," and quickly retreated, practically scuttling away between the bookshelves like a startled mouse.

Seungmin turned to me, his jaw still clenched, his eyes still burning with an uncharacteristic intensity I rarely saw. "What was that?" he demanded, his voice low, a controlled growl that sent a shiver down my spine.

"What was what?" I tried to feign innocence, though my heart was beginning to thump erratically, a frantic drum against my ribs. I knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Him," he said, gesturing vaguely in Mark's retreating direction. "Trying to 'tutor' you. At 'his place'." His voice was laced with a barely concealed possessiveness, a hint of something that sounded suspiciously like… jealousy. It was a new, unsettling, yet strangely thrilling note in his tone.

"He's just being friendly," I countered, though even I knew it wasn't entirely true. Mark's intentions were anything but innocent. "And besides, it's none of your business anyway. Why do you care so much, Seungmin? You've never cared before."

He scoffed, a short, sharp sound, but there was no real conviction behind it, no genuine disdain. He leaned in, suddenly, intimately close, caging me between his body and the edge of the library table. His hands flattened on the table on either side of me, trapping me in place, his solid frame blocking out the rest of the world. His eyes, dark and intense, searched mine, stripping away any pretense. The air thick with unspoken things, charged with an undeniable current. His scent, a clean, fresh mix of laundry soap and something uniquely him – sharp, cool, and utterly intoxicating – filled my senses, making my head spin. My breath hitched in my throat.

"Why do I care?" His voice was a low whisper, rough with unspoken emotion, barely audible above the quiet hum of the library. "Why do I care? What a stupid question, Y/N. Don't you think I care?" His gaze dropped to my lips, lingering there, hot and intense, then flickered back to my eyes, a silent question passing between us. The space between us dwindled, becoming almost nonexistent, my personal bubble entirely invaded. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle, almost imperceptible tremble in his frame. My own heart was hammering against my ribs, echoing in my ears, a frantic rhythm against the quiet hum of the room.

"Why do you care so much?" I whispered back, my voice barely a thread, challenging him, my gaze fixed on his, unable to look away. His proximity was intoxicating, terrifying. Every fiber of my being was alive, hyper-aware of him, of the delicious danger of the moment.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, his head lowered, slowly, deliberately, drawn in by an invisible force. His eyes were half-lidded, dark with unspoken desire, an emotion that both thrilled and unnerved me, and his gaze was entirely, possessively on my mouth. I unconsciously parted my lips, a soft gasp escaping, my entire being focused on the undeniable magnetic pull between us. The air thrummed with a silent question, a desperate anticipation, a shared longing. His breath fanned across my face, warm and minty, teasing my senses. His lips were just inches from mine, so agonizingly close I could feel the heat, the subtle movement of his breath, the whisper of air.

Almost.

Just as our lips were about to meet, just as the tension was about to break, the heavy library door creaked open with a loud groan, admitting a group of boisterous students who were laughing far too loudly, their voices echoing in the quiet space. The sudden, jarring sound shattered the delicate bubble of intimacy that had enveloped us. Seungmin stiffened, his head snapping up, his hands instantly retracting from the table as if he’d touched a live wire. He took a hasty step back, putting a sudden, jarring distance between us. His face, which had been so expressive moments before, was now a mask of carefully constructed neutrality, a faint, tell-tale flush high on his cheekbones. His eyes darted around, suddenly cold and distant again.

Neither of us spoke. The unspoken question hung in the air, thick and heavy, a phantom touch on my lips. He looked at me, his eyes quickly sliding away, a flicker of something that looked like self-reproach, frustration, or perhaps even embarrassment crossing his features. Without another word, without even a glance back, he turned abruptly and walked away, disappearing quickly between the towering bookshelves, leaving me utterly alone at the table, my heart still racing, my lips still tingling, the ghost of a kiss haunting the space between us.

The next week was silent. A suffocating, awkward silence. His walls were up again, higher and thicker than ever before, reinforced with a desperate urgency. The playful banter ceased. He avoided my gaze, spoke only in clipped, necessary sentences about the project, his voice devoid of any warmth. I didn't push. The almost-kiss, the raw vulnerability he had shown, the flicker of jealousy – it was all too much, too soon, too exposed. I didn't dare mention it, and neither did he. I knew, with a certainty that settled like a cold stone in my stomach, that he was cursing himself for the nonsense he'd even thought, for almost breaking the fragile new reality we had built. And I, left with the ghost of a touch and an unasked question, didn't know what to do but endure, and wait.

The week that followed the almost-kiss was a torturous expanse of silence. Seungmin had retreated entirely, his walls higher and more impenetrable than ever. He avoided my gaze, spoke only when absolutely necessary for our project, his voice clipped and devoid of any emotion. The casual touches, the light banter, the shared glances—all vanished as if they had never existed. It was like he'd hit a reset button, reverting to the cold, distant person I'd first known, only now it felt worse because I'd seen glimpses of what lay beneath. I didn't push. The humiliation of the near-moment, the crushing weight of his sudden retreat, kept me silent, nursing a quiet hurt and a growing sense of confusion.

-

Then, the inevitable happened. Not between us, but to me. A persistent cough escalated into a full-blown fever, body aches, and a throat that felt like it was lined with sandpaper. Uni became an impossibility. I missed class for a day, then two, then three. By the fourth day, my head still pounded, but the worst of the fever had broken. I was drifting in and out of sleep, nestled deep in my bed, the curtains drawn against the bright afternoon light. My mom, bless her, was a constant, comforting presence, bringing me lukewarm tea and soft blankets.

I vaguely heard the doorbell ring, followed by the murmur of voices. I assumed it was a delivery, or maybe one of mom's friends. A few minutes later, my bedroom door creaked open softly. I stirred, blinking my eyes open, disoriented. Standing in the doorway, framed by the soft light of the hallway, was Seungmin.

My eyes widened in disbelief. He was here. In my apartment. In my bedroom. My mom was right behind him, a small, welcoming smile on her face. "Look who came to visit, sweetheart," she whispered, her voice laced with surprise and a hint of delight. "He was very worried about you."

Seungmin looked undeniably awkward, clutching a small plastic bag in one hand – a box of tissues, a bottle of juice, and a packet of my favorite crackers. "Hi," he mumbled, his gaze sweeping over my disheveled hair and flushed face. He looked pale, almost as if he'd run all the way here.

My mom stepped forward, ushering him gently further into the room. "Please, come in. Make yourself comfortable. You know, you're the first one of her friends who has ever bothered to show up when she's sick." She glanced at me, a soft sadness in her eyes. "She believes having friends would just lead to distractions, make her lose focus on her studies and scholarship. She always said everyone else just used her for notes or favors."

Seungmin froze, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. He looked genuinely surprised by that. I was always surrounded by people, always laughing and talking. He probably saw me as effortlessly popular, unburdened by the academic anxieties that plagued him. The revelation hung in the air, shifting his perspective, painting a new picture of my own carefully constructed barriers.

My mom gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. "I'll go make some fresh tea for you both." She left the room, giving us a knowing, gentle smile as she closed the door softly behind her.

The silence that followed was different from the one in the library. This was a quiet, intimate silence, tinged with a delicate vulnerability. Seungmin slowly approached my bed, his gaze soft, almost hesitant. He pulled a chair closer, placing the bag he carried on the bedside table. He just sat there, watching me. He didn't speak, just observed, his eyes scanning my face, taking in the signs of my illness.

As the afternoon light faded into dusk my mom had served tea….long back, empty glasses sitting on the side table, he remained. My mom checked on us once, her eyebrows raising subtly when she saw him still there. She didn't press, just smiled. I must have drifted off again, lulled by the gentle rhythm of his breathing. When I next stirred, it was deep in the night. The room was dark, save for the faint glow from the hallway seeping under the door. He was still there, sitting by my bedside, his head resting against the back of the chair, his eyes closed. My mom must have come in while I was asleep because a soft blanket was draped over his shoulders.

Then, I felt it. A soft, warm weight enclosing my hand. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the dimness. His hand. He was holding my hand, his fingers loosely intertwined with mine as he slept. My mom would eventually tell me later that she had come in to check on me again and saw him like that, holding my hand while he slept, and she didn't want to interfere. She simply smiled to herself, a quiet understanding dawning in her heart.

The next morning, I woke to the soft sound of his even breathing. My head felt clearer, the fever gone. I looked at him, truly looked at him. He was still there, asleep in the chair, his head tilted awkwardly. His face, usually so guarded, was softer now, relaxed in slumber, almost boyish. The sight sent a wave of tenderness through me. As if sensing my gaze, his eyes fluttered open. He blinked, a little disoriented, then his gaze met mine. His expression, usually so carefully schooled, was softer than I had ever seen it. All the walls were down, stripped away by exhaustion, by concern, by the quiet intimacy of the night.

He slowly straightened up, his hand still holding mine, his thumb gently stroking the back of my hand. His voice, when it came, was a barely audible whisper, raw with a vulnerability that made my chest ache. "I don’t hate you," he murmured, his eyes searching mine, seeking understanding. "I don’t think I ever did, not really. I dunno, Y/N… it's a scary feeling I'm carrying, and I don't wanna hurt you." His grip tightened, a silent plea in his touch. "It's just… I'm not good at this. Not good at… caring about someone like this."

Days Later;

Seungmin's whispered confession – "I don’t hate you. I don’t think I ever did, not really… I dunno, Y/N… it's a scary feeling I'm carrying, and I don't wanna hurt you" – lingered in the air long after he'd left my apartment that morning. It wasn't a grand declaration, but the raw vulnerability in his voice, the tremor in his touch as he held my hand, had irrevocably shattered any remaining doubts. The careful, almost fragile friendship that had begun to blossom in the library now deepened, solidifying into something real and comforting.

The following days, and then weeks, confirmed the shift. He started dropping by my place frequently, initially under the guise of polishing our now-finished project. But it quickly became clear he just wanted to be there. He’d arrive with a quiet knock, slip off his shoes, and settle onto the couch as if it were his own, pulling out his laptop not for work, but just to be present in the same room. My mom, ever perceptive, had taken to him instantly. She adored him, showering him with the kind of warm, gentle attention he clearly hadn't experienced much of. She'd make him extra portions of dinner, fuss over his quiet nature, and listen intently when he spoke. "Your mum likes me more, honestly," he'd tease, flexing his eyebrows at me from across the kitchen table, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. I'd swat playfully at his arm, "Not allowed. She’s mine."

It was a few months later, over one of Mom's elaborate Sunday dinners – a spread of comfort food designed to feed an army – that the deepest, most stubborn wall in Seungmin finally crumbled. He had grown comfortable enough in our home, secure in Mom’s unconditional acceptance, to share fragmented stories of his past with her. He spoke quietly, his voice low, about his difficult family, the coldness, the emotional and, at times, physical abuse he had endured, and his painful decision to cut ties completely and move out on his own at a young age. Mom listened, her expression empathetic but never pitying, her hand occasionally reaching out to gently touch his arm. When he finished, instead of offering sympathy, she simply rose from her seat, walked around the table, and enveloped him in a warm, comforting hug. "You are welcome here anytime you want, kiddo," she said, her voice soft but firm, stroking his hair gently. "This is your home now too, if you need it. Always." And that was it. That was his breakdown. The quiet, controlled Seungmin, who rarely showed any outward emotion, dissolved into a tearful, trembling mess in my mother's arms. The simple, unconditional motherly love he had always craved, that unburdened acceptance, finally washed over him, breaking years of hardened self-protection. I watched, my own eyes welling up with a profound mix of tenderness and fierce protectiveness, a silent promise to cherish this vulnerable side of him.

In between these moments of profound openness, things between Seungmin and me became complicated, beautifully worse even, in the best possible way. The academic project, a distant memory now, had earned us both top marks and secured our scholarship applications for prestigious universities, our future paths seemingly aligned. But our personal project, whatever this was, was still a work in progress, an intricate tapestry of unspoken feelings.

He would openly flirt with me now, his words still carrying that dry wit, but with a new layer of playful affection that made my cheeks flush. "Still can't believe I managed to get stuck with someone as hopelessly disorganized as you," he'd murmur, but his fingers would be gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. He’d cuddle me on the couch during movie nights at my place, his arm casually draped around my shoulders, sometimes pulling me closer until my head rested on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He still ruffled my hair a lot, but now it was always followed by a soft, almost shy smile, and sometimes a lingering touch. We shared inside jokes, comfortable silences, and knowing glances that conveyed more than words ever could. Yet, despite the growing intimacy, the undeniable magnetic pull, the unspoken feelings that hummed between us like a tuning fork, neither of us dared to confess the full extent of our emotions. We existed in a limbo of almost-lovers, dancing around the inevitable, a thrilling, terrifying anticipation.

The tension finally reached a breaking point one blustery afternoon. I was heading to the library, my mind buzzing with a new research idea, a spring in my step from our newfound closeness. But then, I saw him. Seungmin was talking to a girl from our literature class near the library entrance. She was leaning in too close, laughing too loudly at something he said, her hand resting casually on his arm. A jolt of something unpleasant, sharp and cold, shot through me, instantly curdling my good mood. Jealousy. My stomach twisted. I watched for a moment, feeling a familiar wave of insecurity wash over me. He seemed to be laughing back, his head tilted towards hers. My heart sank, a familiar ache of disappointment settling in, a fear that all of this was just… casual for him. I turned abruptly, unable to watch another second, and walked away, a bitter taste in my mouth, the spring in my step replaced by a heavy thud.

I spent the next hour trying to focus on my notes, but the image of them, laughing together, kept replaying in my mind, a cruel, endless loop. He knew how I felt, didn't he? Had all those moments, all that closeness, all those late nights, been for nothing? Was he just… like that with everyone? Was I just another 'friend'? The questions churned, making me furious, making my eyes sting.

Suddenly, the heavy library door burst open, slamming against the wall with unusual force, and Seungmin strode in, his eyes scanning the room with a desperate, almost frantic urgency. He spotted me at my usual table, hunched over my laptop, and marched directly towards me, his face etched with a storm of emotions – anger, frustration, and a raw, exposed vulnerability I hadn't seen since the morning he held my hand. He reached my table and, before I could even react, he spun me around, gently but firmly, until my back was against the edge of the table. He leaned in, caging me, his hands pressing down on the table on either side of my hips, effectively pinning me in place. His breath hitched, ragged and uneven, his eyes blazing, a mixture of unbridled fury and something far deeper swirling within their depths.

"What the hell was that, Y/N?" he demanded, his voice low and fierce, cutting through the quiet of the library like a knife. He wasn't yelling, but every word vibrated with intensity. "Why did you just walk away? Why were you giving me that look? That 'I'm disappointed' look?"

"What look?" I retorted, trying to sound nonchalant, to regain some composure, but my voice wavered, betraying me. "Maybe I just had somewhere else to be. Not that it's any of your business, Seungmin."

"It is my business!" he practically snarled, his voice rising in frustration, drawing a few hushed, curious glances from nearby students. He didn't care. His gaze was locked solely on mine. "You saw her, didn't you? That girl? You thought I was flirting back, didn't you, you idiot? You thought all of this" – he gestured vaguely between us – "meant nothing! I shut her down cold, Y/N! I told her I wasn't interested, that I was waiting for someone! Someone specific!"

My breath caught in my throat, a sudden, dizzying hope blooming in my chest. "Waiting for… who?" I whispered, my heart pounding a furious, hopeful rhythm against my ribs, daring to believe.

His eyes burned into mine, pure, unadulterated emotion finally breaking through years of carefully constructed walls. "I like you?" he practically scoffed, the words laced with self-derision, his voice raw with a sudden, overwhelming vulnerability that stripped him bare. "It's so much more than that. I fucking love you, Y/N, and it’s annoying, and it’s terrifying, and I’m not good at this—I'm absolutely terrible at this, I've never felt this before—but I want you. Only you, Y/N. No one else but you." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a desperate, urgent whisper, his forehead almost touching mine, our breaths mingling. "You get under my skin like no one else. You annoy me more than anyone on this entire planet, you make me want to pull my hair out, but fuck, when you don't? When you just ignore me, when you pull away, when you give me that look like I've actually messed up, like I've hurt you? It hurts worse. It hurts me worse. So yes, annoy me. Argue with me. Challenge me. Make me go crazy. And rule me like you own me. Because if I am not gonna be yours, I don't want to be anyone's. I can’t be anyone’s.”

The confession, delivered with all the grace of a charging bull but with the raw, brutal honesty of a soul laid bare, hit me like a tidal wave. My eyes welled up, not with sadness or confusion, but with an overwhelming surge of joy and profound relief. All this time, all the confusion, the unspoken feelings, the subtle touches, the hidden glances—they were real. He loved me. He truly, utterly, loved me.

I didn't need any more words. My hands came up, almost instinctively, cupping his face, my thumbs tracing the sharp line of his jaw. I pulled him closer, meeting his lips with a desperate, all-consuming kiss. It was fierce and tender, raw and emotional, a culmination of two years of antagonism, of quiet observations, of growing friendship, and finally, of undeniable, deeply felt love. He kissed me back with an urgency that stole my breath, his hands coming up to grip my waist, pulling me impossibly close against him, eliminating every last inch of space between us. It was a promise, a surrender, a beginning.

When we finally broke apart, breathless and trembling, he rested his forehead against mine, his eyes still closed, a faint, contented smirk playing on his lips, a stark contrast to the storm that had raged moments before. "Guess you’re not that unbearable after all, hm?" he murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble, full of newfound affection.

I giggled, a joyful, light sound that felt entirely new, entirely free. "My mum was right about this…"

He opened his eyes, a playful glint in their depths, pulling back just enough to see my face. "Oh, I love your mom more, honestly," he teased, his smirk widening, a familiar playful challenge.

"Not allowed," I said, a mock threat in my voice as I tightened my grip on his collar, pulling him closer again.

"I was kidding—" he began, but I didn't let him finish. I leaned in and kissed him again, a soft, lingering kiss, sealing the truth of his words, of his love, and of our perfectly imperfect, wonderfully complicated beginning.

….The End

[luckymilkshakerebel]

series: love me two times

businessman minho! x former one night stand reader (and soon to be spouse)

chapter 2: trending naked

read introduction here

chapter 1

word count: 2500 words

WARNINGS: strong language, sexual content, emotional manipulation, toxic family dynamics, power imbalances, alcohol use, eventual gun violence, blood and injury, blackmail, surveillance, themes of control, secrecy, betrayal, repression, psychological tension under the guise of romance, dubious business dealings, manipulation via arranged marriage, and consistent, unapologetically bad decision making from most, if not all, characters involved. british humour. in case you all pussy out from that.

A/N: after a month of banging my head, here's chapter 2. i'm not that proud to present it but i sincerely hope you all enjoy it. to a certain extent atleast.

playlist.

─── Some things weren’t meant to be seen.

Not by cameras. Not by friends. Certainly not by the entire world before breakfast. Some truths weren’t meant to come out, not this fast, not like this, and definitely not with a scandal trending in thirty countries.

And some mornings…

Well, some mornings arrive like a car crash in slow motion—silent, bloody, and impossible to stop. This was one of those mornings.

And by nightfall, it wouldn’t be the only thing that had exploded.

Because the scandal was just foreplay.

Minho doesn’t give too many fucks. That, perhaps, is exactly why the media can’t get enough of him. His reputation for ignoring paparazzi—walking past flashbulbs like they were beneath him, brushing off scandal like lint from his shoulders—only fuels the curated image the world has built for him: rich, cold, handsome.

The kind of man who never apologises, never chases, never looks back.

A man with cufflinks that cost more than most people’s rent and a gaze sharp enough to file lawsuits.

He never fails to live up to the version people have conjured of him: an aloof enigma who seems to have stepped straight out of a bloody Wattpad story with a dark past, a tailored coat, and a five-star attitude. Ice in his veins. Designer cologne on his skin. The untouchable heir to a corporate empire.

Which is why it was, in fact, utterly unacceptable that he had woken up to find himself trending worldwide.

Naked.

Trending naked.

His bed, once a haven of order and pristine thread counts, was now a battlefield of duvet limbs and existential panic. And just as he stirred—blissfully unaware that his dignity had been annihilated in high definition—his bedroom door was kicked open with the force of a raid.

“BLOODY HELL, MINHO, WAKE UP, YOU ABSOLUTE WEAPON!”

Three things happened in rapid succession.

First: his brain registered Han Jisung’s voice at an inhumane decibel level.

Second: his eyes opened to the sight of said menace launching himself bodily onto the bed.

Third: he was being shaken so violently he momentarily forgot his own name.

“YOU’RE ON THE NEWS,” Jisung screamed, as though this were the beginning of a film and not, as it would turn out, the single most embarrassing day of Minho’s entire existence. As though the evening of the engagement wasn't enough.

Minho groaned, shoving weakly at Jisung’s hyperactive limbs. “So? I’m always on the news.”

Jisung’s eyes went white with incredulity. “NOT LIKE THIS.”

As if summoned by the very chaos vibrating through the room, Changbin barrelled in behind him, phone clutched in hand, screen already aglow with doom.

And there it was.

The headline that would haunt Minho for the rest of his natural life, and potentially a few reincarnations after that:

LEE MINHO & FIANCÉ(E)’S PRIVATE MOMENT LEAKED — SCANDAL OR SECRET LOVE STORY?

Minho blinked. “...Private moment?”

Jisung, ever helpful, snatched the phone from Changbin with the reflexes of a pickpocket (we’re going to ignore his experience in this regard) and began scrolling like a man possessed.

“The media’s trying to be classy about it,” he muttered, squinting at the article, “but, mate, it’s a full-blown sex tape.”

“That’s not possible,” Minho said, more to the universe than anyone in the room.

Changbin inhaled slowly, as if preparing to deliver last rites. “Oh, but it is.”

Jisung tapped ‘play’.

And there.

There.

On the screen: Minho. You. A luxury hotel bed with gold-accented sheets. Your leg hiked over his shoulder like a Cirque du Soleil audition. The unmistakable cadence of debauchery. There was a brief moment of hope—it could be someone else, blurry or cropped footage—

But no.

There was his face, though not evidently visible but definitely his. His body. His hair slightly mussed in that aesthetically criminal way. And then—just to ensure he’d never sleep again—audio.

“Oh my God,” Minho breathed, horror pooling behind his eyes like storm clouds.

Changbin nudged him, eyes still on the screen. “Bro, you gripped the headboard.”

Han let out a noise so ungodly it might’ve summoned spirits. “Nah, why did Y/N tell you to shut up and you actually did?”

Minho’s hand shot out, slamming the phone screen-down against the mattress like it would do him any good. “I am going to pass away.”

But alas. The gods of disgrace were only just getting started.

Because the next moment?

Jisung—bright, chipper, and holding a remote like a harbinger of doom—turned on the television.

And there, in crisp HD on national news, was a panel of analysts dissecting Minho’s thrusting technique.

“So, if you pause at 1:15, we see Minho taking the lead.”

“Briefly.”

“Right, so that’s where you can see the power shift. Minho thinks he’s leading, but actually Y/N takes control.”

“Fascinating power dynamic. Wonder if that’ll affect the company in the future. And at 2:03, we see a rare moment of desperation—”

“And a rare moment of his perky arse—”

Minho buried his face in his hands. “This is not happening.”

“This is the best day of my life,” Jisung corrected, practically vibrating with mirth.

And just when Minho thought he’d reached the peak of his humiliation—

The door slammed open.

You.

You looked like a mythological fury: hair askew, eyes burning with a fury that could level cities, your phone clutched so tightly it was a miracle it hadn’t shattered under the force of your wrath.

Minho had faced hostile shareholders. Ruthless competitors. Once, even a death threat from a rival conglomerate.

He had never been this afraid.

“YOU,” you spat, striding towards him like a vengeance incarnate.

“Me,” Minho squeaked.

You hurled your phone at him—a Samsung-shaped missile of fury. He only just managed to catch it before it smacked him between the eyes.

The screen?

A live press conference.

“We are deeply concerned by this invasion of privacy—”

“Yes, but let’s focus on the real issue. What does this mean for Lee Corp’s reputation?”

“More importantly, what does it mean for his stamina?”

Minho launched the phone across the room like it was cursed.

Han and Changbin were now weeping on the bed with laughter, occasionally slapping the duvet for oxygen. Like that would help.

“FIX THIS,” you snarled, stepping closer.

Minho gulped. “Okay. But, um, how?”

You were incandescent.

“I don’t know, Minho, maybe by explaining why THE WHOLE WORLD JUST WATCHED ME DOMINATE YOU IN A FIVE-STAR HOTEL?”

Jisung wheezed.

Changbin slid off the bed entirely.

Minho inhaled a dust bunny from the mattress and promptly choked on his own spit.

“First of all,” he croaked, his ears practically glowing, “I would not say ‘dominate’—”

You grabbed a pillow and smacked him with it. Full force. Righteous and deserved.

“THIS ISN’T FUNNY.”

He held up both hands. “You’re right. Not funny. Very serious.”

You exhaled sharply, pacing now like a tiger in a cage.

“This is huge,” you muttered, half to yourself. “My career? Ruined. My name? Dragged through the mud. My family? Calling me to ask if I’ve ‘forsaken God’—”

Minho blinked. “Okay, that’s dramatic.”

You stopped dead, eyes wide.

“DRAMATIC? MINHO, I HAD TO BLOCK MY AUNT ON FACEBOOK BECAUSE SHE CALLED ME A JEZEBEL.”

A beat.

“…What century is she living in?”

“FOCUS.”

Minho sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair.

And for the first time since this entire trainwreck had begun, he really looked at you.

Your arms were folded tightly across your chest, jaw clenched so hard it trembled. Your breathing was uneven. And underneath the righteous fury, the fire, the rage—

He saw it.

Humiliation.

Fear.

This wasn’t just a scandal to you. This was your life. Your reputation. Your family.

Your safety.

Minho straightened, cleared his throat and managed to muster enough courage to find his voice.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter now. Calmer. “We’ll fix this.”

You laughed—a bitter, brittle thing. “And how do you plan on doing that?”

Minho’s jaw locked.

He didn’t know.

Not yet.

But whoever had leaked that footage? Whoever had thought they could reduce you to gossip and grainy pixels? Humiliate you and smear your life across the tabloids like it was theatre?

They had made the single worst mistake of their lives.

And Lee Minho was going to make sure they regretted it.

•━━━━━━━━━━━•

Twenty minutes later, however, Minho was sitting in his office, head in his hands, while his PR team screamed at each other like contestants on a reality show.

“Do we deny?”

“We can’t deny! It’s him! We can literally see his face!”

“Okay, but how do we spin this?”

“Maybe say it was deepfake technology?”

“Oh, so AI Minho was out here breaking beds now?”

“WE NEED AN OFFICIAL STATEMENT!”

Minho groaned. “Jesus Christ, can everyone just—”

“Shut up?” one intern offered, ducking as a binder went flying across the room.

The office was a warzone. Papers. Coffee cups. Screaming. Someone crying softly in the corner. Possibly the Head of Crisis Communications. Hard to tell through the chaos.

Minho sat slumped at the conference table like a cursed prince in a kingdom of flaming paperwork, flanked by twelve PR specialists and zero solutions.

He hadn’t even had coffee.

“The stock’s dipped five percent in the last hour,” a voice piped up from the end of the table.

“Five?” another gasped.

“Six,” corrected a third, refreshing a graph with trembling fingers.

Minho exhaled through his nose. “So what I’m hearing is: we’re all doing really well.”

“I have a plan,” said a voice.

Silence.

All heads turned.

It was Felix.

Felix, in his immaculate blazer and pixel-perfect skin, who—until this very moment—had been watching from the window like a gothic Victorian ghost. Now, he stepped forward, chin raised, golden hair gleaming like divine retribution.

“You’re not going to like it,” he added, with the kind of grim solemnity usually reserved for war generals.

Minho gestured weakly. “Let’s hear it.”

Felix tapped his phone. The smart TV blinked to life.

LEE MINHO: THE MAN BEHIND THE HEADBOARD. A Love Story.

Minho said, “No.”

“Listen,” Felix said. “We lean in. We make it a love story. A passionate, uncontrollable, deeply consensual love story between two people thrown into an arranged engagement who—oh no!—accidentally fell into bed before marriage.”

“You are insane.”

“I’m a visionary, hyung.”

Jisung burst into the room. “It’s not insane. It’s working.”

“What?”

“Your ship tag is trending. #MinYN. There’s already a Tumblr fic called Cuffed By Fate and it’s got 4200 likes. Wish people reblogged more these days though.”

“In one hour?”

“Internet moves fast," Jisung supplies with a shrug, cheeks stuffed with grapes he had managed to grab in the midst of this chaos.

Changbin followed in, tablet in hand. “You’re not going to like this either—but your dad called.”

Minho sat up. “What?”

“He says this whole ‘sex tape’ thing? It’s good for business.”

Everyone stared.

“The engagement was polling terribly. Now people think it’s romantic. Reckless. There’s a petition for you two to star in a K-drama.”

Minho leaned back slowly.

“I want everyone out.”

They scrambled. PR scattered. Jisung took three pastries and saluted on the way out.

Only Minho, Chan, and Felix remained.

“I want to know who leaked it.”

Felix nodded, smile gone and work mode locked in as he adjusted his glasses. “We’re tracing the footage. CCTV. Remote access. Not an accident.”

“Who the fuck has that kind of access?” Minho’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

Chan’s arms folded, and for a heartbeat the room held its breath. Then, in a low, careful tone: “Someone high up. Someone close. Possibly… family.”

Minho felt the walls tilt. His mind raced—replaying every meeting, every forced smile, every curt nod exchanged with your father. Protection. Control. The words echoed in his skull.

Had the engagement ever been about safeguarding you—or about cementing ownership?

He pictured the hidden CCTV feed, the silent transmission, the deliberate timing. This wasn’t an accident. It was precision.

Minho’s chair scraped back as he stood. His pulse hammered in his ears. “Where are they?”

Chan hesitated. “Left with their father’s driver.”

“Willingly?” Minho’s question trembled on the edge of accusation.

Silence stretched. Then: “I’m not sure.”

Gears turned in Minho’s mind. Someone orchestrated this. Someone who knew every code, every security hole, every blind spot. Someone trusted. Someone inside.

He tugged on his coat, fingers brushing the gun at his hip. Outside, the city pulsed with oblivious life. But here—right here—Minho understood the stakes had just become lethal.

He stepped toward the door. His jaw clenched.

He only wished he knew the true target.

...

taglist: @imfoive @jisunggy @hyunebunx @peskybirdysya @rockstarkkami @knowbites @mischievousleeknow @thepoeticpurplepotato @artemesiareads @valreifang @alisonyus @jisuperboard @8minho @robinnotgood24 @sarahfirecrystals-blog @lmnhx @maskedcrawford @bluesoobinnie @butterflydemons @pinkpunkdynamite @stickymusictale @lazymfblog @krssliu @halesandy @vcordova1460 @gnusihcom @cutecucumberkimberly @coldcraftmusiclight @superwholockiancrackhead @starfishblobblob @privatespotyk @thingsiwannaseelater @loveunt0ld @showingmafandomlove @2minpov @hantaechan @skyinkpop-blog @helpijustgothere @herejusttemporary @kpopenthusiast143 @miyaluvvsyou @shuuporanglinos @abbiestearsricochet @pixie-felix @loxgirl2004 @met30c1ty @feelikecinderella @uhhhhhokay @moon0fthenight @cashtonsbetch

[luckymilkshakerebel]

PRETTY BOYS ON CAMERA ! ─ 📸

instagram stories of zb1 as your boyfriend.

gn! reader • fluff • crack • smau

KIM JIWOONG

. . . loading . . .

ZHANG HAO

📸 ─ so annoying [ mentions of cannibalism, swearing, reader is implied to be a "fangirl" ]

SUNG HANBIN

📸 ─ #sadboi alert [ empty ]

SEOK MATTHEW

. . . loading . . .

KIM TAERAE

. . . loading . . .

SHEN RICKY

📸 ─ serving face [ empty ]

KIM GYUVIN

📸 ─ love you, loser [ swearing ]

PARK GUNWOOK

📸 ─ bombastic side eye [ empty ]

HAN YUJIN

📸 ─ take a picture [ empty ]

EXTRAS

📸 ─ gatekeeping [ swearing, mentions of cannibalism ]

[luckymilkshakerebel]

Genre: fluff, soft, eating

Cast: jeongin x reader

"Craving Satisfaction"

The moment the craving hit, there was no turning back. It wasn't just any craving—it was the kind that settled deep in your bones, making your stomach yearn for the perfect combination of flavors. Carbonara ramen with tteok and spicy jajangmyeon ramen. Two completely different flavors, but both so tempting that you couldn’t choose just one.

So, you decided you wouldn’t.

Humming to yourself, you set up the pots, boiling water in each. The anticipation was already making you giddy. You imagined the creamy, cheesy broth of the carbonara ramen blending with the chewiness of the tteok, while the rich, spicy black bean sauce from the jajangmyeon coated the noodles perfectly. It would be a heavenly feast.

Just as you reached for the ramen packets, Jeongin walked in, stretching his arms with a lazy yawn. “What’s going on here?” he asked, voice still a little drowsy.

“I’m making ramen,” you answered happily.

His gaze drifted to the two packets in your hands. “Two?” He raised a brow.

“Yeah,” you nodded, placing the ingredients on the counter.

He leaned against the counter, watching you curiously. “Why two?”

“Because I want to eat them,” you replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Jeongin chuckled, shaking his head. “You? Finishing two whole bowls?” His eyes were filled with amusement. “You barely eat much. You get full after a few bites, and if you force yourself, you’ll just throw up.”

You pouted, feeling slightly attacked. “But I’m craving it…why did he didn't let me, I'm really craving...” you mumbled under your breath as you started rearranging everything, debating whether you should really just make one.

Jeongin heard you, and something about the way you sulked made his heart soften. He sighed, ruffling your hair affectionately. “Arraseo, make both. I’ll help you later.”

You immediately looked up, eyes wide and sparkling with excitement. “Jinjja?”

“Mm,” he hummed, his lips quirking into a small smirk.

"jinjja, i will make both then!! Jinjayo?"

You beamed, about to turn back to the stove when he suddenly leaned down and captured your lips in a soft kiss. The warmth of it made your heart flutter, and by the time he pulled away, you were too dazed to do anything but stare.

His smirk deepened. “That’s my answer.”

Feeling your cheeks heat up, you quickly turned away, pretending to focus on the ramen as if your heart wasn’t racing. Jeongin just chuckled at your reaction, reaching out to grab some chopsticks as if nothing happened.

Excitement filled your chest once more as you prepared the two bowls of ramen, knowing that this meal would taste even better—because now, you weren’t eating alone.

--

You placed the two steaming bowls on the table, the rich aroma filling the air and making your mouth water. The creamy carbonara ramen looked heavenly, the sauce clinging to the noodles perfectly, while the spicy jajangmyeon’s deep color promised bold flavors. You could already imagine the perfect balance of creaminess and spice—exactly what you had been craving.

Excitedly, you grabbed your chopsticks and looked at Jeongin. “Eat, eat! Before it gets soggy.”

But instead of picking up his own chopsticks, he leaned back in his chair, resting his chin on his palm as he watched you with an amused glint in his eyes. “You eat first.”

You blinked. “But we’re eating together…”

“I will,” he reassured you. “But I wanna see you enjoy it first.”

A little flustered by his attention, you hesitated for a second before twirling the creamy noodles of the carbonara ramen and taking a big bite. The moment the rich, cheesy flavor hit your tongue, you hummed in delight. It was so good. Then, you quickly took a bite of the spicy jajangmyeon, and the bold, smoky spice made you wiggle happily in your seat.

Jeongin chuckled at your reaction. “Is it that good?”

You nodded enthusiastically, alternating between the two flavors. “I love it! I can eat both!” you mumbled between bites, absolutely satisfied that your craving was fulfilled.

He smiled, his eyes softening as he watched you. Without a word, he reached over, thumb brushing against your lips. You froze slightly as he wiped away a bit of sauce from the corner of your mouth.

“There,” he murmured, his voice a little lower, a little softer.

You felt warmth creep up your cheeks. “T-Thanks…”

Jeongin smirked, then finally picked up his chopsticks. “Alright, my turn.”

As he took his first bite, you grinned to yourself, feeling happy—not just because of the delicious ramen, but because of the quiet, cozy moment you shared with him.

💚💚

After a few more bites, you felt that familiar tightness in your stomach. Even though the ramen was delicious, you knew you couldn’t push yourself any further. You put your chopsticks down and pouted slightly, leaning back in your chair.

“Chagiya…” you mumbled, looking at Jeongin with a small, guilty smile.

He glanced up from his bowl, immediately catching the meaning behind your tone. “You’re full already, aren’t you?”

You nodded sheepishly. “I really wanted to eat both, but…” You placed a hand on your stomach, sighing. “I can’t eat anymore.”

Jeongin let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “I knew it.” He reached over and ruffled your hair. “You always get excited and end up eating just a little.”

You pouted at his teasing. “I was craving it!”

“I know, I know,” he said, amused. Then, without hesitation, he pulled your bowl closer to him. “Good thing I’m here to help, huh?”

Your eyes widened. “You’re gonna finish it?”

“Of course.” He shot you a playful look. “Can’t let it go to waste, right?”

A warm feeling spread through your chest as you watched him eat the rest of your ramen, like it was the most natural thing in the world. You smiled softly, leaning your cheek on your palm as you admired him.

“Jeongin…”

“Hm?” He looked at you mid-bite.

“You’re the best.”

He smirked, chewing before replying, “I know.”

You giggled, reaching out to hold his free hand. “Thank you for eating with me.”

Jeongin squeezed your hand lightly, giving you a small, fond smile before returning to his meal. “Anytime, chagiya.”

"but left the carbonara one for me okay, I'm gonna eat later" you smile widely

Jeongin paused mid-bite, looking at you with a knowing smile. “So you’re full, but only for now?”

You nodded eagerly. “Mhm! I just need to rest my stomach a little bit, then I’ll eat the carbonara one later.”

He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he slid the spicy jajangmyeon bowl closer to himself, leaving the untouched carbonara ramen in front of you. “Alright, alright. I’ll finish this one, but I’m leaving that for you.”

You grinned, feeling satisfied that you’d still get to enjoy the creamy carbonara ramen later. “Thank you, chagiya~” you sang playfully.

Jeongin gave you a side glance, lips curving into a smirk. “You’re lucky I like spoiling you.”

You giggled, leaning your cheek on your hand as you watched him eat. “I am lucky.”

He flicked your forehead lightly, making you pout. “Rest your stomach, then. No complaining later that you’re still full when you want to eat it, okay?”

You playfully saluted him. “Yes, sir!”

Jeongin laughed, shaking his head at you before continuing to eat, while you sat back, happily watching him, already looking forward to your next bowl.

💚💚

Feeling content, you shifted closer to Jeongin, resting your head on his shoulder as he ate while watching TV. The warmth of his body and the soft sound of the chopsticks against the bowl made the moment even cozier.

You sighed lightly, watching as he effortlessly ate bite after bite, enjoying the food without any hesitation. It was always fascinating to you—how he could eat so much without feeling sick, how he never seemed to get full as quickly as you did.

Without thinking, you mumbled into his shoulder, “I envy you…”

Jeongin paused, turning his head slightly to glance at you. “Hm?”

You pouted, still resting against him. “You can eat a lot… but I always get full so fast.”

He chuckled, setting his chopsticks down for a moment. “Are you really jealous of that?”

You nodded against his shoulder, sighing dramatically. “Yes… I want to eat more without feeling sick.”

Jeongin smiled, amused by your little complaint. He reached up, gently patting your head. “But if you could eat a lot, you wouldn’t have an excuse to give me your leftovers.”

You blinked, thinking about it for a second. “That’s true…”

“See?” He smirked, tapping your nose playfully. “I like it this way. You enjoy your food, and I get to finish whatever you can’t. It’s a win-win.”

You giggled, snuggling closer to him. “So… you don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” he said easily, picking up his chopsticks again. “I like taking care of you.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, and you tightened your hold around his arm, smiling softly. “I love you, chagiya.”

Jeongin grinned, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head before continuing to eat. “I love you too. Now rest, so you can finish your carbonara later.”

You hummed happily, closing your eyes for a moment, enjoying the warmth of him beside you—completely at peace.

The warmth of Jeongin’s body, the quiet hum of the TV, and the soft sound of his chopsticks tapping against the bowl lulled you into a sleepy haze. You had only meant to rest for a little while, to let your stomach settle before finishing your carbonara ramen. But before you knew it, your eyelids grew heavier, and your breathing slowed as sleep gently pulled you in.

Jeongin felt the slight weight shift on his shoulder and glanced down, only to find you completely knocked out, lips slightly parted, your soft breaths fanning against his arm. His lips curled into a fond smile.

He sighed playfully, shaking his head. “Aigoo… and you said you were going to eat more,” he murmured, though there was nothing but affection in his voice.

Carefully, he set his chopsticks down and adjusted his position so you could be more comfortable. His hand reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as he gazed at you.

“You’re really something, you know that?” he whispered, chuckling softly.

Not wanting to wake you, he wrapped an arm around your waist, letting you snuggle closer against him as he turned his attention back to the TV. The carbonara ramen would have to wait—but for now, he was perfectly content with having you asleep in his arms.

💚💚💚

A loud vibration and the familiar ringtone of Jeongin’s phone broke through the quiet, pulling you out of your sleep. You stirred, your head still resting on his shoulder as you slowly blinked your eyes open.

Jeongin sighed and reached for his phone with his free hand, careful not to jostle you too much. You could hear the slight irritation in his voice as he answered. “Yeah?”

You rubbed your sleepy eyes, trying to wake yourself up as you lazily listened to his conversation. He hummed in response to whatever the person on the other end was saying, his voice calm but slightly distracted.

Still drowsy, you shifted against him, pressing your forehead to his arm. Your stomach felt better now, and the first thought that popped into your head was—

“Carbonara…” you mumbled sleepily.

Jeongin paused mid-conversation, glancing down at you with an amused smile. He placed his hand on your head, gently ruffling your hair while still listening to whoever was talking. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll call you back later,” he said quickly, hanging up before they could protest.

Turning his full attention to you, he smirked. “Did you just wake up… and immediately think about ramen?”

You nodded, still half-asleep. “I said I was gonna eat it later…”

Jeongin laughed, shaking his head as he reached for the bowl you had left untouched. “Alright, sleepyhead. Let’s heat it up for you.”

You smiled sleepily, feeling warmth spread through your chest. Jeongin always took care of you in the little ways that mattered—and right now, all you wanted was to enjoy your ramen with him again.

Jeongin chuckled as he stood up, carefully taking your untouched bowl of carbonara ramen with him. “Come on, let’s warm this up before you fall asleep again.”

You stretched with a small yawn, still feeling a little sluggish from your nap, but the thought of eating your long-awaited ramen woke you up instantly. You followed him into the kitchen, watching as he placed the bowl into the microwave.

As the machine hummed, filling the space with warmth, Jeongin turned to you, leaning against the counter. “Did you sleep well?”

You nodded, rubbing your eyes. “Mhm. Your shoulder is comfy.”

He smirked, crossing his arms. “You drooled on me, you know?”

Your eyes widened in horror. “I did not!”

Jeongin burst into laughter at your reaction. “I’m joking, I’m joking.” He reached over, pinching your cheek playfully. “But you did sleep really well. You even mumbled in your sleep.”

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands. “Don’t tell me I was talking about ramen…”

He tilted his head. “You did say ‘carbonara’ a few times.”

You whined, lightly smacking his arm. “Ahh, that’s so embarrassing!”

Jeongin grinned. “Why? I think it’s cute.”

Before you could protest, the microwave beeped. He turned to grab the bowl, stirring the ramen a little before handing it to you. “Alright, here you go. It’s warm again.”

Your eyes lit up as you took the bowl. “Thank you, chagiya~”

Jeongin shook his head fondly, guiding you back to the couch. “Alright, now eat before you get sleepy again.”

You happily picked up your chopsticks and twirled the creamy noodles, taking a bite. The familiar rich, cheesy flavor coated your tongue, making you hum in delight. “Mmm~ so good.”

Jeongin watched you with a small smile, his eyes soft. “You’re really happy just eating, huh?”

You nodded enthusiastically. “Food is happiness!”

He let out a soft chuckle before reaching out to wipe the corner of your mouth with his thumb again. “You always get sauce on your lips.”

You pouted. “Maybe I do it on purpose so you’ll wipe it for me.”

Jeongin raised an eyebrow, then smirked. “If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just asked.”

Before you could react, he leaned in and pressed a quick, warm kiss on your lips, making your heart flutter.

You blinked, your face heating up. “J-Jeongin!”

He grinned mischievously. “What? I’m just helping.”

You huffed, but you couldn’t hide the shy smile creeping onto your lips. Shaking your head, you focused on your ramen again, but this time, the warmth in your chest rivaled the warmth of the meal in your hands.

And Jeongin, watching you with nothing but adoration in his eyes, knew he’d happily eat with you like this forever.

After a few more bites, you started to feel that familiar tightness in your stomach again. You slowed down, twirling the noodles with your chopsticks but not lifting them to your mouth.

Jeongin, who had been casually scrolling through his phone beside you, immediately noticed the change. He glanced at your bowl, then at your face. “Getting full already?”

You pouted, placing a hand on your stomach. “Maybe just a little…”

He smirked, setting his phone aside. “A little? You barely ate half.”

You whined, looking at him with big eyes. “But I really wanted to eat it…”

Jeongin chuckled, reaching over to flick your forehead lightly. “Aigoo, I knew this would happen. Your eyes are always bigger than your stomach.”

You huffed, setting your chopsticks down. “It’s not my fault! It’s just… I get full too fast…”

He sighed playfully but took the bowl from you without hesitation. “Give it to me. I’ll finish it.”

Your eyes widened. “Really? Even though you already ate so much?”

Jeongin shrugged, picking up your chopsticks like it was no big deal. “What can I say? I’m a growing boy.”

You giggled, watching as he effortlessly took a big bite, chewing happily. The way he enjoyed food so easily always made you admire him.

Leaning your head on his shoulder again, you mumbled, “You’re really my lifesaver, you know that?”

He smirked, glancing at you. “I know.”

You rolled your eyes at his confidence but snuggled closer anyway. “But what if one day you’re too full to help me?”

Jeongin pretended to think for a second before shaking his head. “Not gonna happen. Even if I’m full, I’d still eat for you.”

Your heart melted at his words. “Really?”

He nodded, nudging his nose against your hair. “Mhm. So don’t worry about it. Just eat as much as you want, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

You smiled softly, feeling warm inside—not just from the food, but from the way he always made you feel so loved.

“Jeongin?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

He grinned, placing another quick kiss on your forehead before going back to eating. “I love you too, chagiya. Now, go rest your stomach before you complain about being too full again.”

You giggled, closing your eyes as you relaxed against him, completely content—because with Jeongin, everything always felt just right.

Sorry I've disappeared for a long time.. i really have a hectic month.. and I can't think of any idea to make a new story.... So as i was eating two ramen now.. suddenly remembered how jeongin eating makes me feel envy him..

😍😍😍

Want to read more you can go to my MASTERLIST

[luckymilkshakerebel]

My Master lists

Decided to put together a masterlist of my writing, divided by fandom. I dunno, it's partly for my own benefit too actually. So I can find what I'm looking for when I want it. There's not much, but I'm also gonna include the link to my AO3 for the stuff I never cross-posted.

Stray Kids

Jealousy - You’ve been dating Chan for a while and he takes you as his date to a JYPE party. There, he notices how close you are to Felix and jumps to some conclusions.

Train Ride - You start off as just Chan’s beloved girlfriend and end up in bed with all the members.

Original Oneshot Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten

The Moment He Knew You Were The One - You're dating Chan and start to notice some odd behavior from the guys

Fic Recs: Chan Minho Changbin Hyunjin Jisung Felix Seungmin Jeongin OT8 Multi-members

Stranger Things (Steddie)

Accidentally In Love - Steve and Eddie have been dating for months, but neither of them have noticed until Robin and Nancy confront them about it.

Rosary - Eddie’s in the hospital after his heroics in the Upside Down. Steve and Wayne sit together, waiting for him to wake up.

Too Much - Steve knows he’s too much, he always has been. And he knows it’s the main reason he can’t make a relationship last, so he tries pulling away from Eddie before it’s too late and he loses him too.

Larkspur and Lily of the Valley - Steve has a cough and thinks it's allergies, until a blue petal comes up. (Happy ending Hanahaki au)

I may one day link my fic recs here for Steddie, but I didn't tag them when I reblogged them, so probably not.

[luckymilkshakerebel]

When You Call Them Clingy| Hyungline Pt2

Hyungline x Gn! Reader

(sorry this took like forever lmao ive been going through it in life unfortunately💀💀💀 )

Bangchan

The hum of the studio was still present, but now it felt different- less like a comforting embrace and more like static electricity prickling your skin.

The once-warm atmosphere had turned cold, muted, and the silence stretched like a chasm between you and Chan.

He didn’t ask if you needed anything anymore. He didn’t look at you at all.

The first hour after your slip-up had been the worst. You’d sat there, staring at the screen of your phone, scrolling aimlessly to avoid looking at him. But your thoughts betrayed you, circling back to the look on his face when you’d called him clingy- the hurt in his eyes, the faint slump of his shoulders, the way his movements slowed, as though your words had drained the energy out of him.

This is almost unbearable... You thought to yourself. I've never been uncomfortable around Chris before, rather the complete opposite...I don't like this.

You had apologized in your head a dozen times already, running over how you could bring it up without making things worse. But every time you glanced his way, you found yourself frozen, the words dying in your throat.

I was harsh...I'm feel horrible...

Chan wasn’t usually one to sulk, but this was different. He didn’t seem angry-he didn’t snap or lash out.

Although you wished he would have. It may have been better than this thick tension.

But instead of yelling or cursing, he buried himself in his work, shutting you out completely. His usual hums and absentminded muttering as he worked were nowhere to be found. The tapping of keys and the occasional adjustment of a dial were the only sounds that filled the room.

It felt unbearable.

After almost two hours of sitting in silence, the tension was too much. You shifted in your chair, swallowing the lump in your throat as you finally spoke up.

“Chan,” you said softly, your voice hesitant.

He didn’t respond immediately. His fingers paused over the keyboard, but he didn’t turn to look at you.

“Yeah?” he said, his tone neutral- too neutral.

You winced. “I didn’t mean to sound so harsh earlier. I-” You rushed out.

“It’s fine,” he cut you off, his voice tight, clipped.

But it wasn’t fine. You could hear it in the way his words came out too quickly, the way he immediately went back to typing as though he hadn’t just brushed you off.

Serves me right...

You tried again. “It’s not fine. I shouldn’t have said that.”

He let out a breath, finally turning his chair to face you. His expression was guarded, a carefully constructed mask of calm, but his eyes gave him away.

“Look,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I get it. I was being overbearing. I just…I thought I was helping. I'll ease up from now on."

The words hit you like a punch to the chest. He wasn’t trying to defend himself- he was agreeing with you, accepting blame where there wasn’t any to take.

And you didn't want him to agree.

“You- you were helping,” you said quickly. “I was just… overwhelmed, and I didn’t think before I spoke. I-I don't want you to ease up...I love you the way you are.”

Chan nodded slowly, but the way his jaw tightened told you he wasn’t convinced.

“Sometimes I overdo it,” he said, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I don’t know how to…not worry about the people I care about. Or love.”

Your heart sank. He wasn’t just talking about you. He was talking about himself, about how he carried the weight of everyone’s needs on his shoulders, even when it wasn’t his responsibility.

“And I made you feel like you couldn’t breathe,” he added, almost to himself.

“No,” you said quickly, leaning forward. “That’s not what I meant. You’re always so thoughtful, Chan. I just…” You trailed off, struggling to put your feelings into words. "I...uh...damn it..."

He tilted his head, waiting for you to continue, but there was a distance in his gaze now- an invisible barrier you hadn’t seen before.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re doing something wrong,” you said finally, your voice trembling. “Because you’re not. I was just having a bad day, and I-”

“Don’t worry about it,” he interrupted again, standing abruptly. “It’s getting late. I should wrap this up anyway.”

You blinked, startled by the sudden shift in his tone.

It wasn’t angry, but it was dismissive.

Final.

“Chan-”

“Seriously, it’s fine,” he said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You should get some rest. I’ll finish up here.”

The dismissal stung more than you expected. You stood up, hesitating for a moment, unsure if you should push further or give him space. But the way he had already turned back to his desk made the decision for you.

“Okay,” you said quietly, your voice barely audible.

You grabbed your bag and made your way to the door, glancing back one last time. Chan was hunched over his keyboard, his back to you, the soft glow of the monitor casting shadows across his face.

“Goodnight,” you murmured.

He didn’t respond.

As you headed out he called out.

"Y/N."

You turned towards him, hopeful.

"You don't have to come tomorrow. Ji...sung-ah and...Innie-ah are supposed to be here to work on something with me."

You sighed and bit the inside part of your lip. He was terrible at lying.

Then a small rush of unrighteous anger hit you.

"Thats okay, I had plans anyways." You shot back, leaving. You almost missed the surprised look as he lifted his head from his bag.

The walk home was a blur. The guilt in your chest felt heavier with every step, suffocating you until you could hardly breathe.

But now that guilt stemmed from also saying something to purposefully provoke him.

Why would I even say that? I have no reason to be mad- but he...he has all the reason to be.

You thought about texting him, but what could you say? Nothing you typed out felt like enough. Apologizing once wasn’t going to fix this.

And you were too prideful to admit your pettiness.

It's embarrassing...

When you finally got home, you dropped your bag by the door and sank onto the couch, burying your face in your hands. You replayed all the moments over and over in your head, wishing you could go back and choose different words, wishing you could make him understand how much he meant to you.

But then your anger driven words hit you. You just loved digging yourself deeper graves. So, you pulled out your phone and shot a text.

Deciding that if you were at a standstill with each other, you at least wouldn't lie to him.

——————————————————————————

Minho

The next morning, you woke up feeling a mix of guilt and lingering irritation. Sleep hadn’t come easy, your mind replaying the events from the previous night like a broken record. You had lashed out, hurt him, and now there was this gnawing uncertainty about where things stood.

You debated texting Minho to apologize, but the thought of his cold tone from last night stopped you. The memory of his quick, hollow kiss on your temple was like a dull ache in your chest- a reminder of how much damage had been done.

You sighed as you reached for your phone, jumping when you see a text from Minho.

Minho: Dori didn't even wait for me to finish preparing his breakfast before eating Soonie's. Such a menace.

You stared at the text for a long moment, unsure of what to make of it. It wasn’t unusual for him to send updates about his cats, but this felt like an attempt to return to normalcy without directly addressing what had happened.

Should I respond? Should I apologize? You wanted to, but the thought of putting your emotions into words felt daunting.

Instead, you liked the message, telling yourself you’d figure it out later. But as the day dragged on, and you found yourself unable to focus on anything. By the evening, your phone buzzed, breaking you from your thoughts.

Minho: Did you eat?

The question was simple, almost routine, but it held a strange weight. And you were unsure how to respond.

Was this his way of reaching out, or was he just trying to check a box out of habit?

You hesitated before typing back: You: Yeah. Did you?

His reply came almost immediately: Minho: Mhm. Chan-hyung made japchae. Ate while working. Minho: Also, three cups of pudding.

You couldn't help but let out a little giggle. You could picture him in his studio, his face reflected in a the mirrors, as he sat crisscross on the dance floor, scribbling choreo ideas, spoon in one hand and a cup of pudding beside him. The image tugged at your heartstrings in the way only a lover could do.

You: Busy day? Minho: Always.

You sighed and rested your head on the back of your couch.

Short. Not necessarily clipped, but there were no teasing or playful jabs. No emojis. Just facts. It felt so unlike him, and it hurt more than you wanted to admit.

You could feel the awkwardness as if he was sitting in the room with you.

You: I’m sorry about last night. You typed out a response, then deleted it, then typed it again. Finally, you settled on: You: I miss you.

The three dots signaling his response appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared. You held your breath, waiting.

Minho: Yeah...

You: I'm sorry.

Minho: It's fine.

It wasn’t fine. You knew that. The lack of warmth in his reply was enough to confirm it.

You: It doesn’t feel fine. Minho: Maybe it’s not...

There it was. The crack in the veneer. Your chest tightened as you stared at his words. You wanted to fix it, to make it right, but you didn’t know how.

You: Can we talk? Minho: Not right now. I’m tired.

The conversation ended there. You stared at the screen long after his reply, the words “I’m tired” echoing in your mind. It wasn’t just physical exhaustion he was talking about. He was emotionally drained, and you were the reason.

You: Okay, goodnight. I love you. Minho: Night. I love you too.

Over the next two weeks, things didn't get much better.

You hadn't seen him in person, and only had a few video calls where anytime you tried to bring up an apology, Minho deflected the conversation.

It felt like more of an awkward and intimate friendship interacting rather than a couple. And you needed to change that. You couldn't handle it. You missed your boyfriend.

Minho had always been steady, a constant in your life. You hadn’t realized how much of a lifeline he was until you cut it with a single careless word.

Clingy.

The way his expression had shifted when you said it- it haunted you. Minho, who rarely let his emotions crack the surface, had been hurt. You’d seen it, felt it in the way he pulled back from you. And you wanted to pull him back towards you.

That’s what brought you to his house a few nights later, your chest tight with desperation and dread. You didn’t have a plan, just a need to be near him, to try and fix what you’d broken.

The porch light cast a faint glow as you arrived, the sight of it familiar yet unsettling. You hesitated at the keypad, your fingers trembling as you entered the code. For a moment, you feared he might have changed it, but the lock clicked open with a soft, mechanical hum.

The sound felt louder than it should have in the quiet night, and your heart ached with the thought that you still knew this house so well.

You stepped inside, the warmth of the entryway doing little to ease the chill in your bones.

“Minho?” Dori was the only cat by the door, immediately rushing to you to rub up against your legs. "Min?"

Your voice was soft, tentative, as you slipped off your shoes and into slippers, but it went unanswered.

The faint murmur of voices reached you from the living room. You moved toward the sound, your footsteps hesitant.

And then you saw them.

She was sitting on the couch, her laughter carrying easily in the stillness of the house.

Minho was beside her, close enough that the space between them seemed insignificant. His expression, one that had been so cold and was open-relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in minute.

Your stomach twisted painfully, the scene before you crashing down like a tidal wave.

You must have made a sound, because Minho’s head turned sharply in your direction. His eyes widened, surprise etched across his face.

“Y/N?”

The girl followed his gaze, her expression a mix of confusion and mild curiosity.

You froze, your pulse hammering in your ears.

“I-” The words caught in your throat, your mind scrambling to come up with an explanation for why you were here, standing uninvited in his doorway.

“Y/N-ah, wait-” He said, scrambling up from the couch, tripping over Dori who had decided to join the party.

But you were already backing away.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you said quickly, your voice cracking as you stumbled toward the door. You knocked into the cats water bowl, soaking your feet. The lump in your throat threatened to choke you, but you forced the words out. “I’ll just- go.”

Minho reached for you, his movements sharp and deliberate. “Don’t-”

You didn’t wait for him to finish, pulling away. The door slammed shut behind you, the cold air biting at your skin as you stepped into the night.

You didn’t realize you were still wearing the house shoes Minho had bought for you months ago until you were halfway down the street, your steps uneven on the pavement. The absurdity of it made your throat tighten, but the tears came before the laughter could.

Your vision blurred as you walked aimlessly, the weight in your chest pressing down until it felt hard to breathe. You could still see her face, hear her laugh. It was seared into your mind.

There is no way he could have moved on in just two weeks...right?

Could he have...no. Never.

But had he?

You didn’t know either way. And you couldn’t bring yourself to stay long enough to find out.

Back at the house, Minho stood frozen by the door. Doongie let out a soft mew, as if speaking.

"I know..." Minho said to the cat.

His jaw clenched as he stared at the space where you’d been, staring at where your shoes were left, your sudden departure leaving a suffocating silence along with them.

“Minho?” the girl called hesitantly, her voice breaking through the tension.

He turned to her, his expression unreadable.

“You should go.” he said finally, his tone flat.

Her brows furrowed in confusion, but she didn’t argue. She gathered her things quickly, giving Doongie a quick scratch, the sound of her footsteps fading as the door closed behind her.

Minho sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair as he leaned against the wall. His gaze fell to the floor, and for the first time, he noticed the trail of damp footprints leading to the door- proof of your hurried escape.

You hadn’t even waited to hear him out.

He wanted to chase after you, to get an explanation for why you’d come in the first place.

But he didn’t move. Instead, he stood there in the silence, the weight of your absence pressing down on him; and he was stuck wondering how something you caused had now become a snowballed issue he needed to resolve.

——————————————————————————

Changbin

You sat there frozen, the echo of his quiet, defeated tone playing on a loop in your mind. It wasn’t like him to leave like that- without a fight, without reassurance, without trying to smooth things over. He had always been one to want to ease conflict in the calmest manner.

Your eyes drifted to the coffee table where his phone sat, screen dark and mocking in the dim light. He must’ve forgotten it in his rush to leave, and the realization sent a pang of guilt straight to your chest. You couldn’t even call him to try and make things right.

With trembling hands, you picked up his phone, turning it over in your palm. It was a small, insignificant thing, but it felt like the only connection you still had to him.

The weight of Hyunjin’s text was heavier now, replaying in your mind like a cruel taunt.

He had planned to propose tonight.

And you had ruined it.

You pressed the phone to your chest, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. You couldn’t stop picturing the way his face had fallen, the light in his eyes dimming with every word you’d said. The warmth he carried with him, the energy that filled every room he walked into, was gone. And it made you feel terrible.

Your hands tightened around his phone as you leaned back on the couch, your thoughts spiraling. Changbin wasn’t just a boyfriend- he was your safe space, your biggest cheerleader, the person who always knew how to make you laugh when you wanted to cry.

And tonight, you had been the one to make him feel small.

You let out a shaky breath, blinking back the tears threatening to spill over. There was no way you could let things stay like this.

So, you got to work.

--

Changbin’s car coasted slowly down the street, the low hum of the engine the only sound in the otherwise quiet night. His mind buzzed, replaying every moment of the evening- your harsh words, the hurt in his chest, and the sudden shift in the air between you two. He could still feel the weight of your gaze, and your frustration.

He had tried so hard.

Maybe it is my fault...

He wanted to make the night perfect, make it something to remember. A sweet cute, relaxed proposal. Soft and warm and everything that represented the love he had for you.

But now he was left uncertain, second-guessing everything. The familiar streets blurred as his thoughts swirled, mixing with the disappointment and confusion still lodged in his heart. His grip tightened around the steering wheel.

As he pulled into his driveway, he killed the engine but didn’t immediately move. He sat there for a while, the headlights casting long shadows across the pavement. It was cold, but he didn’t feel it. Instead, his chest was heavy, a knot of frustration and sorrow gnawing at him.

I need to apologize. Maybe then-

Reaching for his phone, he noticed a slight tremor in his hands.

Is that the best thing to do though...what if Y/N-ie is still mad...

He spent the next couple minutes thinking about texting you- even though he hadn’t done anything inherintantly wrong.

But the thought of sending an apology and admitting to a fault he didn’t deserve seemed like the easiest way to get things back to normal.

He swiped the phone screen on, but his stomach dropped when he saw his empty hand. He reached to pat his pockets.

He didn’t have his phone with him.

He trailed his eyes at the empty seat next to him, hoping maybe it was there, as the realization hit him harder than it should’ve.

His phone was still on the couch at your place. He must’ve left it there in the rush to get away.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, the frustration and anxiety rising again.

He shifted the car back into gear, pulling out of his driveway and heading back to your apartment. As he drove, he let out a deep sigh, trying to shake off the weight pressing on him.

He didn’t know what to expect when he saw you again. He didn’t even know what he wanted from the rest of this night.

Back at your place, you were busy, but not in the way you had planned. You paced the living room, biting your lip as you nervously looked over the decorations you had hastily thrown together. You had wanted everything to be perfect for him, the way he’d promised it would be tonight, but now… you were the one fixing things.

You were the one putting the final touches on a proposal- his proposal.

Your heart flipped over and over in your chest, as you adjusted things anxiously.

You had to scrounge through a ton of different leftover decorations from previous events and holidays; and it looked like the spirit of every celebratory occasion had thrown up over your living room.

You had tried so hard to get it right, to show him how sorry you were that your nerves and selfishness had ruined everything.

When you heard the distant rumble of his car approaching, your heart skipped a beat. You quickly fixed your hair and wiped your hands on your pants, as if trying to make up for everything all at once.

You hadn’t planned this, hadn’t thought through how you were going to apologize. You just knew you couldn’t let him walk away- couldn’t let him leave the night without fixing at least a small part of it.

The doorbell rang, and you froze, your pulse quickening in your throat.

You opened it, and there he was. Changbin. Standing there with an unreadable expression, his eyes flicking over your face before he looked down at the phone in his hand.

You didn't know if you imagined his red rimmed eyes.

“I-” he started, but the words faltered. He opened his mouth again, as if trying to say something, but nothing came out. "I left my phone."

You handed it to him, and he stood there awkwardly turning it in his hands.

"Bin, come in," you whispered, stepping aside to let him in.

He hesitated for a long moment, his feet still on the other side of the threshold, as if he were debating whether to leave or stay. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the uncertainty in his movements.

But then, with a deep sigh, he stepped inside.

You led him to the living room. His eyes stayed on the floor. He didn’t sit down, didn’t speak, just stood there.

"Y/N, I'm sor-"

"You don’t need to apologize," you said, voice barely audible as you walked toward him. You didn’t know how else to start. "I’m the one who messed up tonight. It wasn't you. It was all me."

Changbin shook his head, though it seemed like he was trying to process what he was feeling. He opened his mouth again, his voice hoarse. "No, it wasn't you. I…I didn’t mean for-"

"Changbin, don't fool yourself." You said with a sarcastic chuckle. "You know it was all my fault-"

"Y/N I was the one who was-"

"-I ruined your proposal. Of course it's my fault." You finished.

Your words stopped him. He closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of everything hanging in the air between you.

"So you knew..." he murmured, his voice cracking just slightly.

"Hyunjin texted. I saw it on your screen."

Changbin sighed and then looked around, seeing the decorations.

"What..."

"Since I ruined your proposal I thought I could fix it. As an apology."

The air between you thickened suddenly.

"I-I know it's not the best or the prettiest, but I thought—"

His voice faltered as he looked up at you, eyes filled with something unreadable. Shock, confusion… and then something softer, something heavier.

"What…what did you do?"

You froze. Your heart pounded.

He was staring at everything—the decorations, the candles, the careful details meant for him to present to you.

"I thought… I'd throw something together," you repeated, your voice small. "To fix your proposal."

"Fix it?"

And in that moment, you realized just how wrong that had sounded.

"N-No! I meant fix the night. Not your proposal—nothing was wrong, I just—I ruined the moment, and—"

You were scrambling, desperate to explain.

"Binnie, I—"

"I understand, Y/N."

His quiet chuckle sent a chill through you. It wasn't warm, wasn't teasing. It was sad.

"You made another opportunity," he said, his voice steady but distant. "You set up a proposal."

"Yes! An opportunity, not-" But then you saw it. The rapid blinking, the slight shift in his expression. The way he swallowed hard, as if forcing down words he wouldn't let himself say.

And suddenly, it clicked.

He wasn't upset about your wording. He wasn't even upset that you'd tried to make things right. He was upset because you'd taken this from him. Because he had wanted to be the one to do this for you.

When you had called him clingy earlier, you had let your stressors guide you to insult what you loved most about him.

How he wanted to do everything for you.

His love language towards you always tended to be acts of service.

And while a proposal wasn't necessarily though, it made sense that he wanted to do this for you. One of the biggest acts of your two lives.

He wanted to gift it to you, and you took it away.

For a long, suffocating moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, without another word, he stepped back. His hands curled into fists, then relaxed. He exhaled, gaze flickering between you and the scene you'd set. And then he turned.

You barely processed it as he walked past you, his presence fading with each step toward the door.

"Binnie, wait-"

But he didn't stop. The door opened, and before you could find the right words, the ones that wouldn't make everything worse—

It clicked shut.

——————————————————————————

Hyunjin

The moment Hyunjin you shut the door, you felt a wave of regret crash over you. You stewed in your regret for a while before you succumbed to it.

You couldn't stand it.

You rushed out the door, hoping to catch up; even if it had already a bit since his departure. But you knew him, and he probably hadn't made it far, taking his long legs for granted and dragging out his journey.

You wanted to stop him, to explain, to make him see what you couldn't say- but your pride had already built a wall too high. The words you had snapped at him stung, but there was a fear settling deep within you, too. Fear of rejection, fear of the misunderstanding spiraling out of control.

Fear of losing him from a quick yet grave mistake.

The street was quiet, and your footsteps echoed in the empty space. You turned the corner, but in your rush, you hadn't paid attention to where you were going.

It seemed you had taken one wrong turn after another, and suddenly the comforting glow of the familiar streetlights was replaced with unfamiliar darkness.

Panic rose in your chest. Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you fumbled to pull it out, only for it to die before you could see.

You cursed under your breath. Of course, it died. Why wouldn't it? Your mind was foggy, and you could barely focus on anything, let alone figure out where you were. The tightness in your chest felt suffocating, but you pushed through it.

You wandered a little until you found a cute little convenience store, stepping inside, letting the warmth encapsulate you. You decided to grab a snack while you charged your phone, the clerk so graciously allowing you to charge it behind the desk.

You figured while you ate you could figure out what to say to Hyunjin, to mend whatever crack you had caused.

--

Meanwhile, Hyunjin still felt the sting of your words settled deep in his chest. His jaw clenched as he shoved his hands into his pockets, walking briskly down the street.

It wasn’t fair. He had done nothing wrong, yet you had pushed him away like he was too much. Like his affection- his need to be close to you- was suffocating.

Me? Too much- HAH. As if.

You were just being bratty because you were in a bad mood...right?

I'm not actually too much am I?

And maybe it was dramatic, maybe it was childish, but he wanted you to chase after him. To call out his name, to grab his sleeve, to do something to prove you cared as much as he did.

But the street behind him remained quiet.

His throat tightened. His steps slowed.

You weren’t coming.

Hyunjin scoffed, shaking his head. Fine. If you weren’t going to run after him, then you could suffer.

He would make you grovel, make you look at him with those wide, guilty eyes and apologize.

Beg a little. Then - only then - he’d pull you into his arms, stroke your hair, kiss your forehead, and tell you it was okay.

Because at the end of the day, that’s all he wanted.

To make things okay again.

With a sigh, he turned back around, heading toward your apartment, already playing out how he’d drag this out just enough to make you squirm before giving in.

But when he got to your door, his smirk faltered.

The lights were off, but the door was cracked.

His brows knitted together as he stepped into a completely empty home.

You were supposed to be here. You were supposed to be sitting inside, stewing in guilt, waiting for him to come back so you could apologize properly.

His fingers twitched as he opened your bedroom door. He went to the bathroom and knocked.

No answer.

He knocked, a little harder this time.

Still nothing.

A flicker of unease crept up his spine. He pulled out his phone and called. It rang twice before going straight to voicemail.

Hyunjin swallowed. His throat was dry.

His mind raced through every possibility. Maybe you just went out for air. Maybe you ran to the convenience store. Maybe-

But his gut told him otherwise.

His gut told him something was wrong.

His fingers curled around his phone, knuckles white as he sucked in a sharp breath. His frustration, his plan to make you beg, his need to be dramatic- all of it evaporated, replaced by one single, overwhelming thought.

He needed to find you.

Now.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

@abovenyx @wolfs-archive @oddracha @iyeeeverydee @parisanmorovati @seungmincenteric @panbish-1209 @fxiry-vtt @sseawavee @shuporanporang @amarecerasus @softkisshyunjin @whoa-jo @meanergreener @rikibun @ayyonoona @shinywombatcrusade @y4yayael @skzstan12345 @mariteez @allys-reads @jazziwritesthings @skzstannie @yongbokkiesworld @kkkeopi @neverendingstay @moony-9 @minsungsthirdwheel @everlastingspring143 @joyofbebbanburg @leezanetheofficial @tr-mha-fan @bubbly-moon @night-storm7 @missmajdastark @axel-skz @rockstarkkami @emilyywhyy

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[luckymilkshakerebel]

REJECTION

Genre: angst, sulking, heartbreak, comfort

Cast: seungmin x you

It was another day of disappointment. You had spent hours in the kitchen, carefully following the recipe your mother-in-law had shared, your hands moving with practiced precision. The smell of spicy kimchi stew filled the room, making your mouth water in anticipation. You couldn’t wait to see Seungmin’s face light up when he tasted it. After all, it was for him—you wanted to impress him, to show him you could be a part of his world, learning to cook his food, and blending your cultures together.

But when he walked in, there was the familiar line, the one that stung each time he said it: "I’m on a diet."

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “I know,” you said quietly. He’d been saying it for days now. Days where you’d made his favorite dishes, only to be met with rejection. It hurt. Deep down, you felt like your efforts didn’t matter. The meals you prepared with love and care seemed meaningless when he refused them so easily.

The next day, you tried again. A simple dish of bulgogi, sweet and savory, the scent tempting. You placed it in front of him, your heart hoping for even a bite, but the words came again. “I’m on a diet.” His eyes flickered with guilt, but he never wavered.

This cycle went on for days—your enthusiasm dwindling, your hope fading. You tried to tell yourself that it was just a phase, that he was just being careful with his diet, but each rejection stung. It felt like more than food—it felt like your love, your effort, was going unnoticed. And you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was pushing you away in small ways, not realizing how deep the cut was.

--

One evening, feeling utterly defeated, you confided in Seungmin’s mother. “I don’t want to learn how to cook anymore,” you whispered, eyes downcast. “I’m tired. Seungmin doesn’t eat my food, so why should I keep trying?”

Her silence was heavy, but she understood. She knew her son, and she knew how hard it could be for him to balance his diet with his love for food. But you couldn’t ignore the ache in your chest—the yearning for his validation, for him to see your effort, for him to taste your love.

That night, after another failed attempt, you found yourself lying in bed, the kitchen cold and unused. You had given up. You were done. You couldn’t keep learning how to cook for someone who didn’t appreciate it, who didn’t even try.

But then, the door creaked open. Seungmin’s voice broke through the silence. “Y/N , Where are you?” he asked, sounding concerned.

You didn’t respond. Instead, you felt the bed dip as he sat beside you, his arms wrapping around you gently, pulling you into his chest.

“Did you eat yet?” he asked softly. His voice was tender, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

You shook your head. “No... I didn’t cook. It’s a waste to cook for just one person.”

He pulled back slightly, his hands cupping your face, his eyes searching yours. “Why didn’t you cook?” His voice was laced with worry, but there was something else there too—something more personal.

“I’m done learning,” you whispered, your voice shaky. “I’ve been trying for so long, but you always refuse to eat my food. Why should I keep doing it? Why should I keep trying when it feels like it doesn’t matter?”

Seungmin’s face fell, and for a moment, you saw guilt and regret flash across his features. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t realize it was affecting you like this. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You could feel his hand trembling slightly as it rested on your cheek. He had no idea how much his words, his actions, had hurt you. He didn’t know how much it stung to feel like your love was invisible, like you were invisible.

“I’ll eat your food next time,” he promised, his voice filled with determination. “I’ll eat whatever you make, even if it’s just for me.”

But you didn’t know if that would ever be enough. The damage had been done. You had learned that sometimes, no matter how hard you tried, some things just weren’t meant to be. And the empty kitchen, the unappreciated dishes, was a reminder of that pain.

The silence hung heavy in the air as Seungmin’s words lingered between you, but they didn’t erase the weight you felt in your heart. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that everything would get better, that the hurt would fade, but the emptiness was still there, gnawing at you.

Seungmin’s hands gently cupped your face, his thumb brushing over your skin, as if he were trying to physically soothe the pain that was deep inside you. “I didn’t know,” he whispered again, his voice small. “I never realized how much my refusal was hurting you.”

But it didn’t matter anymore, did it? His apology, no matter how sincere, couldn’t undo the days of feeling invisible, of feeling like your love wasn’t enough.

“I just wanted to make you proud,” you said, your voice barely audible. The words slipped out before you could stop them. “I wanted to show you that I care… that I’m learning, that I’m trying… But every time you say ‘I’m on a diet,’ it feels like everything I’m doing is pointless.”

Seungmin’s expression softened, his eyes filled with regret as he leaned closer to you. He gently kissed your forehead, his lips warm and comforting. “I never meant for you to feel that way. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t answer. What was there to say? The words felt like they would break something inside of you if you spoke them aloud. It wasn’t just about food anymore; it was about all the small ways you felt unseen, unheard. It was about the feeling that no matter what you did, it wouldn’t be enough to make him notice.

He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, as though trying to erase the distance that had grown between you. “I’ll change,” he murmured, his breath soft against your hair. “I promise I’ll eat whatever you cook. I’ll appreciate it. You mean everything to me.”

You let him hold you, but the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes were not just from the hurt you had been carrying. They were from the uncertainty—uncertainty that things might change, but the fear that they wouldn’t. The fear that your efforts would never truly be valued, no matter how hard you tried.

“I need more than just words,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I need you to see me. I need you to show me that you care, not just by eating my food, but by understanding that I’m trying, too.”

Seungmin’s arms tightened around you, his lips brushing the top of your head as he nodded. “I will. I’ll show you. I’ll make it right. I’ll prove to you that you’re worth it, that I see you.”

But even as his words comforted you, a small voice in the back of your mind whispered doubts. Would he really change? Would he realize the impact his actions had on you, or would you always feel like you were giving more than you received?

You didn’t have the answers, and maybe you never would. But in that moment, as Seungmin held you close, you let yourself believe, just for a little while longer, that things might get better. You let yourself believe that this time, he really would notice you—not just as his partner, but as the person you were, with your own dreams, your own efforts, and your own love to give.

You stayed in Seungmin’s embrace, but the heaviness in your heart didn’t fully fade. You had a lot to say, and it had been building up for so long. You pulled away slightly, your hands still resting on his chest, but your gaze turned away from him. The frustration was bubbling up inside you, and you couldn’t keep it bottled any longer.

“Seungmin…” you started, your voice quieter now, but still sharp with emotion. “Why do you need to diet? You’re already so skinny. Every time I see you dance, your chest is practically just bones. I hate seeing you like that. It’s… it’s like you’re not taking care of yourself, and I don’t understand why you keep pushing yourself to go further.”

Seungmin looked at you, his eyes wide, a bit taken aback by the sudden change in tone. He opened his mouth to respond, but you weren’t done yet. You needed him to understand how deeply this was bothering you, how it was affecting not just your relationship, but your feelings about him.

“You’re already perfect to me, Seungmin. I don’t care about your body like that. I care about you. But every time you say ‘I’m on a diet,’ or turn down food, it feels like I’m not enough for you, that nothing is ever enough,” you continued, your voice trembling with the weight of the words you were finally letting out.

He opened his mouth again, but you raised a hand to stop him. “No, don’t apologize. I need you to listen. You’re already too thin. And I get it—I know it’s part of your job, part of being in Stray Kids, but it hurts me to see you doing this to yourself. It hurts me to see you so obsessed with your body, when what I care about is how healthy and happy you are. Why do you feel like you need to be even skinnier?”

Seungmin’s face fell, and he looked down at his hands. You could tell he wasn’t used to hearing this from you—he wasn’t used to seeing you so vulnerable, so open about your frustrations. He knew you cared, but he didn’t fully realize how much it hurt you.

“I don’t… I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, his voice soft. “It’s just... I feel pressure, you know? From the fans, from everything around me. To look a certain way, to fit a certain image. I didn’t think it would affect you like this.”

You let out a frustrated sigh, shaking your head. “That’s exactly it, Seungmin. You don’t need to look a certain way for anyone but yourself. You’re already perfect the way you are, and I don’t care about your body being a certain size. I care about you, Seungmin. I care about your health, your happiness, and I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

You swallowed hard, the tears in your eyes threatening to spill over. “I want you to be strong for yourself, not for anyone else. I want you to feel good about who you are. I want to be able to cook for you and see you enjoy it. I don’t want to keep feeling like my love isn’t enough when I see you turning down food like it’s something you have to earn.”

Seungmin’s expression softened, and he gently took your hands in his, his voice full of sincerity. “I’m sorry,” he said again, this time with a deeper understanding. “I didn’t know how much this was affecting you. I promise, I’ll think more about it. I’ll try to take care of myself—not just for others, but for us. I don’t want to make you feel like you’re not enough. You’re more than enough for me.”

But even as he said the words, you couldn’t shake the lingering ache. You didn’t know if he would truly change or if this was just another promise that would fade away with time. But for now, all you wanted was for him to truly understand—understand that you cared about him far more than any image, far more than any number on a scale. And that was something you hoped he would eventually see for himself.

The night was long, filled with the weight of the conversation, but eventually, exhaustion had settled in. After all the emotions, the frustration, and the heart-to-heart, you had both fallen into a quiet sleep. Seungmin’s arms were around you, holding you close, as if he couldn’t bear to let you go after everything you had just shared. It was a small comfort, but it was something.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, softly waking you from your slumber. You blinked a few times, feeling the warmth of Seungmin’s body beside you. The space between you was still close, but this time, it felt different—calmer, like maybe there was some hope after all.

Suddenly, you felt his breath against your ear as he shifted beside you, his voice groggy but still carrying the familiar lilt. “Hey,” he said, nudging you lightly. “I’m hungry.”

You groaned softly, rubbing your eyes. The first thought that hit you was how surreal it felt—just last night, you had been at the edge of your patience, but now, here you were, waking up with him, and he was hungry. For food, not for anything else.

“Already?” you mumbled, your voice still thick with sleep. You could hear the playful hint in his tone, despite the serious conversation from the night before. He was always so full of energy, even in the mornings.

“Yeah,” he replied with a soft chuckle. “I’ve been thinking about it all night... but mostly about your cooking,” he added, sounding a little sheepish, though the playful glint in his eyes was unmistakable. “You’re going to make me something, right?”

You turned to face him, your mind still swimming with the emotions of the previous evening. There was a quiet moment as you stared at him, his eyes soft with affection, but also something else—something that told you he had truly heard you. He wasn’t just asking for food now; it felt like he was asking for your trust, your patience, and your love again.

You sighed, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything. “You sure you’re hungry after all that talk about diets?” you teased lightly, trying to keep the mood light.

Seungmin chuckled, but then his face became serious. “I’m sorry… I don’t want to disappoint you. I know I’ve been distant with you and food, and I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking you for granted. I just want to eat what you make, no excuses. I’ll take care of myself, I promise.”

Your heart softened as you looked at him, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. For a moment, everything else faded. “Okay,” you whispered, your voice steady. “I’ll make something. But no more excuses, alright?”

He grinned widely, his eyes lighting up. “Deal!” He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before pulling away and sitting up, his energy returning with the promise of food. “I’m so ready for whatever you’ve got.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at how his appetite always managed to bring a sense of normalcy back into things. As you sat up too, you glanced at him, realizing that maybe, just maybe, things were slowly starting to fall into place.

“I’ll make you something good,” you said, already thinking about what you could cook. “You better eat it all.”

Seungmin gave you a playful wink. “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.” He lay back on the bed for a moment, his gaze soft as he looked at you, before sitting up again. “And I’ll eat all of it. No more turning things down.”

With that, you both got up, your morning starting anew, and for the first time in a while, you felt a little lighter. Maybe it wasn’t perfect, but it was progress. And that, in itself, was enough.

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[luckymilkshakerebel]

STILL YOURS

Genre : angst comfort

Cast: felix x reader

The cold wind whipped through the empty park, the night sky above painted with heavy gray clouds. You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, your breath visible in the icy air. The message Felix had sent earlier was etched into your mind:

“We need to talk. Meet me at the park. 9 PM.”

It had been weeks since you’d last seen him—weeks of sleepless nights, unanswered questions, and a silence so loud it threatened to consume you. You’d sworn to yourself that you wouldn’t let him back in, not after everything. But here you were, standing under the dim glow of the streetlamp, waiting for him like you always did.

You didn’t have to wait long. His familiar silhouette appeared on the path, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his blonde hair catching the faint light. He looked the same, but there was something in the way he carried himself—a weight, a sadness—that hadn’t been there before.

“Y/N,” Felix said softly when he reached you, his voice cracking just enough to make your chest tighten.

“Felix,” you replied, your voice neutral, guarded.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the distant hum of traffic. Then, Felix broke the silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice trembling. “For everything.”

You flinched at the words, the memories they brought rushing back like a flood. The fights, the nights you spent crying alone, the ache of feeling like you were never enough for him.

“What exactly are you sorry for?” you asked, your tone sharper than you intended. “For leaving? For not being there when I needed you? For making me feel like I didn’t matter?”

Felix winced, his shoulders slumping as though your words physically hurt him. “All of it,” he admitted. “I know I messed up, Y/N. I know I hurt you in ways I can’t take back. But I never stopped caring about you. I never stopped loving you.”

Your heart clenched at his confession, but the pain of the past weeks was still fresh, raw. “If you loved me, why did you make me feel so alone? Why did you let us fall apart?”

He took a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought if I focused on my career, on everything I wanted to achieve, it would somehow make us stronger. But I was wrong. I lost sight of what was really important. I lost sight of us.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to keep your emotions in check. “And now? What do you expect me to do with that, Felix? Just forget everything that happened? Pretend like it didn’t break me?”

“No,” he said quickly, stepping closer to you. “I don’t expect you to forget, and I don’t expect you to forgive me right away. I just… I want to make things right. I want to prove to you that I can do better—that I will do better.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “What if it’s too late?” you whispered. “What if I can’t trust you again?”

Felix’s face crumpled, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Then I’ll wait,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ll wait as long as it takes. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just don’t shut me out, Y/N. Please.”

His desperation was palpable, and for the first time in weeks, you saw the Felix you fell in love with—the boy who had once promised to stand by your side no matter what. But the pain was still there, and it wasn’t something that could be erased with an apology.

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” you admitted, your voice shaking. “I don’t know if I can handle getting hurt like that again.”

Felix took another step closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “You won’t,” he said with conviction. “I swear to you, Y/N, I won’t hurt you like that again. I’ll be here, every step of the way, if you’ll let me.”

The tears you’d been holding back finally spilled over, and you hated yourself for it. But Felix didn’t hesitate. He reached out, hesitantly at first, and when you didn’t pull away, he gently took your hands in his. His touch was warm, grounding, and it broke through the walls you’d built around yourself.

“I miss you,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I miss us. And I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m asking for another chance. Please.”

You looked at him, the sincerity in his eyes making it impossible to look away. He meant it—every word. And despite everything, despite the pain and the heartbreak, a part of you wanted to believe him. A part of you wanted to hold onto the hope that things could be different this time.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Felix nodded, his grip on your hands tightening just slightly. “I know. And I’ll do everything I can to take that fear away. Just… let me try.”

For a long moment, you simply stood there, the world around you fading into the background. Then, slowly, you nodded.

“Okay,” you said, your voice trembling. “But this is your last chance, Felix. If you hurt me again—”

“I won’t,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “I won’t, Y/N. I promise.”

He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as though he was afraid you might disappear. For the first time in weeks, you let yourself relax against him, the weight of your pain easing just slightly. It wasn’t a perfect resolution, and there were still wounds that needed to heal, but it was a start.

And for now, that was enough.

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[luckymilkshakerebel]

THE CHOICE

Genre: angst

Cast : (You × Bang Chan)

The rain poured down in thick sheets, soaking through your clothes as you stood in front of Chan’s apartment. The cold bit at your skin, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache in your chest.

You hadn’t planned on coming here. You told yourself a hundred times that you wouldn’t. That you would stop chasing after someone who kept slipping through your fingers. But when you saw him earlier tonight—laughing, talking, acting like he was fine while you were falling apart—you lost control.

You banged on the door, the sound swallowed by the storm.

It swung open, and there he was. Bang Chan. Messy curls damp against his forehead, hoodie hanging loose over his frame. His eyes widened in surprise before settling into something unreadable.

“Y/N?” His voice was softer than you expected.

You swallowed, trying to find the right words, but they got caught in your throat. Every time, it was like this. You held on to so much, but when you faced him, everything tangled into a mess of emotions you couldn't untangle.

“I need to know,” you said, voice trembling. “Do you love me, or are you just afraid of losing me?”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Y/N, don’t do this—”

“No,” you cut him off. “I’m tired, Chan. I’m tired of being the only one fighting for this. I keep waiting for you to show me I’m not just someone convenient. That I’m not just here because you’re scared of being alone.”

His jaw clenched, his gaze flickering to the floor. The silence stretched between you, the only sound the rain hitting the pavement.

And that was your answer, wasn’t it?

Your chest tightened, eyes burning as you took a shaky step back.

“I get it now,” you whispered. “You won’t choose me.”

Chan’s head snapped up, his expression pained. “It’s not that simple, Y/N—”

“But it is,” you said, voice cracking. “Love isn’t complicated, Chan. It’s either you do, or you don’t.”

He didn’t stop you when you turned around. He didn’t call your name as you walked away, leaving behind the pieces of a love that was never whole to begin with.

And maybe that hurt the most.

Because you had been right all along.

He was afraid of losing you—just not enough to love you the way you needed him to.

---

You walked down the empty streets, the rain masking the tears streaming down your face. Every step away from his apartment felt heavier, like your heart was trying to drag you back, begging you to turn around and give him another chance. But what was the point?

If he had wanted you, he would have said something.

If he had loved you, he would have fought for you.

Your fingers clenched around the soaked fabric of your sleeves, your breath shaky as you forced yourself to keep moving. The city lights blurred in the distance, your mind replaying the way he had looked at you—like you were breaking him, when he had been the one breaking you all along.

You didn’t know how long you had been walking when you heard footsteps splashing through the puddles behind you. Then, a voice—desperate, breathless.

“Y/N!”

Your heart stuttered. You stopped, but you didn’t turn around. You couldn’t.

A hand grabbed your wrist, warmth against your freezing skin, and suddenly you were being spun around. There he was. Chan. Standing in the rain, his curls sticking to his forehead, his chest rising and falling like he had just run a marathon. His eyes—God, his eyes—held something raw, something shattered.

“I love you.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. They should have been everything you wanted to hear, but instead, they felt like a cruel joke.

You shook your head, stepping back. “No, you don’t.”

His grip on your wrist tightened for a second before he let go, as if realizing he had no right to hold on anymore.

“I do,” he insisted, voice breaking. “I do, Y/N. I just—I’m scared.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Scared of what? Loving me?”

He looked away, his jaw clenched, the rain dripping from his lashes. “Scared of losing you.”

You swallowed, your chest aching. “Then why did you let me go?”

Chan exhaled shakily, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Because I thought… maybe if I didn’t hold on too tight, I wouldn’t ruin this. Ruin you.”

Your lips parted, your heart clenching. “Chan—”

“I love you, but I don’t know how to love you right.” His voice was barely above a whisper, and for the first time, you saw the fear in his eyes—the fear of not being enough. “And I don’t want to hurt you more than I already have.”

Silence hung between you, heavier than the rain.

Maybe in another world, his love would have been enough. Maybe if he had fought for you sooner, you wouldn’t be standing here with your heart in pieces, wondering if love was supposed to feel this painful.

But here, in this moment, it wasn’t enough.

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Then love me better, Chan.”

His breath hitched.

“Or let me go for good.”

For the first time, the choice was in his hands. And for the first time, you weren’t going to wait forever for his answer.

You turned around.

And this time, you kept walking.

Not looking back.

Not waiting for him to chase you again.

Because if he wanted you—truly, deeply wanted you—he would have never let you go in the first place.

---

Days passed. Then weeks.

Chan never called.

You should’ve expected it. You had given him a choice, and he had made it—just in silence, just in absence. It hurt at first, an ache so deep it felt like you couldn’t breathe. But eventually, you learned to live with it. To accept that sometimes, love wasn’t enough.

Still, some nights, you found yourself staring at your phone, wondering if he ever thought about you. If he regretted not stopping you that night. But the screen stayed dark, and you forced yourself to move forward.

Then, one evening, as you were leaving a café, you saw him.

Standing across the street, hands shoved into his pockets, looking like he had been searching for you for a long time. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world went silent.

You had imagined this moment over and over, wondering what you would say if you ever saw him again. But now that he was right there, you realized something.

You didn’t need an answer anymore.

You had already found it.

Taking a deep breath, you gave him the smallest of smiles—one that held no bitterness, just quiet acceptance. Then, you turned and walked away.

And this time, you knew he wouldn’t follow.

Because love wasn’t just about holding on.

Sometimes, it was about knowing when to let go.

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[luckymilkshakerebel]

WHAT WE LOST

Genre: angst, comfort

Cast: FELIX X READER

The rain fell in relentless sheets, the cold seeping through your soaked jacket as you stood on the cobbled street, staring at the dimly lit café. It was supposed to be a place of comfort—a meeting spot filled with shared laughter and quiet whispers—but tonight, it felt like the end of something. The neon sign buzzed faintly above the door, and through the large window, you could see him.

Felix.

He was sitting at the corner table, his blonde hair slightly damp, his sharp features cast in shadows from the low-hanging lights. His hands were wrapped around a cup, but his gaze wasn’t on the drink. It was on the seat across from him. Your seat.

You hesitated. Was this worth it? The shouting matches, the nights spent crying into your pillow, the ache of losing someone who was supposed to be your forever—was any of it worth dredging up again? You thought about turning away, but your feet betrayed you. They always did when it came to him.

The bell above the door chimed as you entered, the warmth of the café a stark contrast to the biting cold outside. Felix’s head shot up at the sound, his dark eyes locking with yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, slowly, he stood, his movements hesitant, as though he wasn’t sure if you’d bolt.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice soft but tinged with surprise. “You came.”

You nodded, unable to trust your voice. The weight of everything unsaid between you hung heavy in the air, pressing down on your chest.

Felix gestured toward the seat across from him. “Do you… want to sit?”

You hesitated before finally sliding into the chair. The tension was suffocating, and yet you couldn’t look away from him. He looked different—tired, like he hadn’t been sleeping. You wondered if he noticed the same about you.

“I wasn’t sure you’d show up,” he admitted, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup.

“I wasn’t sure either,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

Silence. It stretched between you like an unbridgeable chasm, filled with memories of what once was and the pain of what could never be again.

“Why did you ask me here, Felix?” you finally asked, breaking the silence. Your tone was harsher than you intended, but the hurt you’d buried for weeks clawed its way to the surface.

He flinched but didn’t look away. “I… I wanted to talk. To explain.”

You laughed bitterly, the sound foreign even to your own ears. “Explain? What’s left to explain, Felix? You left. You chose to walk away. Was that not explanation enough?”

His jaw tightened, and he leaned forward, his voice low and urgent. “I didn’t walk away, Y/N. You pushed me away. Every time I tried to fix things, you shut me out.”

“And what about you?” you shot back, your voice rising. “You were never there, Felix! You were so busy chasing your dreams that you forgot about us. About me.”

His eyes flashed with something—anger, maybe, or guilt. “That’s not fair. You knew how important this was to me. You said you supported me.”

“I did!” you exclaimed, the frustration spilling over. “I supported you, Felix, but I needed you too. I needed you to be there when things got hard, but you weren’t. You were too busy being everything for everyone else.”

Felix opened his mouth to respond but stopped, his gaze dropping to the table. The fight drained out of him, leaving only raw vulnerability.

“I know I messed up,” he said quietly. “I know I wasn’t there when you needed me. But I never stopped caring, Y/N. Not for a second.”

You stared at him, your heart aching at the sincerity in his voice. But the pain of the past weeks, the sleepless nights and endless tears, was too much to ignore.

“I don’t know if that’s enough,” you said, your voice trembling. “You broke me, Felix. I don’t know if I can put the pieces back together.”

He reached across the table, his hand hovering over yours. “Let me help. Please, Y/N. I know I don’t deserve another chance, but I’m begging you. Don’t let this be the end.”

The desperation in his voice made your resolve waver. This was Felix—the boy who had held your hand on your worst days, who had made you laugh until your sides hurt, who had looked at you like you were his entire world. But this was also Felix—the man who had let you down when you needed him most, who had left you to face your pain alone.

Tears blurred your vision, and you pulled your hand back, the loss evident in his eyes. “I can’t, Felix. I can’t keep doing this. It hurts too much.”

His face crumpled, and for the first time, you saw him truly break. “Y/N, please. I—”

A loud crash interrupted him as the door to the café swung open, letting in a gust of wind and rain. Both of you turned to see a figure stumble inside, their umbrella flipping in the storm. It was a brief distraction, but it was enough to shatter the fragile moment between you.

You stood, your chair scraping against the floor. Felix looked up at you, panic flashing across his face. “Don’t go. Please.”

You shook your head, your tears mixing with the rain that had dripped from your hair. “I’m sorry, Felix. I just… I can’t.”

You turned and walked toward the door, each step feeling heavier than the last. As you pushed it open, the cold rain hit your face, but it was nothing compared to the ache in your chest. Behind you, you heard Felix call your name, his voice breaking, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Outside, the storm raged on, but you barely noticed. The sound of your own heartbeat drowned out everything else. You’d thought this meeting might bring closure, but instead, it had only reopened wounds you weren’t sure would ever heal.

As you disappeared into the night, Felix remained in the café, staring at the door you’d walked through. His hands clenched into fists, and for the first time, he realized what it truly meant to lose you.

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[luckymilkshakerebel]

Pieces of Us

Genre: angst, comfort

Cast: Han x reader

The rain fell steadily outside the window, creating a rhythmic symphony of droplets against the glass. The apartment was dimly lit, shadows flickering as I sat in the silence, the weight of everything pressing down on me. I stared at the empty space next to me, the place where he used to sit—where his warmth used to be. Han. The name itself felt foreign, almost painful, now.

It had been weeks since we last spoke. Weeks of silence after everything that had happened. He had tried to apologize, of course. Endless messages, letters, flowers—gestures meant to make up for the chasm between us. But I couldn’t bring myself to respond. Not yet.

Because the truth was, I didn’t know if I could ever forgive him.

---

The Fall

It started with a conversation. A fight, really. Small, ordinary things—misunderstandings, careless words—but they quickly escalated. Han said something thoughtless, something that cut deep, and I lashed back, sharper than I intended. And then came the moment that changed everything.

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” Han said, his voice quiet but resolute.

It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but it was the first time it truly felt like a goodbye.

I sat frozen, my breath caught in my throat. “What do you mean?”

“I just... I feel like we’ve lost something,” he said, his eyes distant, as if already retreating from the conversation. “We’re not the same anymore.”

The words hung in the air between us, a dark cloud that neither of us could dispel. It wasn’t that we stopped loving each other—it was that we had stopped seeing each other.

---

The Discovery

A few days later, everything unraveled. I had been out running errands, only to return home to find Han’s phone on the kitchen counter, buzzing with messages. Out of instinct—or perhaps some deep-seated paranoia—I picked it up.

The messages weren’t innocent. They were flirty, personal, shared moments between him and another woman. Yeji.

My stomach twisted as I read through the conversations, each text more intimate than the last. He had been lying to me, deceiving me, building a separate world without my knowledge.

I confronted him the moment he walked through the door.

“Who is Yeji?” My voice was steady, but beneath it, there was a storm.

Han’s face drained of color. “It wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said quickly. “It was a mistake, Y/n.”

“A mistake?” I snapped, my voice rising. “You don’t just make mistakes like this, Han. You don’t cheat on someone you love without thinking about it.”

“I didn’t plan for it,” he said, his voice cracking. “It was a moment of weakness. You have to believe me.”

But his words weren’t enough. The damage was done.

---

The Silence

After that, the space between us felt cavernous. There were no more fights, no more arguments—just silence. He stayed, of course, still in the same apartment, still present, but unreachable. His apologies were constant, but they felt hollow. Every text, every flower, every gesture felt like a bandage over a wound that needed stitches.

And I couldn’t bring myself to forgive him.

“You don’t understand,Han” I said one night, my voice trembling. “You say you regret it, but that doesn’t erase what you did.”

“I know,Y/n” he whispered. “I know it’s not enough.”

---

The Struggle

Weeks turned into months, and still, Han tried. He followed me when I left the apartment, showed up at my favorite café with a cup of coffee. He left little notes in places I would find—on my desk at work, in the pages of my favorite book. Each note spoke of his regret, his longing to fix what he had broken.

“I love you,Y/n” he wrote once. “I always have. And I’ll spend the rest of my life showing you how sorry I am.”

But love, as I had learned, wasn’t enough. It couldn’t undo betrayal.

---

The Moment of Truth

One evening, after returning home from a long day at work, I found another letter waiting for me on the kitchen table. His handwriting was familiar, trembling with emotion. I sat down, the letter unfolded in my hands.

Y/n,

I don’t expect this letter to heal everything. I know it won’t. But I need to tell you how deeply sorry I am. Every moment without you has been a torment I don’t deserve. I betrayed your trust, and I’ve spent every second regretting it.

But love isn’t just a word—it’s an action. I’m not just saying I’m sorry; I’m showing you, every day, that I’m worthy of a second chance. I’m here, and I’ll be here, no matter how long it takes for you to find it in your heart to forgive me.

You are my heart, Y/n. Always have been. And I’ll do whatever it takes to earn your trust again.

Forever yours,

Han

---

The Healing

I read the letter several times, letting the words sink in. Han’s voice was raw, his vulnerability undeniable. And while a part of me wanted to believe him, to forgive him, another part—the one still holding onto the pain—was afraid.

Trust is a fragile thing. Once shattered, it takes time, patience, and unwavering actions to rebuild.

But Han didn’t stop. Every day was a reminder of his dedication to me, even when I didn’t respond. He stayed persistent, not just with words but with actions. He showed up on the doorstep with flowers when I least expected it. He remembered the smallest things—the way I liked my coffee, my favorite books, the songs that made me feel safe.

Still, the pain lingered.

---

The Turning Point

One evening, I found myself sitting on the couch, scrolling through old pictures of us. It wasn’t something I had done consciously; it just happened. Memories surfaced—moments of happiness, laughter, the things we once shared.

Tears welled up in my eyes. It wasn’t just the betrayal that hurt; it was the loss of everything we had built together. And as I sat there, staring at the photos, I realized something. Han wasn’t just apologizing for a mistake—he was trying to rebuild what we had lost.

Maybe, just maybe, that was worth something.

---

The Road Ahead

The next time Han came over, he didn’t bring flowers or gifts. He simply sat next to me, silent for a moment before speaking.

“I understand if you need more time,” he said, his voice steady. “I’ll wait as long as you need.”

I looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in weeks. There was no pretension, no desperation in his eyes—only hope, genuine and unwavering.

“I want to believe you,Han” I said softly.

“Then let me show you,Y/n” he replied, and for the first time in a long while, I saw the truth in his eyes.

Rebuilding trust isn’t easy. It takes time, and there are no guarantees. But sometimes, the very act of trying can mend even the deepest wounds.

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[luckymilkshakerebel]

Under the Stars

Genre: romance

Cast hyunjin x reader

The dim light from the bedside lamp barely reached the living room, where you lay peacefully on hyunjin lap. His fingers, gentle as whispers, traced patterns on your cheek, occasionally brushing strands of your hair away. You had fallen asleep with your head resting comfortably against his thigh, your breathing steady and slow, content in his presence.

A playful smile tugged at the corner of hyunjin lips as he watched you sleep, his gaze soft and adoring. His fingers moved from your face to your nose, lightly poking it. You twitched slightly but didn’t wake. hyunjin chuckled softly to himself, the sound a soothing melody that accompanied the quiet hum of the city outside.

“Still out cold?” hyunjin whispered, more to himself than to you. His fingers gently traced your lips next, feeling their shape beneath his fingertips. You pouted slightly, the faintest of movements under his touch.

“I know you’re awake, love” he murmured with a smirk, watching your lips twitch again. “You can’t fool me.”

You didn’t respond, instead sinking deeper into sleep. But hyunjin couldn’t resist the game. His hand moved to your nose once more, tapping it lightly, and you gave a soft laugh in your sleep—a sound so small and sweet, it melted his heart.

“I knew it,” he whispered, leaning down to press a soft kiss on your forehead. “You’re awake.”

You didn’t open your eyes, choosing to stay in that warm, sleepy haze. Your breath was even, your skin warm beneath his touch. hyunjin took the moment to study you—your calm expression, the curve of your lips, the faintest hint of a smile playing on your face.

hyunjin couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace, watching you like this. You looked so content, so serene, so perfectly at ease in his arms. The world outside didn’t matter—there was only this moment. You, him, and the quiet comfort of each other’s company.

His fingers gently moved to your lips again, brushing over them slowly. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. “Even when you’re asleep.”

A giggle escaped your lips, this time not a soft laugh in your dreams, but an actual, quiet sound. hyunjin eyes widened, a grin forming on his face as he leaned down to kiss your nose.

“I knew you weren’t asleep,” hyunjin teased, his voice playful now.

You opened your eyes just slightly, giving him a sleepy smile. “Okay, maybe I wasn’t.”

hyunjin chuckled, running his fingers lightly through your hair. “Maybe? You totally weren’t asleep.”

You leaned into him, your hand resting lightly on his chest. “But I didn’t mind you poking my nose, hyunjin”

“Hmm, really?” he said with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Maybe I should poke it more often.”

You shifted slightly, adjusting your position to get more comfortable on his lap. His fingers found your lips again, tracing their outline slowly, savoring the softness beneath them. “You don’t mind this either?” hyunjin asked softly.

You sighed contentedly, humming in response. “Only if you don’t stop.”

He laughed softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I could stay here forever if you let me.”

The warmth of the moment enveloped you both, wrapped in the comfort of shared silence and shared love. The world beyond seemed distant, faded into the background as the two of you existed in this quiet bubble, filled only with the sound of your breathing and the occasional sound of his heartbeat.

His fingers stopped moving for a moment, and you snuggled deeper into him. “I love you,” he whispered, the words brushing against your skin like a soft breeze.

You smiled softly against his chest, your eyes fluttering closed once again. “Love you too.”

And in the stillness, under the glow of the lamp and the quiet hum of the city outside, time seemed to stand still.

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[luckymilkshakerebel]

Take a look guys

REMA MASTERLIST

Hi, call me REMA, I'm stray kids fans and also multifandom😘

My old? Secret, but im old enough to work🤣🤣 I'm a girl

Angst- 💥 Fluff- 💖 Smut - 💦. Sad ending -💔 Happy Ending -💞

Comfort -🫀 Hurt-🤕 DARK-🖤

STRAY KIDS MASTERLIST

OT8

MEMBER PAIRING

BANGCHAN 🧡

RAILWAY 🖤

LEE KNOW ❤️

Unspoken Love 🫀

YOUTH

CHANGBIN 🩷

ULTRA 💥🫀

A FRAGILE BREAK 💥🫀

HHYUNJIN 🩵

SO GOOD 💖🫀

HAN 💜

HOLD MY HAND 💖🫀

FELIX 💛

UNFAIR 🫀🤕

SEUNGMIN 🤎

A LOVE REKINDLED 💖💥💦💞

AS WE ARE

I.N 💚

TANGLED STRING 💥💔

HALLUCINATION

OTHER KPOP GROUP

Got7 youngjae 💥💔 FALLING OUT OF TUNE

[luckymilkshakerebel]

A Fragile Break

Genre: angst ,hurt, comfort

Cast: changbin x reader

The sound of glass shattering echoed through the living room, and your heart immediately sank to the pit of your stomach. You stared at the shards of Changbin’s favorite figurine scattered across the floor, the one he had painstakingly saved for and proudly displayed in the center of the shelf. It had slipped from your hands while you were dusting, and now, the damage was done.

“Y/N, what was that?” Changbin’s voice called from the bedroom.

You froze, your hands trembling as you tried to collect the pieces. Just as you were about to hide them away, Changbin appeared in the doorway. His eyes immediately fell to the floor, where his cherished figurine lay in ruins.

“What… what did you do?” His voice was low, and the disappointment in his tone made your chest tighten.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stammered, tears already forming in your eyes. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to?” he snapped, his voice rising. “Do you know how much that meant to me, Y/N? That wasn’t just some random item—it was my favorite! I saved for months to get it, and now it’s gone!”

His words hit like a hammer, each one heavier than the last. “I know, and I feel terrible, but it was an accident, Changbin. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Sometimes it feels like you don’t think about anything! Do you ever care about the things that matter to me?” he shot back, his voice filled with frustration.

That comment broke something inside you. You stared at him, your lip trembling, but you didn’t respond. What could you even say? You hadn’t meant for this to happen, but now it felt like nothing you did mattered.

Without another word, you walked past him and into the bedroom, closing the door behind you. Changbin didn’t follow, and the silence between you stretched on for days.

---

You and Changbin barely spoke after the fight. The tension in the air was suffocating, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look him in the eyes. His words replayed in your mind on a loop, cutting deeper each time you thought about them.

But instead of wallowing in the guilt, you made a decision. You would replace what you had broken. You knew it wouldn’t erase the hurt, but it was the least you could do.

You started saving every bit of money you could. You skipped coffee runs, turned down outings with friends, and even sold a few of your own belongings to scrape together enough. It wasn’t easy, but you were determined. You have been searching everywhere and anywhere you can to find the exact same kind of figure that you broke. You have been quiet and stressed out to find out where to find.. and if there's no available in korea, you've been searching everywhere to post directly to korea..

In the meanwhile, Changbin noticed the change in you. He saw how quiet you had become, how you avoided being in the same room as him for too long. You no longer greeted him with a smile when he came home, and your usual warmth was replaced with a distant, hollow demeanor.

At first, he told himself you just needed space, but as the days turned into weeks, he grew restless. He hated the silence, hated seeing the light in your eyes dim.

One night, he found himself staring at the shelf where his broken figurine had once stood. The anger he had felt in the moment seemed so insignificant now compared to the emptiness that had taken its place.

“I was too harsh,” he murmured to himself, running a hand through his hair. “I should’ve listened. I should’ve—” His voice broke, and he slumped onto the couch, guilt weighing heavily on his chest.

---

Weeks later, after what felt like an eternity, you came home with a carefully wrapped box in your hands. You placed it on the dining table and called Changbin over.

He appeared in the doorway, his expression wary but curious. “What’s this?”

You gestured to the box. “Open it.”

Changbin hesitated before unwrapping the package. When he pulled away the last layer of paper, his eyes widened in shock. Inside was an identical version of the figurine he had lost.

“You… you replaced it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your hands clasped tightly in front of you. “I know it’s not the same as the original, but I wanted to make it up to you. I’ve been saving up for weeks to get it.”

Changbin stared at the figurine, then at you. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders sagged with exhaustion. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks—you had been sacrificing so much, all because of him.

“Y/N…” He set the figurine down and stepped closer to you. “Why didn’t you tell me you were doing this?”

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “I just… I wanted to fix what I broke. I know how much it meant to you.”

He reached out, gently cupping your face and tilting it up so you were forced to look at him. His eyes were filled with regret. “I don’t care about the figurine anymore. I care about you. And I hate that I made you feel like you had to do this to make things right.”

“But you were so upset,” you whispered. “You said I didn’t care about the things that matter to you. I just wanted to prove that I do.”

Changbin’s heart ached at the pain in your voice. “I was wrong to say that. I was angry, and I let my emotions get the best of me. But none of this is your fault. It was an accident, Y/N. And I should’ve seen how much it hurt you too.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, and this time, you couldn’t hold them back. “I just wanted to make you happy again.”

Changbin pulled you into a tight hug, holding you as if he were afraid you might slip away. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ve been such an idiot, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I’m begging you to give me another chance.”

You buried your face in his chest, the weight of the past few weeks finally lifting. “I just wanted things to go back to the way they were.”

“They will,” Changbin promised, his voice firm. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make it up to you. I’ll never let my anger come between us again. You’re more important to me than any stupid figurine.”

---

From that day on, Changbin made it his mission to show you how much he cared. He planned little date nights, left sweet notes around the apartment, and made sure to remind you every day how much he loved and appreciated you.

It wasn’t just words—he proved it through his actions. He listened more, paid attention to the little things that made you happy, and made sure you never felt taken for granted again.

In time, the hurt began to fade, replaced by the love and trust you had always shared. And as you and Changbin sat together on the couch one evening, Dori curled up in your lap, you realized that even broken things could be mended—if both people were willing to put in the effort.

Life slowly returned to something resembling normal, though there were moments where the silence between you and Changbin still lingered—echoes of the distance the fight had created. But Changbin was determined to bridge that gap completely, refusing to let the damage remain.

One Saturday morning, you woke up to the sound of clattering in the kitchen. Groggily, you made your way out of bed to find Changbin standing by the stove, surrounded by bowls, utensils, and what looked like an entire carton of eggs spilled across the counter.

"Good morning!" he exclaimed, grinning sheepishly as he wiped his hands on his apron.

"What's all this?" you asked, blinking at the mess.

"I wanted to surprise you with breakfast," he said, gesturing to the frying pan where some pancakes were sizzling—albeit a little unevenly. "I thought you deserved to relax for once, especially after how much you've been doing lately."

Your lips twitched in amusement. "Looks like you're the one who needs to relax. You’ve got eggs on the floor."

He followed your gaze and groaned. "Okay, so maybe I’m not the best at this, but it’s the thought that counts, right?"

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head as you grabbed a towel to help him clean up. "It’s definitely the thought that counts."

---

Later that day, Changbin suggested a walk by the river. The air was crisp, the sun warming your skin as the two of you strolled side by side. He was uncharacteristically quiet, stealing glances at you every so often as if trying to gauge your mood.

Eventually, he stopped and turned to you. "Y/N, can I say something?"

You looked up at him, surprised by the serious tone in his voice. "Of course."

He took a deep breath, his hands fidgeting nervously at his sides. "I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened. About what I said to you that day. And I need you to know how deeply sorry I am. Not just for the fight, but for how I made you feel."

You opened your mouth to respond, but he held up a hand to stop you.

"Please, let me finish," he said softly. "When I said those things, I wasn’t just angry—I was scared. That figurine, as stupid as it sounds, was something I cherished because it was a reminder of what I could accomplish if I worked hard enough. But I realize now that it doesn’t matter. You’re the one who makes me feel like I can do anything, Y/N. And the fact that I made you feel unimportant… I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for that."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you listened to his heartfelt confession. "Changbin, you don’t have to keep apologizing. I know you didn’t mean it."

"But I hurt you," he insisted, stepping closer and gently taking your hands in his. "And I don’t ever want to do that again. You’re the most important person in my life, Y/N. I need you to know that."

For a moment, you didn’t say anything, letting his words sink in. Then, you gave him a small smile, squeezing his hands. "I know, Changbin. And I forgive you."

The relief on his face was immediate. He pulled you into a tight embrace, burying his face in your hair. "Thank you," he murmured. "I promise I’ll do better. I’ll always do my best for you."

---

True to his word, Changbin worked hard to show you how much you meant to him. He went out of his way to spend quality time together—planning spontaneous movie nights, taking you out to your favorite spots in the city, and even writing a little song for you that he shyly performed one evening when the two of you were curled up on the couch.

The song was simple but beautiful, a melody filled with heartfelt lyrics about love, forgiveness, and cherishing what truly mattered. By the time he finished, you were in tears, and Changbin was smiling sheepishly as he set his guitar down.

"Was it too much?" he asked nervously.

You shook your head, wiping your tears with a laugh. "No, it was perfect. You’re perfect."

He blushed at your words but pulled you into a warm hug, his voice soft as he whispered, "I’m just trying to make sure you never doubt how much I love you again."

And you didn’t.

With time, the wounds from the fight healed completely, replaced by a deeper understanding and love between the two of you. While the broken figurine would always be a memory of that difficult time, it also became a symbol of the strength and growth in your relationship—proof that even after something breaks, it can be rebuilt stronger than before.

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[luckymilkshakerebel]

YOUTH

Genre: slow romace, comfort

Cast : Lee know (minho) x female reader

Song inspired by Lee know youth

---

Minho was never one to rush through life. A man of quiet contemplation, he had always been someone who valued deep thoughts, slow mornings with a cup of tea, and long strolls through nature. He liked to take his time, to observe the world, to experience life in small, meaningful ways. But sometimes, life had a way of moving too fast, and in those moments, he wished he could keep up, wish he could live more fully in the now.

And then, there was Y/n.

Y/n had entered his life like a whirlwind, her energy and joy infecting everything around her. Where Minho was calm, measured, and thoughtful, Y/n was spontaneous, playful, and always looking for a way to make the most out of every moment. She had a unique way of reminding him that life was more than the big goals or the future plans—it was the little moments that mattered the most. And it was her cheerful perspective that had been slowly teaching him to live in the now.

One crisp autumn morning, Minho sat in his favorite coffee shop, sipping a latte and gazing out the window. The world outside was awash with the colors of fall—red, orange, and gold—and the air had that perfect bite that made him want to wrap himself in a warm sweater. He had always loved these mornings, where everything felt still and peaceful. The perfect time for introspection.

As he absentmindedly scrolled through his phone, a message popped up on his screen.

"Let’s enjoy life in this very moment."

It was from Y/n.

Minho smiled to himself. It was exactly the kind of message that she would send—simple, yet full of meaning. It was her way of reminding him that life was happening right now, not in the future, not in the past, but this very moment.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he thought about how to respond. He had been in his head a lot lately, weighed down by work, responsibilities, and the endless cycle of planning for what was to come. The idea of “living in the moment” had become somewhat of a mantra in their relationship. Y/n often used it to snap him out of his overthinking, and Minho found that, when he took her words to heart, he felt lighter, more free.

But today, something felt different. Y/n’s message wasn’t just an invitation—it felt like a challenge.

He typed back, smiling as the words formed on his screen:

"I’m here at the coffee shop, lost in my thoughts. But I’m willing to make this moment count. What do you have in mind?"

Y/n’s reply came almost instantly.

"Meet me at the park in 15 minutes. Trust me, you’ll want to be here."

Minho raised an eyebrow, intrigued but slightly apprehensive. He had no idea what Y/n was up to, but that was part of her charm. She always had a way of making things feel spontaneous and fun, even if it was something as simple as a walk in the park. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what she had planned. With a soft chuckle, he finished his coffee, slipped on his jacket, and headed out the door.

---

The park was not far from the coffee shop, just a short walk through the quiet streets of the city. As he arrived, he spotted Y/n near the entrance, bouncing on the balls of her feet, looking more like a kid than an adult. She waved enthusiastically as he approached.

“There you are!” Y/n exclaimed, her eyes shining. “I’m so glad you made it!”

Minho smiled, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was a little off—Y/n’s energy was always contagious, but today, there was an almost electric charge in the air.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking around, half-expecting a flash mob or some sort of surprise event.

Y/n grinned, clearly delighted by his curiosity. “Well, I was thinking,” she began, “that we’re always so busy planning and thinking about the future. So, today, we’re going to do something completely unplanned. Something just for the fun of it. Something that makes this moment count.”

Minho felt a flutter of nervousness in his chest. He was a planner by nature, not one to dive headfirst into something without at least a bit of structure. But he trusted Y/n—he always had. And if there was one person who could make him step outside his comfort zone, it was her.

“Alright,” Minho said, still not entirely sure what he was agreeing to. “What’s the plan?”

“No plan!” Y/n said with a wink. “That’s the beauty of it.”

Y/n grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the edge of the park, where a small, pristine lake lay shimmering under the soft afternoon sun. The trees around it had shed their leaves, leaving a blanket of gold on the ground.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” Y/n said, her voice full of excitement. “We’re going to take off our shoes, roll up our sleeves, and wade into the lake.”

Minho blinked. “Wait, what?”

Y/n laughed, clearly loving his reaction. “I know it’s crazy. But think about it—how many times do we sit by a lake, admire its beauty, and do nothing? Let’s go in. Right now. No overthinking. Just living.”

Minho stared at the water, unsure of how he felt about the idea. It was cold, and autumn had made the water less inviting than it would have been in summer. But as he looked at Y/n—her eager face, her arms already beginning to roll up her sleeves—he could feel the tug of her energy. It was like she was asking him to step into the present with her, to leave behind the walls of hesitation and just embrace the spontaneity of the moment.

“Are you serious,Y/n?” Minho asked, half-laughing.

“I’m always serious when it comes to making life fun,” Y/n replied with a mischievous grin. “Come on! It’ll be the best thing you’ve done all week.”

With that, she kicked off her shoes, and without waiting for him to catch up, she stepped into the lake with a splash. The cold water immediately soaked into her pants, but she didn’t seem to care. She was already laughing, spinning in the water like a child, her joy infectious.

Minho hesitated for only a moment before following her lead. He pulled off his shoes, rolled up his sleeves, and stepped into the chilly water. It felt strange at first—the coldness shocking against his skin—but as Y/n twirled around him, her laughter echoing in the crisp air, something shifted inside him.

He stopped thinking. He stopped planning. He just was. And for the first time in a long while, Minho felt fully present in the moment.

Y/n, still splashing around, called out, “See? Doesn’t it feel good to just be here? Right now?”

Minho grinned, shaking his head. “You’re crazy,” he said, but the smile on his face was genuine.

“Maybe,” Y/n replied, her eyes sparkling. “But sometimes, crazy is the only way to live. We spend so much time planning for the future or reflecting on the past that we forget to enjoy what’s right in front of us. And this—this is it. This moment.”

Minho stood there for a moment, looking around. The golden light, the cool water, the sound of Y/n’s laughter filling the air—it was perfect in its simplicity. He realized that Y/n had a point. It wasn’t the big events, the grand plans, or the distant goals that made life worth living. It was the unexpected moments, the spontaneous decisions, the times when you let go of everything else and just lived.

And in that moment, he felt something click. He felt alive.

---

After they finally emerged from the lake, both soaked and laughing, they sat on the grassy shore to dry off, their clothes sticking to their skin but their hearts light.

Y/n leaned her head on Minho’s shoulder, content in the quiet that followed their impromptu adventure.

“Thank you,” Minho said softly, his voice sincere. “For reminding me to be here. Right now.”

Y/n smiled up at him. “Anytime, love. It’s all about the moment.”

And as they sat there, side by side, the world seemed to pause—just for them.

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[luckymilkshakerebel]

RAILWAY

Genre: dark

Cast: chan

Song inspired by - chan railway

---

Chan stood at the edge of a darkened alley, the cold wind cutting through his leather jacket, sending a shiver down his spine. His heart beat with a steady rhythm, but his thoughts raced, unrelenting and wild. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt at peace—when the noise in his head had quieted enough for him to catch his breath. The world, to him, had always been a chaotic swirl of desires, ambitions, and anxieties.

His left eye was white, a stark contrast to the deep brown of his right. It had always been like that, even as a child. His mother had told him that it was a sign, a symbol that there was something different about him. But she never explained what it meant, and over time, he stopped asking. It was just who he was—unbalanced, restless, torn between two versions of himself.

And tonight, like so many others, he could feel it all coming to a head.

The night was alive with an eerie energy, the sky thick with dark clouds, the moon barely visible behind them. Chan could feel the weight of his own thoughts pressing down on him. The constant drive, the need to push further, to work harder, to perfect everything until it was flawless—until it was beyond reach, beyond control.

But there was something else, something darker, lurking within him. Something he didn’t fully understand, something that pushed him beyond his limits.

That’s when he saw it.

A figure emerged from the shadows—a tall, imposing figure, cloaked in black, with blood-red eyes that gleamed in the dark. It moved with grace, but there was something predatory about it, something hungry. The vampire.

Chan’s stomach tightened. He had faced this demon before—this creature that represented everything he loathed about himself. The obsessive drive. The constant need for more. The nagging voice that told him he would never be enough.

The vampire grinned, showing elongated teeth, a smile that was both sinister and seductive. "You know why I'm here," it whispered, its voice smooth and dangerous. "You know what you're capable of, what you crave."

Chan clenched his fists, his breath coming in shallow bursts. His left eye pulsed with a dull light, like an ember that would soon ignite into something far more dangerous. He could feel the anger rising within him, the rage that came from years of repression, the frustration of always striving for perfection but never reaching it.

The vampire tilted its head, watching him closely, waiting. "You're a slave to your passions," it said softly. "A slave to your obsessions. And until you control them, you'll never be free."

Chan growled, the sound low in his throat. His body tensed, every muscle on alert. The vampire was right. His obsessions—his need to be the best, to never settle, to always chase something more—had consumed him. It had driven a wedge between him and the people he loved. It had pushed him to the brink of madness.

With a roar, Chan lunged forward, his fists connecting with the vampire’s chest. The force of the impact sent a shockwave through his body, and for a moment, everything stood still. His left eye burned brighter, almost blindingly so, as his inner darkness surged forth. The battle had begun.

The vampire retaliated, its claws slashing through the air with incredible speed, narrowly missing Chan’s face. But the damage was done. The demon within him had been awakened, and now, there was no turning back.

The two collided in a flurry of movement, each blow from Chan fueling his rage, each strike from the vampire feeding into his deepest fears. The battle wasn’t just physical—it was internal. Every punch, every kick, every move felt like he was battling his own mind. His obsession with perfection. His inability to let go. His fear of failure. His self-doubt.

"You'll never beat me," the vampire taunted, dodging another of Chan’s blows. "You need me. Without me, you'll never be anything. You'll just be… nothing."

Chan’s breath came in jagged gasps as his mind spun. He could hear the vampire’s words echoing in his ears, feel the weight of his own failures pressing against him. The temptation to give in was overwhelming. The desire to let the vampire win, to let himself be consumed by his passions and compulsions, was intoxicating.

But then something shifted.

Chan’s right eye flickered.

For a moment, it was as though time slowed. The world seemed to bend around him, the noises, the chaos, all fading into the background. In that moment, he saw it—his reflection, his true self, staring back at him. The man who was torn between the light and dark, the man who constantly battled himself. But there was something else in that reflection—something powerful, something undeniable. A sense of control.

Without a word, Chan drew back his fist, his right eye glowing with a brilliant white light. The transformation was sudden, swift. The change in his body was more than physical; it was a shift in his mind. His obsessions, his compulsions, his inner darkness—they were still there, but now, he had a choice. He had control.

In that moment of clarity, Chan struck. The punch landed squarely on the vampire’s chest, sending it flying backward into the brick wall of the alley. The force was enough to crack the stone, sending rubble tumbling to the ground.

The vampire snarled, but there was a fear in its eyes now. It had underestimated Chan’s will, his ability to wrestle with his own demons and rise above them. For the first time, the vampire saw Chan not as a victim to be manipulated, but as a force to be reckoned with.

"You think you’ve won?" the vampire hissed, struggling to stand. "You’ll never be free. Your demons will always haunt you."

But Chan’s voice was calm, resolute. “Maybe. But they no longer control me.”

With a final, devastating blow, Chan sent the vampire crumbling to the ground. The darkness that had plagued him for so long—his need for perfection, his obsession with control—wasn’t gone, but he had defeated it, if only for now. He had won a small victory.

The vampire, now lying motionless on the ground, faded into mist. Its body dissolved into the air, leaving Chan alone in the alley. His right eye remained white, a symbol of the control he had gained over himself. His left eye, still the same as it always had been, glowed faintly.

He stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, his body still buzzing with adrenaline. The air felt different now. Lighter. He felt different. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he had a grip on his life, that he could control his impulses, his desires, his obsessions.

But the victory was not complete. There would always be another battle, another moment where his demons would rear their ugly heads. His journey was far from over. But he knew now that he was stronger than the vampire, stronger than the obsessions that had once consumed him. And that was enough for now.

Chan turned and walked away from the alley, the streetlights casting long shadows behind him. The night was still young, and the world was waiting.

---

In the days that followed, Chan felt a change within himself. He still had his demons—the obsessive thoughts, the compulsions that threatened to overwhelm him—but now, he knew how to face them. He wasn’t perfect, and he didn’t need to be. He was learning to live in the moment, to accept the imperfection that was part of being human.

And as he walked through life, his right eye remained white, a constant reminder that the battle for control—over his mind, his heart, his desires—was one that would continue for the rest of his life. But he was no longer afraid of it. Because for the first time, he understood that true power came not from eliminating his demons, but from facing them and choosing to rise above them.

And with that knowledge, he walked on, stronger, wiser, and more in control than ever before.

[luckymilkshakerebel]

HALLUCINATION

Cast: i.n (jeongin)

Song inspired by: i.n hallucination

---

Jeongin stood on the edge of the balcony, staring out into the night. The moon hung low in the sky, its pale light casting a silver sheen over the world below. The air was cool, and the soft hum of the city felt distant, like a dream half-remembered. It was late, much later than he usually stayed awake, but tonight, the stillness called to him. Tonight, something felt different.

His thoughts wandered, and he found himself thinking of her. Her name was like a whisper in the wind, something he could almost grasp but always slipping from his fingertips. There were times when he wasn’t sure if she was real. Sometimes, she felt like a fleeting memory or a figment of his imagination—an illusion, a dream. But then there were moments, like now, when he could swear she was close, her presence hanging in the air like a melody.

It had started months ago, this strange, elusive connection. He’d first seen her at a small café, a place he frequented to escape the noise of the world. She had been sitting by the window, her face bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon sun. Jeongin had felt an inexplicable pull, something deep within him that urged him to speak to her. But when he looked away for just a second, she was gone. Vanished. It was as though she had never been there.

The sensation had lingered, gnawing at him, until a week later when he saw her again. This time, she was standing at the corner of a street he passed by every day. She turned to meet his gaze, and he could’ve sworn she smiled—faintly, like a secret only the two of them shared. But as he took a step toward her, she vanished into the crowd, as if swallowed by the city itself.

It became a pattern. Every time Jeongin thought he was close to understanding her, she would disappear, only to reappear when he least expected it. A soft laugh in a crowd, the flutter of her hair as she turned away just as he was about to reach out. It was as if she was teasing him, playing a game he didn’t understand.

And yet, he couldn’t let go. The more elusive she became, the more intense his feelings grew. She was everywhere and nowhere, always just out of reach. Her presence haunted him, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air even when she wasn’t around, the echo of her laughter still ringing in his ears long after she had gone.

One evening, after weeks of this endless chase, Jeongin found himself standing in front of the same café where they had first crossed paths. He wasn’t sure why he had come. He didn’t expect to see her again—she had long since become a phantom, a part of his thoughts and dreams rather than his reality. But he couldn’t help it. Something in his chest tugged him back to this place, as if he were being drawn by some invisible force.

The café was quiet, the soft murmur of conversations blending with the sound of clinking cups. Jeongin ordered a coffee and sat by the window, his fingers tracing the rim of the cup absentmindedly. For a moment, he felt as if he were in limbo—caught between the world of the waking and the world of dreams, waiting for something that might never come.

And then, just as the thought crossed his mind, he saw her.

She was standing at the entrance, her silhouette framed by the door. The soft glow of the streetlights outside made her appear almost ethereal, like a figure pulled from a dream. She was wearing the same white dress she had worn the first time he saw her, and her hair cascaded around her shoulders like waves of darkness. Her eyes met his, and for the briefest of moments, time seemed to stand still. She was real—she was real.

But as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone. No footsteps, no sound. Just the empty space where she had stood, leaving behind nothing but the faintest trace of her presence.

Jeongin sat frozen, his heart pounding in his chest. He stood up, his legs unsteady, and rushed to the door. The night air hit him like a wave as he stepped outside, searching the street for any sign of her. But there was nothing—only the distant hum of traffic and the soft rustle of leaves in the wind.

He was alone.

Days passed in a blur. Jeongin couldn’t shake the feeling that she was still out there, just beyond his reach. The memories of her—her laughter, her smile, the way she seemed to glide through the world—kept him up at night, twisting in his mind like a haunting melody. He couldn’t tell if he was losing his grip on reality or if he had truly found something that was never meant to be. All he knew was that he needed to find her again. He couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing her face, of never hearing her voice.

One night, he went to a park he hadn’t visited in years. It was quiet, the only sound the rustle of the wind through the trees. He sat on a bench, staring at the stars above, trying to quiet his mind. And then, there was a voice—soft, like a breeze.

"Why are you here?"

Jeongin’s heart skipped a beat. He turned, and there she was, standing just a few feet away. The same surreal presence, the same impossible beauty. She was real again.

"You," he said breathlessly, "I’ve been looking for you."

She tilted her head, her eyes filled with an emotion he couldn’t quite place. "Why?"

"Because I can’t stop thinking about you," he said, his voice trembling. "I don’t know who you are or why you keep disappearing, but I need to understand. I need to know if you’re real."

She smiled softly, and for a moment, Jeongin thought he might finally get the answer he had been longing for. But then, she stepped back, her figure fading into the shadows.

"You’re not meant to understand," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "You can’t hold on to something that isn’t yours."

Before Jeongin could speak, she was gone, leaving only the lingering echo of her words in the air.

The next few weeks were torturous. Jeongin couldn’t focus on anything. His days felt like a blur, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face—fading in and out like a dream he couldn’t hold onto. The emptiness inside him grew, swallowing everything in its path.

But one night, while wandering the streets, he heard a song. The soft, haunting melody floated through the air, drawing him in like a siren’s call. He followed it, almost instinctively, until he reached a small club tucked away on a side street. The music was ethereal, like something from another world, and as he entered, he felt as if he were stepping into a dream.

The room was dimly lit, the crowd a blur of faces. On the stage, a singer stood with a microphone in hand. She was wearing a white dress, her long dark hair cascading around her shoulders. Jeongin’s breath caught in his throat.

It was her.

Her voice filled the room, soft and haunting, as the lyrics floated through the air:

"nuneul gamgo tteotta hamyeon sarajyeo

chwegoe illusion

namane fantasia

Oh na na"

Jeongin stood frozen, his heart racing. He had found her again, but now, the words of the song made sense. She was the illusion, the thing he could never truly grasp. He had chased her, pursued her through every corner of his mind, but she was always just out of reach. She was both real and unreal, a fleeting image that could never be captured.

The song ended, and the singer stepped back from the microphone. The room fell silent, and for a moment, Jeongin thought the world had stopped.

But then, she was gone. The singer had vanished, as if she had never been there.

Jeongin stumbled out of the club, the haunting melody still ringing in his ears. He understood now. The love he had for her was never meant to be fulfilled. She was an illusion, a fleeting moment in time that he could never hold onto. But that didn’t make her any less real to him. She would always be a part of him, a dream he would carry forever.

As he stood in the quiet night, the city around him humming softly, Jeongin closed his eyes and whispered to the wind, "I’ll never forget you."

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