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miin17 · 17 days ago

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── GAMEBOY, BANGCHAN

♡ ― 󠀬󠀬 fratboy!bangchan x f!reader there's no smut in this one just a sliiiight mention of it, this is just drama and angst because this chapter will tell a lot about their future relationship! contains mentions of anxiety too.

♡ synopsis ― Bangchan is the campus playboy—charming, cocky, and infuriatingly irresistible. One reckless, drunken night leads to a secret you swore you'd never have. Now, hating him is harder than keeping him your dirty little secret.

[5.5k words ]♡― i can't believe that so many people like gameboy, like, that's crazy! thanks for everyone's support. to those who ask to be added to the taglist, it warms my heart. if you want to talk about the story or anything else, i'm open to questions and conversation! don't forget to listen to the playlist and those who just got here PLEASE READ THE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS!!!! that said, have a good read.

♡― THE PLAYLIST.

♡ [part one] ♡ [part two] ♡ [part three]

You're scared of heights, that's vertigo You wanted lights, go see a show You ran away, that's touch and go You're scared of love, well, aren't we all?

What was supposed to be a one-time thing turned into two days, then three, then four. Before you even realized it, seeing him had become part of your routine, like breathing—natural, inevitable, and far too easy to justify.

Today, though, your mind was anywhere but on him. Mrs. Baek had scheduled a meeting, nothing more, nothing less. You and Hyunjin were goofing around, hands clasped as you twirled like a chaotic, offbeat version of Jack and Rose at a third-rate ballroom. Seungmin doubled over laughing, because of course he did. That was just your dynamic—ridiculous by nature, friends for life.

Then, everything stopped. A chorus of surprised gasps cut through the room, followed by an eruption of chatter that made your spinning halt. Confused, you glanced around, searching for the source of the commotion—until you saw her. Mrs. Baek stood at the front, and next to her…

No. Absolutely not.

Your stomach flipped as your eyes landed on him. Standing there with his head tilted slightly downward, one hand gripping the opposite arm—ridiculously muscular, by the way—Bangchan looked unfairly good in a black T-shirt that was doing the bare minimum to cover anything.

Your gaze flickered to Hyunjin, then to Seungmin, silently demanding an explanation, but before either of them could speak, Mrs. Baek’s voice cut through the haze of your disbelief.

“…which is why we now have a new student to take care of the sound design. Welcome, Bangchan.”

And then—anger.

The girls whispered like they’d just witnessed the famous idol in the world. Bangchan basked in the attention, grinning at them, then at the guys. And then, of course, his eyes found you. One brow lifted, pure challenge.

No. Fucking. Way.

“Sound design? Since when?” you weren’t really expecting an answer, but Hyunjin, ever the dependable sidekick, squeezed your shoulder and offered a half-smile.

“It’s kinda his and Jisung’s thing,” he said, arms crossed as he observed Bangchan effortlessly charm his way through the group. “Jisung’s drowning in work this semester, so I guess that’s why.”

Oh, how nice. How convenient. You couldn’t care less. It was one thing sneaking around with him in secret. It was another for him to invade your space. Your special space. And worse—acting like he belonged there.

As soon as the group began to break apart, you made your exit, feet moving fast. The last thing you needed was—

“Running away already?”

You stopped dead, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. Spinning on your heel, you found Bangchan standing there, arms crossed, smirking like he had all the time in the world.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” you shot back.

“Ouch.” he clutched his chest, faking a wince. “You look angry.”

“Oh, do I?” your voice dripped with sarcasm. “That’s because I am.”

Lucky for him, the corridor was empty—just the theater crew lingering in the distance.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you demanded.

“Gonna need you to be more specific.”

You inhaled sharply. “Seriously? Sound design? You don’t even like theater.”

He took a step closer, brows furrowing.

“How would you know? We’re not friends.” the way he said it was off—something about his tone made your stomach twist. But you ignored it. “And if you actually bothered to find out, you’d know that, shockingly, I do this for real.”

You hated being proven wrong. But you especially hated being proven wrong by Bangchan.

“Look,” you sighed, arms crossing. “I don’t know what your game is, okay? But just… don’t mess things up. I like them the way they are.”

Bangchan nodded, slow and deliberate. But something flickered in his eyes—something unreadable. His stomach clenched, and he didn’t like the reason why. Because the way you said it, like having him here without sex was some kind of inconvenience, left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” his voice dropped an octave, sharp and cold. He met your gaze head-on, not an ounce of warmth left. “The world doesn’t revolve around you.”

And just like a punch to the gut left hanging in the air, he was gone. No rush, no glance back—just the weight of his words lingering between you.

Things were a mess, and you needed to get a grip. Studying, focusing—doing something that wasn’t theater or… well, him. The last few days had blurred together, your attention split in ways you weren’t used to. And you hated it.

The library was too quiet, the kind of silence that crawled under your skin. Three art history books sat open in front of you, mocking your lack of focus. It was ridiculous. How the hell had you let some guy scramble your brain like this? That wasn’t you. It had never been you.

Frustration boiled over, and before you knew it, you snapped one of the books shut, the sharp thud cutting through the silence.

“Jesus. What did the book ever do to you?”

The voice came from behind you, smooth and amused. You barely looked up before Mingyu’s face came into view. It hit you then—how distracted you’d been at the fundraiser. Otherwise, you definitely would have noticed him before. That annoyingly charming, white-knight smile. Tanned skin. Muscles for days.

He grinned, leaning over your table, arms flexing just enough to be intentional.

“Sorry. My head's a mess.”

Mingyu nodded, taking in your exasperated, borderline fried expression. “Yeah, you look like it,” he said with a knowing half-smile, sliding into the empty chair across from you like he belonged there. No permission needed.

You sighed, gesturing vaguely at the books. “Just trying to focus.”

His smirk deepened. “Right. Because nothing says laser focus like slamming a textbook shut like it just insulted your mother.”

You huffed, but the corner of your mouth twitched.

“Well, since you’re clearly on the verge of a breakdown, I have an idea.” He leaned back, stretching in a way that was both casual and strategic. “A coffee. On me.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but your phone vibrated against the table, barely visible beneath the stack of books. A quick glance at the screen. One new message.

Bangchan: my dorm. 30 min.

Your pulse jumped. Short. Direct. No room for misinterpretation.

“Everything okay?” Mingyu’s voice pulled you back, his eyes scanning your face.

“Yeah, yeah.” you laughed, maybe too lightly. “Just… distracted. Coffee sounds good.”

His grin widened. “Perfect. Let’s go.”

“Just let me put this back…” you grabbed one of the books, heading for the shelf when your phone buzzed again.

Bangchan: ignoring me?

You exhaled, fingers hovering over the screen.

You: I can't. I have plans.

A pause. Then—

Bangchan: ok.

You pressed your forehead against the bookshelf, inhaling deeply, willing away the strange tightness in your stomach. It was ridiculous. It was just a text.

When you returned, Mingyu was still at the table, casually texting someone. He looked up as you approached, grinning. “Everything good?”

“Yeah.” you nodded, forcing a smile.

He was nice enough to grab your bag and help carry your notebooks, the easy charm of someone who had probably been effortlessly handsome his whole life. The café wasn’t far—just a short walk from campus—but the crowd made it feel like the busiest spot in town.

Mingyu picked a table near the entrance, the air thick with the smell of espresso and fresh pastries. Strawberry sponge cake. Cinnamon rolls. Chocolate mousse cupcakes. The kind of place that made you want to abandon all responsibilities and drown yourself in sugar.

And yet, as you sat down, all you could think about was the ok.

Mingyu ordered coffee for you both but went the extra mile, adding a slice of strawberry shortcake to share.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.” you smiled, wrapping your hands around your cup, already feeling the caffeine seep into your system like a lifeline.

He shrugged. “I wanted to. You looked like you needed something sweet.”

You caught the double meaning but let it slide. He was being nice, and you weren’t in the mood to overanalyze. “Right. So… football?” Smooth. Real smooth.

Mingyu didn’t seem to mind. “Going well. We’re set for the next game, and if we keep this up, the next university sponsorship should be ours.”

“That’s great, Mingyu.”

“Yeah, but I heard drama class was saved. Good news, huh?”

“Great news. We’ve got enough for now.” you took a bite of cake, letting the sugar melt on your tongue. Mingyu watched you, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“I’m happy for you. Getting the basketball team to sell brownies half-naked must’ve been a real passion project.”

You laughed. “It was, but that wasn’t me. That was Bangchan.”

It felt strange, saying his name out loud. Different when he wasn’t there.

Mingyu frowned, arms crossing over the table.

“Bangchan did that?” his brows knitted together, skepticism lacing his tone.

You shrugged, taking another bite of cake. “That’s what I heard. Why? You guys friends?” the idea alone made your stomach twist in an oddly unpleasant way.

“No. Not even close.” he laughed, shaking his head as if the thought was ridiculous. “Just curious.”

“Well, instead of wasting brain cells on him, you should try this.” you pushed the plate slightly toward him. “It’s actually amazing.”

Mingyu picked up a fork, took a bite, and let out an appreciative groan. You grinned, clapping your hands as if you had just won a bet, then promptly stole another piece for yourself.

Being with him was easy—effortless, even. A surprising friendship you hadn't expected but didn’t mind one bit.

Back at the dorm, Eunji and Sohee were curled up on the couch, sharing a bucket of popcorn while a movie played on the laptop. Your casual entrance was met with two pairs of curious eyes locking onto you like detectives sniffing out a case.

“Where have you been?” Eunji narrowed her eyes, her fingers pausing mid-popcorn grab.

“Why?” you laughed, kicking off your shoes.

“You’ve been acting weird,” she accused, tilting her head. “Always busy, barely around.”

“Sorry, I... I've just been very busy. The theater is eating me up. And there's the exams...”

Sohee smirked. “Why do you smell like coffee?”

“What?” you instinctively sniffed your shirt, the rich aroma of espresso lingering faintly.

Eunji gasped, scandalized. “You totally went out with someone!”

Sohee just shook her head knowingly, already seeing through you. “Liar.”

“Alright, fine! I got coffee with Mingyu. Happy now?”

As soon as the words left your mouth, Sohee’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Mingyu from the soccer team?”

Eunji, on the other hand, nearly leaped off the couch. “Girl, you rocked it! I knew you had game, but Mingyu? That man is fine.”

You groaned, already regretting your life choices. “It wasn’t a thing, okay? We’re friends. We had coffee. That’s it.”

Eunji scoffed, dramatic as ever. “Honey, nothing with Mingyu is just coffee. That man doesn’t do casual.” she clasped her hands together like she was already planning your wedding.

You sighed, exasperated. “Make her stop.” you turned to Sohee, your last hope.

But Sohee just smirked. “I mean… she’s not wrong.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Oh my God.”

“Look, you’ve been drowning in rehearsals and exams. Maybe this is a good thing,” Sohee added, ever the voice of reason.

A good thing. That uneasy feeling crawled up your spine again.

Because the problem wasn’t Mingyu.

Because you had met someone. Someone who already occupied every corner of your mind. Someone who texted you with demands instead of invitations. Someone who kissed like it was the only language he spoke.

And that someone sure as hell wasn’t Mingyu.

“Alright, I’m done.” you grabbed your things and stood up. “I’m taking a shower. Goodnight.”

Before they could say another word, you ducked into your room, shutting the door behind you.

Now, if only you could shut off your thoughts just as easily.

It was lunchtime, and the table was buzzing with chatter. It had been nearly two days since you’d heard from Bangchan. Odd, right? The silence felt almost intentional. No texts, no glances that said too much.

You were sharing a basket of French fries with Hyunjin when suddenly, that topic came up. Jisung was DJing at another party this weekend, and everyone was planning to go. Of course, Eunji—bless her heart and big mouth—decided now was the time to bring up the perfect subject.

“You should invite Mingyu, now that you’re going out and all.”

You nearly choked on a fry, coughing like you’d just inhaled a cloud of smoke. Hyunjin slapped your back, but you could feel all eyes on you as the table went silent, then turned to look in your direction.

Bangchan, seated across from you, slouched in his chair like he didn’t care. But you knew better. The tension radiating from him was like a ticking time bomb.

“You’re seeing Mingyu?” Hyunjin’s voice dripped with mock disbelief. “How am I your best friend, and this is news to me?”

Great. Just great. The whole table was waiting for an answer, and suddenly, everything felt like it was about to spiral out of control.

“Going out with Mingyu? Really?” Changbin raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “I thought you had better taste, bro.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m not dating anyone!” you shot back, finally managing to catch your breath after the shock of the conversation.

“Sure, sure. But you two went out the other day, didn’t you?” Eunji grinned, clearly enjoying every second of it.

You felt it before you saw it: Bangchan’s eyes, burning into the side of your head. His silence wasn’t just a void, it was a warning, sharp and heavy. You should’ve felt guilty—after all, you had brushed him aside for Mingyu.

“But we’re not together,” you quickly clarified, hoping to quell whatever storm was brewing behind his eyes. “And he’s practically at every party anyway. It’s not like he’s not going to show up.”

Eunji wasn’t buying it. “Still should invite him, though.”

Hyunjin tossed an arm around your shoulders, all casual but still sorta protective. “Alright, stop messing with my girl,” he said, voice light but you could tell he wasn’t having it.

You muttered a quick ‘thank you,’ relieved when the focus shifted away from you. Your thoughts drifted as you nibbled on the end of your fry, mind half on your food, half on the tension buzzing at the table.

Bangchan, though, wasn't as distracted. He sat there, twisting his tongue inside his cheek, fighting off the surge of frustration coiling in his gut. The thought of you with Mingyu? It hit him like a wrecking ball. Not just because you had ditched him for the guy, but Mingyu.

He could hardly keep his anger in check. Only his closest friends knew the history between the two of them—and no one, especially not you, would ever guess how deep that hatred ran.

He couldn’t stand it any longer. Without a word, he stood, breaking the rhythm of the conversation.

“Leaving already?” Changbin asked, raising an eyebrow. Lunch still had half an hour left, but Bangchan didn’t seem to care.

“Yeah, gotta handle something,” he muttered, his voice sharp enough to make everyone shut up for a second.

The group barely noticed his departure. You certainly didn’t. After all, it wasn’t like anything was out of the ordinary. Right?

The days were flying by, and with every one that passed, the auditions loomed closer. The lineup was finally set—each student would perform next Friday, the day before Jisung’s party. No pressure or anything. Your nerves were on high alert, and anxiety was practically gnawing at your bones.

And then there was Bangchan. Or rather, the lack of him. You hadn’t heard a word from him in days. During the rare times you actually sat with the guys for lunch, his seat was just... empty. And you pretended not to care, stealing quick glances and keeping your mouth shut.

Most of your free time was spent holed up in the library, pretending to study, or locked in your room, trying to convince yourself that, yes, you could totally make it through the semester without crumbling under stress. Mingyu had texted you a few times, but you’d dodged his messages so hard that even you felt guilty about it.

Not that he seemed to care. The guy was persistent. He still wanted to take you out, get to know you, charm his way into... whatever he was aiming for. Just today, he’d invited you to join him and the soccer team at some bar near campus. Apparently, they were celebrating a big win—not that you had a single clue who they even played against.

You needed to get out. Desperately. But showing up solo to a team hangout? That was a level of confidence even you didn’t have. So, naturally, you did what any sane person would—you called your emergency contact.

Hyunjin picked up before the second ring.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to return from the dead,” he drawled.

“Yeah, yeah. Roast me later. Right now, I need a favor.”

“Hm. Depends.”

“There’ll be drinks,” you baited, already knowing his answer.

He sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if I go, you have to give me the full rundown on whatever mess you’ve got going on with Mingyu.”

You exhaled sharply, tilting your head back like the universe was punishing you. “Ugh. Deal.”

Satisfied, you threw on a black fit—strappy top, skirt, boots, plus a long-sleeved cardigan for balance—and grabbed your phone to text Hyunjin.

And that’s when you saw him.

Bangchan.

Walking toward his dorm, jacket slung over his shoulder, bag in one hand. The second he spotted you, it was like his brain hit a hard reset. Blue screen. No thoughts, just you.

You, on the other hand? You just…froze. Phone still hovering mid-air like you were trying to signal the mothership.

He looked good, annoyingly so—tired, sure, but with that effortlessly undone look that made you want to fix things that weren’t even broken. And judging by the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly, he wasn’t exactly thrilled to see you looking this good either.

You could practically hear the battle happening in his head. Logic telling him to keep walking. Instinct screaming at him to drag you somewhere private and remind you exactly why you shouldn’t be ignoring him.

But no. Neither of you moved. Just standing there, locked in some ridiculous silent standoff from across the way.

That is, until a hand brushed against yours.

“Took you long enough,” Hyunjin teased, but his voice trailed off the second he noticed who had stolen your attention. His steps slowed, eyes flicking between you and Bangchan like he’d just walked into the middle of a soap opera.

You bit back a smirk, shoving down the weird twist in your stomach. “Shall we?”

Hyunjin hesitated, still piecing things together. Then, with a last glance at Bangchan—who looked like he was about two seconds away from saying something he’d regret—he sighed.

“Yeah,” he muttered, brows still furrowed. “Let’s go.”

The moment you step into the bar, Mingyu zeroes in on you like a man on a mission—half-drunk, half-thrilled, and entirely shameless about how his gaze drags over you. He grins, tells you how gorgeous you look, and hands you a shot of soju like it’s a requirement for entry.

Hyunjin, of course, fits right in immediately, the social butterfly that he is. Meanwhile, you start to relax, the initial nerves fading as the drinks flow and the unfamiliar space becomes less intimidating. Mingyu’s friends are nice—too nice. The kind of nice that feels like they're sizing you up, like you’re some kind of prize waiting to be claimed. Mingyu’s prize.

The room is loud, buzzing with alcohol-fueled laughter and drunken debates, but your thoughts are fixated on something else. Someone else. And damn it, Mingyu is right there, flashing that easy smile, brushing his fingers against yours like it’s an accident every single time. Complimenting you in ways that should make your stomach flip.

But all you can think about is the guy who hasn’t spoken to you in days. The one who supposedly doesn’t want you anymore.

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

With a frustrated sigh, you push back your chair and stand. You’re not even tipsy, but everything suddenly feels too hot, too suffocating.

“I need water,” you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else, and head for the bar before you do something stupid.

Mingyu appeared at your side, leaning against the bar like he had all the time in the world.

"All good?"

You forced a smile, gripping the cool glass of water like it could ground you. "Yeah. Just needed something cold."

"Glad you came," he said, smirking slightly as he looked down at you.

He’s the one you should want, the one who actually wants you.

Your gaze flickered to his lips. A bad idea waiting to happen.

Mingyu caught the hesitation, eyes darkening as he glanced between your lips and your eyes. You barely had time to register what was happening before your hands found his shoulders, his lips pressing against yours.

The guys erupted in cheers, their drunken approval ringing out across the bar.

And after that, a blur of stolen kisses, too much soju, and voices too loud to ignore.

The night air was crisp against your flushed skin as you and Hyunjin walked back toward campus. The distant hum of the city buzzed in your ears, the alcohol still warm in your veins, though the high of the night had started to fade. Your heels clicked against the pavement, and Hyunjin, ever the gentleman, walked just a step closer in case you stumbled.

“You good?” he asked, nudging you lightly with his elbow.

You hummed a response, not trusting yourself to say anything else. Your mind was a tangled mess of soju, Mingyu’s lips, and something deeper—something you weren’t ready to admit.

Hyunjin let the silence settle for a moment before he spoke again. “If I ask you something, will you be honest with me?”

You sighed, already bracing yourself. Here it comes. “If it’s about Mingyu, I—”

“It’s not.” he cut you off, tone softer than before. “It’s about Bangchan.”

Your stomach twisted.

You stopped walking, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Your hands fidgeted, grasping for something—anything—to ground you. “Why would you ask that?” you muttered, trying to play it off, but even you could hear the slight tremble in your voice.

Hyunjin tilted his head, studying you. “I figured it all out.”

A sharp inhale stung your chest, and before you could even think of a response, it hit you. The overwhelming, suffocating weight of everything you’d been trying to bury. The frustration, the confusion, the way he made you feel like you were something and nothing all at once.

“Oh, shit,” Hyunjin muttered, eyes widening as the tears spilled over. “Come here.”

He pulled you into his chest, letting you press your face into his shoulder. You clung to his jacket, shaking as silent sobs wracked through you. Half-drunk, half-heartbroken, you let yourself break in the only safe place you had at that moment—Hyunjin’s arms.

“I don’t— I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” you mumbled against the fabric of his hoodie, voice barely above a whisper.

Hyunjin sighed, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”

But it wasn’t okay. None of it was.

After a few minutes, he gently pulled away and wordlessly handed you a bottle of water he’d bought from a vending machine nearby. You took it with shaky hands, gulping down the cool liquid as if it could wash away the lump in your throat.

As you wiped your eyes, Hyunjin leaned against the streetlamp, watching you carefully. “Talk to me. What’s going on with you and Bangchan?”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “I wish I knew.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

With a deep, shaky breath, you finally let it spill. “It started as something casual. No expectations.” your fingers tightened around the water bottle. “But then he started pulling away. And I don’t know if it’s because he got bored, or if I did something wrong, or if this was always the plan. I don’t even know if I want more, but the fact that I’m this messed up over it?” you scoffed, blinking back fresh tears. “That has to mean something, right?”

Hyunjin exhaled, his gaze thoughtful. “Damn.”

You let out a wet laugh. “That’s all you got?”

“I mean, what do you want me to say? That doesn’t sound casual to me.”

Your stomach twisted. You knew that. You knew that. But hearing it out loud made it real in a way you weren’t ready for.

You swallowed hard, voice small. “I got myself into this mess. I was the one who asked him to keep it a secret.”

Hyunjin frowned, his posture shifting. “Why?”

“Because I was scared,” you admitted, the words raw in your throat. “Scared of what people would say. Scared of the judgment. You know how it is—girls get torn apart for way less. And I worked too hard, cared too much to be reduced to just that girl who’s hooking up with Bangchan.” you laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “And now? Now I don’t even know how to deal with it. Because I was supposed to hate him, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin was quiet for a moment, his usual teasing gone. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady. “You don’t have to figure it all out tonight. But you also don’t have to go through this alone.”

Your throat tightened. “I feel like an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.” he bumped his shoulder against yours. “You’re just in deep.”

You exhaled shakily, leaning into his warmth as you both started walking again.

“Look, I don’t have the answers. But I do know you’re not crazy for feeling this way.” he squeezed your shoulder. “And if he’s too much of an idiot to see what he has, then maybe you should let him be the one losing sleep over it.”

You sniffled, managing a weak smile. “You’re my soulmate, Hyun.”

“Damn right I am,” he said, flashing you a grin. “Now drink your water before you pass out, drama queen.”

You laughed—actually laughed—and for the first time that night, the weight on your chest felt just a little bit lighter.

The day had finally arrived. Showtime. No matter how many times you’d done this, stepping on stage always felt like a first-time, heart-in-your-throat kind of thing.

Up in the audience, Seungmin, Hyunjin, and Sohee were posted a few rows above Mrs. Baek, waiting for you to do your thing. No pressure.

Backstage was quiet—eerily so. You sat there, taking slow, deep breaths, wiping your sweaty palms against your thighs like a seasoned pro in pre-show anxiety management. You were next. Three minutes. One shot. No room for mediocrity.

You’d chosen a song that wasn’t just sentimental—it was a statement. A vocal rollercoaster that climbed from deep, rich lows to a falsetto so clean it could cut glass. If you were going to go down, at least you’d do it swinging.

Reaching into your bag for your water bottle, you were mid-sip when movement in the distance caught your attention.

And just like that, reality glitched. Bangchan.

It was almost ridiculous how unreal he looked, like a mirage conjured from some fever dream. You hadn’t seen him in days, and yet here he was, strolling in like he hadn’t been living rent-free in your mind this whole damn time.

Laptop in hand, fingers flying across the keyboard, looking every bit the sound tech genius he was. You hadn’t expected him to actually show up for this gig, but—oh, look—there he was, punching buttons like he was defusing a bomb.

Then, he saw you. And something shifted.

His fingers stilled, tightening around the laptop.

The air was heavy. The tension was palpable. Whatever was going on between you two didn’t need words—it was written in every sharp breath, every stolen glance.

And just like that, your pre-show jitters had a new contender.

"Hi," you muttered, shifting uncomfortably.

Bangchan gave you a small, polite smile—too polite. Something about it felt off. The usual spark in his eyes? Gone. And that was all it took for reality to sink in.

So that’s it, huh?

The game was over. You had your answer. He was done, and honestly? You couldn’t even be mad—because weren’t you just as much to blame?

Mrs. Baek’s voice cut through the buzzing in your head, thanking the student who had just finished performing. You’re next.

You turned away from Bangchan, unscrewed your water bottle, and took a long sip, willing yourself to focus. Breathe. Lock in. You’ve got this.

Then it happened. A warm touch on your waist—his touch.

Your body betrayed you instantly, heat rippling through your skin like a live wire. It had been days, and yet, all it took was this—a single touch—to remind you how much you’d missed him.

You spun around, frowning, swallowing hard as your gaze locked onto his.

Bangchan didn’t back down. If anything, he doubled down.

His arm lifted, caging you in the small space between you and the backstage wall, pulling your bodies so close it was downright insane. His head tilted slightly, studying you, reading every little reaction like he already knew the ending to this story.

Without warning, Bangchan crashed his lips onto yours, his free hand gripping your waist like he had no plans of letting go. His palm slid up your back, fingers teasing under the hem of your shirt, branding heat into your skin.

You barely had time to process before his tongue was in your mouth, claiming, demanding—like he was making up for every second of distance between you.

A sound slipped past your lips—a mix between a sigh and a moan, involuntary, unstoppable.

God, you hated how easily he unraveled you. And worse? You loved it too.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his sweatshirt, yanking him closer—like you needed him just a little closer, just a little longer. Your lips moved in sync, deepening the moment, drowning out everything else.

Then—

Mrs. Baek’s voice rang through the backstage, shouting your name.

Then reality crashed back in.

But instead of nerves clawing at your stomach, instead of the suffocating pressure you’d felt moments ago, there was something lighter—something electric. Like a field of wildflowers blooming where anxiety used to sit.

You pulled back, panting, heart racing, but this time? You were smiling. Bangchan, just as breathless, leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Break a leg," he murmured.

And just like that, you knew you would.

♡ taglist ― @kenia4 @chrizrizz @meerabmalik @gnabnahcsworld @gncbnahc @jinniejjam @skzworldx @itsacatastrophe-xo @soonie1010 @4ng3l-ch1ld @justwonder113 @tsunderelino @eastjonowhere @lyracarvahall @akindaflora @victoriaaf @ebnabi @wickedbutlovely

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miin17 · 20 days ago

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𝐕𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐧

☆ Genre: Domestic, fluff

☆ Warnings: None

☆ Characters: Chris, Y/N

☆ Word Count: 2.1k

“Oof,” Chris grunted as the large box he was carrying landed onto the kitchen counter with a soft thud. He hadn't anticipated just how heavy it would be; he exhaled and shuffled away again, on the hunt for something sharp.

Returning with a random craft knife - definitely one of his wife's, one that she had probably ‘lost’ not too long ago - Chris pierced through the neat tape, dragging it across the width of the top. He flipped the box open and was met with a substantial quantity of Styrofoam and bubble wrap; he pushed it all away before hauling out the large mass of metal that gleamed like liquid mercury under the buttery sunshine that spilled through the large kitchen window.

It was a peaceful afternoon - it had just gone noon, and Y/N was cooped up in her art studio, working studiously on a project. Chris, on the other hand, was bubbling with giddiness … now that he had emptied the box of its contents, the man gawped at the new espresso machine he had purchased in awe. It was a beast - much larger than the one they already had, and for a moment, Chris just surveyed it, tracing his fingers lightly over the different features. He unwrapped the new components that came with it - the double set of portafilters, the metal jug, the hefty tamp … they all shone gloriously, and Chris turned over the portafilter with a growing smile on his face, giddiness spreading through his body.

Not for himself - Chris despised coffee.

But he knew just how happy his wife would be the second she laid her pretty eyes on it. And that thought alone made the man's heart race as he walked over to the sink with the new tools, his delicate fingers washing over them with hot, soapy water.

Close to half an hour had passed when Chris finished setting up the new machine. He had run hot water through it three times, changed the settings of it gradually before pulling a few test shots … he had hesitantly tried each one of them, his face contorting more and more as he tested the flavour (or, pure bitterness, he thought) from each of the shots. He followed each miniscule sip with a large chug of a smoothie he had beside him, aiming to cleanse his palette, though he had to admit, it did little to quell the coffee's pungent taste on his tongue.

But, in the end, the man landed on the perfect settings that brewed the exact flavour profile his wife enjoyed - even if they all tasted like dirty bean water to him, Chris was confident that Y/N would find the shots she would pull to be more than satisfactory.

Making sure to clean up the coffee grounds that had scattered across the counter, Chris suppressed the boyish squeal that threatened to escape his lips before going to find his wife.

The smile on Chris's face widened when he caught sight of her. Her head was almost level with her desk from her pure concentration, and it made him laugh under his breath as he folded his muscular arms over his chest, leaning against the door frame. His cheek dimpled at the soft furrow between her brows, the way her glasses slid just a touch down the bridge of her nose, and he passed a hand over his flushed face, a sudden wave of affection coming down on him like a tonne of breaks.

“Down for a break?” Chris cut through the soft silence once he had composed himself. His eyes sparkled when Y/N looked up at him, and his heart lurched as the concentration melted from her face, her features lighting up with warmth instead.

“Mmm … “ Y/N stretched her arms above her head, tilting her neck to the side. “Now that you mention it … think I need one. Didn't hear you come in.”

Chris chuckled. “Yeah … you were really lost in your work, huh?”

He stepped inside and moved towards his wife, and he reached for her hands, curling his heated fingers around hers. “Come on. Wanna show you something.”

“Oh?” Y/N raised an eyebrow as she let Chris pull her to his feet. Her lips curved up into a lazy smile. “Did you spill milk again?”

“No,” Chris let out a huff of laughter. He squeezed her fingers, tugging her towards the kitchen. “Fancy some coffee?”

Y/N groaned, her stomach suddenly rumbling at the thought. “Ask me a silly question, Mr Bahng, and you'll get a silly answer.”

Chris’s grin grew. “You always give me silly answers.”

“Too many silly questions.”

Chuckling, Chris pulled her to the counter. He didn't say anything; he leaned against it, his elbow on the cold surface right next to the new machine. His smile was contagious as he turned to look at his wife, waiting for her gaze to land on what he wanted her to see.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Y/N giggled just before her eyes spotted the machine. She grew still. She blinked a few times; her lips parted just barely, and Chris's smile positively covered the entirety of his face as he watched the way her features changed.

“Chris … “ Y/N gulped, still frozen on the spot. “Christopher … what is that?”

“It's an espresso machine,” Chris said helpfully, his eyes crinkling. “Honestly, baby … you don't know what an espresso machine looks like?”

His humour hit Y/N hard; her eyes clouded before she could stop it from happening, and her breath hitched as she ran her fingers softly over the interface.

“What … ?” Her sentence cut off by a lump forming in her throat, and Chris's laughter was sweet as it floated around her.

“Baby … are you crying?” Chris asked with amusement threading through his voice as he straightened up from his slouch on the counter.

“No,” Y/N gulped, sniffing all the same. “I … Chris … where's the other machine?”

Chris grinned, and sliding behind his wife, Chris curled his arms around her waist, settling his chin on her shoulder. “In a better place.”

“Hey,” Y/N huffed.

“I'm joking,” Chris chuckled, and he pressed a soft kiss to Y/N's cheek. “Seungmin said he wanted it.”

“Thief,” Y/N sniffed again.

Chris's smile deepened. “Do you like it?”

Y/N's fingers continued to trace over the metal, still in a soft daze. “I love it. It's so beautiful … God, Chris, it must have cost you an arm and a leg.”

“No, all my limbs are intact … see?” Chris extended them on cue, and Y/N started to giggle as he squeezed her tighter.

“I was perfectly happy with the other one,” Y/N whispered then. “You didn't have to do this.”

“Mmm, I know,” Chris nuzzled his cheek against hers. “But … I know it frustrated you that you couldn't steam milk at the same time as pulling shots on the other one. On this one you can do it at the same time … and you can pull extra shots.”

Y/N turned around in his arms, and she stared, her eyes stinging again. “I only said that once. And it was ages ago.”

Chris smiled. “I know, I'm sorry … I would have gotten you it earlier, but I had to find the right machine first.”

“No, idiot … “ Y/N rubbed her eyes. “That's not what I mean.”

She couldn't finish what she wanted to say; her tears began to fall like shooting stars down her warm cheeks, and Chris's face softened immediately. He cupped his hands around her skin, and his thumbs were tender as they brushed away the wetness trickling down her jaw.

“Baby girl … “ Chris's voice was a gentle buzz that seeped through Y/N's chest as he pressed himself closer to her. “You really like it?”

“It's not the machine,” Y/N whispered. “I … you could have gotten me an actual coffee the way you always do and I'd have been so happy … It's the fact that you remembered. You always remember the tiniest things about me, and I … “

Chris cut her off by brushing the plumpness of his lips against hers. It was a cushioned kiss, one that filled Y/N with such an airiness that she thought for a moment that she must be floating.

“Shh,” Chris kissed away another stray tear. His smile turned teasing. “That's my girl. Always crying at everything.”

The kick to his shin was gentle, but no less devastating. It made Chris burst into laughter, and he couldn't help but scoop his wife into his embrace, holding her tight as she squeezed him back.

“You know, you kinda owe me,” Chris said, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Do you know how many shots I had to try to make sure it tasted okay before you use it?”

At that, Y/N gave him a watery smile. “You did what?”

Chris shrugged nonchalantly. “Wanted to make sure that the first cup of coffee hits hard.”

Despite the mini party her heart was throwing inside her ribcage, Y/N's lips twitched just barely. “Sure you didn't just like the taste?”

Chris grimaced. “Definitely not. Had enough to last me a lifetime.”

Giggling at that, Y/N curled her arms around her husband's neck. She pressed her lips to his as his hands found the dips of her waist, and she smiled into the kiss, her eyes twinkling as she looked up at him. “Thank you.”

Chris wrinkled his nose at her, the tip of it matching the rich burgundy of his ears. He cocked his head towards the machine behind her. “You gonna try it, or what?”

Nodding excitedly, Y/N turned back around, Chris still clinging to her like a koala watching her every move, and she reached for her favourite mug. She set it on the tray before starting to grind the coffee beans, the rich scent tickling Chris's nose.

The process was much quicker now that she could steam the milk while the espresso shot was trickling into her mug; Y/N was beaming by the time she had finished constructing her latte, and she leaned against the counter, her fingers curled around the ceramic as she took a large sip of the frothy beverage.

“Good?” Chris grinned, clocking the way her eyes fluttered ever so slightly.

“So good,” Y/N whispered, taking another sip. “Want some?”

Chris snorted. “No, thank you. You're welcome to your dirty bean water. Oh, sorry … milk. Dirty bean milk.”

Y/N laughed under her breath. “Yeah, you say that, but I know you're impartial to coffee if it's got a shit tonne of sugar in it.”

Chris cleared his throat. “Don't know what you mean. I've got a different way that I like it.”

“How?”

A smirk gracing his mouth, Chris stepped forward and gently placed Y/N's mug onto the counter beside her. His fingers then found the underside of her chin, and her heart leapt when Chris's lips found hers once more. His tongue was soft as it teased the entrance of mouth before gently brushing against her own, and he hummed when the subtle coffee flavour slipped onto his taste buds.

“Sweet,” Chris winked as he pulled away. “The sweetest.”

“You … “ Y/N gulped. All she could do was stare as he husband started to chuckle, picking up her mug again and setting it into her hands.

“Oh yeah … I actually got you something else,” Chris said.

Y/N blinked. “You what?”

He reached around the machine and pulled out a small jar, his lips curving up into a wide smile all over again. “Vanilla! You forgot it yesterday when you went shopping.”

And it was just that - a jar of vanilla bean paste, mundane, and completely ordinary. But it made Y/N's face light up like the sun, and she burst into laughter.

“Christopher Bahng … you're driving me crazy,” Y/N grinned as she curled her fingers around the jar.

Chris's arms returned around her waist, and she yelped as she was lifted up, before being sat on the counter. “Mm … that's what I like to hear. Please don't start crying again though. You'll ruin your coffee.”

Giggling, Y/N twirled the jar around her fingers. “Thank you. I really needed this.”

“I know. You're vanilla mad. Though, you're way sweeter than vanilla.”

“Christopher,” Y/N faked a gag, and Chris's laughter filled the space again as he leaned forward, his nose brushing hers when his lips met hers once more.

Tag list ~ @dalamjisung @ateez-babygirl @waverzzzzzzzz @smutdumpskz @hotmesshapa @chanssmiles @leand125 @foivetimesacharm @dprkbyn @renytherat @super-btstrash-posts @sleepyleeji @ka-ni-ma @straystaychan @mylifesupsidedowm @armystay89 @shut-up256 @hanstan34 @blackfangedreaper @suhomylife @kannaexe @kookie9704 @notastraykid @strayfoxxchan @elizalabs3 @jdopes-recorder @forever-in-the-sky2 @peachygiku @chansducky10 @shakalakaboomboo @jisuperboard @zandra-42 @whyyougottadothatbro @skzcoffeemachine @where-is-innie @rizzshimura @miin17 @nappynapnaps @prettymiye0n @lost-leopard-beanie @chnbngs @hann1bee @stayceebs97 @solandiszale @cosmicalily @modesttiger @chanlixart (let me know if you wanna be added or removed)

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miin17 · 25 days ago

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miin17 · 27 days ago

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𝓑US𝓣 𝓨𝓞UR 𝓚N𝓔𝓔 𝓒A𝓟S 𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 방찬

you can't seem to get away from your ex husband, no matter how hard you try.

⧼ 🩹 ⧽ 一 𝓹a𝓲r𝓲n𝓰 ⸝⸝⸝ ex husband!bang chan 𝓍 fem!reader 𝓲nc𝓵u𝓭e𝓼 ⚬ ⚬ ⚬ unnamed oc daughter

𝓰e𝓷𝓻e ⚬ ⚬ ⚬ non-idol au, smut, angst, porn with plot

𝔀arn𝓲n𝓰𝓼 ⸝⸝⸝ dubcon, street fighter and underground boxer!chan, criminal!chan, mentions of jail and gangs, graphic descriptions of blood and injury, toxic and possessive behavior, toxic ex!chan, manipulation, explicit language and sexual content, soft dom!chan, degredation and praise kink, rough sex, unprotected sex, creampies, dirty talk, breeding kink, impregnation mentions, clit slapping, daddy kink, squirting 𝔀𝓸r𝓭 c𝓸un𝓽. 6. 2 k | ⧼ 🥊 ⧽ 一 𝓽𝓸 𝓵i𝓫rar𝔂.

♫ 𝓫u𝓼𝓽 𝔂𝓸ur 𝓴nee ca𝓹𝓼 ❪ 𝓳o𝓱nn𝔂 𝓭on'𝓽 𝓵eave 𝓶e ❫ 一 𝓹𝓸m𝓹𝓵am𝓸𝓸𝓼e

[n𝓸𝓽e𝓼.] my first fic on my new blog! something shorter to start out with <3 this took me a little too long to write i'm afraid since it's my first go at angst themes but i'm pretty proud of how this turned out! this isn't proofread, so please lmk if there are any mistakes! feedback is greatly appreciated <3

THE KNOCK ON THE door makes your heart fall to the pit of your stomach, cutting through the peaceful quiet of your kitchen like a knife. You drop the pot you were scrubbing in shock, clanging loudly as you grip the edges of the sink in a futile attempt to calm the pounding of your heart. At first you think— hope— that you were simply just hearing things, your little skyline apartment falling back into an uncertain silence sprinkled with the pouring rain outside, an atmosphere that no longer felt comfortable. But the knocking starts again, loud enough to be mistaken as thunder, ringing in your ears like alarm bells. You nearly jump out of your skin, your hands shaking as they reach out to turn off the water faucet. There’s only one person who would ever show up at your door this late at night, and you’ve done everything you possibly could to avoid him for the past four months.

It couldn’t possibly be him. It had to be someone else, your landlord or a neighbor or a maintenance man or anyone. You hadn’t told him your new address, hadn’t spoken to him since the day you packed up your daughter and what little you had and left him, never looking back. But you hadn’t called for maintenance, and you hadn’t heard from your landlord, and the way that his fist beat on the door as if it had somehow offended him was unmistakable.

You consider, for a split, mindless moment, that you could simply ignore him. He’s just a man, after all— a weak, spineless one at that, underneath that intimidating façade he loves to hide behind. He’ll give up and leave eventually, you try to convince yourself, but you know him far too well to fall into that blind hope. The knocking only gets louder and more aggressive to the point that you begin to worry that he’ll wake the baby.

The thought alone is enough to get your blood boiling, a red-hot anger overtaking any amount of fear or trepidation that kept you back. You refused to let this coward affect your daughter, wake her up without a single thought or care when you had just spent hours gently rocking her to sleep. Not after everything you’ve went through to keep him away from her.

You hurl the sponge into the sink with a scowl before spinning around and storming to the door. You wrench it open mid-knock, leaving the man on the other side of it standing there with his fist outstretched and blinking at you owlishly.

The sight of him shocks you to your core, despite how much you had tried to prepare yourself— blood drips into his bruised, swollen eye from a large cut on his forehead, just barely visible behind his wet hair sticking to his skin. The rain washes it away, down his chin to drip onto your welcome mat, staining it a faded red in the outline of his scuffed sneakers. He’s drenched down to the bone, the sharp ridges of his pecs and abs visible through his white tee shirt, the thin dark jacket he had draped across his shoulders doing little to protect him from the ever-worsening downpour. His dominant hand he curls protectively against his bloody abdomen; the knuckles are busted, and his pinky finger is twisted unnaturally to the side.

You look back up to his face just in time for him to flash you a weak, wobbly smile, a wounded ghost of the ones that used to send your heart soaring and fill your stomach with butterflies. His plump bottom lip is split down the middle, a jagged crater that threatens to open even further with every movement he made.

“Hey.” he croons, dropping his fist to his side, pained little smile dropping into more of a wince.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” you hiss venomously, praying to any god that would listen that he couldn’t tell how badly you were shaking. “How the fuck did you get my address? Go away before I call the cops. I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again.”

“Come on, baby, wait—” you try to slam the door shut, but he catches it with ease, and even one-handed he’s stronger than you could ever hope to be.

“Don’t fucking call me that, Christopher. Answer my question.” You sneer, biting back hot, painful tears.

If any of your words hurt him, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he extends his wounded hand, prying open his fingers with some effort to present you a bloody, crumpled wad of bills.

“For her.” He says simply.

Your eyes rake over the bills as if they were alien, hardly able to muster up the breath needed to scoff at him incredulously. “I don’t want your dirty money.”

You had a sneaking suspicion of just exactly where he had gotten that money from, it was written all over his busted, bleeding face— under no circumstances would you line your pockets with the bettings from street fights, feed and clothe your daughter with money that people had shed blood for. You had told him this when you had left him, given him the choice to leave it all behind or lose everything.

He chose the streets, and you kept your promise.

Yet you don’t have the strength to slam the door in his face, no matter how much you ached with the desire. Chan keeps the bills outstretched, the blood-smeared faces printed on them winking up at you, taunting you.

“Who told you where I live.”

“…A friend. Please, just take it.” He whispers, just short of begging. “I know how badly you need it. He told me you were struggling.”

“You don’t know anything.” you spit, but there’s no fire behind your words anymore. The rain has put it out, left you defeated, feeling betrayed, admiring how the streaks of lightning illuminate Chan’s hunched over silhouette. Your mind wracks itself for whichever one of his goons could have possibly caught sight of you, but you come up empty. You fear he may have found you through an inside source.

Thunder booms in the distance, much like your heart. The helpless, desperate look in Chan’s big brown eyes sends the rest of your defenses crumbling to dust.

he tries to shuffle his way inside, and you let him— everything inside of you yells at you to stop him, shove him away and close the door, never to look at him again. But you don’t. You slide submissively to the side, open the creaking door open further for him to step into your living room. No matter how hard you try to convince your muscles to move or your mouth to open and retort, all you can do is stand frozen by the door, watching with wide eyes as he drips blood onto the carpet.

He tosses the stack of cash onto the coffee table, the bills unfurling and flying everywhere. You count six, maybe seven million won, all those zeroes staring up at you as your mouth goes agape.

You had been losing sleep for days over having to tell your landlord that you would be late on rent for the third time this year. Somehow, you feel like Chris knows that, though it was impossible to tell how— it brought you back to all the times before where you swore that he could read your mind.

It seems that he still could, even out in those dark alleyways, on the other side of the city. Tethered to him. Just what you were afraid of.

“You’re getting blood everywhere,” you finally manage to say, your usually strong voice timid and weak. “at least let me clean you up.”

Mindlessly, you scamper back to your kitchen, bending down to rummage through the cabinet beneath the sink. your first aid kit was still in there somewhere, hidden behind a mountain of cleaning supplies and spare bottles, something from your old life that you had held on to just in case. It was as if you were moving in a trance, just sheer muscle memory, the situation all too familiar; you couldn’t count the amount of times Chan had come home just like this before, back when you were still together, beaten and staggering but grinning victoriously as you carefully clean and bandage him up. It used to excite you, even, in some sick, dark way. He never lost a fight.

But that was before you had gotten pregnant. Before the danger that lurked beneath the surface of your husband’s lifestyle creeped up on you and became all too real.

“I’m fine.” Chan replies gruffly, though the pain in his voice suggests otherwise. “I just want to see my baby girl.”

Your fingers freeze around the first aid kit, all the heat and color draining from your face. “You’re not seeing her.”

“You can’t keep me from her.” Chan replies coldly. “She’s my daughter, too.”

You jump to your feet so fast that your vision goes fuzzy, spinning around to watch with wild eyes as he balances his good hand on the wall and limps his way to the nursery. You hate how he still remembers where it is.

He smears a trail of blood across your tattered wallpaper. The sight of it shocks you into action.

“You get away from her!” You snarl, nearly leaping across the dining table to grab onto the sleeve of Chan’s jacket. “Don’t you dare go anywhere near her!”

He shoves you off effortlessly, his sheer strength nearly sending you flying back against the wall. “Stop acting like I’m going to hurt her.” He growls, making it to the nursery door in the time it takes for you to regain your senses. “You know I’d never let anyone lay a single fucking finger on her.”

He quietly cracks the door open and steps inside, leaving you to follow him biting your tongue— you can’t bear the thought of her waking up, especially now with Chan in the room. She hasn’t seen her father since she was born, and that was only because he had forced his way inside of the delivery room. He was essentially a stranger to her.

And, quite frankly, how she might react if she lays eyes on him again scares the shit out of you.

Chan staggers to the crib, quiet as a mouse, his large frame bending over the railings to look down into it. Your daughter lay on the mattress peacefully asleep, her little chest rising and falling with her soft, steady breaths. You’ve stared at her for hours before, studying every freckle, every wispy eyelash that brushed against her rosy, round cheeks. The way her nose is already starting to look like her father’s, his dimples forming around the upturned corners of her dainty little lips, always giving the impression that she was enjoying her dreams. Whatever they were, you took some comfort in knowing that they were, they’re better than what waits for her when she opens her eyes.

Chan is nothing short of entranced, grabbing ahold of the crib’s railings with both hands, so tightly that his cracked knuckles were threatening to split back open. He gazes at her sleeping little form with a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before— a fire burning, but not one that hurt or destroyed. Not anything like the fire in his eyes you were used to. It was one that warmed and protected, the watchful, dutiful stare of a weathered knight in armor.

Something warm and heady swirls in your gut, unwelcome but in no way unpleasant. You fixate on his face, unable to look away, and watch awe-stricken as your ex-husband refamiliarizes himself with his daughter’s face.

“She’s grown.” He whispers, undoubtedly able to feel you breathing over his shoulder. His voice is flat and lifeless, but it starts to break at the end— he blinks hard, and you swear for a second that you saw his eyes shiny with tears.

“Oh, she’s a monster.” You reply easily, the rampant emotions swirling around in your head calming down at the sight of your baby peacefully sleeping. Talking about her is soothing, almost therapeutic. “Always hungry. The doctor says she’ll be nearly nine kilograms by the time she’s six months.”

“My little girl… she was so tiny in my arms…” Chan laments, lowering his eyes to look down at his hands. It was like he was looking at someone else’s, shocked by the dirty, bloodied state of them. He suddenly wrenches them from the railings and shoves them in his soaked jacket pockets, the act causing him to grimace with pain. In the peripherals of your vision, you see faint bloody fingerprints smeared across the white wood.

You struggle to keep your voice calm. “She’s gotten so big so fast… it feels like that day was just yesterday.”

Chan’s gaze hardens and grows cold again, his head spinning to stare you down with an ironclad sharpness. “Not to me!” he spits, gritting his jaw. “Not when you wouldn’t let me ever fucking see her, wouldn’t tell me where you were, how you were doing. I’ve been looking for you two for months. How am I supposed to keep you safe, my baby safe? I had to track my family down like dogs. What kind of mother keeps a father away from their child?”

Your shoddy mask of calmness cracks, red hot anger flaring back up again and rising to the surface. Your voice trembles terribly, but the disgust in your words is palpable. “She’s not your fucking baby, Chris! That’s my baby. Mine. You made that call before she was even born. You’re not her family, you’re hardly even her father— you’re nothing to her.”

The last comment strikes a chord within him. He stalks towards you, his dark eyes boring into yours, all that stormy emotion churning in them focusing directly onto you. Chan isn’t exceptionally tall, but you feel so incredibly small underneath him; he looms over you like some kind of predator, his lip curling back into a nasty snarl. “I’m nothing to her because you made it that way.” He seethes, his deep voice growing louder and louder. “Don’t you ever try to put it in my baby’s head that I don’t love her. Stop trying to convince yourself, for fuck’s sake— you both are absolutely everything to me, you know that. Everything that I do is for our future.”

You scoff. “If you really care that much about “our future”, you would have stopped this. Fighting for these clubs. The racing, the gangs. You would have listened to me and left it all behind, gotten a real job. Show me that you actually give a shit and aren’t just blowing smoke up my ass. You’re addicted to this, all of it. It’s sick.”

“You don’t fucking get it, do you?” Chan sneers, shoving his face up against yours. “You just can’t get it into your dumb, pretty little head. What kind of “real job” is gonna take an ex-con? Even if they do, I wouldn’t make nearly as much money as I can out on the streets. All I want to do is provide for you and our daughter; can’t you see that? I’m doing what I have to do to survive. My own future is fucking ruined. You two are all I have left.”

“And you’ll ruin ours too!” you laugh incredulously, directly in his face. “With all your blood money and all the enemies you make. You’re going to get arrested and locked up again, destroy mine and my daughter’s lives— fuck, you’ll get us all fucking killed! What if someone you beat wants revenge?! These are dangerous people, Chris!”

“That’s what I’m trying to protect you from!!” Chan roars, slamming his fist against the crib’s guardrail. His voice and the loud thump startles you, all three of you— you and Chan both peer down into the crib to see your daughter’s peaceful sleeping face screw up, her mouth opening to let out a shrill wail as she kicks out her little chubby legs.

Chan’s face falls, all the bitterness and anger leaving his body in a rush, like he had a bucket of cold water poured over the head. He looks the part, anyway, still dripping wet from the rain, tearing his eyes away from your own to stare down at your daughter as if she were a ghost. Your rage overtakes you to the point it can no longer contain it, your entire body shaking as you manage to grit out two icy words;

“Get out.”

Surprisingly, he does. He takes one last long look at your fussing daughter before slowly turning and shuffling out of the nursery. Your eyes bore holes into his back as he retreats, expecting him to turn around at any moment with some more nasty words to sling your way… but he never does. He stays completely silent as he shoulders open the door, doesn’t even turn to look back at you as it clicks shut behind him.

Part of you wants to follow him, chase him out snarling and snapping like some guard dog, but your daughter’s frightened little cries tug painfully at your heart strings. Tears of your own pool in your eyes as you carefully lift her out of her cot and snuggle her against your chest, soothing your hand down her quivering back as she hiccups into your sweater. “Shhh, it’s okay… you’re safe, Mommy’s got you…”

You rock her until she falls asleep again, fighting the entire time not to break out into sobs yourself, and when you finally place her back down into her crib and slip out of the nursery, you’re not at all surprised to see Chan still in your apartment, hunched over on the couch with his head in his hands.

Your apartment looks like a fucking crime scene. For the first time tonight you’re able to take everything in, all the blood dripped on the floor and smeared on the walls. All the muddy shoeprints and puddles of rainwater. The cabinets under the sink are still swung open, your first aid kit left forgotten on the kitchen floor.

You don’t have the energy to be mad at Chan anymore, your gaze lingering back on his weathered frame. You don’t have the energy to feel anything except empty. Depleted.

Wordlessly, you pick the first aid kit off the floor and make your way to Chan. He lets you cup his face without a fight, raise it out of his hands so you can dab an alcohol pad against the cut on his forehead. The sting makes him wince, but he doesn’t try to move away, looking up at you with eyes full of stars as you wipe away the dried blood from his skin. The dim lamp by the couch cast dark shadows across his handsome face, bathing him in a sensual, intimate light. You can’t bear to look back into them, the way they make your heart twist painfully in your chest, deep chocolate brown so effortless to get lost in. You busy yourself with bandaging up his forehead, and then his lip, and then his busted hand.

“Why are you doing this?” Chan whispers softly, the question making you stop in your tracks.

“I… don’t know.” You admit after a long pause. You do it without thinking, just like when he first stepped inside. Your natural response after seeing him hurt so many times before, playing nurse while he boasts to you about his triumphs, fills you with empty promises and proclamations of love. Your hero, swearing to you that you were his savior. Everything in you still aches to soothe him, heal his wounds and numb his pain, be his guardian angel like you used to be before his suffering became your own.

If he were addicted to the fighting, you would be addicted to what came after.

“I know you still love me.” Chan professes boldly, a wild spark in his eye. “I know you do, baby— you know I love you too. More than anything. Why won’t you let this— us—work? Why are you trying to run away from me?”

Your fingers pause in the middle of wrapping up his knuckles in gauze, quivering slightly as you let out an agonized sigh. “It’s not about whenever or not I love you, Chris. I have to put our daughter first. I have to make sure she’ll be safe and happy.”

You barely manage to finish bandaging up his hand, your knotting work far from the best. The minute you let go of him he pulls you right back, his big hands enveloping yours and squeezing tightly. “She will be, I promise. I’ll keep both of you safe, never let anything happen to either of you— I’ve got the means to keep you protected no matter what happens. You’re my everything… I’m so lost without you.”

His bandaged hand slides up to caress your cheek, his skin so bitterly cold. “Channie…” you warn, but you’re the weakest you’ve been all night. Chan can see it in your eyes.

“I was so fucking worried about you.” He continues softly, hushed like he was kneeling for confession. “I’ve missed you so bad… please, baby, don’t ever leave me like that again.”

Breaking feels a lot like letting go. Dropping all your fear and worry, any semblance of rational thought to finally allow yourself to nuzzle into Chan’s touch. He knows you too well, always knows exactly what to say to get your walls to come crashing down, what to do to when the smoke clears and you’re left defenseless amongst the rubble. Because, underneath all the piling resentment and hatred, the divorce, the distance you’ve been fighting for, you truly do still love him. You fear you always will.

Your eyes flutter closed as you bask in Chan’s affection, preen under his loving gaze and delight in the way he cradles you as if you were made of glass— you feel so precious yet so fragile, yielding to a man strong enough to shatter you completely, leave you nothing but a pile of dust and broken shards.

You’ve never felt safer.

“God, you’re so pretty…” he whispers awestruck, under his breath almost as if he were talking to himself. His thumb maps out the curve of your cheekbone, down, down, down to your pliant, pouting lips. The pad of it is hardened and calloused, rough against the soft skin of your bottom lip, but the sensation leaves you aching for more; you open your eyes to bat your eyelashes up at him, open your mouth to invite his thumb to creep inside.

The flash of carnal, animalistic lust in his eyes sends a wave of liquid fire coursing through you, down your spine to where it pools heavy in your belly. You purse your lips around his thumb and suck it in deeper, hollowing your cheeks as if you were sucking on something else entirely. Chan groans deep in his chest, his other fingers curling tight around your chin to pull you towards him. “Fuck. Come here, babygirl.”

You surge forward to capture your lips with his, and he meets you halfway; the pillow softness of his lips are hauntingly familiar against yours, yet somehow they feel completely brand new, like uncharted territory in a land you’ve ventured in countless times before. Any chastity is quickly tossed to the side with the heady sensation of his tongue tracing the seam of your lips, the warmth in your belly heightening into a wild swirl. You’re shocked by your own eager response, opening up immediately to let him ravish your mouth with a forceful domination that left you weak. He pulls you effortlessly onto his lap, your legs spreading to wrap instinctively around his waist, the closeness of your bodies maddening. Your blood pounded in your ears, leapt from your heart with a scalding fire, and made your body tremble, senses reeling as if you had short-circuited. Clashing emotions whirled around in your head, but your consciousness had left you the minute your lips made contact with his. All you can think of is how passionately Chan devoured you, the force of his kiss almost punishing, like a soldering heat that bonds metal. Yet it felt like anything but a punishment, doused in a honeyed sweetness that called to you like a drug, dragged you under the waves of dreamy tenderness, filled your head with thoughts of how good it would feel to let yourself drown.

You kiss him back with reckless abandon, hands reaching out to hold him, anywhere you possibly can— the wispy hairs at the base of his neck, the worn leather of his jacket, the grooves of his defined muscles through the fabric of his wet tee shirt. He crushes you against him, swallows you within his big beefy arms, one of his hands running down the small of your waist to grab a fat handful of your ass. You gasp against his mouth as his touches grow bolder, massaging the globes of your ass and guiding your hips to glide against his. The outline of his half-hard cock pokes at you through his jeans, growing thicker and stiffer with every passing second, pressed perfectly against the curve of your cunt. Your sleep pants are thin enough to where it feels like you’re wearing nothing at all, and when Chan cants his hips up his bulge grinds right against your clit. He does it again, and again, until you’re squirming helplessly against him, panting and moaning into his mouth.

“Chan, we can’t do this…” you manage to stutter out between kisses, the reality of the situation finally beginning to dawn on you again. But Chan ignores your plea, his lips leaving yours to sear a path down your neck and shoulders. He nibbles at your skin, kisses the pulsing hollow at the base of your throat, distracting you enough to slide one of his hands to cup your pussy.

“Yes we can.” He croons against your heated skin, hot tongue escaping between his lips to lick a tantalizing stripe up your neck. “I can feel how wet this pussy is, baby, how needy you are for me. Just let me in, princess, let me take care of you…”

He slides his fingers down your covered slit, your clothes sticking to your mound with your sopping juices, drenched to the point you can’t possibly hide your arousal. Your engorged clit aches, empty hole clenches around nothing… you whimper pathetically in defeat.

“Come on, say it. Say you want me.”

You really were nothing but an addict. Addicted to the power he holds over you.

“fuck, oh f-fuck— right there!”

Chan knows every single spot inside of you to make you scream, his thick cock hitting each one expertly with each of his powerful thrusts. The angle he has you bent in makes you see stars, his big rough hands clasped tight around your ankles to push your legs up against your chest and spread you wide open— he’s never fucked you this roughly before, his feet planted on the mattress to pound into you animalistically, but even then there’s still a bitter tenderness to the way he holds you up against him, gazes down at you in rapture as you fall apart beneath him.

“Yeah? Right there?” He coos, deep Aussie accent dripping with poisoned honey, “Feel me all the way in your tummy, baby? Feel this fat cock splitting you open? Fuck, you’re so tight, sucking me in. Greedy little cunt.” He lets go of one of your ankles to press down on the bulge he’s made in your belly, your trembling leg curling over his shoulder in ecstasy as the pressure in your core increases.

“So deep!” you hiccup stupidly in reply, fisting the sheets as your world explodes and shatters behind your eyelids. His bulbous cockhead slams repeatedly against your cervix in a punishing rhythm, so deep inside of you that you mindlessly fear that he’s pushed through and was fucking your womb. “Deep! S-so fucking big!”

Chan growls like a beast, his efforts doubling in speed and intensity, “Missed this cock, didn’t you, princess? God, listen to how fucking wet you are. Hear how badly this cunt needed me?”

He emphasizes his claim with a particularly harsh thrust, your pussy squelching obscenely around him and filling your dark, quiet bedroom with loud, filthy noises. “C’mon, tell Daddy how badly you missed this.”

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you worry that you’ll wake up the baby again. Chan fucks you loudly and shamelessly, like he doesn’t care that your daughter sleeps in the room just across the hall... the thought reignites your anger. You want to accost him, defy him, tell him that you didn’t miss him at all. That you weren’t desperate for him to make you cum and finally leave you satisfied after months of frustration. That you didn’t think of him at night when you played with yourself, or when you took another man to your bed, because as much as it agonizes you no other man has ever made you feel as good as he does. But you couldn’t string the words together, could hardly even think with how pleasure coursed through every fiber of your being. Besides, Chan knows when you’re lying.

“M-missed your c-cock,” you admit between whimpers and moans, your face burning with shame and arousal. “M-missed Daddy’s cock so fucking much, needed it so bad— oh, fuck, Chris, Daddy, please—!”

Chan snatches your hips and tugs you roughly towards him, lifting your bottom half up off the bed to fuck into you impossibly deeper. Your mouth falls open in a gasp of sweet agony, arching your back and tossing your head against the pillows. The show of sheer strength gets you impossibly wetter, your juices coating his heavy balls as they clap wetly against your ass. “Good pussy.” He grunts, his fingers digging bruising indents into the flesh of your waist. “Love this pretty little pussy— gonna fuck it ‘til it’s molded to my cock. Gonna ruin you for anyone except for me. This cunt belongs to me, doesn’t it, baby? God, look at you… taking it like such a good girl.”

His words make your head spin, a searing need building in your core, molten lava beneath your skin heating your thighs and groin. It feels divine, better than you ever remember… but it’s not enough to send you over the edge, give you that release you crave so desperately. “Need more,” you keen, “More, Daddy, please!”

“Greedy girl.” Chan chuckles darkly, the sound going straight to your cunt. “Tell me what you need, baby, and I’ll give it to you.”

You can’t respond, fucked so stupid you don’t know what you’re begging for— Chan tsks like he’s disappointed, letting go of your hips with one hand to grab a rough fistful of your hair. He tugs your head up to look at him, dark eyes dripping with lust and delicious dominance; you struggle to keep your eyes open, your vision swimming and your eyelids drooping from the onslaught of pleasure Chan continues to pound into you. “Too dumb on cock to speak? C’mon, pretty girl, tell Daddy what you want him to do to you.”

He tugs on your hair again, pain erupting across your scalp. It blends with your pleasure to create a heady, dizzying cocktail of ecstasy. You cry out in delight, letting go of the bedsheets to scramble for something sturdier to hold on to, ground you— your hands find purchase on your own tits, bouncing with Chan’s thrusts, and you knead the plump flesh with a wanton sob, your fingers twisting and pinching at your nipples hard enough to make you shake.

“My clit!” you finally manage to whimper out, broken and pathetic. “My clit, my clit— touch me, touch my clit, please!”

He does as he promised, leaning back to spit messily on your clit before letting go of your hair to circle the bud with his thumb. Your head falls back limply onto the pillows, hazy eyes rolling back in your head as you sob and hiccup in uncontrollable pleasure.

“Gettin’ close, babygirl? I can feel it, pussy squeezing me so tight— I’m close too, fuck, gonna cum so fucking deep inside of you!” Chan’s thrusts grow sloppy, his chest heaving as he pants open-mouthed like a dog. “How about that, hm? Want me to put another baby inside of you? So everyone knows not to touch what’s mine? I’ll breed this pussy so fucking full you’ll be dripping my cum for days…”

His words should scare you, should break whatever spell he’s put you under and have you begging him to pull out. But you’ve slipped away from reality, floating mindlessly in an erotic fantasy you’ve convinced yourself is too good to be true. You don’t want to wake up, don’t want to think about what lies ahead of you once Chan leaves your bed once again. You babble and beg for his cum, for him to bring you to your own climax, scratching deep red marks into his chest. They look at home amongst all the bruises.

“Tell me you love me.” Chan grunts abruptly, the rhythm of his thrusts slowing down to barely moving, his cock dragging along your gummy walls deliciously buy far too slowly.

You blink up at him in shock and confusion. “H-huh?”

“Tell me you love me and I’ll make you cum.” He repeats, his eyes boring into yours, a knowing look in his eyes like he can see into your soul. “I love you so much, and I’m gonna show it with all this cum I’m gonna pump into this sweet cunt… don’t you love me too? Just say it and I’ll give you what you want, what you need…”

You’re just on the precipice of orgasm, teetering on the edge but unable to push yourself over, and your poor heart feels so exposed and raw… you can’t help but relent to him, succumb to his desires like you always do.

“I love you! I-I love you, Channie, Daddy, love you s-so much— ah!!”

His hips pick up to a speed that seems nearly superhuman, rutting into you wildly like an animal in heat as he grunts and groans, pinches your clit hard between his thumb and forefinger to make you scream. It feels so good, too good, and big watery tears roll down your cheeks as your body begins to vibrate with your orgasm. You’ve never cried during sex before.

“Let go, my love.” Chan croons, slapping your clit lightly. “Let it all out…”

Your orgasm hits you like a tsunami, a tidal wave of explosive hysteria— with a shriek you squirt everywhere, all over Chan’s hand, belly, thighs, creamy droplets flying with every nasty wet thrust. Your gummy walls spasm around his cock, sucking him in deeper as if to ensure you milk him dry. “That’s it, babygirl, cum for daddy!” Chan howls, intent on talking you through it even as he creeps closer and closer to climax himself. “Fuck yes, such a good girl, making a mess for me— gonna cum now, too, gonna breed this pussy! Ready for it? Gonna take it all, right princess?”

“Yes! Yesyesyes, please, please! Give it to me, daddy!”

He shoots his load deep inside of you with an animalistic growl, hot and thick painting your walls creamy white. It feels never ending, fat cock twitching with every spurt of seed he dumps into your womb, filling you up so much that thick globs of it spills out around him and drips down his balls to mix with the puddle forming on the soaked bedsheets. His legs give out and he collapses against you, gasping for breath with his face buried in your chest; you wrap your weak, trembling arms around his neck, and the two of you dissolve into breathless giggles as you slowly grind against each other ride out your highs. When Chan finally pulls out you see a foamy white ring around the base of his softening cock, sticking in his pubes.

You can feel your spent cunt leak his seed, dripping down your ass— Chan stares at in in awe, his fingers sliding up your sensitive folds to collect it and push it back inside.

“So beautiful…” he whispers, grinning as he admires your creamy bred pussy. His fingers at your hole makes you whimper in overstimulation, and you try to close your legs and squirm away, making him laugh. His eyes crinkle in that adorable way you hate to love so much. “You’re so beautiful.”

You don’t have the heart to make him leave, not when he runs you a warm bath and cleans you up so nicely. Not when he strips the bed and changes the sheets for you so you can lay comfortably, holding you close and whispering sweet nothings into your hair. Not as he promises to you that he’ll change, that he’ll do whatever it takes to keep you in his arms, that white picket fences are just over the horizon. You feel weightless, floating, satisfied… and that makes you feel sick.

S𝒯RA𝒴 K𝒾DS 𝒯A𝒢L𝒾S𝒯 ⪼ @enigmaticaphrodite , @jellymochii , @dwaekkicidal , @11vr1 , @yunverie, @arcturus444, @love-ning

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miin17 · 28 days ago

Text

[4:15am]

☆ Genre: Angst, fluff

☆ Warnings: None

☆ Characters: Chris, Y/N

☆ Word Count: 0.4k

Chris's breath hitched when a distant click alerted him. He froze, and his eyes fell shut as he listened for a moment for the familiar rhythm of footsteps he could recognise anywhere; a moment later the man slipped out of his tangled bedsheets, and no sooner had the footsteps reached the door had he flung it open, his chest rising and falling as his eyes landed on the figure in the dark.

Y/N's tender smile was enough to make his knees buckle. She didn't speak, didn't say a word as she stepped inside his room, swiftly circling her arms around him just as he collapsed against her, his breaths leaving him in shallow, sharp puffs. His drooping eyes fell shut as Y/N's fingers cupped the back of his neck, her other hand rubbing across the wide expanse of his back, and for a split second, Chris felt the fatigue, the numbness, the wreckage inside of him dissolve.

The woman's hands were warm as they cupped his face, her fingers delicately brushing away the dampness below his eyes. Her touch travelled down the sturdiness of his shoulder, kissing the veins cording around his forearm before it reached the callouses of his palm. She entwined her hand with his and gently pulled him towards his bed where his tangled sheets lay in a messy heap. Her free hand smoothed them out, melting away the creases, and she slipped between them before holding her arms out to him.

It was all Chris could do to hold himself up as he cut the short distance between them to get to her. Her chest was heated and cushioned as Chris's head fell against her, his hands taking refuge in the dips of her sides as she curled her arms around him again, tucking his broad frame against her. Her lips stayed pressed to the crown of his head as his limbs trembled against her own, and with every loving pass of her hand through his unruly curls, Chris felt the coiling darkness that he was so susceptible to falling under slowly unravelling and trickling away. His breathing evened, the erratic best of his heart slowing as the gentleness of Y/N's voice caressed the shadows of his mind, wrapping around him in an embrace just as her limbs were doing to his body.

And even though he was so used to denying it, when a tender ‘I love you’ left her mouth and seeped into his heart, Chris believed it. He melted entirely into her, his soul merging with hers, and for a while, he felt he had truly found peace.

315 notes · View notes

miin17 · 29 days ago

Text

Bleeding heart dove

pairing: idol!chan x lawyer!reader. youngerbrother!seungmin.

genre: f2l. slow burn. angst (lots of it). fluff. (un)requited love. forced proximity. law/corruption sub-plot.

warnings: parental loss. grief. self-depreciating thoughts. suicidal thoughts. reader has she/her pronouns. this is a work of fiction. the actions and timeline depicted in the story don’t represent the idols in real life.

word count: 25.7k.

You are ashamed, even in the privacy of your thoughts, of this longing, of this sharp ache. For even thinking, daring to dream of a world where you could behold his warm hands into your butchered ones. Where he’d let you. Where you’d let yourself.

It feels like death to think of Chan, it feels like living too.

a.n: she’s finally here!!!! i haven’t written for chris in such a long time and i’m so grateful to @kayleefriedchicken for commissioning this fic :,) it spiraled and i took some creative liberties that’s why it’s so long now LMAO but i hope you’ll enjoy reading!!!! i challenged myself writing this, it is a bit different from my other fics. much heavier too. but i’m slowly finding a writing structure i truly enjoy. i love you all 🤍 thank you for waiting for me

They say that smells are little vessels of memories, wrapping themselves around moments in time. When a certain scent floats by you, it doesn’t graze your shoulder like a stranger in the streets, never to be seen again.

No, smells seize you by the wrist, their nails sinking deep into the softness of your skin. Scents do not pass. They pull. They lead you into the locked corridors of your mind, to places you thought had crumbled into dust, memories buried seven feet under by the weight of years.

You smell rust.

Many may not recognize it, most might not even notice it. But you do. The scent of rust is etched into your nostrils, carved along your nerve endings, again and again. It smells earthy, metallic, sharp—like blood smeared on your tongue against your will.

As everything in your life has ever been.

Every orphanage you lived in reeked of rust. It seeped into the walls, staining them beneath layers of pale, lifeless paint. It curled into the battered beds and damp linens. You tried to pinch your nose shut at night, suffocating against the foul scent. But rust was patient. Rust had time. And so, naturally, rust always won.

It was a cruel smell at that— the scent of things stolen— childhood, innocence, soft mornings, your very ability to dream.

You were ten years old when both your parents died in a tragic accident. A drunk driver slammed into their car and made it combust into flames. He was quickly caught and cast into prison. But what did that serve you? Your parents were gone. What respite would this semblance of justice bring you?

That part of your life remains hazy since there was no room to mourn, only movement, hands ushering you from one orphanage to another. Each time the walls could no longer contain any more children. Any more grief.

And you were only ten.

But Seungmin was only six.

Your brother didn’t understand what was happening. Why did he have to leave his shiny toys and Pochacco-themed bed behind? He cried at night for your parents, his wails cresting and receding like waves against a fragile shore.

Sometimes, he cried so fiercely that no one could calm him—not even you. You would leave him to sob until exhaustion claimed him. You envied him, in a way. Sleep refused to visit you. You were sentenced to lay awake instead, burdened by responsibilities too heavy for your small hands. Yet, when you glanced at Seungmin’s resting form, the ache in your chest eased, just slightly. If he could rest, that was enough.

You didn’t know it then, but this thought would become the basis of your entire life. You’d give and give, tear at your own flesh if it meant Seungmin would remain intact and safe.

The first orphanage was small. Twenty beds crammed together in a single room. It was a temporary holding place while the city council decided your fate. Orphans, you realized, were like misplaced luggage—tagged and eagerly discarded, waiting for someone, anyone, to claim them.

The second orphanage was somewhat worse. There were a hundred beds this time, a larger playground, warmer food. But the older kids were cruel. That’s what you remember. Rust and cruelty, entwined.

They shoved you hard against the ground on your first night there. And then, they turned to Seungmin. The moment their hands reached for him, something primal surged within you—a burning, blistering rage as if your very being was dipped into scalding water. You lashed out, punching the nose of one of the older boys. Blood. Yours, his, theirs. It all blurred together.

Then, punishment quickly followed: no more dinner for three days.

Seungmin didn’t understand. He tugged at your sleeve, crying that he was hungry late at night. That’s when you decided it was better to endure in silence. To take the blows, as long as your brother could eat.

By thirteen, you arrived at Promise Orphanage. Your hand trembled in Seungmin’s grip as Miss Jeeho introduced you both. Forty-four pairs of eyes bore into you, gliding over the faint bruises that painted your arms like ink stains.

You braced yourself for the worst. But then, a girl stepped forward, her hair a messy halo around her face. Her smile was wide, her eyes bright despite the dust coating her skin. She held out her hand, and you noticed how rough and calloused it was for her age. How warm it was too.

“I’m Winter,” she said, her voice soft.

You blinked at the odd name, then nodded. Later, you would learn she had been abandoned as a newborn, left nameless at the orphanage’s doorstep. It was a cold night when the workers found her, with heavy snow. It was surprising she didn’t pass from pneumonia.

Winter chose her name after the season she was born, since her parents didn’t bother to do so for her.

You came to realize that in these walls, even something as mundane as a name was a privilege, something the world could simply not grant you at birth.

“I’m Y/n, and this is Seungmin,” you replied, gripping your brother’s clammy hand. There was steel in your voice as you said his name, ensuring everyone knew he wasn’t to be touched.

But the other children simply smiled at you, and you tried to smile back. Though it came out much more like a grimace. Smiling felt foreign to you, like a muscle long unused.

Promise Orphanage then became your home for five long years. The children were kinder, their grins did not sharpen into unkind hands. Your bed was slightly bigger. You got gifts for your birthday and cake on New Year’s. You always gave yours to Seungmin— the better toys, the bigger slices, the softest pillows. You hoped it would make him feel better, even for a second.

But rust remained.

It followed you when you turned eighteen, into your first apartment. A single room, smaller than your childhood kitchen. But it was enough. Enough to build a life for Seungmin, to earn his custody, to gift him the privilege of dreaming.

Though even then, when Seungmin laughed, when he sang with Winter, when you had enough warm showers to forget the cold of the orphanage, you wondered if other people could still smell the rust like you did.

Perhaps it was your mind’s way of reminding you that, even if you shut your eyes so tightly that colors bloomed behind your eyelids— even if you thought hard enough of your summer home and salt-kissed winds, if you strained to hear your parents’ airy laughter calling you to dinner— this was not home.

It never could be.

“Y/n?”

Han’s voice slips through the fog of your memories, bright and familiar. You blink, the haze receding like chimney smoke to find him leaning casually against the doorframe.

He’s the first one out of the stylist’s room, his hair falls in soft waves over his forehead, and silver dust coats his eyes, catching the overhead lights like scattered stars.

“Hey, Han,” you greet, pulling him into a brief hug.

His grin is as easy as ever—warm and full of mischief. “Like the makeup?”

“It’s perfect,” you reply, poking his rosy cheeks.

“The boys are still getting ready,” he says, falling in step beside you as you walk toward the waiting room. Shelves stacked with instant noodles, water bottles, chips, and candy stare back at you.

“Figured.”

Your gaze flickers to the jelly candies, and you smile. You can already picture Hyunjin diving for them first and Seungmin scolding him for his sugar intake.

Jiho, the manager, greets you with a nod, and you return the gesture.

“You seemed far away just now,” Han notes, twisting the cap off a water bottle.

You exhale slowly. “The vents smell like rust. This whole place can quickly turn into a safety hazard. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Han gasps in mock horror, clutching his chest. “Why is it that every time you talk about law, I feel like I’m about to be sued?”

You swat his arm, giggling at his theatrics, before pinching his forearm lightly.

“Hey—“ he yelps and you narrow your eyes at him.

“I should actually sue you for not visiting my new office though,” you point out, doing a neck-slicing motion with your hand.

“Okay, creepy. AND, for my defense, I sent you that fruit basket, didn’t I? Been busy writing songs. You know how it is when inspiration strikes me.”

You do.

It tugs at a distant summer, long days spent on the coast of Jeju Island alongside the boys, to celebrate your first successful case. Han locked away with his notebook while the sea breeze knocked at his window. He only joined you once he had finished writing the lyrics of two new songs. Some of your favorites too, at that.

“There she is! You’re smiling,” Han says, poking your cheek.

“Just remembering our trip.”

He sighs dreamily, before slinging his arm around your shoulders. “Best summer ever. Next time, the vacation’s on me. Pinky promise.”

Your smile softens, warmth pooling within the cracks of your heart.

Han was angry once, when you had first met him. Just like you. But where his anger burned bright, yours hid beneath the surface, smoldering slowly. But time softened his edges. You wonder if the same could ever be said for you.

“You’re here,” Seungmin appears suddenly, peeling Han’s arm away from your shoulder with a scowl. Han retaliates by blowing you an overly exaggerated kiss before wandering toward the vending machine.

“I finished up the case early,” you explain.

Seungmin’s gaze narrows slightly, scanning the lines of your outfit.

“And why are you so dressed up?”

“Can’t a sister look nice for her favorite brother’s first sold-out concert at the Kyocera Dome?” you tease, clasping your hands.

Jiho snorts from his seat. Traitor.

“I’m your only brother, and we both know you’re lying,” Seungmin deadpans.

It’s endearing—the way he shields you from heartbreak as if he hasn’t spent his whole life beneath the cover of your arms.

It’s foolish too— as if you still have a heart that beats hard enough to love, then to break.

“Fine. I have a date after the show.”

“With who?” Hyunjin’s voice drifts in as he steps into the hallway, Changbin trailing closely behind.

You smile. “Jaehyun.”

Seungmin pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know I don’t love him.”

“And who said I do?” you ask, a sly smile tugging at your lips.

“Then why do you still meet up with him?”

“Because he’s fun. And I like spending my time with fun people.”

Changbin leans in, grinning wide. “I’m fun too. Why not date me?”

He drapes his arm over your shoulder, and Seungmin groans, pretending to smash his head against the wall repeatedly.

“Alright, alright, stop the flirting,” you laugh, shaking your head. “I fear you’ll end up killing my brother.”

Seungmin pouts, and you laugh softly, pulling him in for a tight embrace. “Look at you, performing in such a big arena,” the words suddenly catch in your throat, a silky rope tightly binding the syllables together. “You know that I’m proud of you, right?”

You smile, and Seungmin holds you a little closer.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Thank you for coming. I really wanted you here.”

You clear your throat, stepping back with a playful flick to his arm. “I’ll see you after the show. Say hi to the rest of the boys for me.”

“You’ll do great,” you add, and his smile softens like sunlight melting across the sea.

His voice follows you down the hall. “We’re still talking about this date later, though!”

“Seungmin loves acting as if she isn’t older than him—” Swat.

—

There is one peculiar emotion that always beats within your heart at your brother’s concert halls. It is warm, like beholding a glowing sun within the empty hollows of your ribcage. It swells and swells, spreading within your being like paint spilled on canvas— soaking your heart in wildflower hues.

You feel relieved to see your brother and his friends so loved. You sense it in the cacophony of cheers, in the misty eyes of all the fans surrounding you. You know that the boys can feel it too. In the shaking of their voices as they take turns saying their ending ments. It is a monumental moment for them, something they only dared dream of back when they were still trainees and you had to sneak snacks into their dorm.

It is Seungmin’s turn to speak. His shaking hand barely manages to hold the mic. Seungmin doesn’t cry as often as before. Never in front of you anymore. He suddenly stopped once he turned fifteen, as if he had made a vow to himself, to lift off some of his worries off your burdened spine.

But tonight, unmistakable tears gather at the edges of his eyes, glinting like faraway constellations.

He tilts his head toward the sky, and you wonder who these words are really addressed to.

Deep down you already know the answer to this.

“My sister is here tonight,” he starts and tears glisten in your eyes, all of the sudden. “If I’m here today it’s all thanks to her, so I– I hope you’re proud of me,” he says, voice tight, breaking. But he still speaks. “You know, I… I don’t believe in forever—” his lips tremble like leaves at the mercy of autumn winds. A faint ringing surges through your ears, muffling the sound of everything until only his sharp words remain. “But just at this moment, being with the members and everyone who stood by our side, I— I want to believe in eternity with you.”

The crowd roars at his words. Cameras flash everywhere. The boys quickly move forward to wrap Seungmin in their arms.

But you’re not here anymore.

You’re somewhere quieter. Smaller. Somewhere dimly lit by flickering hallway lights and hushed whispers past curfew.

Your hands shake, pressing into your thighs as if their weight might ground you. But the cold creeps in anyway, walking alongside your veins, settling into your heart like an old companion.

—

He was eight.

His hair stuck to his forehead in damp curls, and the faint glow of the moon reflected onto his eyes like a gleaming water surface.

You remember smoothing his bangs away, tucking him beneath a worn blanket that didn’t quite reach his toes. He didn’t mind. Seungmin never minded the small things.

“Did you make a wish?” you whispered. It was his birthday. Birthdays never got easier for Seungmin, nor for you. Most days you were just pretending— that you knew what you were doing, that your knees were strong enough to hold you upright. Pretending that you had what it takes to protect your brother when you, yourself, were in desperate need of protection.

How do you salvage innocence in halls that spell out loss and grief at every turn? How do you make a birthday a happy memory in such a terrible place ?

Seungmin blinked up at you as his small hand curled around your fingers.

“I said that I want to see mommy and daddy again.”

The air had thickened then, and the knot in your throat twisted so tight it left no room for you to breathe.

You forced on a smile anyway. “You will,” you promised, voice soft but unsteady. “Soon.”

He paused, blinking slowly.

“What’s forever?”

The question felt like a swinging pendulum suddenly came to a halt— Seungmin’s innocence slipping away from your shaky grasp.

“Why do you ask?”

“I told Gyuvin I’ll see our parents soon. But he said that you lied, and it will take forever until then.”

Your chest tightened. You knew Gyuvin had a mean streak—sharp edges chiseled by loneliness and unspoken grief. You never held it against him. He was only eight too.

Still.

“He’s joking, Seungminnie,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “Forever just means something that doesn’t end. Like numbers. Numbers don’t end, right?”

He thought for a moment, lips pressing into a pout.

“Would you like to believe in forever?” you asked, teasing gently.

“No,” he said quietly, “Because then I’ll be sad for a very long time. I want the time to pass quickly.”

Oh.

Seungmin drifted off not long after, his breaths soft and even. But you stayed awake—long enough for the world outside to fall silent. Long enough to bury your face in the pillow, stifling the sobs that trembled past your chapped lips.

Seungmin was only nine.

But you were only thirteen.

And you missed your parents, so terribly so. You wished your mom was there, combing your hair with fingers that seemed to be made up of silk. You wished you could press your ear to her chest and listen to her heartbeat, breathe it in, soak in the love that the sound seemed to spell out for you.

You wished your dad was here, holding your hand in his much larger, weathered down one— rivulets of age running between his knuckles. You wished he’d carry you once more on his shoulders, tall enough for you to reach out to the stars, to foolishly believe you’d be able to graze them with your fingertips. You wished they were still here. You hated them for being gone. You hated yourself for hating them, even for a millisecond. For allowing the thought to filter through the endless void that constitutes your mind.

You thought of what it’d be like to float atop the sea near your home. Of letting the waves carry you deep into the darkness of the water. Of sinking deep enough that you wouldn’t feel anything anymore. You couldn’t bear it. You couldn’t bear having a heart that kept demanding you to live. It felt like a curse, like every heartbeat spelled out horrible truths for you. You wished for it to stop. All of it. All of you.

—

“Yah, Y/n why aren’t you smiling?” Changbin nearly shouts in your face and you and Jeongin scurry away on cue, cradling your ears at his loud voice.

You plaster a smile on your face, force the corners of your mouth to tug forward— “Because! You’re all sweaty and pressing onto me,” you say, and a cacophony of protests erupts all at once— “this is the sweat of hard work”, “but our sweat smells nice though!”, a groan, “that’s just you Hyunjin.”

Your yelp as a hand suddenly wraps around your wrist, Felix’s, pulling into the middle for a group hug.

“Stop, your sweat will rub off of me!” Your high-pitched shriek causes all of them to back off on cue, giggling loudly.

You don’t give yourself a second to breathe, afraid that your mask will slip away quicker than you can stop it. You take advantage of the commotion to kiss Seungmin’s cheek quickly, avoiding his gaze as you run off to the entrance. “You all did well! I’ll have to go now! My date is waiting!”

You don’t leave him time to respond as you scurry away, leaving the backstage. You can feel the oxygen settle like stones into the pit of your heart, weighing the rushing of your blood down. It takes you excruciatingly long to breathe. Being here suffocates you all of a sudden.

You remember your wish, for the waves to carry you away into whichever place they rest in. What a violent thing for a thirteen-year-old to wish for. What a violent thing to still seek now deep into your twenties. You felt guilty. To be surrounded by many people who love you and yet to not feel loved.

You’re almost outside when a warm hand curls around your wrist.

“Seungmin, I told you I’m—” you turn around expecting to see your little brother’s gaze, full of mischief, full of affection, only to be met with Chan’s worried one. Your retort dies on the tip of your tongue, like a deflating balloon. You try your hardest to plaster a smile on your face but it comes off like a grimace. Chan’s frown only deepens further.

“I—” you think of something quick to say, to get his scrutinizing gaze off of you. You can predict the question forming, swirling his mind, you already know which way this conversation will head. But all your thoughts seem to melt, your mind unable to conjure something to save your facade.

Your phone suddenly rings, Jaehyun’s name lighting up the screen. You go to reply when Chan grabs the phone away from your hands, silencing the call.

“What’s wrong?” he finally asks and it feels as if the walls are closing on you once more. You can hear the waves thrashing around, calling. “And don’t say you’re just feeling emotional because we made it so far.”

You chuckle faintly. You know it’s no use lying to Chan, of all people. “Jaehyun is calling again,” you point to your lit-up screen, and his lips press into a flat line, rejecting the call.

“Cancel your date,” he cocks a perfectly shaped eyebrow at you, “you know you have the most fun hanging out with me”.

“Alright, Mr. Cocky,” your heart is heavy as you attempt to smile at him, as if you’re forcing it to perform something it does not wish to, to pump blood for an action as meaningless as smiling. What purpose does it really serve if you are not happy? “I'm not in the mood for you to psychoanalyze me, though.”

“I won't,” his eyes soften as he takes one step closer to you. “We'll go on a drive okay, like old times?”

What is the point of pressing ice to a third-degree burn? Nothing, if not a fleeting respite, to close your eyes and pretend as if the burn would come undone, to soothe the fire only for it to barge in again. With a vengeance. Stronger. Harsher.

That is what being next to Chan is like to you.

“Fine,” you concede, though. Because you despise worrying people. You despise worrying Chan mostly. “I don’t want Seungmin to know though.”

“Don’t worry,” he smiles as he hands you back your phone, his thumb brushing your wrist for a second before he walks back. “I’ll come to your car, alright? Wait for me.”

—

It was a late summer night when Chan first discovered his love for music. He was only five, the air fragrant with the sweetness of strawberries and the tang of lemon zest. His curls were damp, clinging to his forehead from how hard he played with the neighborhood kids. The glass of water his mother handed him felt like the sweetest reprieve against his parched throat. Because Chan was happy, a joy so vivid it seemed to have taken roots within his veins, blooming into gleaming eyes and a smile so vast it could mend every crack in the universe.

He didn’t know it then, but there was a beautiful carelessness in the way he dashed outside, barefoot and giggling to order ice cream from the vendor near his house. Vanilla and bubblegum. In the way he did not use a spoon, instead licking the ice cream directly from the cone, as the sun melted it into rivers of sweetness that coated his fingers, leaving them sticky and fragrant. In the way he paid no mind to the earth clinging to his shorts, the sweat glistening on his face, or the syrupy mess on his hands. Because his happiness was so full he was bursting at the seams with it.

Because he was still a child, and children did not care for perfection. Children did not see the world through a lens that sought out every flaw— Chan did not learn yet how to turn that lens inward, harsher as he aimed it at himself.

His dad had brought him a ukulele, gently placing it into Chan’s small hands. The notes stumbled out, clumsy and wrong at first, as if their melody were caught in the strings, hesitant to be set free. It took a few tries for Chan to untangle them, but he didn’t mind. Because within these notes he found a new kind of joy—one that seemed to amplify his racing heartbeat, spilling into the room and filling it with the decadent taste of happiness.

It was a late autumn night when Chan first hated himself.

It was a particularly exhausting training day, the kind that left Chan barely upright as he walked down the stairs, his legs shaking with every step. He couldn’t bring himself to head back to the cramped dorms just yet, nor did he want to speak to anyone. Or rather, he no longer knew how to talk to anyone anymore. How could he make futile small talk when his soul was seized by a terrible longing, one that lingered bitterly on his tongue like the cough syrup he used to drink as a child?

See, how could he explain to anyone that he even missed that—the syrup, the warmth of his home, the pieces of a life that now felt as if they belonged to somebody other than him. He felt as if the wound only grew larger each day, spreading farther into his ribcage, infesting every part of his heart—every vein, every molecule—tainting them with the blueish colors of sorrow and ache.

Chan had found a quiet spot by the Han River, tucked far from prying eyes, his shoulders slouched under the weight of nostalgia, not the sweet one, rather, the one that felt like pine needles digging into his skin, at once. He liked it here—if he closed his eyes long enough he’d pretend the salty air was Australia’s breeze. He missed the wind there and how it ruffled his hair like an old friend. He missed his father’s grilled meat, his mother’s lemonade, his sister’s shenanigans. He missed his dog.

Would Berry even remember him now? Has it been too long?

It had.

The thought stung sharper than he expected. Was it all for nothing then? Does Berry not remember him for nothing?

Sometimes, it only takes one second for the world to shift off its axis, for the seconds to march forward but for you to remain stranded in the past. It took Chan this single question to break apart. It was as if someone had driven their fist into his chest, their claws digging deep, twisting around his heart until it felt on the brink of bursting— an ugly eruption of crimson, staining the blissful river with its bloodied ache.

What is wrong with me? He’s been asking himself the same question ever since.

It was a late winter night when Chan saw you for the very first time.

He was seventeen, shackles of self-doubt and insecurity wrapped around his ankles, digging deeper into his flesh with each year spent farther from his dream. Chan hated looking at his reflection in the mirror. He hated thinking of home. He avoided thinking of the future, of who he was, of who he hoped to become. Sometimes, he wished his mind could just go quiet. The voices were very loud and very mean.

Yet, unbeknownst to him, there were fragile blossoms of hope that fought to flourish in his chest, tentative, frail, since they grew in barren soil that didn’t quite believe in meeting the sun once more. But they were there.

Because Chan wasn’t alone anymore. Jisung joined him first, a kid with a passion that burns so fiercely it scathes his own heart at times. Then Jeongin, a voice singing of a reverence that shook Chan to his core. Hyunjin, who saw in dancing a form of salvation. Changbin, the missing golden piece to complete the infamous 3RACHA.

And then Seungmin.

It was through Seungmin that Chan saw you.

You had just dropped off Seungmin at the trainee dorms, bags full of homemade food in his hands. You hugged him tightly as he waved you off before disappearing into the building. And then, as soon as Seungmin was out of sight, Chan saw you collapse against the wall, your body wracked by cruel sobs. Cruel, because it was winter, and he knew that crying during the cold was somewhat harsher on the soul. You can’t cling to blooming flowers, to warm sun rays, to anything beautiful to ease your pain.

Cruel, because he recognized himself in you. In the way you rushed to hide your tears, wiping them away with your sleeves so that no one would see you. As if you were not deserving of this moment of weakness. As if you were not deserving of being human too.

“Do you still pick at your nails?” Chan asks, glancing at your figure as the light turns red. “Can’t give up bad habits?”

“You’re the last one to talk about bad habits, Mr. Never Sleeps.”

“Touché,” he chuckles, and you shake your head, the faintest smile lingering on your lips.

The seasons passed, and Chan’s fragmented heart had somehow found itself pieced together again—not to its original form. That would be a fool’s hope. People noticed the external changes—the different hues of his hair, how his muscles grew more chiseled with time—but they couldn’t see how pain and self-doubt had altered him, down to the very molecules of his being.

Because pain doesn’t pass like an angry cloud, casting a dark shadow only to drift away. That would be too kind, too merciful for emotions forged to drain you dry. No, it breaks you, reshapes you, molds you with the thorns in its calloused hands. It forces you to relearn who you are, how to breathe, where to stand, how to cling to the fragile thread that keeps you from stumbling back into the darkness.

The heart Chan carries isn’t his own anymore. It belongs mostly to sorrow now. But it still beats.

And so it did. And that winter passed, and so did spring. Then summer came, and fall returned once more.

And the years went by, and Chan blinked, and suddenly it had been ten years since he first saw you. And yet, it felt as though you remained stuck in winter. Because you did not have anyone’s hand to hold, warm enough to make you believe that summer would come again.

“Is this about Seungmin?” Chan asks softly, his fingernails drumming absentmindedly against the steering wheel.

“No, yes—I… I don’t know,” you sigh in exasperation, and he nods, turning his head to glance at you.

You first went on a night walk with Chan when you were still a law student, and his group had just debuted. Your apartment was under renovation, so you had to stay in the boys’ dorm for a few days. It was late into the night, with both of you the only ones still awake, working through your respective tasks in silence. He had offered to go for a walk, and you had accepted.

Neither of you spoke. Chan pretended not to see the stray tears that silently slipped down your cheeks, with no previous warning. He wondered what had weighed on your heart so heavily that it searched desperately for any moment of solitude to escape.

Your eyes are distant now, glazed over as if your mind has carried you to a place where the sun never rises. You bring your hand to your mouth once more, but Chan gently pushes it away, cradling your fingers in his palm.

He has to pretend that the sensation of your hand in his doesn’t feel like a thunderbolt—a surge of electricity that shoots up from the tips of his toes, swirling deep into his chest and settling into warmth in his stomach.

“It will bleed, and then you’ll come whining because it hurts,” he jokes, though his heart pounds in his throat, threatening to choke him.

“When did I do that?” you exclaim, but you don’t pull your hand away.

Your hand is in his.

“Besides,” you say, your fingers slipping from his grasp to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “You know I’m the last person to ever whine.”

Was it normal to still feel your hand on his? For his hand to memorize the warmth of yours so quickly? As if it had been thirsty, like a man astray in the desert, longing for what a drop of water would feel against his parched throat.

“Yeah, you should do that more often, actually,” he chastises softly. You exhale a shuddered breath in response.

It feels like a lifetime before you speak again. “You heard Seungmin’s speech,” you say quietly, like a wounded animal, hesitant and wary of what approaching another human might bring, of what baring your heart might cost.

Chan wants to say: It is safe with me, I would shred my own heart if it meant keeping yours intact.

“Hard to miss, since I was on stage next to him,” he jokes, and you finally giggle—a real laugh, not the artificial ones you’ve been giving him. It feels like Australia’s breeze ruffling his hair, like he can finally breathe again.

“You know,” you say, your voice shifting to something gentler, “It reminded me of Seungmin when he was still young, discovering the concept of forever.” A bittersweet smile tugs at your lips. “Seungmin was short, pale, and so fragile that I was afraid the faintest wind would break him. You should’ve seen him. When he looked up at me, his eyes were wide, his irises pitch black, and they looked so trusting. He was an easy target for the kids who needed someone to blame, someone to pour their anger into, to soothe their bruised hearts. There was no one else to punish. Too much injustice, and no respite.”

Chan’s hands tighten around the steering wheel. To think of such sad times for both you and him. Should he rewrite the march of time, he would have forced the universe to make him your friend, to entwine your hand in his, to stop the cold from making a home within the pathways of your heart.

“I remember when I first saw him. He was very shy. Like he didn’t quite know how to carry himself yet. But he ranked second in the open audition.”

“He did,” you smile. It’s a bit different from all your grins. You’re always different when it comes to Seungmin—softer, bursting with pride.

“And…” Chan trails off, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, a wide smile tugging at his lips. “I remember you.”

“Oh, please, no,” you hide your face in your palms. “That’s so embarrassing.”

Chan chuckles softly, but in his heart, he remembers your first encounter with such clarity. He had found you many things—beautiful, brave, human. ‘Embarrassing’ had never been an adjective that crossed his mind when it came to you.

He remembers.

“Here,” Chan handed you a handkerchief, and you looked up at him, a frown deepening in your eyes. Time had somehow stilled then. The seconds felt like years passing on Chan. The cold seemed to dissipate, his heart emanating a warmth he hadn’t known before. Everywhere. Consuming him.

You blinked, and time resumed, and yet Chan was changed.

“Thank you,” you said tentatively. “Something got into my eye.” You attempted to explain, and he simply nodded, humoring you.

“I figured. There’s a lot of dust around here. From the trees and all,” He cringed internally, realizing how silly that sounded. So, he fell into silence, as did you, both of you just looking at each other. Chan had never felt this way before. He ached to ask you what was wrong, if he could do anything to alleviate your pain. If you too would like to break near Han River with him.

“I’m Chan. Bang Chan. Christopher, actually. But you can call me Chan.”

You had giggled then, and his ears burned so fiercely he was sure they were a shade of fuchsia, bright and loud. The sound was melodious, like notes strung along a flute just right. Soothing and warm. He loved your laugh. He wished his piano could recreate it. He wished he could save it so he could dance to it later.

“Alright, Christopher Actually Chan,” you smiled, and his cheeks flared a shade brighter. He silently prayed you’d account for the harsh winds that wrapped around you both.

“And I know you, actually,” you continued.

His eyes widened in surprise, and you chuckled softly at his reaction. He liked making you laugh. He liked it so much he’d make a fool out of himself if he needed to. “I’m not a stalker, Kim Seungmin told me about you. He’s my brother.”

“Right,” Chan responded, his usual confidence slipping for just a moment. He was never awkward—social prowess was one of his greatest strengths. Still, with you, all semblance of normal interaction vanished. There was something in your gaze, something so beautifully haunting, like the sight of tree branches in autumn. Something that once was whole, now stripped bare, yet still captivating in its vulnerability. It made him wonder if beauty like this could ever be captured in music.

“I’m Y/n, by the way,” you bowed slightly, before quickly turning and walking away. Chan watched, breath hitched in his throat, as you paused, and then as if pulled by some invisible thread, you turned back to him.

Without a word, you grabbed his hand, gently placing something within his palm.

A cherry lollipop.

“As a thank you,” you said, a bit sheepishly, eyes still puffy from the sobs that kept you prisoner just a few moments ago. “Ah, and, you better debut with my brother!”

You pointed at him, and in that moment, a grin broke through your face—one so radiant, so full of life, he wondered if this was what witnessing the first sunset felt like to humans. A beauty so grand, so overwhelming, he didn’t quite know what to do with it.

Chan’s fate was sealed right then and there—he would spend the next ten years chasing after your smile, no matter how foolish it seemed.

For one would ask, what’s a drop of white against a sea of black? What use are cherries’ scent before the stench of sorrow? And the answer would always be everything. Everything, if it’s you.

Chan clears his throat, settling on the least incriminating adjective of the bunch. “You were brave, Cherry. You still are.”

“You think too highly of me,” you snort.

“I think of you just right, actually.”

You are nearly home when, out of nowhere, you speak. “What if I told you I’m terrified?” The words rush out, as though you are afraid they’d die in your throat before they could reach him.

Chan’s heart tightens in worry. He parks hastily in front of your place, the engine still humming as he turns to face you, you who’s like a Russian doll—layer upon layer of your soul wrapped carefully, each one guarding the other.

“Why?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper, thick with concern.

“I didn’t want to tell Seungmin,” you begin, pausing to bite your lower lip. “He’d be heartbroken... I know him, I—” you falter, your voice cracking just slightly. “My new case... It's about Promise Orphanage. They want to tear it down to build a luxury apartment complex. A fucking billionaire’s investment, with pools and golf courses.”

“Sun Corporation,” you explain, “it’s owned by the son of Gyeongdo Holdings’ CEO. They’ve been harassing Miss Jeeho for two months now because she refuses to desert the orphanage. It’s a mess, Chan.” you’re angry, he can feel it, the rage burning bright right beneath your skin.

“The city council caved in and granted them a permit because the land belongs to the state and this project apparently serves public interest, but that’s bullshit. Who would benefit from this other than billionaires?” you bite your lower lip, sucking in a deep breath. “I told you Winter became the vice director of the orphanage, right? She just learned about this and told me. They’re offering compensation but I’ve dealt with those kinds of people. They’re greedy. They’re corrupt.”

“I couldn’t turn my back on it,” you whisper. “I had to take the case. Those kids… they’ll have nowhere to go. And I know how cold it feels, how brutal it is when you lose your family and still have to look for someplace to call home.”

Your eyes glisten, tears clinging to the edge like dew on a leaf, only to be blinked away before they fall. How much does it cost your soul to bear this weight? How much longer until you fracture—like a pomegranate violently split open, bits of your soul scattering out in splatters of raw scarlet.

Chan’s palm finds your knee, squeezing it gently. “You’re worried they’ll end up forgetting about the orphanage and not building a new one?”

“Yeah. They did this before. I checked the civil files. They built over a nursing home and never gave them proper compensation, paid hush money to the owner to keep them from suing. What if I can’t stop them? This is all those kids have. This is all Winter has. Miss Jeeho too.”

“They won’t. you’ll stop them. I know you will, Cherry, alright?” he says with all the sincerity he can muster. You seem dubitative and he sighs, reaching out to hold your cold hands. Please warm up.

“You will, okay? I have no doubt you will,” he repeats with a fire that seems to light you up. A sudden light reflects off the broken shards of your heart.

“I will.”

—

Chan: you up?

Your phone lights up, distracting you from the mountain of paperwork scattered across your desk.

Y/n: What a fuck boyish text

Chan: akldkdkd so you’re definitely up

Y/n: I’m working on the case :(

Chan: open up!! i have snacks

You blink at the message, confused, before padding to the door. When you open it, Chan stands there, a wide grin stretching across his face. He’s wearing a grey varsity jacket that drapes across his broad shoulders perfectly, and a blue navy cap. You still don’t understand why he rarely allows his curls to see the light.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, crossing your arms.

“I got bored alone in the studio,” he shrugs casually. “So I thought I’d drop by.”

“Drop by?” you repeat, laughing softly. “Your studio is on the other side of town.”

“Okay, I guess you don’t want fish cake and tteokbokki—”

“Come back,” you interrupt, wrapping your hand around his forearm and tugging him inside. His body is warm, and it is only then do you realize just how cold your apartment truly is.

“It’s a mess, I’m sorry,” you apologize, glancing at the dirty plates in the sink and the papers all over the desk, and the floor, and the couch too.

“Need me to tidy up again?” he teases, grinning as he steps inside.

You swat his arm, rolling your eyes. “You did it once because I was bedridden, and Seungmin was in Japan for a schedule.”

“I don’t mind, Cherry,” he says softly, setting the food down on your coffee table. His gaze flickers to yours. “I’d do it even if you weren’t sick, you know.”

Chan has a habit of saying things that send your heart into a slow, painful thrum—one long pulse that stretches endlessly, forcing you to acknowledge its existence. But, as always, you avoid it. You never allow yourself to question the warmth that only blooms when he’s near.

You both sit cross-legged on the living room floor, the spicy scent of tteokbokki wafting between you. For a while, the only sound heard in the apartment is the soft clink of chopsticks against takeout containers.

“Any updates on the case?” he asks.

You nod, running a hand through your hair. “I filed for an injunction,” you say, sighing deeply. “Trying to stop the demolition for now, at least until I figure out what to do next. The city council is ridiculous.They keep saying this is for the public benefit, but how is that true? Who benefits from luxury penthouses except rich assholes? And because the orphanage is on state land, they think they can just sell it off like it’s nothing.”

Chan’s eyes have been tracking each one of your words intently, drinking in every syllable that drips from your mouth. He has long thought your calling was law, there is a certain logic in you, a peculiar fire that burns in your core that seems inherent to this job. Though oftentimes he wonders if this is truly what you’ve always wanted. Had you been raised in your home would you have turned out differently? Would you like to pursue something else? Would you sing like Seungmin too?

“I’m trying to figure out who’s behind those apartment deals. Jaehyun’s helping me track it down.”

Chan’s eyes darken, like a storm has gathered within his irises. He doesn’t realize his jaw is ticking. You do. You pretend as if you don’t notice.

“Jaehyun… are you guys together yet?” Chan asks, and your heart pauses at the change in conversation. You shake your head. “Hm? No. We’re just friends.” you say between bites.

“You go on dates with your friends?” he chuckles, but there is nothing funny in the sound. His eyes don’t morph into crescents, his dimples refuse to show.

“You know, we’re just messing around, or whatever,” you quickly say.

“Right.”

Chan remembers the moment with striking clarity—when you first mentioned Jaehyun. You were both at a hotpot restaurant, the steam from the bubbling broth curling around you.

You had said his name casually, A journalist you’d met at one of the court hearings, someone with the same fiery passion for justice that you had. He was annoying, you’d said, always bothering you with his questions, his relentless pursuit of truth. But there was something else in your voice when you spoke of him—something new, something soft and fond that made Chan’s chest tighten.

“Anyways, he’s friends with one of the junior employees in the city council,” you continue, voice tinged with frustration. “So he’s been trying to convince him to help us out.”

“An insider,” Chan says absently, his voice flat, like the surface of a pond long undisturbed by pebbles. He’s thinking, how long is it acceptable to harbor a crush on someone? Three months? Six? A year? What if Chan’s been carrying this weight for ten years? 3650 days spent thinking of you, chasing the shadow of your image away from his eyelids at night, yet always yearning for a dream where all he’d glimpse is you.

What if bile rises in his throat at the thought of Jaehyun so close to you, his fingers tracing the lines of your lips, memorizing the shape of your body, the rise and fall of your chest as you sleep? What if he cannot bear it, cannot stand the thought of anyone else knowing you in ways he never will?

You sigh, fingers digging into your temple as the weight of your exhaustion becomes tangible. “It’s tiring, Chan,” you admit as your forehead rests against your knees. Chan feels something shift inside him—a peculiar ache that only surfaces when you are in pain.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his hand hovering above your back before it settles there. He slowly pats your back, dragging his nails along your spine. It’s very quiet all of the sudden, a calm that only manifests when two souls, not bodies, are sitting by one another. You lean into his touch, your body angling towards him like a sunflower tilting towards the sun.

“Do you remember when the possibility of us debuting became very high?” he says and you nod, resting your cheek against your knee to look up at him. His hand doesn’t stop caressing your back. You don’t wish for it to.

“What is it with you and my most embarrassing memories?” you giggle quietly only to sober up at the sincerity you gather in his eyes. They are like pools of amber, the color of decadent chocolate, like the rich bark of trees kissed by sunlight.

“Everyone was out and I was the only one in the dorm.” He recounts the memory as if you weren’t there; as if he needed you to hear this, not as a participant but as an outsider. “And then you came knocking on my door, disheveled, looking like you hadn’t slept in days. You asked me, ‘Is it true? Are you debuting soon?’”

You close your eyes, the weight of that moment flooding you—how raw and real it was. You remember it vividly: the way his eyes met yours, like he had seen you for the first time right there and then.

“You were petrified. Because yes, you worked overtime to pay off Seungmin’s vocal lessons, you supported him so much his confidence never wavered, and yet, you were scared,” his words soften, and the pit in your throat tightens. You can’t speak even if you wish to.

“I said yes and you started crying. and I hadn’t seen you cry in three years. Not since the night we first met.” You remember his worried gaze, how he sank to the ground with you when your knees crumbled beneath you. He called you Cherry for the first time then, as if he had kept the nickname a secret, wishing to speak it outloud but never daring to. He did it because he thought back to your first meeting, and the cherry lollipop in your hand. You thought of it too.

“Seungmin,” you heaved, “please protect him, Chan, I— please, you have to protect him, please.”

“What’s wrong?” He panicked. “Talk to me Cherry, hm?”

“What if they are unkind to him? What if they somehow find out he’s an orphan and use that against him? He doesn’t like telling me anymore when it hurts. What if he’s hurt and he can’t tell me?”

His thumb swipes at the lone tear slipping from your eyes, gentle and warm. What if Chan is too kind to you? What if your heart wasn’t crafted to handle it?

“Then when all the boys came back ten minutes later you smiled as if nothing happened. I had seen you break down on the floor a few moments prior, and yet, you found the strength to smile, so as to not worry anyone, especially Seungmin.”

Chan’s heart throbs in his chest, the rhythm uneven and insistent. His voice wavers as his gaze locks with yours. Your eyes glimmer, like a river kissed by the summer sun, like stained glass basked in the light of a centuries old cathedral.

His palms cup your cheeks, tentative and gentle, akin to a flower breaking through the soil for the first time. “You are the strongest person I know,” he says, his voice soft, “The most hardworking, too. You care, so much, even when you try to hide it. It’s that passion that makes you the best at what you do. You’ll win this case, and every case after it, because you’re the one handling them.”

His thumb brushes against your skin. “And you believed in me when I said I’d protect Seungmin. So I believe in you, Cherry. Please believe in yourself too.”

You nod, over and over, like a broken record stuck on a single note. Before he can process it, your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him close. Your head finds its place in the crook of his neck, and for a fleeting second, he’s frozen, the world tilting off its axis. Then, slowly, his hands slide to your waist as he breathes you in—your shampoo, your favorite laundry detergent, the faint trace of cherry lingering on your skin like a memory of a distant summer.

“Thank you, Channie,” you whisper against his shoulder.

He nods, his voice muffled by the turmoil caging his heart. “You’re welcome, Cherry.”

For how long is it acceptable to love someone who doesn’t love you? Chan doesn’t know. He doesn’t really want an answer. Even a lifetime wouldn’t be a waste if it’s spent loving you.

—

“Three penthouses are already registered under different names,” Jaehyun tells you, handing over a couple of lease contracts. You’re seated in a small café near Promise Orphanage, waiting for Winter to join you. The junior employee in Sun Corp. has finally caved and handed over the registrants to Jaehyun—names of the people who have already secured luxury apartments, long before the project even saw light.

“Park Yuna, Lee Seo-Jun, and Choi Joon-Ho,” you read aloud, glancing up at Jaehyun, who’s already smirking.

“Park Yuna…” you pause, “isn’t she the wife of the city council president?”

“Bingo!” he exclaims, his arms wide open, head tipped back as a sinister giggle rips out of his throat.

“Oh gosh,” you cover your face as some customers turn to look at you. “This isn’t an action movie stop it.”

Jaehyun pouts as you swat his arm and you laugh despite yourself.

“Anyway, you’re right. She’s his wife. I also found out Seo-Jun and Joon-Ho are tied to prominent council members. Second cousin and son-in-law. They had their penthouses promised before the project was ever public.”

“They didn’t even register them under their names. Subtle,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“Yeah, I bet they weren’t even expecting Miss Jeeho to resist the compensation.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “They think those kids are just pawns, something they can move around for their benefit. They don’t get that those children have nothing but each other and the comfort of a familiar bed.”

The conversation lulls. Jaehyun grows quiet as you stare holes into your coffee, swirling the caramel syrup into the dark liquid. But no amount of sweetness can mask the bitterness on your tongue—the bitter taste of injustice, of watching people prioritize their greed over others’ lives.

“We’ll gather more evidence of their corruption,” Jaehyun says eventually, his tone firm. “And when we do, we’ll confront them. They won’t risk this becoming public with so many global investors involved.”

You nod. “You’re right.”

He leans back in his chair, a teasing glint in his eyes. “By the way, why did you cancel on me two nights in a row?”

The question catches you off guard, and your mind drifts to last night: Chan showing up at your home, his comforting words, the warmth of his hand on your back, the scent of pinewood and cinnamon lingering in the air, the clean apartment you woke up to. Something stirs in your chest, warm and soft.

“Chan came over,” you admit.

Jaehyun whistles, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

“Chan,” he says, drawing out the name.

“Mhm,” you reply, suddenly shy under his gaze.

“The man who calls you Cherry.”

“Yeah. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re so oblivious.”

“Agreed,” a familiar voice chimes in as Winter slides into the seat next to you. She presses a quick kiss to your cheek before sitting back with a knowing smile.

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “This isn’t the subject of discussion,” you say pointedly, glaring at both of them.

You’re momentarily distracted by Winter’s appearance. Her cheeks are hollow, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion. She’s poured so much love back into the orphanage she grew up in. Losing it would destroy you both.

“That man likes her,” Winter says casually, sipping from your drink.

You glare at her. “No, he doesn’t. He’s my friend.”

Winter raises an eyebrow at you. “He always looks at you differently. His tone is softer when he talks to you.”

Your eyes drift away, thoughts pulling you back to last night—to how Chan stayed with you until dawn, watching awful dramas with you despite his packed schedule, simply because he was worried.

“What’s the point of him liking me if I can’t like him back?” you murmur, voice barely audible. “My heart isn’t made for this.”

“Have you ever given yourself a chance?” Jaehyun asks and you scoff.

“A chance for what? To hurt someone?” you reply, shaking your head. “I don’t know how to love. I never had the time to learn. I was too busy surviving. We were,” you say glancing at Winter who averts her gaze.

This suddenly felt like a conversation too grim to have in the open. To speak of how your heart has been morphed into a cowardly being, shrinking at the simple thought of being looked at. What would anyone behold anyways? If not an organ that’s too battered, too bloody, unworthy of being seen, let alone to be loved.

“Anyway,” you say, forcing your voice to steady, “Can you set me up a meeting with that employee? We need more insider evidence and he’s the only one who can help us. I’d like to talk to him alone.”

“Yeah, I’ll try to convince him,” Jaehyun reassures you. The three of you nod and dive back into the stacks of paperwork, but the words blur in front of your eyes, forming an incoherent mass.

There are things you’ve always wished to escape—dark truths you thought you'd one day outrun. You still haven’t. Perhaps, you will never.

Perhaps, had you not been shaped by the cruelty of others, had you not been born beneath a star soaked in grief. Perhaps, if you never had to carve pieces of yourself out to survive, if you had the time, the strength to sit quietly with your own heart, to listen to who it wanted you to be, then, maybe, just maybe, you would have known the warmth of another’s touch.

You would have allowed yourself to melt into the softness of their gaze, you would have let your cheeks flush freely with the sweetness of their words, with no restraints, no shame. But the world is not kind. It will not offer you such a path. And so, this is your curse: to be one of grief’s favorite beholders, for you to wear it like a second flesh. To cling to it, as it clings to you because it is all you’ve ever known.

—

Your mother’s fingers were always warm as they entwined with yours, no matter the season. You remember the feel of them particularly when you went on walks by the ocean, her hand tugging you close to her frame. She was like an angel, walking softly on earth, coaxing the waves to slow down their feverish run as she brushed against their milky foam.

You can’t see her clearly in your memories anymore. Your temples ache each time you try to picture the fine details of her features. But you remember her humming along with the waves, as if singing a song to the sea, thanking them for the salty breeze they carry within their tides and swells. You remember closing your eyes to soak it in, as if you had known, even back then, that you’d forget the map of moles drawn upon her face, and the specific hue of her hair against the sun, and yet you wouldn’t forget her voice filling up your heart to the brim.

You remember coming home and trying to replicate her humming, through broken whistles at first, then, adding words where you saw fit. You remember singing to your mother in your living room. You remember feeling as if the sea was lodged right within your heart.

You loved singing, for the three years before your parents’ deaths. You sang in chorals, you sang to the birds and to the flowers blooming in your garden. You sang to the sun and to the moon. You sang to your reflection in the mirror. You sang, because it made you feel like your mother talking to the waves. And then, your parents died, and the music within you did too. The flowers, the sun, the birds… They were all an unworthy audience all of the sudden; since they all turned blind to your voice, allowing for your entire world to be stripped away from you. Leaving you bare, rootless.

You were then forced to learn that there isn’t just one big death in a lifetime. That the heart can perish multiple times before it finally stops beating completely. It felt like a little death when you began to loathe the ocean. It felt like a little death when Seungmin told you that he wished to become a singer.

You too, had wanted to, once. Maybe. If you had been given enough time to think.

It felt like a little death when you stepped into a recording booth for the first time.

You’d told Winter you were desperate for money. She mentioned agencies looking for anonymous artists to record backing vocals for prominent groups. It paid well, she said.

Your voice was well-liked. Not overpowering, but subtle, like a floral perfume—soft, seamless, blending effortlessly with whoever you sang alongside. It paid well to sing lifeless songs, to let your name dissolve into the footnotes of prominent groups, 2PM, Twice… Even your brother’s group when he debuted.

You knew that fans liked to speculate on who you were. You knew that the songs in which you sang were popular. And yet, it did not matter.

It felt like death, to kill your voice and for the sun to keep rising regardless.

“You were brave, you still are, Cherry.” Chris had told you. You wanted to believe him so badly. You wanted for the world to split open and atone for what it did to you. You wanted for the world to mend the cracks in your soul. You wanted for the world to disappear with you in it.

Your legs are growing weary of driving for so long with no destination in mind. Your eyes burn from how long you’ve stared at the road, unblinking. Somehow, you find yourself outside of Chan’s and Jeongin’s place.

It would feel like death too for you to head back to your empty apartment.

You grab your phone, sending Chan a message before you can second-guess yourself.

Y/n: Are you home?

You wait, fingers hovering over the delete button. His reply comes three seconds later.

Chan: yeah, innie is sleeping over at seungmin’s

A heartbeat.

Chan: why? are you here? are you alright?

You sigh, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. What the fuck are you doing? But still, you unbuckle your seatbelt and walk hurriedly to his door.

You knock. He opens immediately, eyebrows furrowed.

“I’m okay,” you say quickly, expecting the deluge of questions swarming in his mind.

“It’s 1 a.m.,” he replies, concern etched into his features.

“I can read the clock,” you joke, and his pout deepens as he steps closer. He’s beautiful in a way that makes your soul wish to split open to escape it. It overwhelms you.

“I’m just anxious about the next few days,” you admit.

“What’s happening?” he asks, already taking your coat and leading you to the kitchen. He pours you a glass of cold water, just the way you like it.

“I’m meeting a junior employee at Sun Corp. He’s called San. I need to convince him to give me materials proving the corporation’s corruption for our case.”

Chan’s worried gaze meets yours, and you shake your head quickly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmur. “I didn’t come here to worry you. I just… I wanted your company.”

Chan’s demeanor softens at your words, like white foam finally resting against the warm sand.

“I think I feel less anxious around you,” you add, the warmth in your cheeks suddenly betraying you. Winter’s words echo in your mind: That man likes you. What a foolish thought to engrain in your mind.

“Oh, I…” His words stumble, and his fingers flex as if they’re debating reaching for you. Instead, he lowers them and smiles softly.

“So do I, Cherry,” he admits. His voice is gentle, his ears tinting red. “And I could come with you to meet San, if you’d like.”

“Really, you’d do that for me?” his being slacks off, his shoulders sinking low. If you were in a battle, this would be him dropping his sword, kneeling.

“Of course, you don’t even need to ask.”

You see it then—visions of yourself wrapping your arms around Chan’s neck in his kitchen, holding him long enough for his warmth to seep into your soul, shielding it from the many winters to come. You imagine, for a fleeting moment, putting down your defenses and letting one human in.

Perhaps this is the most violent act of all—to have visceral fantasies of something as innocent as a hug.

“Were you working?” you ask, and Chan clears his throat, nodding. “Yeah, working on some new songs. But I’ll take a break now.”

“The mighty producer CB97, taking a break for little old me. How wonderful,” you tease, a giggle escaping your lips. He rolls his eyes, his tongue pressing against his cheek in mock exasperation.

“Should we have a drink?” he offers, and you clap your hands excitedly. “Yes, I’d like that.”

It’s easy to recall with Chan—to relive the memories alive in your shared history. The summer vacation in Jeju, grilling meat for the boys, playing video games till dawn. Chan face-planting into the snow, the times you hid backstage to surprise them. You remember him accidentally body-slamming you onto the floor, the way you nearly drowned in the pool from laughing too hard.

The clock creeps toward four a.m., but you don’t feel tired. You’re tipsy, the wine warming your stomach—a bright, crisp taste, like biting into a ripe apricot. And you are happy. Your soul feels satiated, as though this laughter could sustain you for a lifetime.

Your giggles fade, leaving a comforting silence between you. You’re close to all the boys—you care for them deeply. But Chan is different. Because he dropped by only because he was worried. Because he calls you Cherry. So he remembers, and not alot of people remember you.

“I was thinking on my drive home of this… melody my mom used to sing,” you whisper, staring ahead. Your shoulder brushes against Chan’s. You rarely speak about your parents. Never this openly. Chan knows this well.

“She used to hum it to the ocean, to me when I’m about to sleep, when I was sick, when she was cooking,” you smile softly, bringing the drink to your lips. “I’ve been trying to replicate it on the piano but I’ve never managed to.”

You turn to look at him, only to find his gaze already fixed on you. His eyes are wide, vulnerable, twinkling like stars witnessing the birth of a galaxy. He licks his lips, hesitant, and your eyes linger on them. They are glossy, red, and impossibly inviting.

“Can I hear it?”

You start humming, singing what you remember off of your fragmented memory. Chan listens intently, his eyebrows tightly knit in concentration. You hear the waves, you taste the salt in the breeze. You miss the sea.

You finish, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Thank you for sharing,” he says.

“Thank you for listening,” you whisper, and your eyes are closed, but you feel it, his lips pressing to your temple, soft as a petal. It quakes through you, unmaking you, as though your soul has been cleaved wide open. You are a supernova, unraveling, scattering light in a beautiful, dying burst.

You wake up to a note on the bedside, and a pink plaid blanket draped over you. It hits you then: you’re in Chan’s room. A blush spreads across your cheeks, igniting your skin. When did you fall asleep? Did he carry you here? Of course he did. Did he press another kiss to your temple? Why would you think of that? Still, you can’t help but wonder if he too felt it— the way your soul trembled under the weight of his touch.

You imagine him writing the note, his figure hunched near you, glancing at your peaceful form, his eyes fleeting to yours as if making sure you were still there.

‘I’ve made you breakfast, it’s in the kitchen. I have an early morning schedule, but I’ll see you tomorrow, Cherry. Thank you for coming to see me :)’

You close your eyes, burying your head deeper into the pillows surrounding you. You can’t help but inhale their scent—traces of Chan lingering in the fabric, pinewood and cinnamon, intoxicating, as though they were made for you alone to breathe in. Your skin tingles with the thought, as you imagine him beside you, what it would be like to press your face into the soft curve of his neck, to take in that scent and to fill all the hollow spaces inside you with it.

It feels like death to think of Chan, it feels like living too.

—

You find Chan leaning casually against his car, arms crossed over his chest. With his Chrome Hearts beanie nearly swallowing his eyes and a mask covering the rest of his face, he looks almost intimidating. Almost—because you can’t help but giggle at his over-the-top efforts to stay incognito.

“I think we’ll scare the poor boy away,” you tease in greeting, and he huffs, reaching out to lightly punch your arm.

“Do you want me gone? It’s fine, I can leave,” he mumbles, his pout clear even behind the mask. “It’s not like I made all this effort to come here—”

“Oh my god, you’re still a whiny baby at your big age,” you cut him off, laughing as you both step into the café.

You choose a table by the large windows, the sunlight streaming in and bathing the space in golden light. As Chan sits across from you, his grin spreads wide, making his eyes crinkle and nearly disappear. You miss the sight of his dimples, all of the sudden.

San arrives ten minutes later, sliding into the seat across from you. His eyes dart to the door every few seconds, as though someone might burst through at any moment. He fidgets in his chair, tugging at his slightly askew tie, beads of sweat gathering on his brow despite the cool air conditioning.

Your fingers curl loosely around a lukewarm cup of coffee you’ve yet to sip. “Thank you for meeting me, San. I really appreciate it,” you begin softly, and he barely nods. He reaches for his iced Americano but pulls his hand back.

“Look, Miss Kim,” he stammers, voice barely above a whisper. “I gave Jaehyun the names of the apartment holders, but what you’re asking of me now... it’s dangerous.” He avoids your gaze, eyes fixed on the floor, as if it might open up and swallow him whole. “They’re not the kind of people you cross. You have no idea how high this goes.”

“I do,” you say firmly, leaning forward. “I know exactly how high it goes. That’s why I’m here. And that’s why I need your help.”

San hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line. His gaze flickers to Chan before meeting yours again.

You take a deep breath, knowing how delicate this conversation is, how crucial it is too. “Look, I’m not asking you to go public,” you murmur, lowering your voice. “I just need the truth. Documents, emails… anything that proves there’s a corrupt force behind this decision. I’ll keep your name out of it. I promise. Whistleblowers are common in our lines of work. No one has to know where it came from.”

“I want to help you, I do,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “But they will find out, and I’ll lose everything,” he pauses, shoulders slumping, “I’m the sole caregiver for my mom… She’s in the hospital, and I still have bills to pay. You understand, right?”

Your eyes soften as you watch his anxious form. He’s still young, shouldering a burden you know all too well. You think he will understand, only if you bare a part of your heart to him.

“San,” you start gently, “I once lived in Promise Orphanage too.” you admit and his eyes slightly widen. “Before that, I was in two other orphanages in the city…” You pause, looking for the right words. “I still have nightmares about those places. About how cruel some of the people there were.” Your voice cracks, and Chan’s warm hand finds your knee.

“It’s hard to be happy in a place like that, but Promise Orphanage was the only place I ever thought of as home. It felt like family. I still visit to play with the kids. They’re happy, I see it, as best as they can, anyways. But they’re well taken care of. I know Miss Jeeho, I know Winter. They love those children. They allow them to dream. They don’t deserve to have their only familiarity stripped away from them.”

San swallows hard. "And what happens when Sun Corp. finds out anyway?”

“You’re here,” you reply, “you’re afraid, but you also believe in what we’re fighting for. Otherwise, you would’ve rejected this meeting.” You sigh, your voice softening. “You’re a good person, San. Don’t let them corrupt you too. You know this is wrong.”

“I do,” he admits, voice shaky. His resolve is unraveling.

“Look, I know they gifted the city council members penthouses to sway them in their favor. But no judge would consider this hard evidence since I can’t prove intent. What we need is what’s inside your office. You know, emails, memos, contracts, whatever. I can’t do this without you, San. I mean it.”

San stares at you for a long moment. Finally, he sighs, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “There are emails,” he admits quietly. “Some from the CEO, discussing how to ‘incentivize’ council members. And I’ve seen the transaction logs... Large deposits to personal accounts, listed as ‘consulting fees.’ It’s not hard to connect the dots.”

Your heart leaps in your throat. “That’s exactly what we need. Can you get copies?”

“I think so,” he says reluctantly. Then, in a quieter tone he adds, “I lost my father too, you know.” There’s a rawness in his voice that only those who’ve been burdened by grief can understand. “I’ll find a way. For those kids.”

You reach out, briefly covering his hand with yours. “Thank you,” you whisper, and he nods, a miniscule smile finally stretching across his lips.

“Should we celebrate?” Chan asks, his voice light, once you’re settled in his car. For a moment, you hesitate. Celebration feels foreign to you. You’ve been the prosecutor and the wrongfully accused, you tie the noose and gasp when it tightens. But now, it seems like you’ve closed this case without needing a trial. That’s something worth celebrating.

“You know what? Hell yeah,” you giggle, and Chan’s face lights up like the sun cresting the horizon. “Great! Because I already planned for us to!” His laughter bubbles over, and you yelp as the car suddenly accelerates.

“Cherry! you’re free tomorrow, right?” he shouts over the music, and you recognize the song—No. 1 Party Anthem.

So you’re on the prowl, wondering whether she left already or not…

“Hmmm, let me check if my schedule is clear for being kidnapped…” you tease, pretending to swipe through an imaginary calendar. He chuckles, his dimple deepening, and the sound makes you feel giddy, like champagne fizzing in your veins. “Looks like I am!”

“Perfect! Let’s go on a trip, then!”

Sunglasses in doors are par for the course…

“Where to?” you laugh, and he simply winks in response, “You’ll see.”

“Fine, you be mysterious, and I’ll…” You grab his Fendi sunglasses from the console, perching them on your head, “I’ll be your passenger princess.”

It doesn’t escape him— how readily you’ve let go, how much you’ve placed in his hands without hesitation. It makes him want to drive further, faster, to a place where your bruised hearts won’t catch up with the two of you.

Her eyes invite you to approach…

You stop along the way at a small, unassuming seafood stand nestled along the coast—one Chan seems to know well. The air is alive with the sizzle of grills and the briny scent of the ocean. The ahjumma behind the counter greets Chan warmly, her hands deftly working as she prepares your meal.

You’re served grilled crab, its shell glistening in a marinade of soy sauce, chili, and honey. The flavors burst on your tongue—savory and spicy with a delicate sweetness that reminds you of the sea itself. Chan insists on feeding you the oysters, gently placing each one on your plate. They’re buttery and tangy, kissed with lemon and sea salt and the warmth of Chan’s gaze.

Your heart softens as you watch Chan chatting easily with the older woman, a laugh bubbling out of him as she teases him for eating too fast, as he fist-bumps her grandson as he clears the plates. How tragic it would have been for him to remain closed off, a flower enclosed in itself, never sharing the vibrant beauty of his petals with the world.

And it seems as though those lumps in your throat that you’ve just swallowed have got you going…

You pause again at a roadside shop, picking out heart-shaped sunglasses and trading the ugliest souvenir T-shirts you can find, laughing until your sides ache. Chan drapes an obnoxious orange scarf over his shoulder, striking a runway pose that makes you topple over from how hard you’re laughing. But then, in the mirror’s reflection, you catch his gaze—soft, unguarded, and filled with something you don’t dare name. Your breath falters. You’ve never been looked at like this before, as if someone could unravel you completely and still leave you whole.

Come on, come on, come on…

The road stretches endlessly ahead, the horizon blurring as you feed Chan fresh strawberries from a farmer’s market along the road. You don’t question why your pulse skips each time his lips brush your thumb. You don’t question why you’re suddenly sure the fruit would taste sweeter off of his mouth. You simply let the wind whip past, wondering if his cheeks are flushed from the cold or from you. You pray it’s the latter.

Number one party anthem…

“Welcome to Gangneung,” he announces as the car rolls into the small coastal town. The sea glimmers outside your window, and the houses—painted in pastel blues and greens—climb the hills like a living postcard. A group of high schoolers are biking down a narrow street, their laughter reaching you even as you drive away. While three women walk uphill, groceries in hand, their wide-brimmed hats bobbing as they chatter energetically. They seem to be gossiping. They seem happy.

“You remembered,” you say softly, your gaze flickering to him.

“I’d like to go to Gangneung one day,” you had once told him during a late-night walk. “I heard it’s a small town, and the locals agreed to all paint their houses blue. Isn’t that sweet? I’d love to escape there one day, without telling anyone.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he says, giggling. “Well, except Winter—so she could pack a bag for you. And Jisung, so the kids wouldn’t worry. But I didn’t tell them where we’re—”

You don’t let him finish. Stopping yourself would feel unnatural, like damming a river mid-flow. You lean over and press a kiss to his cheek, right where his dimple is hidden.

The look of love, the rush of blood…

“Thank you, Channie,” you whisper. He simply nods, a bit dazed, so are you.

Come on, come on, come on…

Both your cheeks are still burning as you pull up by the sea. You’re the first to step out, stretching your arms to shake off the nerves while Chan rummages through the car. A sudden chill creeps over you, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself.

Number one party anthem…

“Here,” he says, draping a hoodie over your shoulders. He’s got a towel slung casually over one shoulder, and a basket balanced in his hands. “Come on,” he beckons softly, leading you to the shoreline.

He spreads the blanket atop the golden sand and you both lay on it, admiring the sea. You’re lost in your thoughts as you silently nibble at the cheese and crackers Chan brought with him. You haven’t sat before the waves in so long. For all your bravery in courtrooms, you were a coward in real life, scared that the mere sight of the overlapping water would make your buried wish resurface— to be adrift amidst waves, to sink with the peaceful certainty that you won’t resurface again.

But you haven’t felt this serene in a long time. Like you could draw in a deep breath and not dread the one that will follow it.

“I made you something.” Chan blurts suddenly, and you twist your neck to look at him. You’ve seen Chan in many states— happy, angry, weeping. But you haven’t seen him this nervous before.

“What is it?” you ask, your curiosity tinged with caution as you sit up.

He hesitates, his words tumbling over one another. “I’m sorry if this is too much, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the melody you hummed. I... I turned it into a piano piece. I recorded it. Do you want to hear it?”

He offers an earphone with trembling hands. Your own shake as you tuck it in, and then—oh god.

“Chan, I—” you choke, clutching his arm as the music flows into you. It’s her. It’s your mother, her voice resurrected in the notes. It’s as though he’s handed you a forgotten fragment of time, lighting it up, brushing away the dust of years. The memories flood back—her hand in yours, the melody she sang to you like a lullaby for your soul. Because she loved you, so much. You were once very loved.

You close your eyes as silent tears slip down your face. It’s a short recording, just fifty-five seconds, so you replay it, again and again, until the night falls gently around you. You want to live, you want to live if only to keep her voice alive.

“Should we go swim, Chan? I feel like swimming.” You suddenly say, a smile breaking through your face. This is the easiest it has been for you to grin in a long time.

“We’ll get sick,” he says, though a grin tugs at his lips.

“We haven’t been kids in so long”, you say and something shifts in his gaze. He understands, so he nods, suddenly picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder.

“Wait, not like this!” you shout, flailing as Chan hoists you up with ease. But it’s no use—he’s already running and the next thing you know, you’re plunging into the cold water.

He dives in after you, surfacing with a loud laugh that echoes across the shoreline. The water is freezing, but it doesn’t matter. He feels weightless, unburdened, like a child again, like he could do anything he wishes for in this world, like he could get on his knees and confess to you right there and then.

You’re both trembling still by the time you reach the hotel. You linger by the entrance, your gaze tracing the cracked wallpaper and worn-out carpets. Chan is at the desk, talking to the receptionist. Snippets of their conversation float your way—“only one room... unfortunately a pipe broke... an old hotel.”

Oh.

When he returns, his ears are tinged with pink. “There’s only one room left,” he stammers. “The other one has a water leak. But it’s okay! We can find another hotel. I understand you might be—”

“Christopher, I’m fucking freezing,” you interrupt, teeth chattering. He giggles softly, boyish. “I’ll let you shower first, then.”

The room is sparse, reminiscent of a hanok. There are no beds, only two padded mats that side by side on the heated floor, and a small desk in one corner. It feels intimate, ten times smaller as Chan stands behind you.

“Go ahead,” he says, “I’ll wait.”

You quickly grab your bag and retreat to the bathroom. With trembling hands, you unlock your phone.

Y/n: Winter!!!!!!!!!! Are you here?

Winter: OMG are you still with cherry man?

Y/n: Yes, and we’re sharing one room 🫣

Winter: Wooooooo my ship is sailing

Y/n: I hate you. Did you pack me cute pajamas at least?

Winter: Of course i foresaw this

You giggle slightly, gusts of powdery air materializing before you.

Y/n: I’ll kill you once I’m back!!!

Winter: you love me 😘 you’ll have to tell me everything when you come back

Y/n: I will ❤️ He’s very sweet… and confusing

Winter: Just trust your gut

Trust your gut? You’re quite unsure what your gut is trying to spell out for you. You sigh, before quickly heading into the shower. You know Chan must be freezing too even if he tries not to show it.

You hear the water cascade down when he goes in after you, still avoiding your gaze. It feels almost forbidden to imagine him standing there, steam curling in clouds scented with your cherry shower gel. He’ll carry it with him, you think—a faint trace of you on his skin. That thought seems to send goosebumps rippling down your spine.

Later, the two of you lay atop your mats in a quiet darkness. You can hear the hum of the heater, and the splashing of the waves far away. You don’t remember falling asleep, but the cold wakes you, sharp and biting.

“Chan?” you whisper into the quiet.

He hums instantly. He hasn’t slept.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“I am.”

“Should we move closer? Body heat and all,” you suggest, your voice barely audible. You hear him swallow in the dark.

Slowly, cautiously, he inches closer until your shoulders brush. You wrap a tentative arm around his waist, and he draws you in, his palm resting on your back. The embrace feels intimate, terrifyingly so, but you stay. He is warm. He smells like pinewood and cherry. He smells like you and him.

“Good?” he asks, voice rough, and you nod. “Yeah, good.”

You hear his heartbeat, frantic at first, mirroring yours, then slowing down as the minutes pass by. It feels familiar to lay so close to him, it feels natural, ordinary.

“Channie?” you whisper.

“Yes, Cherry?”

“How different do you think we’d be, if we hadn’t gone through the things we did?”

You don’t know why you ask, except that today, for the first time in forever, you feel like blank paper—uncrumpled, untainted, left to be.

He thinks for a while, his hand threading gently through your hair, lulling you back toward sleep.

“I think I would open my heart more,” he finally says, voice soft. “I’d be myself without fearing judgment or abandonment. I’d stop chasing perfection. I’d just... exist.”

You nod against him. “You should stop apologizing for wanting the things you do.”

It feels hypocritical coming from you, but you mean it.

“Yeah, Cherry,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “And you?”

“I’d allow myself to love. Without fear. I’d be someone worthy of being loved.”

A pause stretches between you, heavy and sharp. You inhale deeply.

“I’ve dated people,” you say quietly, “it drives Seungmin’s crazy because I know he wants to protect me from heartbreak,” you giggle softly, memories of the long talks Seungmin had dealt you flooding your mind.

“He’s a good brother.”

“He is,” you smile, before sighing. “But I don’t know how to tell him that it has always been for fun. They know what they’re getting into, which is, nothing beyond a few dates because... that’s all I have to give. I’m afraid someone might waste their time peeling away my layers, only to find nothing worthwhile. I’m hollow inside, Chan. A hollow chest can’t beat for another. Not in the way they deserve.”

His hand stills, his grip falters on your back. You hope he has heard your plea, unspoken, that he can read between the lines of your words. Please, you beg. Don’t love me. Don’t hurt yourself.

—

Chan sees it then, as evident as the rising of the sun. The truth of you, the truth of himself. Chan is loved by many, yet he doesn’t feel loved. You do not love Chan, perhaps you will never allow yourself to love another, and yet—he still loves you. Despite your warnings, he does. Even if you paint the image of the most violent of heartbreaks, he still will.

—

You judge heels by two criterias: one, how easy they are to stand long hours in, and two, how satisfying they sound when you walk. The powdery pink Jimmy Choos Seungmin gifted you hit both marks perfectly, sounding particularly delicious as you stride through the halls of Sun Corporation’s headquarters.

From the corner of your eye, you catch employees glancing up from their desks, whispers rising as you breeze past the secretary’s protests, her voice growing increasingly frantic. But you already know where you are headed: straight for the conference room, where you know an important meeting is currently unfolding.

Fun!

The secretary, a petite brunette, jogs after you, her heels barely keeping up with her urgency. She plants herself in front of the double doors, blocking your path, literally, with her arms outstretched.

“Miss, you can’t go in there,” she says, chest slightly heaving. “This is a private meeting.”

You flash her a thin smile, the kind that looks anything but kind. “Private? How convenient! It seems like they’ve kept their corruption private too!”

Her face pales, and she stammers. “I… I’m sorry, but I’ll need you to wait. Mr. Choi is—”

“Expecting me,” you cut her off, brushing past her without a second glance.

With a forceful push, you throw open the conference room doors. The chatter inside ceases instantly, replaced by stunned silence as ten executives turn to face you. At the head of the table sits Choi Min-soo, the CEO. His expression remains calm as his gaze locks with yours. He’s young, roughly in his thirties, surrounded only by men, of course. Perhaps that's why he keeps accumulating one bad decision after the other.

Choi leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “Who let you in here?”

“Apologies for the interruption,” you say, though there’s not a shred of remorse in your voice. “I’m here about the demolition permit for Promise Orphanage.”

Choi leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t recall scheduling a meeting with you.”

“No, you didn’t,” you reply coolly. “But I thought I’d save your secretary the trouble. Some things simply can’t wait. Surely you understand.”

An executive to Choi’s right clears his throat, tapping his fingers against the table in a measured rhythm. “This is a private meeting. You can’t just barge in—”

“Oh, but I can,” you curtly cut him off, “And I have. Now, if you’d prefer, we can do this in front of the press, but I thought you’d appreciate the courtesy of keeping this internal.”

Choi’s mask of indifference falters ever so slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Sit,” he says curtly.

You ignore him, instead leaning forward, your palms pressing into the polished surface of the table. “No need for pleasantries. Let’s cut to the chase. I have evidence that the city’s approval for your demolition project didn’t come through lawful means. Bribery, to be precise.”

A heavy silence blankets the room. The executives exchange uneasy glances, but Choi’s smirk betrays no concern. Though you know it is all rehearsed. Every expression is part of the masquerade that is their lives.

“I could sue you for defamation, you know,” he says, leaning forward. He’s beautiful, but in a sinister way. Like staring into the core of a bubbling volcano knowing it could swallow you whole.

“Is it defamation if it’s supported by your own emails?”

From your bag, you retrieve a thick stack of documents and toss them onto the table. One of the younger executives fumbles to pick them up, his face paling as he scans the contents.

“These emails detail discussions between your company and key city council members about how to tip their votes in your favor. Then there are the transaction logs. Substantial sums of money deposited into personal accounts, labeled as ‘consulting fees.’ Oddly enough, these transactions occurred right after a cozy dinner at that hotpot spot downtown. Convenient timing, wouldn’t you agree?”

Your grin widens as you add, “All of it obtained lawfully, of course.” You know they’re infuriated by you. You’ve learned over the years that men like these don’t fear consequences as much as they despise being brought down by a woman.

“There is nothing illegal about consulting fees,”a voice quips from your right, “it’s standard practice.”

“Standard practice,” you repeat, tilting your head. “How fascinating that these fees always seem to align perfectly with approvals for morally bankrupt projects. This isn’t your first rodeo, Choi, is it? Remember the nursing home? Your big debut? The one that earned you Daddy’s approval?”

Choi’s fist slams onto the table. The sound echoes sharply through the room. You don’t flinch.

“How dare you speak to me like this?”

“And how dare YOU prioritize greed over the lives of children?!” you fire back, your voice rising. “YOU are the one bulldozing an orphanage to fatten your pockets. Not me.”

The room shifts uneasily. The executives glancing at one another, avoiding your gaze.

“You have two choices,” you say, straightening. “Withdraw the permit and take responsibility for the lives you’re willing to destroy, or I’ll take this to the media. Every email, every transaction log, it’ll all be public knowledge. Let’s see how long you keep your title when the truth comes out.”

Choi chuckles, a sinister sound that sends shivers down your spine. Spoiled assholes are always somewhat deranged. “So let me get this straight. You barge in here, threatening ME in my OWN office? Do you have any idea what this project is worth? FUCKING BILLIONS! And powerful people back it, people who won’t tolerate interference.”

You pick up your bag, winking. “Then I suggest you start figuring out how to explain this mess to them. You have five days to withdraw the permit. Good luck!”

Without waiting for a response, you turn and stride out, the sharp clicks of your heels like music to your ears. You wave at the secretary who looks at you as if she’s just seen a ghost. And so do the rest of the employees. Your voice must have been loud enough then.

Now that was fun.

Winter launches herself at you as soon as you open the door to her car. “Fuck you were so badass!” she laughs, hugging you tightly and you giggle, the sound light and airy, as you take out your phone from your back pocket, silencing the call with her.

“I can and I have,” she repeats your words, voice dipping lower as you high-five excitedly, your palms almost ricocheting off one another.

“God winter you should’ve seen his face,” you laugh, cheeks almost splitting open, “he looked like a big baby throwing a tantrum!”

“Ah I think this is over, right?” she asks excitedly, as she gets out of the parking lot, “they’ll yield or else you’ll drag their reputation through the mud.”

“I think so,” you sigh, resting your head against the seat cushion. “If they’re any smart they’ll know that the general public will always empathize with children. We’ll wait and see,” you grin, pinching her cheeks. “Either way, I’m not letting them take away the orphanage from us.”

“Never doubted you will,” she smiles widely, before elbowing your side, “girls night then? It’s been so long.”

“Yeah, let’s do it!”

You glance at her as she drives, the sun threading between her blonde strands like molten gold. You’ve always found it ironic that she chose the name Winter for herself when she’s the warmest person you know— she’s the saccharine taste of honey, she’s the colors of the sun and the sounds of a joyous summer. She cannot possibly be a mere human. She’s too kind, too patient for the confines of such a flawed label. You suddenly remember her supporting you as you undertake your law classes, working long hours at the bakery near your home to pay for Seungmin’s lessons. You feel her move for you when your body was too weary to even stir.

“I love you,” you suddenly say, your voice a raspy whisper, and she turns to look at you, her eyes softening. “Yah save this for the sleepover.”

The sun has long slipped beneath the horizon, as you talked the night away with Winter, stomachs full of sweetened Soju and laughter on the living room floor. You rest your head on her stomach as she idly runs her fingers through your hair, reminiscing. It doesn’t hurt as much to remember these days.

“So, will you tell me about Chan?” she whispers, and you groan, hiding your face in your hands.

She giggles at your reaction, gently scratching your scalp. “Come on. How was your getaway?”

It takes you a few moments to admit it. Out of joy. Out of fear. “It was the happiest I’ve been in a long while, Winter.”

“You don’t sound happy about it,” she observes, and you nod.

“I’m terrified, because he’s confusing me.”

She’s silent, and you gather your memories—the ones that have kept you afloat for the past week, the ones that have mended some hidden part of your heart, though you can’t say which one. It is too scarred to keep count, but you can feel it, something inside you has healed, something caged within you can breathe again.

“He remembered which coastal city I wanted to visit, something I said on a whim during one of our walks, years ago, Winter” you say softly, as though speaking of his memory would make the universe take him away from you.

“He took me to eat oysters; You know how much I love oysters. He wore every ugly souvenir I gave him,” you giggle faintly before quieting down. You choose to skip over your mother’s piano piece secret. You feel as if you’d desecrate it by speaking of it, like it’s a memory that belongs only to Chan, you, and the sea. “And then… since we had to share a room, we cuddled because it was cold.”

You expect her to tease you, but her voice is gentle as she asks.

“How did you feel?”

You think hard of how you felt. How easy it was to fall asleep near him. How beautiful he looked as dreams wrote themselves behind his eyelids.

“I felt safe. Like I could let go, and he’d be there to catch me.”

“I don’t think he would hurt you. I don’t think he could, even if you hurt him.”

You sigh, straightening up to meet her gaze.

“I don’t want to hurt him, Winter. That’s my issue. And I know I will.”

“Why would you—”

“I’m a bundle of issues, grief, and sorrow,” you cut her off, resigned. “You know that. I didn’t choose to be this way, but I am. I will taint him.”

“What I know,” she says, taking your hands in her own, “is that you are a good person. Your heart is warm and full of goodness, despite everything that happened to you. Grief changes a person, injustice changes them even more. But your heart still overflows with love. That’s something not everyone can say.”

You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes.

“Winter, have you ever found a flower so beautiful? You see it, and its petals are the brightest colors, almost calling to your soul. Would it be right to cut it and take it home? Yes, it might bring you joy for a while. You’d change its water, add vinegar and sugar cubes. But then what? It’ll falter and die early. Because I was selfish. Because I hurt the flower, even though I loved it so much.”

Your voice cracks, and the tears you’ve been holding back are now dangerously close to spilling. She’s quiet for a long moment, and you begin to believe you’ve imagined this whole conversation. But then—

“What if that flower’s only wish is to be loved?”

Sometimes, words feel like a soothing balm coating your wounds. Sometimes, they feel like a dagger suddenly protruding what’s left of your heart. Sometimes they feel like both.

Your phone pings, and you reach for it through a hazy view, grateful for the small distraction.

Except it isn’t.

Jaehyun: Your cherry man just paid for San’s hospital bills.

You frown, and Winter leans over to peek at your screen.

Y/n: What???

Jaehyun: Yeah, he just called me. An anonymous (beautiful) man (with dimples ;) per the nurse’s description) paid for all his mother’s expenses.

Winter stares at you knowingly as your heart does somersaults—throbbing in your chest, in your throat, in your stomach. You feel him everywhere, Chan, like he’s made a home inside you and is now setting you ablaze.

Does he have to be so kind? Does he have to make it so hard for you not to love him?

Somehow, it’s 4 a.m. before you notice, Winter sleeps soundly beside you while you lie wide awake. You can’t stop thinking about Chan. His desire to be seen, his fear of it too. His voice. His warm hands. His soft lips. His heart. His soul.

You slip away from Winter and head to the balcony, a shawl wrapped around your arms. You hesitate for a moment, then press ‘Call’.

“Cherry?” Chan answers instantly, and your shoulders relax despite yourself. Is this what it feels like to be a flower plucked from millions? Cherished. Loved.

“Hi, Channie,” you whisper, and you hear him rustling in bed.

“Are you okay? Where are you? Do you need me to pick you up?” His questions come fast, and you stop him before he can leap out of bed.

“No, no. I just… I wanted to thank you. For what you did for San.”

“Oh, who told you?” he sounds sheepish, timid. “I thought I told the nurse to keep it anonymous.”

“Well, not many men have dimples as pretty as yours.” The words slip out before you can stop them. You don’t hate yourself when you hear Chan chuckling softly, the bed covers rustling with his movements. Does he too chase remnants of your perfume on his pillows? Does he too imagine you laying on his bed once more?

“Well, it’s the least I could do.”

“No, you didn’t have to do that. You didn’t have to take me on that trip, or rearrange your whole schedule to spend a night watching shitty dramas with me. You didn’t have to do any of it. So why? Why do you do these things, Chan?” you ask, breathless.

He sighs softly. “Does it make you happy, Cherry? When I do these things?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have your answer.”

Oh.

The silence stretches, long and endless. Your shoulders hurt from always being cowered, tense. You wish you could ease them down.

“Thank you for making me happy. Sleep well, Channie.” You hang up before he can reply, before he can call you Cherry again. Because it makes you feel like dying. To love Chan in a world where you won’t let him love you feels like the biggest of deaths.

—

Seungmin’s earliest memories have always been of you.

There was a hollow space in his small heart, carved with the dullest of knives, something that pulsed even though he didn’t know who was it far. He knew his parents existed, he remembers his old home, but only faintly. They’d been taken too soon, he didn’t have much to hold on to.

So it was always you and him.

He remembers being a whiny child, crying endlessly because he didn’t understand why the world was so cruel—to him, but mostly to you. It confused him deeply, the way people overlooked your kindness. You were his older sister, his light. Why, then, couldn’t everyone else see you the way he did?

By the time he grew more into his body, into his heart, the tears stopped coming as often. He noticed the way a light dimmed in your eyes every time you tried to console him, and it frightened him. He didn’t know how many lights you had to give, or how many were left. So, he stopped crying.

Seungmin started piecing together truths he didn’t yet know how to speak. He began to understand the sharpness in your voice when prospective parents visited the orphanage, the urgency in your words when you told him to hide in the bathroom. You were protecting him. You didn’t want to be separated from him. It was almost impossible for two children to be adopted at once.

He began to understand why you always came back a bit breathless from talking to the older kids, the ones you strictly forbade him from playing with. Why would blue marks always appear on your arms after those conversations. Why he often heard you crying at night when you believed him long asleep.

And it killed him. There was no other way to describe it, because Seungmin had scraped his knee and lost his parents, and yet it did not hurt as much as it did when you were hurt. So, he tried to be as small as possible, as quiet, he tried to not get sick, to get good grades, to do his bed and yours. He tried to be perfect, so you wouldn’t be burned by him. So you wouldn’t cry when looking at him asleep.

Joy was scarce in Seungmin’s life. And it was all tied back to you. He was practical, even as a child, understanding early that he’d have to work harder than most to make something of himself. But not for personal gain, it was all to repay you for everything you gave him.

Then, one day, he stumbled onto something unexpected—a gift. A cheat code. “You’ve got a beautiful singing voice,” Miss Jeeho told him on his second night at Promise Orphanage. She had caught him singing in the garden. He didn’t like singing in front of other people. He feared you’d be punished for it too. “Have you ever thought of becoming a singer?”

The idea felt like cracking open a window in a suffocating room, a breath of air sweeping through the dust and decay of a crushed life. For the first time, he saw a semblance of dream take shape. He felt hope settle below his ribs, softening the thorns in his chest.

So he researched in the library of his school obsessively on this topic. How to be a singer, how to audition, how to win. He kept it hidden from you in all the years you spent in Promise Orphanage. Only Miss Jeeho knew, and she was kind, he didn’t feel scared sharing his hope with her. He was fifteen when he told you, after a year of relentlesses fighting to gain his custody. “I want to be a singer.”

You froze for a second, and Seungmin hasn’t stopped wondering where your mind went in that moment.

“Will you help me?” he asked, voice burning with resolve. “It pays well. I promise I’ll debut, and I’ll make you proud. And I’ll repay you, for all of it, I swear.”

“What’s this talk of you repaying me?” you said softly, your eyes so kind it made him want to weep. “All of me is for you, Seungminnie.”

Seungmin felt a sharp, throbbing ache in his chest at that moment. There she was, his greatest supporter, promising to back his dream. And yet, he felt hideously worthless, as though merely looking at the mirror would make it shatter.

It was then he named it—the poison coursing through his veins, the thorn lodged deep in his throat—the guilt. He wore that guilt like a second skin, its barbed wires sinking deeper into his soul with each passing year. Did you have a dream, too? Did you abandon your own to make room for him? He should’ve asked what your dream was. He should’ve begged you to keep your heart for yourself.

Seungmin could not rewrite the past, could not save his parents, could not undo his own birth so that you would not carry the weight of him. So, he sought to make up for it. He never spoke of his weariness during practice, nor of the pain, the fear, or the anger that gnawed at him. He only shared the triumphs—him ranking second on the entry competition, his voice praised by the vocal coaches at the company, finding friends that turned into family who genuinely cared for him, and you with time, that he would debut soon, that he has made it.

He spent his first paycheck on you, buying you the heels you’ve been eyeing for a long time, the ones you wore to your first courtroom. He spent the next on you too, and the one after it. He overcompensated for the guilt– gifts, flowers, a luxurious coffee machine, a two weeks retreat fully paid. He grew overbearing too, when it came to your heart, when it came to protecting it, disapproving of every person you chose to date.

He understood after a while that you weren’t looking for anything serious, at least not for now. Your dates seemed to understand this too. But he was afraid that one day you’d fall for someone who’s still looking for fun, who wouldn’t care for your heart like it was your own.

His hyungs would always poke fun at him for his protective nature, but he couldn’t help it. He was terrified for you, terrified that a heartbreak would be the thing to take you away from him.

He still remembers the look on your face when you caught him sitting in the same restaurant as your date. You’d laughed, and he’d felt sheepish under your gaze. “I told him it was a bad idea,” Jeongin giggled, throwing his hands up.

“I don’t like him,” he grumbled and you had chuckled, ruffling his hair, “when do you ever?”

You had then spent the night with him at the dorms watching movies with all his members. It was a normal occurrence for you to hang out with them, his found family, because they too had been touched with your kindness, back when they were all still trainees and you insisted on making them homemade food.

Seungmin knew it was your way of clinging to a normal home, that too killed him a little.

He knew that the members loved you, that they too cared for you deeply. Though they liked to annoy Seungmin by flirting with you. Which made you giggle, so, although he despises it, he still lets it slide.

Which brings him to today.

Seungmin hasn’t seen you since the concert at Kyocera Dome. So, he spammed you long enough for you to finally agree to have dinner in his dorm. Except 3RACHA was there too since they were all working on a song. It wasn’t their presence that weirded out Seungmin. Nor the fact that Han and Changbin took turns flirting with you, turning more obnoxious and loud and making Seungmin wish he could hit them with the plates on the table. Not that.

It was Chan. Who looked tense, jaw tight, his fingers flexing each time they sent a flirty remark your way.

Was he… Jealous?

“Thank you honey,” Han says, blowing you a kiss when you hand him his chopsticks. You giggle and Seungmin buries his face in his hands when Changbin grabs your plate, declaring that he will cut the steak for you.

“She doesn’t like meat cut that way,” Chan suddenly says, taking away the knife and plate from Changbin. Your cheeks blush as if a dahlia blossomed there. Han and Changbin exchange knowing looks.

Okay. What?

“Is there something—” he asks when your phone suddenly rings and he quiets down, swallowing the question with the rest of his beer. That would have been a stupid question, anyways.

“Winter!” you pick up, tone cheerful. Though all the color drains from your face as she speaks, the flower withering and turning into ash.

“W-what…?” you ask, slightly dazed, your hand gripping the table.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Cherry, what’s wrong?” so does Chan.

Cherry?

“The orphanage…” you say, Chan seems to understand what you’re talking about perfectly. You don’t finish, getting up and running out of his dorm. Everyone gets up on cue following you. “We’ll take my car,” Changbin says.

—

Is it possible to have sinned right before birth? To have done something so terrible you cannot atone for it no matter how much time passes. You accept it, you accept that your star is an unlucky one. You accept that even the most restless waters will always drown you, not carry you. Still, for how long do you have to pay the price, over and over again? Till how long is it no longer justice? Till how long does it become the universe toying with you? Does it think you can’t break? Does it think there is no limit to how much you can take?

Because there is.

You think you’ve reached it now.

Time seems to have slowed down, so much you’re sure five lifetimes have passed between each of your breaths. You know that there must be people screaming, a loud shatter, the sirens of ambulances and firefighters. Still, it’s quiet in your head. Save for a faint ringing, a buzzing, like a swarm of bees has lodged itself within your ear.

The earth is moving beneath your feet, it threatens to split open and swallow you. And you’d let it. You don’t have the nails to dig yourself out. You don’t have the will. You don’t have the hope.

You almost feel like laughing. You’re cursed. Every bit of happiness comes back to haunt you down the line.

It’s hot, extremely hot, and ashy. And you’re before the orphanage but you don’t smell rust. You smell smoke, pungent and bitter. You smell loss. You smell your last hope dying.

The orphanage is burning.

The kids are outside, covered in blankets and hugged turn by turn by the staff— Miss Jeeho, Mister Seonghwa, the cook, the gardener, the teachers, the psychologist, Winter.

The firefighters are trying to control the fire, but it’s spreading rapidly before your eyes, emboldened by the wooden floors and squeaky doors. You are losing your home again. The fire is eating the room you slept in, the kitchen where you learned how to cook, the garden where you caught Seungmin singing to Miss Jeeho. It’s eating the stairs where you sat with Winter laughing, the attic where you hid when existing became too rough.

It’s eating your memories, it’s eating you.

“What’s— what’s happening?” Seungmin stammers, his hand on your shoulder. You feel like kids again, back when the policeman came to your home and found only you and a toddler inside. A kid caring for a kid.

Winter sees you from afar, rushing to wrap you in her arms. You don’t feel her warmth. You don’t feel anything, now that you’re thinking of it. Has your heart bled dry? Finally?

“Cherry,” you hear but you brush the hand away, walking towards two firefighters once only smoke remains. “Who started it? The fire?” you ask breathlessly.

“Why?” they ask, cautious, “do you have reason to believe it was intentional?”

“Who started it?” you repeat.

“It’s too early to tell,” he says, eyes fixed on his coworker, sweat dripping from his brow, his forehead smeared with ash. “Preliminary findings suggest it began in the garden, which is odd, since there’s no apparent cause and no sign of a cigarette. The owner claims no one smokes. We did find what looks like traces of gasoline, but more investigation is needed. It spread quickly towards to the utility room, where there are electric wires. Something, or someone must’ve sparked it, and now it’s out of control.” He sighs, “We’ll call the police.”

You feel it then, a stone that sinks deep within your gut: they burned it. Sun Corporation burned the orphanage because if there is no orphanage then there is no case. They burned the orphanage and you with it.

—

“Would someone tell me what’s going on?” Seungmin grows more agitated the more you remain silent in your apartment. You can tell everyone is looking at you, waiting for you to snap out of your daze. But you don’t know where to begin. You don’t know how this will end.

“Miss Jeeho called,” Winter says softly, reappearing from the balcony. “There’s enough suspicion to begin an investigation. They need my testimony.” Changbin, without a word, stands and grabs his car keys. “I’ll drive you,” he says. She nods in reply.

“Do the kids have a place to go tonight?” Han asks, his voice laced with concern. Winter shakes her head. “No, Miss Jeeho is still trying to figure that out.”

“Alright,” Han says, pulling out his phone. “Let me call the others for help.”

“You have my card,” Chan says, pressing a sleek, cold card into Winter’s hand.

“Text me,” you tell Han, and he nods, following Changbin and Winter out the door.

And then there were three.

“Would you please tell me?” Seungmin asks again, kneeling before you. His voice is quieter now, laced with something you hadn’t anticipated—hurt, confusion. A part of you stirs alive and you sigh, beginning to recount everything— the apartment, the corruption, San, the meeting, the fire— but your voice feels like someone else’s, void, unfamiliar.

“And why didn’t you tell me any of this?” he asks once you finish. There’s raw pain coating his gaze, Seungmin has always been an open book to you.

“I was going to tell you,” you murmur, “once the permit was withdrawn. I didn’t want to burden you with this.”

“But I want you to burden me!” his voice rises slightly, as he stands up, pacing before you. “I could have helped you. I would have stood by you!”

“Seungmin, please,” you breathe, the weight of it all pressing against your chest.

“You don’t always have to carry everything alone. It doesn’t make you stronger, it only makes the pain ten times worse,” he presses his eyes shut, “I wouldn’t have hid something like this from you.”

“Well, you’re not me!” You snap, and he flinches, recoiling like you’ve struck him. You’ve never raised your voice at Seungmin before.

There she is, the person who pushes those who love her away, the person who deserves to be punished.

“I’ll go help the boys,” he softly says, walking out, shoulders slumped. He looks smaller now, like you’ve just hurt the child within him mourning his only home.

“Cherry…” Chan’s voice cuts through the tense silence, and you rise to your feet, instinctively covering your face. “Not you too, Chan.”

“Would you talk to me?” His voice is gentle. “You haven’t said a word in over an hour. This isn’t healthy, I know this must hurt so you shouldn’t keep it all inside.”

“I don’t have anything to say,” you reply, your voice colder than you intended. Please go, you beg. Please, before I snap at you too.

“Just talk, okay? Say whatever comes to your mind. I’ll listen to you. It’ll feel better if you let it all out.”

“Except it won’t!” The words come out harsher than you meant, and you feel yourself spiraling. You’re throwing up thorns, and you can’t stop it. “You don’t always know what’s best for people, alright? You can’t always fix people, Chan! And I can’t be fixed! Talking about it won’t help, keeping it in won’t help, because this is who I fucking am. This is all I’ve known.”

“Cherry, please. You know that’s not what I meant.” His voice is soft, still tender, still trying to reach you.

He still calls you Cherry. He’s still here. You can feel the desperation creeping inside, a bitter realization that they should all run before you curse them too.

“Oh, come on,” you laugh, the sound hollow. It feels like daggers slicing through your throat as you speak. “Don’t you see me as a project to fix? Something to make you feel in control for all the years you’ve lost it?”

“Is this how low you think of me?” he asks, taking a step back, his face a mix of hurt and disbelief. “I never thought you needed fixing.”

“Well, it’s how I felt around you,” you say, the words spilling out like venom. Liar. Liar. Liar. “Like I’m the poor orphan and you’re the knight in shining armor, coming to save me.” He looks like you’ve just slapped him in the face.

Does he hate you now? Does he hate you as much as you hate yourself?

“You know, you should stop punishing yourself, Yn.” He says your name, not Cherry, but your name, plain and flat. It feels like all your little deaths combined in one. “You only have one sin and it’s that you wish to be loved.”

He pauses. You feel as if the world was cracked wide open. You feel as if your soul just splattered before his feet, naked, trembling.

“And I love you. God, I’ve loved you for the past ten years, and I wish you could open your heart just a little bit to see it.”

“What?” you ask, breathless, the words barely leaving your mouth before he turns away, silent. He doesn’t answer. He leaves.

He left.

Your feet move before your mind can catch up, and suddenly you’re running after him. “What do you mean you love me?” you shout, the words raw, desperate. Your chest is heaving, breaths coming in ragged gasps. You’re sure your neighbors are peeking from their windows, watching, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now except him, nothing has in a long time. “What do you mean, Chan?!”

“Forget it,” he mutters.

“You can’t say that and ask me to forget it!” you shout and he chuckles, hand tightly gripping his hair in frustration.

“Has it not been clear? That you’d ask me to get you the moon and I'd fucking die trying. Can’t you see that I’d sacrifice the sun if it means making you happy?”

You back away, tears streaming down your cheeks in an unstoppable flow. No. Yes. No. How?

“N–no, you… You shouldn’t love me.”

“Do you think I haven’t tried?” His voice rises, raw and hoarse. “I’m human too, it kills me to love someone who I know won’t ever love me. But tell me, please, teach me how to pause the throbbing of my heart. Teach me how to silence it when it calls out your name, when it aches because it misses you so much I feel like I’m dying. When there is a void in my soul shaped after your laugh, your smell, your words, how do I—“ his hands land on your shoulders, his forehead resting on the crook of your neck. You can feel the shaking of his hands, you can feel his being unraveling before you.

Your hands curl in tight fists, you are broken, shattered, there is no glue that could piece you back together. Even if gold travels between your shards, it will not make you into something beautiful. You’ll remain a disaster. You’ll ruin him too.

“Look at me.” You shake your head, unwilling, unable to face him. “Please, Cherry, look at me. Even if you’ll leave me right now, please, I— I’d rather you leave while looking at me.”

You bite your lip, choking on the sob rising in your throat.

“Tell me you don’t love me,” he pleads, taking your palm and placing it atop his chest.You can feel the erratic thrum of his pulse, alive and desperate beneath your hand. “Say it. Say you never will. Make me believe it, so this thing inside me will die. Please.”

“I can’t say that,” you whisper. The world offers itself at your feet. “I can’t say that because I won’t mean it.” Your eyes finally meet his, you wonder what he sees in yours. You wonder how someone like him could ever love you.

You lick your lips tentatively, tasting the saltiness of your tears and the cherry of your chapstick.

“Do you know what a bleeding heart dove is? It’s a small pigeon, with a plumage so white and pristine it resembles the first snow. But right in the middle of it, there is a patch of crimson, it looks like a bullet wound Chan, it looks like his little heart is always bleeding.” Your voice cracks like glass, Chan’s eyes soften more than you’ve ever thought was possible. “That’s how I feel, like I always always carry this wound that won’t ever heal. It bleeds and it bleeds and the blood oozes so much at times that I choke with it. I don’t want to taint you with it too.”

“What if I want you to taint me?” His warm palms cradle your cheeks, threads of sunlight brushing against your skin. “What if I want you to change me? What if I want everyone who has looked at me to know that I’m loved by you?”

You smile softly, shaking your head. “That would be selfish of me.”

“Then love me selfishly, love me with greed. Just love me, Cherry. Please, love me,” he begs, his eyes boring into yours. You peer into him, his soul, the sincerity in his offering to you— his heart, so fragile, yet so resolute in loving you.

“You’re so beautiful, Channie,” you gently say, as your palms tenderly cup his cheeks. His eyes flutter closed, tears staining your hands as he leans into your touch, placing his heart right in your hands. “I’d like some time to think of myself as beautiful, too. Would you wait for me? Until I figure it out.”

He softens. “I waited for you for ten years. I’d wait for you for an eternity if I have to.”

A knot forms in your throat. “You’re so sweet, God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know you don’t pity me, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just so overwhelmed and everything spiraled down and I don’t know where to even begin now,” you ramble, and he cuts you off by placing a tender kiss atop your wrist.

“Would you breathe now?” he smiles and your world somehow brightens despite it all. “I'm not mad, alright? And we’ll figure it out together, Cherry. You have us. You always did.”

Your voice is small as you mumble– “Seungmin is mad at me.”

“He’s not. He always wants to protect you so he feels bad when you don’t let him in. You know that.”

You did, of course you do.

You feel a little less ashamed of plucking a beautiful flower out of its soil. You’ll insuflate your own soul in it to keep it blooming.

“Will you stay with me, Chan?”

“Always.”

—

“So, they burned down the orphanage?” Jeongin asks, disbelief thick in his voice as you finish recounting the horrors of the past month.

Your small apartment is packed the day after the fire—Winter, Jaehyun, Miss Jeeho, San, and the boys. Some sit huddled on couches, others sprawl across the floor, leaning into one another. You’ve never known that warmth could become a tangible thing, that it could weave itself around your heart like silk, drip sweetness down your ribcage like rivers of honey. You feel it, despite how harrowing the situation is, because all your friends care. They care for the orphanage like it’s their own.

“Yeah, I’m sure of it,” you reply. “We got a report of a suspicious van speeding off right after the fire started.”

“And remnants of gasoline were found at the scene,” Jaehyun adds, taking a leisurely sip out of his beer. “The police are tracing it now.”

You nod, thinking back to the police chief who happened to be one of your high school classmates. He got promoted and he promised he’d tell you first, if anything happened. “Yeah, the firefighters confirmed that it was arson. Once the police officer gets back at us I’ll file a lawsuit against them.”

“But can you believe the fucking nerve?” Felix scoffs, “I just read their statement: ‘We are extremely saddened by the news of the burning of Promise Orphanage due to faulty wiring. We promise to work side by side with the community to ensure the children are safe and living in better conditions’. Do they think we are stupid?”

“They’re lying,” Miss Jeeho says bitterly. “Trying to save face while they can.”

Hyunjin’s face pales. “This makes me sick,” he whispers. “The fact that they’d endanger those kids just for their agenda…” He trails off, shaking his head, and the room falls into a heavy silence.

“They stopped communicating through emails after you confronted Choi,” San says, his voice tight. “They must’ve realized someone was leaking information. Now everything’s confidential.”

He slumps, defeated, and you reach over to pat his back gently. “It’s okay. I don’t think they’d be dumb enough to discuss arson in emails anyways. We’ll find another way.”

“What about the kids? Are they okay?” Jeongin asks, his brows furrowed in concern.

“They’re doing fine, considering,” Minho answers, nodding toward Han. “Yeah,” Han adds with a soft laugh. “We visited this morning. They’re warm, well-fed, like michelin chef well-fed, we made sure of it, and maybe a little spoiled, we might’ve gone overboard with the toys.” The group chuckles briefly, Minho throwing a pillow at Han’s face before smiling fondly at him.

“But this is all just temporary,” Winter whispers, her eyes suddenly brimming with tears. “We can’t keep them in a rented house forever. They’ll need to be sent to different locations, scattered across the country.”

“Is there really no other way?” Changbin asks, as he squeezes Winter’s shoulder gently.

“Unless we can rebuild the orphanage in record time, then no. It’s all gone,” Miss Jeeho sighs, and you feel the knot in your throat tighten. You’ve avoided looking at her ever since the fire, you can’t bear the sight of raw grief in her eyes, specifically.

“What if we rebuild the orphanage?” Seungmin suddenly asks. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice during the night.

“We don’t have the funds for that, Seungminnie” you say softly.

“We do,” Chan interjects firmly, “If we all donate, we can raise the money. Start a fundraiser, maybe?”

You see it then, a fickle of hope blossoming in the air.

“You know, it’s not a bad idea,” Jaehyun says, leaning forward. “Media coverage of the case is really strong and it has garnered a lot of public sympathy. I also told friends in media to keep up intense coverage since something big is simmering beneath the case.”

“I can hold a press conference then,” you say, your voice quipping up. “Expose everything, from the beginning and ask for public support.”

“And me,” Seungmin says suddenly, looking up to meet your gaze at last. His voice is steady, but his eyes are tinged with vulnerability. “I want to stand by your side. It’ll help us garner more attention too.”

“Are you sure?” you ask gently. “Are you ready to reveal where you grew up?”

“I’m not ashamed of it,” he replies softly. “It’s because of that place that I’m here today.”

Your heart swells, and tears sting your eyes as you nod. “Alright. Sounds like a solid plan.”

—

You’ve known loneliness long enough to recognize that it doesn’t wear a singular face.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. My name is Y/n Kim, and I am the lead attorney representing Promise Orphanage.”

You’ve known the loneliness that slices your bones. That cuts so deep within your marrow you’re unsure whether the sun will rise tomorrow, whether you’ll be even there to witness it. You knew it when you were ten and your parents simply never came back home.

“You are aware that Promise Orphanage has been burnt down last week. A tragedy for our community as this orphanage housed forty children who only have that place to call a home.”

You’ve known the loneliness that doesn’t stab, its sharp tip always remaining at the edges of your soul, as if threatening you, reminding you that it could sink within you at any given moment. You knew it when you were fourteen and Winter shook your hand for the first time.

“I am here to explain that this isn’t due to uncontrollable circumstances. But a crime. The fire did not start hazardously but was intentionally caused. By Sun Corporation, the subsidiary of Gyeongdo Holdings.”

You’ve known the loneliness that doesn’t fill you, but rather sits beside you on a bench. Loneliness that only manifests when you’re surrounded by people who love you, and who you love. And yet, you feel as if you are enclosed in transparent glass, always keeping you at arm’s length from them. Because your heart is different. Because you grieved a lifetime before you were old enough to understand it.

But for the first time in years, you don’t feel lonely.

Not when the people in your life have worked tirelessly with you for the orphanage, for justice, for the children. Not when a room full of journalists hang onto your every word, cameras flashing, questions flying. Your eyes scan the crowd, landing on your loved ones in the back. They nod.

The legal case is airtight. You’ve worked tirelessly with your team to gather the proof—police reports, financial records, surveillance footage. You exhale, steadying yourself, and nod toward the screen.

“We have obtained documentation, in collaboration with the authorities, confirming that a van was seen fleeing the scene moments after the fire started getting out of control. That van was rented by a company in which Sun Corporation holds 45% of the shares. The individual who rented it is also an employee at Sun Corporation, whose identity we’ll keep anonymous. For now.”

Your eyes meet San’s, and he winks—he’s the one who verified the identity, right after depositing his resignation letter at Sun Corporation.

A journalist raises his hand. “Are you saying Sun Corporation committed arson?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. But don’t take my word for it, of course.”

You press a button on the laptop connected to the speakers.

The room falls silent.

Then, the recording crackles to life.

“Are you insane?! I said a warning, not a damn inferno!”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd, cameras shifting toward the speakers as the voice, angry, panicked, continues.

“You idiots lost control of it! The fire department is involved, you know that bitch is going to the police too. Do you have any idea what’s at stake? BILLIONS! I wanted to sue them for neglect and now we are the ones who will lose EVERYTHING! Fix it, or so help me—”

The recording cuts out. The silence that follows is deafening.

Journalists erupt all at once.

“Who is that speaking?”

“Was this obtained legally?”

“Is Sun Corporation under criminal investigation?”

You raise a hand, and a hush falls upon the room.

“The voice belongs to Choi Sungho, CEO of Sun Corporation,” you confirm. “This recording was obtained from a whistleblower inside the company and has been turned over to the authorities. The police are actively investigating Sun Corporation for arson, conspiracy, and fraud.”

You think back to the brunette secretary. You now know her name—Jia. She once dreamed of becoming a lawyer too, but she needed money for her sister’s medical bills, so she had to give up her aspirations. She heard snippets of the conversations authorizing the fire and recorded the aftermath. You know she’s watching this at home too.

“This is not just a case of reckless endangerment. This is a coordinated criminal act, executed for financial gain. Sun Corporation had previously filed for a demolition permit for the orphanage, but the permit was granted under questionable circumstances.”

You gesture toward the documents on every table.

“There is evidence that Sun Corporation bribed city officials to fast-track the permit process. However, because of our legal scrutiny, the project was delayed. Burning a part of the orphanage to argue neglect was their alternative. But as you can see, it backfired.”

More whispers, more frantic typing. A journalist from the back calls out, “Are you pursuing legal action?”

“Yes. We are also working closely with law enforcement to hold all responsible parties accountable, including those within the city council who enabled this corruption.”

You suck in a deep breath, nodding towards Seungmin who was standing behind the curtains, veiled from everyone’s view.

“There is someone I’d like you to meet now.”

He steps forward, taking the mic from your hand.

The camera flashes become incessant as the interrogations ripple from everywhere.

“Is that…?”

“Wait, Kim Seungmin?”

“What is going on?”

“Hello,” he says, voice reverberating around the room. “My name is Kim Seungmin. Some of you may be familiar with who I am, but today, I do not speak to you as an Idol.” A pause. “I am here as one of the children who once lived at Promise Orphanage.”

The cameras shift, zooming in on his face. Jaehyun excitedly signals that the viewer’s count is rising up rapidly.

“I’ve never spoken about this publicly before, but I am an orphan. My sister,” he nods at you, “raised me. My fans may recognize her voice from some of our songs,” he smiles softly, before sobering up. “We moved from place to place, but Promise Orphanage was the only orphanage that felt like home. The only place where we were truly taken care of, where I was allowed to dream, thanks to Miss Jeeho, the director. She’s the one who helped me become a singer. She’s also the one who helped my sister in her fight for my custody.”

He swallows hard, steadying himself.

“This crime is not just about corporate greed. It’s about children who lost their home overnight. And now, they face being scattered across different locations, losing the only family they have left.”

His gaze fixes every camera, every journalist in place. You feel pride swell in your heart, loud and bright and all encompassing.

“We are not just seeking justice. We are seeking solutions. We are launching a legal fund to rebuild Promise Orphanage. We ask for your steady support in holding Sun Corporation accountable and in ensuring that these children are not left behind.”

“Please don’t let this injustice go unanswered.”

He bows deeply. You follow. Cameras flash, a deluge of light and sound.

It’s done, now. The end of the beginning is finally over.

—

Sometimes a month is just a month. Sometimes a month stretches like ten lifetimes crafted solely to hurt you. Sometimes a month slips through your fingers like running water, not yours to keep.

The past six months have been both, somehow.

You spent sleepless nights building the most solid case against Sun Corporation. Exhausting weeks passed before the judge finally struck his gavel against the wood, charging them with arson, criminal activity, bribery, and interference with civilian law. It took the sweat and tears of many to rebuild the orphanage from the charred ground. It took a lot of love to fill its multicolor walls with children’s laughter again— yours, your brother’s, your friends’, the fans’, the general public’s too.

And yet, when it was all over, when you could finally exhale without fearing the consequences of letting go, you were left with a gaping hole in your chest. Void was an insatiable creature gnawing at your heart, void was a creature that sought something you could not name.

That is until Seungmin talked to you.

“Can I sit?” he asks, pointing to the patch of shade near you. You nod, scooting over as you both lean your backs against the freshly planted pine tree. For a while, it’s quiet as you watch Han and Felix, dressed as clowns, playing hide and seek with a group of children at the orphanage’s reopening party.

“They look happy,” he whispers and you smile softly, letting their giggles waft to your ears.

“They do.”

“I never apologized for that night,” he suddenly says, turning to look at you. “When I got mad because you didn’t tell me about the orphanage.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” you sigh. “I knew how much this place means to you. I knew this was where you figured out what your dream was. I just… didn’t want to burden you, not when you already have so much atop your plate” you explain, gently smoothing down his bangs. “I guess a part of me still sees you as the little kid I have to protect.”

“You were a child too, protecting me,” he whispers, voice hoarse as he places his warm palm over yours. “You don’t have to protect me anymore. I promise. I’d rather you look after your own heart. Listen to what it really wants.”

Your eyes drift toward Chan. He’s playing guitar for a group of older kids, their small hands clapping to the upbeat melody. His smile is the sun. His smile tastes like the ocean breeze.

“Do you like him?” Seungmin asks softly.

Your breath catches. “What?”

“Chan. I’m not blind. I see the way you look at him. The way he looks at you, mostly.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Why would your happiness ever bother me?” He smiles, and you feel a weight dissolve in your chest. The creature within you perks up at his words.

“Then yes,” you admit, breath hitching. “I like him. So much it terrifies me.”

You speak your feelings for the first time, and yet, the sky does not collapse, the earth does not tremble beneath your feet. It feels almost miraculous— to voice what you long for and not be punished for it.

“Sometimes the things that scare us the most are the ones that make us happiest,” he says. “Because we’re scared of allowing ourselves to feel joy. Because we’ve conditioned ourselves to think we don’t deserve it.”

Tears prick your eyes, and you crack a soft smile. “Look at you, saying such wise things.”

“I’m literally twenty-four,” he deadpans and you laugh, ruffling his hair. “But you’ll always be a baby in my eyes, Seungminnie.”

“All right, all right.” He laughs, pulling you into a side hug. “But would you do it? I know you’ve sacrificed a lot for me, it must have hurt to do so,” you go to interject but he stops you, “Please. Would you listen to your heart for once?”

It takes a week away from everyone to do just that. You return to Gangneung, you walk past the blue houses, you talk to the locals and play chess with the grandpas and drink tea with the kind women at the local market. You twirl barefoot by the waves until salt clings to your skin, you lay on the sand and trace constellations with your fingertips. You sit in stillness. And you listen, truly listen, to the silence between each of your breaths. And then slowly, the melody emerges. Faint at first, like a distant lullaby. Then clearer, insistent, unwavering—stuck on a single note.

Chan.

You’ve never quite known who you were. When personality quizzes asked how your friends would describe you, you hesitated. Funny? Sweet? Practical? What about nothing—an emptiness that expands to swallow you whole? You never knew what to say when interviewees asked about your strengths and weaknesses, the things you’d like to change in your being, the ones you’d like to keep. You felt like a water lily floating aimlessly atop the still water, untethered, with no roots to return to.

But you knew you were a coward when it came to your heart. That you craved love so violently you could cleave the earth open with your ache. You knew that your mind had convinced you that you were cursed, flawed, undeserving.

But for the first time, you allow yourself to simply feel human.

You sit by the waves once more, the endless sea stretching before you. The sun disps slowly beneath the horizon, the clouds are dusted pink. Are they blushing too, at the thought of what you are about to do?

You had asked Chan to meet you on the beach at Gangneung whenever he could free himself, and he did—without hesitation. Seungmin texted you that he left the mid-writing session and jumped into his car with no second thought. He seemed happy, he said. That made you happy too.

“You look different,” Chan observes, and you turn away from the sea. His eyes are kind and you don’t shy away from his gaze, for once.

“Different?” you echo.

“At peace.”

You nod, curling your knees to your chest, resting your cheek against them. He follows suit, his legs grazing yours now and then, grounding you in his presence.

“I’ve thought a lot about what it means to be human,” you murmur. “To soften my heart, to open doors I thought were long sealed. I don’t have all the answers. But I found something.”

“What is it?”

“I found you,” you confess, so softly like you are speaking of a prayer. His eyes widen but you press on. “I weighed in the pros and cons, of what I want, of what losing what I want would cost me. And yet, in all my most horrible twisted scenarios, where you’d leave me heartbroken and bleeding, it still feels worth it. It feels worth it if it means you’d love me for a while, and that I’d love you too.”

He gently tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the gesture tender, as all his touches are.

“A while? The only way for me to stop loving you is if my heart stops beating, Cherry.”

“So you still love me?” you ask, a bit shyly, too hopeful.

Chan blinks, then deadpans, “Are we sitting by the sea?”

You burst into laughter, the sound rolling out of you freely. As it fades, you see him—your beautiful Chan—the faint smile lines etching themselves around his lips, the kind warmth in his eyes, the remnants of dimples on his cheeks. He is so achingly beautiful it feels like an axe splitting your chest open. It feels like being born once more.

“I haven’t listened to my heart in so long,” you confess, brushing your thumb against his cheek, letting it trail softly over the corner of his mouth, a whisper against his lips. “But right now, it only wants one thing.”

“I’m yours,” he breathes, lips slightly parted.

There is no one around but the two of you and the sea. Who is there left to pretend for? The play is over. You bow to the sadness. You bow to the grief.

You take a deep breath. You dive into the water. You finally kiss Chan.

You knew that his lips would be as soft as silk, that pressing your mouth to his would be akin to breathing in oxygen for the first time, and yet, you did not imagine it to be this soul-shattering. You did not foresee the fireworks going off behind your eyelids, the bees and the bleeding heart doves singing in your chest, the garden buzzing in your stomach, telling you that you are alive, and that you are loved, at last, and that that is all that matters.

You did not imagine that he would taste like salvation, like honey and cherries and everything beautiful in between. You did not imagine that his tongue dancing along yours would feel like floating atop the sea, warm as sun, carnal like surrendering to your heart’s rawest desires.

You did not foresee that his warm palms would cradle your cheeks, that he would kiss you with the urgency of a starved man. That he would not tire of you, never ceasing, never faltering. That he would lay you on the sand and kiss you till night fell above you both, till your lips are both swollen, tender, and bleeding cherries.

“I love you,” you finally breathe, your heart throbbing all over your body, “I’m sorry it took me so long to see it.”

“Nonsense,” He smiles against your lips. “Even if you only loved my last dying breath, it would still be enough for me.”

—

“So, does this mean I can officially no longer flirt with you?” Han asks, eyes wide with mock horror. Seungmin flicks his forehead in response, and Chan tosses a napkin at him, an amused smile playing at his lips.

“Wait, pause, I can’t believe I lost to Chan,” Changbin pretends to weep, earning a laugh from the others.

“She’s mine,” Chan cocks his eyebrows at them, leaning back on his chair. “Go find yourselves your own partners.”

You are tucked away in a remote town of Japan, a hard-earned vacation after the turmoil you’ve went through the past months. You figured it was the best time to tell the boys that you are dating, only for wave of questions (and indignation, mostly) to immediately crash over you, followed by a group hug that lasted two full minutes, courtesy of Felix.

“Wait, but we liked you first!” Han protests once more, and Seungmin groans, his face contorting in annoyance that borders on anguish. “God, I thought I would be free of this torture.”

“I literally liked her before you guys even saw her,” Chan chimes in with a satisfied grin.

“So you’ve loved her for ten years now?” Hyunjin shouts, raising from his seat dramatically. “Wait this is so romantic.”

“I’m sorry, Jisungie, Binnie,” you tease as you press a lingering kiss to Chan’s cheek.

“Oh my god guys he’s BLUSHING!” Minho shouts, pointing excitedly at Chan. “This is too funny! Channie hyung is so flustered,” Jeongin laughs, whipping out his phone to capture the moment. “Wait, Innie pan over to Seungmin’s face!” Felix claps in pure delight, and you turn to see your brother sulking.

“What? I’m still not used to… this,” Seungmin grumbles, wiggling his fingers in front of you both in exaggerated disgust, but there’s a soft gleam in his eyes. He’s happy for you, only after threatening Chan five hundred times to treat you right, but he’s happy.

“Who wants ice cream?” Chan suddenly asks, not waiting for an answer before he grabs your hand and pulls you away.

“What was that?” you ask once you are out of the house.

“Nothing, I just wanted you all to myself for a bit,” he smiles bashfully, and you giggle, wrapping your arm around his waist. “You’re making it a habit to kidnap me,” you tease.

“Do you mind?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Good,” he grins, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Also, it’s Changbin and Jisung for you,” he chastises, a big pout tugging at his lips.

“Does Mr. Bang feel jealous when I call them Binnie and Jisungie?”

“Yes, I am. Sue me, I worked day and night to be yours. Day and night and for ten years at that too,” he sighs dramatically and you tip your head back in laughter. Your giggles lull when you see it.

“Are we standing underneath…” you draw out.

“A cherry blossom,” Chan whispers, his gaze soft and full of warmth. His smile is so wide, so radiant, it feels like your soul is buzzing, melting underneath his light.

“This reminds me… Did you fall for me because I gave you a cherry lollipop?” you tease, wrapping your arms around the nape of his neck, his hands instinctively finding your waist.

“Yeah, you must have laced that lollipop with something,” he chuckles, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“What if I hadn’t given it to you? What if we hadn’t met at all?”

He softens, his palms cupping your cheeks gently. “I would’ve found you,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against yours. He can almost taste it, vanilla and bubblegum. “In the streets of Gangneung. As you swam in the sea. In one of your courtrooms… I would’ve found you, my Cherry, and I would’ve loved you just the same.”

What does it mean to soften your heart? What does it mean to open the doors of what you thought was long sealed? The answers didn’t come to you all at once, you found them serendipitously, as you rounded up corners of paths you never thought you’d walk in.

You learned that softness is the greatest act of courage. You learned that to tear down your defenses is the greatest act of rebellion. You learned that love is a patient being, that it is all encompassing, that it heals, but only if you allow it to, only if you let it make a home out of your ribcage.

You learned that being human, unapologetically so, in all of its sorrowful and joyous shades, is to forgive, first and most. To forgive the world, for being sharp at times, for being cruel. To forgive yourself, for depriving your soul of happiness, for doing what you had to do to survive the cold.

To forgive the rust, for walking by your side for a long time. To let cinnamon and pinewood and cherries invade your senses instead, settle upon your sheets and waft into your home. To let the fire within you simmer, to let the anger go, even if it had kept you warm for a while.

For you have the sun now.

You have Chan, and he has you too, at last.

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miin17 · 1 month ago

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𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥

☆ Genre: Domestic, fluff, angst

☆ Warnings: Vague mention of toxic parents

☆ Characters: Chris, Y/N

☆ Word Count: 2k

☆ Synopsis: Y/N wakes up next to her husband for the first time

Something felt strange.

Blinking groggily as buttery sunshine spilled through the small gaps in the curtains and onto the bed sheets, it took Y/N a few long moments for her mind to get used to just how quiet it was: it would have been completely and utterly silent in the room if it wasn't for the soft breathing coming from directly above her, and the faint thud, thud, thud against the warmed skin of her cheek. The faint sounds nestled beside her were foreign, yet Y/N wondered in the back of her head how she had ever spent her mornings prior without the comforting presence of them - the rhythmic harmony of the two were doing wonders to her nervous system, and for the first time in what felt like a very long time, Y/N found the depths of her mind growing … still. Wholly, thoroughly, still.

Her former confusion slowly trickled away and began to transition into clarity, and the furrow between her brows melted as her eyes fell shut.

It seemed she had nearly fully forgotten that she had left her old house. Rather than the permanently chilled sheets of the bed she had become so used to, Y/N was wrapped up in the arms of Chris - her husband, Y/N reminded herself - a man whose skin seemed to be steadily ignited with the perfect amount of heat. It flowed through every inch of him and into the soft fabric of her pyjama top, and his delicate fingers that rested at the curves of her shoulders denoted an aura of utmost gentleness, even in his sleep.

Eyes prickling as consciousness continued to gradually settle in, Y/N paused briefly before shyly snuggling further into her husband's embrace. Chris's arms were muscular yet soft as they held her almost possessively in his slumber, and the rise and fall of his broad chest kissed her cheek with each one of the soft breaths that escaped his plump lips as he stirred. His hands instinctively clutched her closer, and Y/N looked up to see that his eyes were still closed, the long shadows of his eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly against the smooth skin beneath.

Still asleep, she thought, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

The solitude that was wrapped around her like a heavy blanket was much more noticeable than Y/N had ever thought it would be. For the first time in her life, Y/N had woken with a heart that felt light and warm, as though it wanted to be inside of her; not an ounce of anxiety coursed through her veins, and the usual deafening conundrum caused by her screaming parents was nowhere to be heard.

There was a time where Y/N had barely allowed herself to even dream of mornings like this one, until it was all she could think of. Every morning that she had woken up to the sound of her parents fighting, to the crash of things being clattered and thrown around the place, Y/N had curled her duvet over her head and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping for some sort of semblance of peace. Tears had always trickled into her pillow, her heart an erratic and painful strum against her ribcage. And every morning Y/N had fantasised of waking up in a calm environment, one that made her feel safe - and at a stretch, loved, even - rather than terrified for her own wellbeing.

She hadn't fully believed she would ever find herself in such a situation. Waking up now to her husband's valuable warmth while her thoughts floated around made the entire situation all the more surreal.

“Mm … whatcha thinking so hard about so early in the morning … ?”

Chris’s voice was a sleepy mumble that slowly tugged Y/N away from her slightly traumatic reverie. She tilted her head up and saw her husband gazing down at her, and her heart leaped; his eyes were hooded, but the rich brown of them that she had fallen in love with so long ago was unmistakable as they brushed her with their gaze. His lips were silk-like against her forehead when he tilted his head down towards her, the soft kiss he left behind lingering and warm and making the backs of her eyes sting.

“Everything okay?” Chris whispered, leaning his forehead against hers. His hand had started to rub the softest of circles over the middle of her back, and the woman gulped when his fingers inched just barely up the hem of her t-shirt. His fingertips were like fire against the small of her back, burning through her skin in the form of a comfort so strong that she almost felt dizzy, and it was all she could do to not fixate on the way he tenderly resumed rubbing her back with the flat of his palm.

She nodded against him, her eyelids closing at his touch. She couldn't stop it when the tears escaped regardless, trickling down her flushed cheeks.

“Hey … “ Chris's other hand was tender on the side of her cheek. His thumb softly brushed the tear away, his lips following the dampness, and his eyes grew wider as he searched hers. “What's wrong, pretty girl?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Y/N whispered, her lips curving into a watery smile. “That's why I'm crying.”

Chris's eyes softened even more so. “Oh baby … “

He pulled her close, his hand sliding from her jaw to her hair, and his fingers cradled the back of her head against his shoulder. The fine grain of his skin was soft and smooth like velvet, and Y/N's eyes fell shut again as her senses were filled with the sweet muskiness of his scent. His fingers smoothed over jaw as he peppered the side of her head with gentle kisses, and Y/N was sure she could feel him smiling against her skin.

“I can't believe this is real … “ Y/N whispered against his skin, clenching her eyes shut again. When she opened them, her breath hitched as she realised that no amount of trying to re-wake herself up was going to land her back in her parents house.

Chris's hands on her curled around her waist a little tighter. “It is real. And it's gonna be like this everyday from now on. Just you and me, always”

He moved his hands again, and his eyes twinkled under the sheets as he softly brushed strands of Y/N's hair away from her cheeks. He cupped her face in his hands like she was something incredibly precious, and he couldn't help it when his face contorted in affectionate sympathy when her eyes blurred again.

“You know I'm always gonna keep you safe, right?” Chris hummed, the huskiness of his voice a soft vibration through his chest. “I'm never gonna let you feel unsafe ever again, baby girl. I promise.”

Y/N's eyes swam with her tears. They spilled over her lashes when Chris's thumbs caressed the curves of her cheekbones, and his lips returning to her forehead In a multitude of adoring kisses.

“Don't cry,” Chris whispered, kissing the small tear droplets away from her skin. “Gosh, baby … you're way too pretty to be crying like this.”

His words were laced with a current of teasing now, and Y/N couldn't help but giggle. Chris smiled down at her, his hand smoothing over her forehead before resting on top of her hair, the slight dominance to the action spreading a sense of calm through her almost instantly.

“There she is,” Chris grinned, patting over her head in a slow, repetitive motion. “Gonna have to keep calling you pretty if it makes you giggle like that.”

“Chris … “ Y/N whined when the man nuzzled his face against hers, the soft curls of his hair tickling her skin. “That tickles.”

His chuckles were warm on her skin when he pulled back to rest his forehead against hers. “My hair's just tryna kiss you too.”

“That's … “ Y/N trailed off, a little bewildered. “That's so weird.”

Her words only made Chris burst into laughter; he leaned even closer to her, his lashes soft on her skin and his lips grazing hers with every word and every movement that passed between them.

“What, you don't want my hair kisses?” Chris hummed, his lips curving into a smile against hers. “Then … what about this?”

He closed the distance between them completely, the impossible plushness of his lips giving way as they pressed against hers, easing her mouth to mould against the curve of his. Y/N was immediately enveloped in a bubble of addictive heat, and her eyes fluttered closed as Chris caressed her lips with the pillowy feel of his own. He was definitely smiling now, a soft laugh brushing her when he pulled away. Completely taken aback by the sudden kiss and the intensity of it, Y/N turned the colour of beetroot and hid her face amongst the light fibres of his top.

“Hey … don't tell me you're getting all shy on me?” Chris threaded his fingers through hair. He was unable to keep a blush of his own from spreading like wildfire across the tips of his ears and column of his throat, though the teasing nature to his voice remained when he spoke again. “Look at me, pretty girl.”

Y/N shook her head against his chest, her fingers curling into his sides.

His laughter increased. “Come on, baby … wanna see that beautiful face of yours.”

“No … “ Y/N whined, breathy giggles leaving her as she sank further into him.

“No? Hmm … “ with a wicked glint in his eyes, Chris's hands found the scorching skin beneath the hem of her top again; his fingers scrabbled lightly at her hips, and Y/N squealed, immediately rolling over onto her back. Chris chuckled in triumph as he gave up tickling her, and instead he hovered over her, his hands planting firmly into the pillow either side of her head.

He smirked as Y/N stared up at him with wide eyes. “Nowhere to hide now, baby girl.”

Y/N slapped her palms over her face in response. “You're wrong,” she said, her words muffled.

“Hey, no fair,” Chris laughed. “Don't hide from me baby … “

“But you make me nervous,” Y/N mumbled as his hands gently tugged at her wrists, pulling her fingers away from her steaming face. She gulped at the sight of him, at the sheer beauty shining on his face as he gazed down at her with an intensity that made her bones quiver.

Chris smiled. His fingers were slow as they traced the contours of her face, as though he was trying to commit her features to memory. “Wanna know a secret?”

Y/N cocked her head to the side in question.

“You make me nervous too,” Chris whispered to her. “Really, really nervous.”

Her eyes widened. “You're lying.”

Dimples poked his cheeks. He reached out and took one of his wife's hands in his before gently laying it over his chest.

Y/N stared at him, silence falling between them both as they waited; and then she felt it, the increasing thudding beneath her fingers, the way it almost felt as though his heart was skipping several beats. It betrayed the easy smile on the man's lips, and Y/N felt her cheeks heat up all over again.

“See?” Chris hummed. “You drive me crazy, baby.”

Eyes glistening, Y/N reached out and slowly curled her arms around her husband's neck. She let him flop down onto her and she wrapped her limbs around him as she buried her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent like it was oxygen.

“You drive me crazy too,” she whispered as he squeezed her tight. “I think I might pass out.”

Chris's giggles tickled her skin. “Am I making you feel lightheaded?”

“Maybe.”

“Mmm … we can't have that, can we? Come on … let me make you breakfast.”

Y/N clutched at him tighter. She didn't want to let go of him; not yet, not when his weight atop her was so incredibly grounding. “Stay still. Not done yet.”

Chris's face broke into a grin. He enveloped her as much as he could in the muscles of his arms, securing her underneath him, and he planted a lingering kiss to the tip of her nose before seeking out the warmth of her smile beneath his once more.

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miin17 · 1 month ago

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BANG CHAN ♡ INTRO STAGE MBC GAYO DAEJEJEON (250130)

1K notes · View notes

miin17 · 1 month ago

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𝐎𝐧𝐲𝐱 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐲

☆ Genre: Domestic, angst, fluff

☆ Warnings: Mentions of domestic abuse/abusive family, blood, scars, trauma

☆ Characters: Chan, Y/N, Noah, Angeline

☆ Word Count: 14.4k

☆ Synopsis: Noah finally gets closer to Angeline, but at what cost?

A/N: If you'd like some background information before reading this fic, feel free to read Pastry Girl if you haven't already :) it's not completely necessary though - enjoy!

His pencil scratched across his small sketchbook, the creamy pages broken by smudges of graphite. Noah leaned over his paper and struck a sharp line through his small sketch before dropping the book closed, the side of his head leaning against the wall as he raised his mug to his mouth.

A snort of soft laughter escaped Noah's mouth; his face lit up as he heard his parents light hearted squabble from the cafè's supply cupboard. They sounded like the best of friends, their tone of voice playful, though their words were blurred, and a moment later a dull thud sounded. Likely a sack of coffee beans tumbling to the ground, Noah's lips quirked up at the corners around the rim of his mug when he heard his parents burst into muffled giggles.

“I thought you were supposed to be helping,” Noah mused when his grinning father emerged from the room, dusting his hands. “Sounds like you're just making more of a mess.”

“Cheeky,” Chris chuckled. He neatly folded a black apron in half before tying it deftly around his waist - he paused and stared at his son all of a sudden, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. “When did you get a haircut?”

Noah's grin was crooked. He slipped his fingers through the curls that were piled on top of his head, spilling over his forehead, his textured crop shorter on the sides and revealing the sharp planes of his face. “Just before I came here … felt like it was about time.”

Chris's gaze was shrewd. “About time for what … ?”

“You know … a change,” Noah shrugged. He caught the smirk on his father's face and set his mug down with a light smile. “What? Do you not like it?”

“I do like it,” Chris said simply as he wiped down the counter with a microfiber cloth. His lips still danced with mirth, and he flashed an innocent smile at his son. “You look very handsome. If only your mother wasn't so preoccupied … baby, you're missing out on our Noey's new hair.”

Noah laughed, and he cocked his head to the side. “Wasn't it your fault, dad?”

“It was definitely your mother's fault.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Y/N called out, her voice dripping with humour. It made Chris beam, and his cheeks glowed a flirtatious pink as his wife made her way to the counter beside him. She surveyed Noah's appearance, his new hair mingling harmoniously with the familiarity of his usual attire - the thin chain glinting under his open biker jacket, the black top that accentuated his muscular build.

An affectionate smile spread across Y/N's face before a spark of mischief flared in her eyes. “Ooh Noey … you don't look like a sheep anymore!”

“A sheep?” Noah blinked. “You … is it a bad thing that I apparently looked like one before?”

“Of course not,” Y/N said humorously. She openly loved the unruly nature of her son's hair; it was almost identical to the curl pattern of her husband's. “I loved your hair before, but this new cut suits you … you look very … grown up? Suave?”

“Suave?”

“Groovy,” Chris chimed in.

Y/N groaned. She flicked a tea towel at his hip, her attention now fully on him. “You're so lucky that the bag didn't burst, Mr Bahng. I'd have made you pick up every last bean.”

Chris smirked. “You know I'd have picked them up without you asking, baby girl.”

Y/N smiled. She did know.

Chris leaned forward on his forearms, bracing them on the counter as he swivelled his gaze to his family. “Hey … good thing we didn't … spill the beans, aye?”

“Pathetic,” Noah grimaced at his father's joke. “Beyond awful.”

“Hey, that was a good one!” Chris protested, turning to look at Y/N who sagged against the counter. “I've … bean waiting to use it.”

“You're driving me nuts,” Y/N said, though there was no trace of annoyance on her face whatsoever. Rather, her eyes twinkled, betraying the nature of her exasperated words completely.

Noah smiled a little wistfully. His chest twinged, and the nineteen year old looked down into his cup, tracing a ringed finger around the rim of the ivory ceramic.

“Nuts? Not beans?” Chris hummed nonchalantly.

Noah sighed as he shared a look with his mother. “Why is he even here?”

“Apparently he was bored,” Y/N replied. She began to refill the cup station at the corner of the counter, and she flitted a pointed look towards her husband. “And he wanted to help.”

“You said it was busy!” Chris exclaimed indignantly as he poured a bag of coffee beans into the transparent compartment at the top of a burr grinder, slowly replenishing its low stock. He frowned, tilting his head around. “Where are Seungmin and Hyunjin anyway? Haven't seen them yet.”

“Doing deliveries,” Y/N snorted. “Apparently.”

“Delivery dogs,” Chris said to no one in particular.

Noah clamped a hand over his face, just as Y/N shook her head at her husband.

It was a busy Tuesday afternoon, having just gone noon. People milled in and out of the cafè, the rich aroma of coffee, sweet milk and dark chocolate weaving through the air. Noah had been stationed up at the bar counter right in front of his parents’ work station with a hand around a ceramic mug. It was half filled with his coffee, and he stared at his faint reflection on the rippling surface. His mind was elsewhere, fixed on the previous day’s events, thoughts of honey brown eyes pulling him far away, his brows creasing exponentially.

Noah's nostrils flared, and he slipped his helmet down his head. His eyes were visible through the flipped up visor, the soft brown of them turning hazel as a ray of wintry sunshine raced past him. He narrowed them as he fixed his burning gaze onto the girl before him, the gentle waves of her auburn hair sweeping across her cheeks in the wind.

“What do you want from me?” Noah asked, his voice level despite the growing exasperation flooding through his system. His never-ending patience was at last growing thin, though the dull ache that came with looking into Angeline's face was still rooted deep in the pit of his chest. “Do you even want anything? Or are you going to keep fucking me over? One minute you act as if you might actually like me, and then the next you don't … what do you fucking want, Ange?”

Angeline was quiet. She bit down onto her plump lower lip, rosiness bursting across the skin of it at the sudden pressure. She averted her eyes and looked down at the pavement, the dainty shoes on her feet suddenly much more interesting than answering his loaded question.

“You're leaving?” Was all she said in a monotonous voice as she watched Noah swing his legs over the leather seat of his bike.

Noah stared at her. He took in the sight of her, her doe eyes that flickered with something unreadable, the faint splatters of indigo ink tracing the contours of her pinky finger that became visible as she slowly brushed her hair away from her face. She chewed on her lip again, and Noah tightened his fingers around the handle of his motorcycle, the knuckles of his fingers growing white as he dragged his gaze away from her. He ignored the fire roaring inside of him that threatened to turn his bones to ash, ignored how he yearned to trace his fingers down the side of her set jaw, to feel the obvious softness of her lips beneath his fingertips ...

He snapped his visor down, concealing his eyes beneath a shield of onyx. “You clearly don't need me.”

Angeline winced. But she didn't reply; agitation coursing through him, Noah kicked the lever of his bike, and the engine roared to life, the sound causing Angeline to finally look up.

“I'm free until one tomorrow,” Noah said quietly as if it was an afterthought, his voice muffled behind his helmet. “You know where I'll be. Come if you give a shit. Or don't.”

Angeline watched as his bike shot down the road. Her eyes fell shut and she sighed; he had left behind his familiar scent, traces of citrus and cedar and leather, mingled with the fuel from his bike. She curled her arms around herself, clutching at the sleeves of her thick-knit cardigan before turning on her heel and heading back inside the university building.

Thumping at his bike's handle with a fist, Noah looked up and fixed his gaze at the traffic lights flashing their red haze at him. The muscle in his cheek jumped beneath his helmet, and his heart pounded uncomfortably; it was as though his body was split into two, rage and searing affection battling in the depths of him. He was hot, too hot, and he flipped his visor up again, cool air hitting his flushed skin as he leaned forward and swerved his bike down the road at his right.

Michael took one look at his friend's stormy face as he stormed into the gym, and he grimaced. The former had already spent the better part of an hour in the space, and his tanned skin hosted a golden sheen, his chin length hair tied back into a small knot at the back of his head. He wordlessly shoved a set of weights into Noah's hands and pushed him towards a bench, folding his arms across his broad chest as he studied his glowering friend.

“Do I even wanna know?” Michael asked, tipping his head towards Noah.

Noah grunted. He sat down on the bench, his body working automatically, and he reclined slightly, a dumbbell in each hand. “No.”

Michael snorted. “Mate … it's written all over your face.”

“Stop reading it then,” Noah growled.

“Stop making it so visible.”

Gaze flitting to his friend, Noah couldn't help but crack a small grin. “Cunt.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever gets rid of the deathly look in your eyes,” Michael chuckled. He probed further, his dark eyebrow curving upwards. “Angeline?”

“Yeah, no shit,” Noah exhaled, bringing his arms down level to his chest. “Five fucking years, Mikey. Five. And I still feel like I'm at square one.”

Michael pursed his lips. “Didn't your parents run around each other for like … ten?”

“So?”

“So, maybe this is just a part of your story, or some shit,” Michael shrugged. “Maybe it's gonna take time for you and Angeline to … bond.”

Noah clenched his jaw. He sat up and swung off of the bench, depositing his dumbbells into the rack before retrieving a heavier set. “Bond my fucking ass. Maybe I'm the problem.”

“You've tried enough, No,” Michael said gently. “I don't think you're the problem here. I don't think she is either. Just … wait it out.”

“The thing that pisses me off is that I can't even be mad at her,” Noah said a moment later, sweeping a hand through his mussed up hair. “She drives me insane but as soon as she looks at me with those goddamn eyes of hers ...”

At that, Michael smirked. “You're so fucked, mate.”

Noah started to laugh, his ears red. “I know.”

“Just kiss her and be done with it,” Michael joked. “I know you want to.”

Noah glared at him, pretending to throw a kettlebell at his friend who burst into aggressive guffaws.

Y/N, pressing the lid onto the burr grinder, stole a subtle glance at her son. His eyes were glazed over as if he was miles away, the muscle in his cheek twitching, and the woman tipped her head to the side. “Noey? You okay?”

Noah wrinkled his freckled nose. He snapped out of whatever hold his mind had had on him, and his eyes cleared up as he sipped his coffee again. He forced his pondering to the back of his head. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“It's okay,” Y/N shook her head, brushing his apology away with a small smile on her lips. “Don't think too hard. Your brain might explode and I'll have to clean it up.”

Noah grinned at his mother's humour. He certainly had been feeling as though his entire person would explode if thoughts of Angeline kept flooding his brain. “Yeah I guess you're right.”

Beside Y/N, Chris had started amicably chatting with a customer. His hands were skilled as he poured steamed, frothy milk into a takeaway cup; setting himself the task of learning how to make all of his wife's favourite drinks years ago had made him so well versed in the craft that Noah was sure he could make them in his sleep. He smiled as his father dusted cocoa to the pool of white foam, wafting the rich scent towards him in a little cloud.

“Dad's flirting with the customers again,” Noah commented as Chris tipped a friendly smile towards the man who had ordered a cappuccino. “Everytime you bring him here he starts flirting.”

“I am not flirting,” Chris tutted, turning his attention to his family again once the customer had walked away. “That guy’s like … fifty.”

“So are you,” Noah said dryly. “Nearly.”

Chris's ears burned. “I'm not. I’m five.”

“Five for fifty bloody years,” Y/N huffed. “Almost.”

“Why am I even here? All you guys do is bully me,” Chris pretended to sob into the cuff of his sleeve, just as another woman came up the counter. He immediately dropped his arm and cleared his throat as an embarrassed blush graced the tips of his ears, and he plastered his signature warm smile onto his face as he took her order.

Nearly fifty or not, Chris had aged in a most charming manner. Every year that had been added onto his age had only made the man more handsome, his skin sporting a tanned glow from spending so much time outdoors, the deep lines at the outer corners of his eyes crinkling whenever he smiled, and fine threads of silver sparkled like stardust in his dark hair. His jawline was still strong, his muscular body stronger, and the veins that corded around his forearms stood out proudly beneath his rolled up sleeves as he held out a small coffee cup to the customer behind the counter.

Noah caught his mother's eyes twinkling as she secretly watched her husband, her cheeks flushed the way they so often were when she was around him.

Noah smiled, sipping from his mug again.

“I'm here!” An energetic voice cut through the chatter in the café, and heads turned curiously to see a brown headed figure stumbling in through the glass doors. Felix held up a large bag in triumph, his entire face lighting up with joy as he weaved through the bubbles of people and made his way to the counter. “Sorry it took so long … shit tonne of traffic.”

“It's okay,” Y/N laughed as Chris's face broke into a twinning grin. “Lix … there's flour in your hair.”

Felix hastily dusted his fingers through his hair. “Oops.”

He set his bag down on the counter, the sides falling down as he pulled out some large cardboard boxes, and a heavenly scent of sweet pastries brushed the Bahngs’ noses. “Okay … cookies, muffins, pain aux raisins … “

At the mention of the swirly pastry, Noah blanched. He hid his face behind his mug again, but not before Y/N caught the glint in his eyes.

She smiled softly, reaching out to pat his hand briefly before helping her friend with his boxes.

“Noey! I got you some white choc and raspberry cookies. They should be around here somewhere … “ Felix called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the room behind the counter. He came back a moment later with a single box, smaller than the others, and he opened it up to reveal a selection of different cookie flavours. “These are yours. Chris said you were here and you're going in a bit and I know your mates like these, so … “

Noah's face lit up and he reached for one of the raspberry cookies. “Thank you.”

Felix beamed. “I like your hair.”

“Doesn't he look … groovy?” Chris chuckled, nudging him.

Felix slithered a withering look to him. “Mate … are you five hundred?”

“Bye,” Chris rolled his eyes and walked to the back of the cafè.

“Drama Queen,” Y/N shook her head, making not only Felix and Noah laugh, but Chris too, and his giggles erupted from the short distance.

“It's almost one, Noey,” Y/N suddenly said, inclining her head towards a clock on the far wall.

Groaning at that, Noah hastily tipped his head back and drained the remnants of his flat white before setting the mug down on the counter. “Shit,” was all he said as he scrambled around for his belongings, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Y/N's lips twitched at his sudden frenzy. “Sure you don't wanna stay?”

“Can't,” Noah sighed. He suddenly looked a little dejected, and Y/N's gaze was shrewd as she observed his face. “Told Matty I'd be there at quarter past … should have left earlier.”

He looked as though he couldn't bring himself to leave. His eyes kept flitting to the glass doors of the cafè as he slid off of his stool, running a large hand through the curls of his hair.

“Are you waiting for someone?” Y/N asked him gently. She was sliding the cookies into a paper bag, and she held it out to him. “A certain girl, perhaps … ?”

Noah smiled as he accepted the bag, tucking them away into the small backpack slung over his shoulder. “I - no. I'll … see you both later. Bye dad. Uncle Lix.”

Felix waved cheerfully, and Chris peered over his shoulder as he steamed another batch of milk. “Leaving already? Don't you wanna stay?”

“He's meeting a friend,” Y/N explained. And then to Noah, “Will you be home for dinner?”

Noah nodded. “I won't be gone long. Just a couple of hours.” He waved at the three adults before vacating the cafè in a cloud of cologne, and a soft breeze trickled into the shop as the door opened and closed after him.

“Did you see that look in his eyes?” Chris hummed before Y/N could voice her own thoughts. “It's like he wasn't even here.”

Y/N sighed. She was about to reply when the door opened again, and a slightly hesitant figure stepped inside. The woman frowned. There was something about the girl that seemed familiar, though where she could have seen her before …

Y/N's eyes widened as realisation clicked in her mind. She tried not to stare; the girl's disposition was a little awkward despite the effortless elegance she radiated, and she stepped into the short line, her hands twisting together in front of her. Y/N noted how the girl's gaze slowly travelled around the café, the soft brown of her brows furrowing a little more beneath the curve of her fringe with every sweep of her vision. Her shoulders sagged minutely - barely noticeable, but Y/N noticed, and the movement filled her with a pang of sympathy.

“Does she look familiar to you?” Y/N whispered discreetly to her husband as she plastered a smile onto her face and handed a cup of tea to a customer before her.

Chris lifted his head. “Who?”

“End of the line,” Y/N said.

His actions secretive, Chris's gaze flitted to where his wife was signalling to. He frowned, and then his face morphed into one of surprise as he looked towards his wife again.

“Is that her?” Chris hummed.

“I think so,” Y/N said. “Do you think he was looking for her?”

Another customer stepped up into line, and Chris took her order before replying. “It'd make sense. Do you think he got a haircut because of her?”

Y/N snickered. The sound was undignified, and Chris burst into hushed chuckles of his own.

“You're bad,” Chris teased.

“You're the one who said it!” Y/N exclaimed. “I'll tell him later when he comes home.”

Chris's lips twitched. “Betrayed by the love of my life.”

The queue shortened and the girl in question stepped up to the counter. Y/N smiled warmly at her, just as she discreetly bumped her hip into her husband's, signalling for him to take the other customers’ orders.

Y/N greeted the girl in her usual friendly manner, warmth radiating from her smile. “What can I get for you, darling?”

The girl blinked at her. Her eyes sparked with sudden emotion, but it was gone too quickly for Y/N to interpret it.

“I … “ the girl looked towards one of the menus, her fingers knitting together behind the counter. “I'd like a chai, please.”

“Chai … “ Y/N hummed to herself as she found the correct button on her screen. She didn't notice the way the girl was studying her, and then her husband, her brows furrowed in mild confusion.

As Chris began to concoct the drink behind her, Y/N flitted her gaze back to the girl. Her gaze was still swivelling around the cafè, and Y/N couldn't help the words that tumbled out of her.

“Are you … maybe … looking for my son?” Y/N asked her gently.

The girl froze. “Your … son?”

“You are Angeline, aren't you?” Y/N smiled. “Or am I wrong?”

Angeline was quiet. The fairness of her cheeks flushed slowly, and she looked down at the floor.

The nerve. He hadn't told her this was his parents’ cafè.

“You know who I am?”

Y/N's smile grew. She took the cup from her husband, and she shook a dusting of cinnamon onto the top of the drink before pressing a lid onto it. “Noey talks about you a lot. ”

“Is he … is he here?” Angeline asked quietly, her heart racing at the woman's latter comment.

“He left a few minutes before you came,” Y/N looked apologetic. “He didn't say, but … I think he was waiting for you.”

At that, Angeline bit her lip. “He told me to come here. Yesterday. I … I thought he'd still be here.”

She took the drink Y/N was holding out to her with a soft ‘thank you’, and she curled both her hands around it, seeking out its steady warmth. She looked as though she was about to speak again, but just then a soft splash broke the short silence, followed by embarrassed laughter.

“Christopher!” Y/N tutted loudly, her eyes travelling to the puddle of warm milk on the floor. “Honestly … what are you trying to do?”

“It slipped,” Chris was giggling as he dropped to a crouch, a wad of tissue clutched in his hands. “Sorry baby.”

Y/N shook her head. She turned her gaze back to Angeline and smiled. “This man ... he's like a little kid.”

“I'm five,” Chris's voice was muffled, and Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose as her smile grew.

Angeline looked as though she was struggling to keep back a laugh of her own. She tilted her head to the side. “You … is he your husband?”

“I am, unfortunately for her,” Chris said cheerfully as he stood up again. He tossed the damp tissues into the bin under the counter, and he slid an arm around Y/N's waist despite her sudden shy protest. “Right, my darling? You're bound to me forever.”

Y/N wrinkled her nose up at him in response. It only made Chris's grin widen, and he pressed a soft kiss to her brow.

Angeline let slip a small smile. But she didn't say anything, instead looking down at the floor again as she wondered why she suddenly couldn't bring herself to move away.

“Can you … can you tell Noah I was here?” She said after a moment, her voice barely a whisper. “Please.”

Y/N smiled. She pulled away from her husband and turned to the back counter, her eyes swivelling over the surface. “I have a pad of paper here if you want to leave him a note?”

The girl nodded. She accepted the paper and a pen from Y/N, and pausing for a moment, she scribbled down a few looping words onto one of the small sheets. She ripped it off of the pad and folded it up before handing it to Y/N, nerves suddenly coiling in the pit of her stomach.

“Angeline, darling … will you wait here a moment?” Y/N said, tucking the note into her pocket just as the girl turned to leave the café. Angeline stopped moving and nodded, watching as Y/N disappeared into the back room.

“Our friend bakes the pastries and cakes here,” Y/N exclaimed when she came back with a box. She opened it up to reveal the pain aux raisins, with their flaky pastry and flood of snowy icing shining under the warm lighting, and with a pair of tongs she carefully slid two of the swirls into a paper bag. “He just brought these.”

Angeline's eyes burned when the woman pressed the bag into her hand. She stared down at it, the buttery sweet smell making her stomach rumble, and she lifted her head again, her eyes softening a little as she looked at Y/N, then Chris, who flashed a friendly smile towards her.

She tightened her hand around her cup, the spicy scent tickling her nose. “I can see where Noah gets his kindness from,” was all she said in her soft voice.

Y/N blinked, taken aback a little. Her eyes stung, and she forced another caring smile onto her face. “You're welcome here anytime, okay? And I don't just mean for a drink … even if you'd just like some company, or a chat … ”

She didn't elaborate further, not wanting to appear pushy. She hoped Angeline understood her offer nonetheless, and when the girl smiled a little bigger than she had previously, Y/N was satisfied. She watched Angeline leave the cafè with a thoughtful expression on her face, and she sighed, deflating just as Chris leaned close to her.

“Penny for them?” Chris hummed.

Y/N exhaled slowly again. She looked up at her husband, finding nothing but gentle affection for her swirling around like stars in the depths of his eyes.

“She looks like … “ Y/N trailed off, shaking her head faintly.

“ … You when you were a teenager,” Chris prompted helpfully. Y/N turned to him again, eyebrows raised as he read her thoughts perfectly, and he grinned, his cheek dimpling. “I saw it too.”

“It's that haunted look in her eyes,” Y/N said. “God … it felt like I was looking in a mirror.”

Chris's hand was soft on the small of her back, a comforting touch that grounded her instantly. He pressed a gentle kiss to her temple before frowning, his own pondering spilling from his mind. “What on earth is going on between her and Noey?”

Y/N shook her head. “No idea. But … I do know one thing.”

Chris cocked his head to the side in question.

“She definitely loves him,” Y/N said softly, her eyes fixed on the doors of the cafè. “Just as much as he loves her.”

*☆*☆*

A lilting stream of whistling filled the space as Chris moved around the kitchen; he was piling steaming pasta onto plates, and he was entirely in his element, a content smile glowing on his face as the savoury scent ignited hunger inside of him.

“Sure you don't want any help?” Y/N called over her shoulder to the kitchen. She was sitting on the sofa, and her fingers softly ran through Noah's hair. He had his head leaning against her lap, turned towards Sky who sat on the plush rug at the base of the sofa, showing him a collection of frog stickers she had made that day.

“It's all good baby, you rest,” Chris replied cheerfully. “You kids want cheese?”

Sky rubbed her brow. “Who doesn't want cheese on pasta?”

“Me,” Y/N said sheepishly. “Sometimes.”

“Well … I guess it's okay if it's you … “ Sky said slowly. She didn't look convinced, and Y/N started to laugh, her hand going to lightly caress the fifteen year old’s cheek.

Sky grinned up at her. She held up her little cutouts. “Do you like my frogs?”

“I love your frogs baby,” Y/N nodded. “Which one’s your favourite?”

“All of them,” Sky giggled, but she held up a holographic one, flickers of light turning the smiling frog into one sporting a glittering, rainbow skin. “But maybe this one. It took the longest because I had to put the special film on top.”

She suddenly caught sight of her struggling father over the top of the sofa; dropping her creations to the floor before hastily scrambling up to her feet, Sky ran off to the kitchen behind. Her gaze landed on her father who was trying to balance all five plates of pasta on the lengths of his arms. “Daddy … let me help.”

Chris's chuckles made Y/N smile. She peered down at her son who was now scrolling through his phone, the soft light of the screen reflected on his freckled skin.

“I saw someone today,” Y/N said, her fingers continuing to thread through his curls.

Noah looked up at her curiously. “Who?”

“A girl. She had brown hair, brown eyes, and a permanent frown on her face … ” Y/N trailed off.

Noah jerked upright; he immediately sat up, heat rushing to his face as he whirled around and stared at his mother.

“You saw … Angeline?” Noah breathed.

“She came to the cafè,” Y/N continued gently. “And she left you a note.”

Noah stared. A few moments passed before he replied, his voice slightly hoarse. “I … are you sure that was her?”

“Why? Isn't she the note type?” Y/N teased as she reached for her phone on the coffee table. She had slipped the note into her phone case so she wouldn't forget, and she tugged it out before pressing it into Noah's palm.

Fingers trembling, Noah hastily flipped it open. His lips moved and his widening eyes ran across the paper as he silently read the neat scrawl three times before tumbling off of the sofa and shoving the note into the pocket of his hoodie.

“I have to go,” Noah said. He was breathing heavily as he hastily ran his hands through his hair.

“Now?”

“I won't be long,” Noah promised, moving to the other side of the room where he had tossed his jacket upon his earlier arrival. He shrugged it onto his broad frame, flipping his hood up over his curls, and a shadow fell over his eyes, darkening them beneath.

“What about your pasta?” Chris padded up to them both and set the plates down on the small table with a pout aimed at Noah.

Noah smiled at him. He leaned over and quickly loaded his fork up with as much of the creamy pasta as he could before shoveling it into his mouth.

“Hey, it's hot!” Chris grimaced, watching as Noah covered his mouth with a hand. He clacked his teeth together at the sudden heat and blew out a little dramatically, the look on his face making Sky burst into a fit of giggles.

“Wasn't,” Noah breathed a little weakly, his tongue sizzling in protest. “Pasta’s really good, dad … I'll eat the rest when I come back.”

“Be safe,” Chris replied, ruffling his hair. “I know you like riding, but don't ride too fast.”

Noah snorted at that. “Yeah … for some reason that sounds like something you'd say in your old songs.”

Leaving Y/N to erupt into peals of laughter as Chris took on an expression of pure mortification, Noah waved to his family and in a split second he had shoved his feet into his boots, grabbing his helmet on the way out. Before the minute was up, he had brought the engine of his bike to life, and he swivelled the vehicle around before racing off down the wide street and into the main roads.

The night air was crisp, and Noah shivered beneath his hoodie and leather jacket as the icy wind bit his neck and grazed his reddening fingertips. His heart raced faster than the speed his bike was moving at, and despite the chaos in his mind, the note his mother had given him kept circling around and around in the forefront of it.

Angeline didn't write notes.

But that was Angeline’s handwriting. The familiar loops and kicks of the letters that always looked like flowers to Noah.

He bit his lip, her words on loop inside of him.

I do care.

I've always cared.

I'll be outside the library at seven.

Noah had ten minutes to get to the place they so often found themselves at. Tucked away in the depths of the bustle and bustle of the city, the library in mind was a tall building cut into one side of their university building. Its architecture boasted old, spiralling planes curving up and around a set of heavy, double doors, gilded with accents of tarnished gold and copper. Wide stone steps descended from it and into a flood of cobblestones, and it was a place that both Noah and Angeline had found themselves more often than not, perched on one of the stairs, close, but far away from one another.

Lights shone from every direction as Noah swung himself off of his bike and leaned against the seat. He flipped up the visor on his helmet and shoved his hands into the pocket at the middle of his hoodie, his fingers automatically curling around the slip of paper as he looked around with narrowed eyes. He had made it just in time, though there was no sign of Angeline yet, and Noah's chest twisted.

He tipped his head up to the cloudless sky, helmet heavy on his head. The stars twinkled down at him and he sighed, his eyes falling shut before he pulled his phone out from his pocket.

There were no messages from her. Though why he had been expecting one in the first place, Noah didn't know.

She never texted him.

Five minutes passed after Angeline's given time, and still, there was no sign of her. Growing restless, Noah pulled his helmet off of his head, a hand going through his slightly flattened curls in a repetitive motion. He wondered if perhaps she wasn't going to show after all; maybe it had just been a cruel joke, one that Noah had walked right into.

It wouldn't have been the first time such a thing had happened.

Noah pulled his phone out of his pocket once more. He swiped onto Angeline's contact just as gravel crunched underfoot, and he looked up to see a familiar figure walking slowly towards him.

He shoved his phone away and stood up straight, hooking his helmet onto his bike. “You're late.”

Angeline didn't respond. The usual grace to her steps was missing, and Noah suddenly stood up straight, his eyes narrowing. The shadows were like heavy smoke as they gave way the closer she got to him, and as her hair lifted away from the perimeters of her delicate face by the breeze, the first thing Noah spotted was the blood. Lots of it, dripping down her chin and splattering the side of her throat, kissing the ivory jumper she was wearing.

“Ange … “ Noah was in front of her in an instant, his breath hitching. His wide gaze ran over her, the way the blood flowed from her bruised nose, the way her cheek was red and sported a deep cut at the highest part of her cheekbone. Even her the careful waves of her hair were splattered with splotches of dried blood, cutting through the shine of the strands; she looked mostly unfazed when she finally tilted her face up to him, the city lights highlighting the damage to her skin. To the untrained eye, Angeline looked as though she was completely fine. But Noah clocked the lack of usual softness to her mouth, the soft amber of her irises that shook slightly.

Noah's jaw hardened, his eyes like steel. “Who did this to you?”

Angeline averted her eyes. She shook her head minutely, and she tried to force an amused smile to her lips when she spoke, her words barely audible in the bustling noise of the city. “I … no one. I fell.”

Noah's eyes fluttered shut. His fingers curled into tight fists at his side, and they began to shake with the sheer effort of trying to keep himself from reaching out towards her, afraid of startling her.

“Angeline,” Noah said again, his voice deadly calm between them. “Who did this to you?”

Angeline was quiet for a short while. She couldn't bring herself to look at him, and her eyes focused on the thin chain at the base of his throat, the way the material of his hoodie hung off of his frame in such light drapes. It looked soft, so, so soft …

When she looked up at him again, finally meeting his gaze, Angeline's eyes swam with tears in a way that made the entirety of Noah's body freeze.

“It was my brother,” she said.

Rage swarmed through Noah at such a rate that it was a wonder it didn't propel him off of his feet. “I'm going to kill him.”

“No, you're not,” Angeline whispered. But he didn't seem to hear her as he made to walk past her, the way she came just moments before.

He abruptly stopped when Angeline reached for his wrist. Her fingers trembled against her skin, and Noah looked down at her, the storm in his eyes clearing upon her touch, and he looked into her face, taking in her expression.

“Don't,” Angeline breathed. She could feel the dam inside her breaking, her tears threatening to spill; she dropped her forehead against Noah's chest, hiding the vulnerability on her face as she felt him grow rigid.

Noah blinked. A sharp inhale later, he slowly curled his arms around her, the leather of his jacket cool against the heat of her cheeks, and his hand was gentle as it cupped the back of her head. He slowly trailed his fingers down her hair, his other hand firm on her shoulder.

“I'm fine,” Angeline’s voice wavered against his chest. “Don't do anything stupid.”

Noah hadn't even known Angeline had a brother. But all he could think about now was how he wanted nothing more than to slam his head into the nearest wall.

“He hurt you,” Noah said quietly.

“No … it doesn't hurt.”

“Angeline, you're bleeding everywhere.”

“I know.”

Pulling back slightly, Noah looked into her eyes as he gently cradled her face in his hands. His touch was feather light, and Angeline's eyes fell shut, tears seeping out from beneath her thick eyelashes. They cut through the blood on her cheeks, creating little valleys in the red and turning pink as they spilled down her jaw.

“Your mum … “ her voice shook, and Noah stilled, listening carefully. “She said … earlier. At the cafè. She said I … that I'm welcome there any time … “

Noah nodded softly, searching her eyes as he willed her to continue.

“Do you think … she'd let me … stay? For the night?” Angeline whispered.

“Of course she would,” Noah said with a tender grin. “I mean … even if she didn't, I'd have taken you home with me anyway. Because there's no fucking way I'm letting you go back there.”

Angeline gulped. “They're gonna hate me.”

“Why would they hate you?”

“Because everyone hates me.”

Noah shook his head, bewildered. “That's not true.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I don't hate you. My family definitely won't hate you.”

Biting the inside of her lip, Angeline looked away from him. She couldn't bring herself to speak; her eyes were prickling again, and despite her earlier comment, her head and the forefront of her had begun to throb a little too much …

“Let me take you home,” Noah whispered, stroking his thumb just barely over her bruised cheekbone. “Are you okay with the bike?”

Angeline lifted her eyes again. Her gaze flitted to the bike behind him, its dark exterior gleaming like moonlight beneath the city lights.

“Only because it's yours,” Angeline attempted a half smile. The movement made her cheek twinge and she winced, avoiding Noah's sympathetic gaze.

He pulled away from her reluctantly and reached for his helmet. Holding it in both of his hands, Angeline watched with curiosity as Noah gently set it over her head, her wide eyes peeking out at him from the small gap. He smiled at how big it looked on her, and he made sure it was in place before drifting his touch to her hand, and he curled his fingers around hers before moving her towards his bike.

“You can get on, right?” Noah grinned, swinging a leg over the bike, standing over it. He turned his head as Angeline nodded, and he sat down, shuffling forward and holding his hand out towards her to help her onto the seat.

Her hand was surprisingly warm in his as she gripped his fingers, hoisting herself onto his bike. Her presence behind him made Noah smile to himself secretly, and he looked down to hide his slightly flustered expression before looking over his shoulder.

“Hold tight,” Noah hummed.

Blinking at him through the helmet, Angeline leaned forward a little. Her fingers were tentative at his sides before she slowly curled her arms around his strong torso, her hands resting on his stomach. She could feel the faint outline of muscle beneath his soft hoodie, and Angeline swallowed thickly, her fingers curling into the fabric.

Noah's breath hitched at the contact. His eyes were unseeing as he stared ahead of him, hyper aware of Angeline's hands resting on his abs … he shook his head discreetly a moment later as if to clear the cobwebs of his brain, and he cleared his throat, reaching for his bike handles.

“Ready?”

Angeline nodded against his shoulder.

With Angeline now perched behind him, Noah adopted a much slower pace than he usually would have; still the wind nicked his skin, sharp as a knife, and it flew through his exposed curls as they cruised down the roads. He was considerably less cold with Angeline holding onto him the way she was, and Noah was suddenly very glad that she couldn't see the blush that had been spreading across his nose bridge and down the column of his throat.

“You doing okay?” Noah asked when they stopped at a set of traffic lights. He automatically reached behind him and gently traced a finger over her knee, the gesture comforting - it reduced some of the stiffness from Angeline's posture, and she melted into his broad back.

“Yes,” she whispered. “You're good at driving.”

“Do you drive a bike, or ride it?” Noah joked.

If Angeline wasn't in her current injured state, Noah was sure she would have kicked him, hard. As it so happened, she poked him in the ribs softly with an elegant finger instead, and he grinned, just as the lights switched from red to amber to green.

When they finally reached home, Noah slid off of his bike first. He turned and carefully removed his helmet from Angeline, his movements slow, so as not to accidentally brush her wounds beneath. Her hair was mussed and tangled over her face, and Noah smiled, his fingers soft as they brushed away and tucked the wavy strands behind her ears.

“Your nose doesn't look broken … thank God,” Noah whispered as he traced the dried blood on her cheeks. He automatically winded the waves of her hair around his slender fingers, and he marvelled at the softness of it, the liquid quality to it that made it effortlessly slip across his skin.

Angeline smiled wryly. “I think it might look worse than it is.”

Noah pursed his lips. He ached to know what had happened, what had caused such a ghastly assortment of bruises and cuts … but he didn't dare to ask. He knew she would tell him when she was ready. It was a while before he spoke again, his gaze still fixed on the strands of hair he was carding his fingers through.

“Don't be nervous,” Noah's voice was low, and full of warmth. “And hey … if my dad makes a bad joke, just pretend it's funny for his sake. He gets butthurt otherwise.”

Angeline started to laugh. The sound was soft but genuine, and Noah's lips curved up at the corners in a contagious grin.

“He spilled milk on the floor,” Angeline said. “At the cafè. And your mum scolded him for it.”

“Sounds about right,” Noah snorted with laughter of his own. “Bet they made out right in front of you afterwards.”

Angeline let out a little squeak. It wasn't a sound Noah had heard from her before, and his eyes widened as he studied her with amusement, her cheeks turning mauve in the night air.

“They … didn't,” Angeline said, biting her lip.

“Really? Usually they're all over each other.”

Amgeline's lips quirked up at the corners a little more. “They both seem … kind. Friendly.”

“They are. I guess you could say they're my best friends? It sounds lame but … that's how it feels sometimes.”

She looked up at him then, and a brief spark of wistfulness crossed her eyes. She didn't reply again, and Noah slowly held his hands out to her. Angeline stared at them, the way bands of silver hugged the long fingers that led to calloused palms, the faint scars that crossed over the side of his left hand. They were steady hands, unwavering, and Angeline slipped her fingers into his warm grip, letting him pull her off of his bike.

Noah didn't let go of her hand as they walked down the path to the front doors of his house. Slipping his keys out from his pocket, Noah pushed open the door and beckoned Angeline to follow him; he could instantly hear his family's chatter from the main room, and he smiled at the familiar sound. He had already texted his mother earlier, letting her know he would be bringing Angeline; now, Chris, Y/N and Sky looked up as they heard Noah and Angeline entering, and the three of them grew quiet, their eyes widening.

“Before you say anything, no, she did not fall off my bike,” Noah said, breaking the slightly heavy silence. It shattered instantly as his parents chuckled despite the worry blooming in their eyes, and they got up from their place on the sofa, moving in their direction. “This is Angeline. I think you already met, though.”

“We did,” Y/N smiled warmly. She reached for the girl, her hand going to cup Angeline's bloody cheek. “Angeline, darling … are you alright?”

Angeline's eyes prickled. “I'm … okay. I'm sorry for intruding like this.”

“Nonsense,” Chris folded his muscular arms across his chest, the darkness of his eyes twinkling as he tipped his head towards her in greeting. “Our home is your home … you're welcome here at any time.”

Noah's fingers were gentle as they discreetly squeezed Amgeline's hand, almost as if to say, See? Told you so.

“Let me go get something to clean you up,” Y/N said before bustling off to the kitchen.

Chris, meanwhile, grinned at her. “Are you hungry? I made some pasta earlier … Noey hasn't eaten his yet, so … you can eat together if you want to? No pressure, though.”

“Maybe later, dad,” Noah said, clocking the look clouding Angeline's eyes. “Right, Ange?”

Angeline nodded with a polite smile aimed in Chris's direction. The man shrugged cheerfully in response, just as Y/N came back with a soft cloth in her hand.

“Okay … Angeline, darling, am I alright to clean all that blood off?” Y/N asked her carefully. “I'll be very gentle.”

Angeline nodded with a tired smile. Returning it with another smike of her own, Y/N took her by the hand and led her to the kitchen; she sat Angeline down on one of the stools behind the counter before stationing herself on the one opposite. She had placed a bowl of water and a small case of first aid items beside her, and Angeline watched in quiet curiosity as the older woman dipped the fabric she was holding into the bowl.

Soaking the cloth in the lukewarm water, Y/N wrung out the excess water before turning to Angeline. She braced the fingers of one hand on the underside of her chin before her other hand slowly dabbed at the patches of blood on the girl's face, and true to her word, she was so careful with her task that Angeline barely felt the pain that had begun to drum against the inside of her skin. She fixed her gaze onto Y/N's face, taking in the pure care reflected in her eyes and the lack of judgement there; Angeline couldn't stop it when the tears suddenly trickled down her cheeks. She looked down in embarrassment, and Y/N's face softened so much that it only made Angeline cry harder.

“Oh, darling … “ Y/N's voice was so full of sympathy that Angeline's eyes blurred all over again. “You've been through a lot, haven't you?”

Angeline nodded slowly, her eyes shutting as the tears continued to fall. Her breath hitched when Y/N began to lightly clean the horizontal cut at the apex of her cheekbone, and she focused on the soothing sound of her voice instead.

“You're such a brave girl,” Y/N hummed, her voice soft, intimate in the small space between them. “But you don't need to be so brave anymore, okay? You're safe here, with us. Nothing can hurt you here, darling.”

“I'm so tired,” Angeline whispered, the words cracking and making Y/N's heart twinge. “So, so tired.”

“I know, my love,” Y/N hummed. She set down her cloth and reached for a tube of antiseptic cream instead, screwing off the cap before squeezing out a generous dollop of it. “I can tell.”

Sniffling, Angeline brushed the back of her hand over her eyes just as Y/N dabbed the cream onto her face. “I'm sorry.”

“You've nothing to apologise for,” Y/N shook head.

Angeline tried for a smile. “I'm crying all the cream off.”

“Well, there is that,” Y/N laughed under her breath. “It's okay. Does it hurt?”

Angeline shook her head as her tears slowed. “Not really. I can't feel it.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Y/N asked gently. And then, “You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. But I'm here if you'd like to talk about anything.”

At that, Angeline nodded. “I … I'll tell you later. I can't really think right now.”

Y/N understood completely. She too had felt such a way once upon a time; she finished smoothing a small plaster over the girl's cheek before reaching down to squeeze her hands, reassurance printed in her eyes.

“You need to rest,” Y/N hummed, smoothing her thumbs over the back of Angeline's hands. “A nap will make you feel so much better.”

“You can borrow some of my clothes,” Noah's voice made them both look up as he suddenly sidled into the kitchen. “Yours are … um … “

“Bloody,” Angeline said blandly.

“Right,” Noah chuckled. He inclined his head towards his mother, his eyes silently asking if she was done; Y/N nodded in response, and she squeezed the girl's hand one more time before getting up from her stool.

“If you need anything, don't be afraid to ask, okay?” Y/N said to her as she cleared up the items on the counter. “Anything at all - just give us a shout.”

Before she could talk herself out of it, Angeline leaned closer to the older woman and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. Y/N's eyes widened in surprise, and unable to restrain herself any longer either, Y/N gently wrapped her arms around her in a careful embrace.

Angeline's eyes started to prickle all over again. She shut them as she rested her forehead against Y/N's shoulder, briefly allowing herself to surrender to the steady comfort of her hold. She couldn't say anything when Y/N pulled back a moment later, and her cheek was cupped by a tender hand, Y/N brushing away her stray tears before she moved away.

“Come on,” Noah's voice was soft, and he traced a careful fingertip down the back of Angeline's arm. She turned around to face him just as Sky bounded into view; she appeared in between them both, her face inquisitive beneath her fringe.

Amgeline's eyes widened in surprise, but her lips curved into a smile. “Hello. You must be Sky.”

“I am,” Sky nodded. She looked as though she wanted to say something, but instead she reached into her pocket. “I hope you like frogs. I don't have anything else.”

She shuffled through her stickers and found the holographic one she was looking for and pressed it into Angeline's hand. “I made these today! This one is my favourite but you can have it.”

Angeline turned the sticker over in her hand, unaware of Noah slapping a baffled hand over his face at their interaction. She smiled, and she reached a hand out to playfully squish Sky's cheeks in her fingers.

Giggling as her cheeks heated up in embarrassment, Sky ran away, and Noah grinned, shaking his head as he reached for Angeline's hand. She let him take her to his room, the sticker in her fingers smooth and cold and strangely grounding.

“What would you like?” Noah asked once he walked to his wardrobe. “I have hoodies, t-shirts, shorts, sweats … “

“Anything is fine,” Angeline said a little awkwardly. She found her gaze travelling around his room, the soft cream and slate walls, the thick rug underfoot and the large desk that hosted an array of technology and art equipment. His guitar sat in the corner beside the sliding doors of his wardrobe, and there were so many pieces of him scattered over the room that Angeline felt her heart flutter. She caught herself staring at the glass orbs dotted around his room, resting on his night stand and chest of drawers; they seemed to swim with various astral objects, some glittering with stars, some with planets.

“They're lamps,” Noah offered, catching the look on her face. He walked to the one nearest to him with a soft smile and gently placed a palm over it; the stars inside lit up immediately, casting a subtle violet haze over the corner. “See?”

Angeline bit her lip. She touched the one beside her, and Noah grinned when it glowed against her skin.

“Short sleeve, or long?” Noah prompted her then, head in his wardrobe again.

“Long,” Angeline said softly. And then, “And sweats.”

Noah chuckled. “That's better. Here.”

He handed her the clothes with the crinkle of his eyes before sinking into the revolving chair at his desk. His back reclined into the soft cushion of it, and he let out a sigh of comfort as he slid his hands behind his head. He nodded towards a door hidden so well in a little alcove to the side of the room that Angeline hadn't even noticed it at first.

“Bathroom's in there,” Noah said lightly. “If you wanna freshen up.”

Angeline nodded. She curled her fingers around his clothes; his woody scent lingered on them, and she turned before he could catch the tears gleaming against her eyelashes again.

She considered saying something. But she could feel a lump forming uncomfortably in the pit of her throat, and she moved towards his bathroom.

Noah was tapping a pencil against his lip when she returned, and Angeline's lips twitched as she watched him spin around and around in his chair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He was completely in his own world, and for the first time that day, Angeline noticed the difference to his hair, the way it didn't curl over the tops of his ears like she was so used to it.

For some reason, her heart lurched.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Angeline asked him. Noah's head snapped to her in surprise, and he started to chuckle. He didn't answer her question; instead he cocked his head to the side, his eyes crinkling at the sight of her in his clothes.

“Don't say anything,” Angeline interrupted him the moment she saw his mouth open. “I know it looks like I'm wearing bin bags.”

“Not at all,” Noah frowned, his gaze soft. “I was going to say they suit you.”

Angeline flushed. She watched as Noah got up from his seat and moved towards his bed, turning back the corner of his duvet.

“You can sleep here,” Noah said in a gentle tone. “Sheets are clean.”

“I didn't think they weren't,” Angeline said, hesitantly moving towards the bed. It made Noah chuckle under his breath, and he sat back down in his seat, reaching for a kneaded eraser which he stretched absentmindedly between his fingers.

The sheets were cold but soft as Angeline slipped between them. It was like all the fatigue and exhaustion suddenly rammed into her full force as soon as her head hit the pillow; she hadn't expected for traces of his cologne and the muskiness of his skin to be so prominent amongst the cotton, and her breath shuddered as she curled her hands into the duvet, her vision swimming.

“Where are you going to sleep?” She suddenly asked, her eyes snapping open again as she turned to look at him. He wasn't looking at her; Noah's gaze was fixed on his computer, his eyes squinting before he moved his pencil across the sketchbook open across his desk.

“Sleep? At this hour?” Noah chuckled, a hint of teasing laced into his tone. It made Angeline stick her tongue out at him and she rolled onto her side again, facing away from him. “Go to sleep, Ange. I'll be here when you wake up.”

Angeline squeezed her eyes shut. He didn't know it, but those words eased the tension inside of her, and she stopped gripping at the sheets so hard, a silent, broken exhale leaving her mouth as slumber dug its silent claws into her.

Noah wasn't sure how much time had passed as he sketched beside the sleeping girl in his bed; he set his pencil down after a while and turned around in his seat, his hand rubbing across his jaw in mild perplexity. Angeline had turned over in her sleep, and her hair fanned out over his pillow, the rosebud shape to her mouth softened in sleep. But even as she slept, her brows were furrowed, and Noah ached to smooth his fingers over them, to release the tautness from her skin. He was contemplating doing just that when he heard her breathing quickened, his sheets rustling lightly as she moved her head.

The words that left her mouth a moment later were muffled, yet no less short of fear, of agony that struck through Noah like an arrow; he was at her side in an instant, Angeline's eyes wide yet unseeing as they fixed onto him, a shattering inhale wracking her entire body.

“Angeline,” Noah's voice was steady, his fingers warm on her arm. “Ange, it's okay … it's just a nightmare.”

She gulped, her breathing erratic. Noah leaned closer to her, his fingers brushing against her temple.

“Angeline,” he said again, his eyes searching her face. “Wake up, Ange. I'm here. It's okay.”

A split second later, Angeline’s breath hitched, a sharp sound that alerted her sudden consciousness; her body shot up in an instant, and before Noah knew what was happening, her elbow collided with his face as she lashed out at him.

“Fuck … “ Noah groaned low under his breath, clutching the side of his face with a hand. His eye throbbed instantaneously and Angeline's wild gaze turned onto him suddenly as the bulk of the images that had been swirling around her mind slowly ebbed away.

“Noah … “ she breathed, her eyes widening. “Oh God … Noah … I'm sorry - I didn't mean - “

“I know,” Noah cut her off as he blinked rather hard, his dark eyelashes kissing the pink skin beneath. “It's okay.”

Noah sat down at the edge of the bed then, his eyes fixing on her remorseful face. He was relieved when she didn't jerk away from his presence - rather, her eyes were fixed on him, her slightly tangled hair sticking to the faint sheen across her temples. In the reflection of her blown pupils, Noah could see his own face; he noted the slight bloodshot appearance of his left eye, and for some strange reason, he started to laugh.

“Bet you've been wanting to do that for ages, huh?” Noah teased her, a crooked grin flashing across his face. “I suppose I should thank you for not rupturing my eyeball.”

At that, Angeline winced. “I didn't.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Want to punch you,” she explained in a small voice. Noah grew quiet; his breathing stopped a second later when he felt Angeline's fingers trace the side of his face, the coolness of her skin soothing the burning skin to the side of his eye. His eyes fluttered shut at the contact, and her fingertips followed, feather light on the delicate skin of his eyelid.

“I'm sorry,” she breathed again, dropping her hand. “I … I have nightmares a lot. When I wake up, I wake up trying to hit something … I can't count the amount of times I've banged my head into my bedside table, or bruised my knuckles against it.”

Noah leaned back against the headboard of his bed, his shoulder faintly brushing hers. Again, she didn't pull away, and he wondered if perhaps he was seeing things, the impact to his eye distorting his vision.

“You're so … violent,” Noah said. He wasn't sure she would feel the humour words; but she started to smile, and he exhaled in relief.

A short pause, and then, “Nightmares, huh?”

Angeline shrugged. She was quiet for a long time, curling her legs up to her chest and resting her chin upon her knees. Noah was almost dozing off himself when she finally spoke. Her voice was barely a whisper, but it made his eyes open again, and he turned his head ever so slightly to look at her.

“I have three brothers,” she said. “They're all older than me. My … my mother died when I was six.”

Noah's chest twinged.

“I think … my father and my brothers started to resent me because I reminded them of her too much,” Angeline smiled a little wistfully, her eyes glazed as she stared at Noah's bedsheets. “She was kind. Gentle. I remember she liked flowers. And … pastries. She loved pastries … she used to say they made life sweeter.”

Noah smiled faintly. “I think she'd like knowing how many pain aux raisins you eat.”

The sound that left her made Noah's eyes prickle; halfway between an embarrassed giggle and a sharp exhale, the sliver of light in Angeline's eyes faded as she continued to speak.

“My father was … wrecked, when she died. First he was quiet. Then he was angry … all the time. My oldest brother was always away, at uni. The other two stayed out all day, and all night with their friends doing God knows what. I was the only one who was around when he … when he threw his fits.”

Noah's stomach lurched. He suddenly felt very uneasy; he had no idea where her story was going, but catching a glimpse of the cut on her cheek from earlier, he suddenly felt sick.

Angeline sat back a little, and her fingers found the neckline of the t-shirt she was wearing. She tugged it to the side a little, revealing a cluster of round scars, jagged edges dissolving into her pale skin. They began at the hollow of her throat, travelling down to beneath her collarbone, and Noah stared.

“He liked smoking,” Angeline explained flatly. “I was his favourite ashtray.”

The exhale that left Noah was splintered, its sharp shards burying themselves deep into his lungs. He tried not to stare the way he was, tried not to look the way he felt; but he couldn't help it - he couldn't respond, his eyes fixed on Angeline's face as she continued to speak.

“It continued for a few years. He'd get angry, he'd hit me, burn me … whatever was closest, really. But over time he just … started fading? He's still here but it's … it's like he's a ghost, almost like he's just waiting for his days to be over,” Angeline shrugged, chewing on her lip. “When he stopped hurting me, my brothers started. I was too far gone already to try and stop it, or fight back. Some days I expect it to happen, I know what's about to happen, and I just … let it.”

She leaned back then, her head inches away from his as it settled against the headboard. Her gaze travelled upwards, and her lips parted slowly in momentary wonder as she noted the tiny pinpricks of light dotted all over the ceiling of the room for the first time. They were just like stars, and for a reason she couldn't quite name, Angeline's throat closed up.

“My nightmares are usually always the same,” she said after a long while, her voice considerably quieter than it had been. “One of them is hurting me, trying to kill me … I guess I try to fight back in my sleep, which I can never bring myself to do in real life. I know I'm a coward. But I don't … I don't want to fight back. Because that would mean I'm a step closer to being like them, and I couldn't bear that. ”

“Fuck, Angeline … you're not a coward,” Noah gritted out between his tears. “Don't say that shit.”

She offered him a grateful smile. Noah reached out in response and gently took a hold of her hand in his, tangling their fingers atop the sheets. He squeezed her fingers carefully, just once, and he bit his lip when she squeezed them back rather than pulling away.

“Remember in school, there were times where I'd just disappear for weeks, or months?” Angeline whispered. She was looking down, watching the way Noah's thumb softly caressed the back of her knuckles.

Noah nodded, his throat clogged.

“Sometimes my injuries were too obvious,” Angeline swallowed. “On my face, or my hands … on areas I couldn't hide well. So I didn't come to school until they'd healed … but sometimes just when I'd gotten better, something else would happen. So weeks would turn into months, and I … “

She trailed off, and Noah rubbed his hand across his tight jaw, the throbbing ridling his eye suddenly completely forgotten.

“I moved out when I started uni,” Angeline said, her eyes fixing onto the starry ceiling again. “It was the first time in my life where I felt like I actually accomplished something. The first time where I began to imagine that maybe I could … move past everything. Move on. And for a while, I thought I was getting there. But yesterday … my oldest brother called me and told me that our father is sick. Really sick. I didn't know if I wanted to see him, after everything. But today, I caved, and then my brother … well, things ended up the way they always do.”

“He hit you?” Noah's voice was soft, painfully so.

Angeline's smile was humourless. “Slammed the door in my face. I think there's probably a lovely imprint of my face on it now. Family heirloom.”

Her bitter joke made Noah clench his jaw. He wanted to do much more than slam a door into the faces of the vile men in her story.

“When I met you for the first time, I was terrified,” Angeline's voice was quieter now, the words wobbling ever so slightly. “You were kind from the first time we spoke, even though I know it was probably your friends who set you up to talk to me. I could see it in Matthew's eyes.”

At that, Noah looked sheepish. The memory seemed like such a long time ago now, but it was clear as day in his mind, the way his best friend had jabbed his elbow into his side and crushed the bones of his foot in his eagerness to alert him of Angeline's attention.

“He had good intentions, I think,” Noah chuckled under his breath. “Poorly executed, but still.”

Angeline smiled. “This is what I mean. You've always been kind, not just to me, but to everyone. And that … you have no idea how scary that was to me. There were so many times where I nearly gave in and tried to let you get close to me, the way you were always trying to. But I just … I couldn't shake the feeling that you might turn on me like my father did, that you might secretly be just like my brothers. The easiest thing was to … just … “

“ … Push me away,” Noah finished for her, the words a mere breath. She turned to look at him then, and in that moment, Angeline's eyes were filled with more emotion than he had ever seen in her face before. She nodded slowly, and a tear slipped down her bruised cheek, sinking into the neckline of her t-shirt, right over the physical secret she had been hiding.

Suddenly, all the years that Noah had known Angeline made sense. The distance, the coldness, the bleakness in her eyes, the way she shut down whenever he tried to get closer to her, the awkward, uncomfortable way she carried herself - it all made sense.

And it broke his heart.

“I'm sorry,” Angeline's whisper was muffled as she dropped her face into her hands. “I'm so … so sorry Noah.”

Noah's face turned into one of bewilderment. “God … Ange, why are you sorry?”

“Because I know I hurt you,” Angeline sniffed. “I didn't want to hurt you. But I … I couldn't bring myself to … to … “

“Hey, it's okay,” Noah leaned towards her, and his hands were ever so gentle as they cupped her warm face, his fingers honing a slight tremor as they brushed away the tears from her skin. “Don't apologise to me, Angeline. Not for that … not ever.”

Her tears spilled onto his hands. Noah searched Angeline's eyes once before the restraint in him shattered, and before either of them had processed it, Noah's arms were tucked around Angeline's shoulders, his hand cradling the back of her head with utmost care against the curve of his throat.

Angeline, engulfed by the sudden comfort of his heat, let her tears fall. She curled her fingers into the back of Noah's t-shirt once she looped her arms around his torso, and the thin chain at his neck was cold, soothing almost as it kissed the flushed skin of her forehead. Her shoulders shook, her breathing erratic, and Noah held her tighter, the tips of his fingers brushing in calming strokes against her scalp.

“You're safe with me, Ange,” Noah whispered. His words were so quiet that he wondered if he had even said them aloud, or if they were just fragments of his thoughts. But Angeline's breath hitched, and her hands fisted a little harder into the cotton of his top, telling Noah he had spoken after all. “I promise you. You're safe with me, and you're safe here. Always.”

“I don't deserve you,” Angeline breathed, her words hot puffs of air against Noah's skin. “I really, really don't.”

“Don't say that,” Noah held her closer. “Don't say things like that … you deserve the world, Ange.”

She pulled her face away then, her eyes glassy. “When I went to your parents cafè earlier … I thought I'd burst into tears in front of them.”

Noah started to smile. “Why?”

She shrugged, wiping her fingers over her damp cheeks. “First it was your mum … she just … has this warmth to her. Even before she spoke to me I could feel it.”

At that, Noah's chest filled with pride.

“And then your dad … he looks so much like you,” Angeline whispered. “You're both exactly the same. And it … he … I guess I just … missed you.”

Noah had never heard those words leave Angeline's mouth before, as quiet as they were. His eyes widened and he let slip a strangled choke as he stared at the girl who just smiled in a placid manner.

“What did you just say?” Noah asked, his face contorting comically.

“I'm not repeating it.”

“I didn't hear you though.”

“Well that's too bad. Pay attention next time.”

Bursting into quiet laughter, Noah's hands returned to her face, his fingers caressing her cheekbones. “I missed you too. I always miss you.”

Angeline’s eyes watered. “Liar.”

“Not lying.”

Silence fell between them as they studied each other's faces, the reflections in the eyes mirroring one another; it wasn't until a loud rumbling sound broke through did either of them speak again, Noah erupting into chuckles just as Angeline whined in embarrassment.

“Someone's hungry,” Noah commented with a wide grin.

“Shut up,” Angeline scowled. And then, “What kind of pasta did your dad make?”

“Tomato,” Noah chuckled. “Want me to bring you some?”

Angeline nodded, her eyes softening. “I don't think I can bring myself to eat out there right now. Might start crying again.”

“Dad would join you,” Noah said. “He cries at everything.”

Leaving her giggling in his bed, Noah planted a light kiss to the tip of her nose before exiting his bedroom. It was only as he padded down the stairs did he feel the pain erupting behind his eye, and he couldn't help but chuckle to himself as he recalled the intensity at which Angeline had struck him with.

“The boy's gone mad … he's laughing to himself,” Chris called out to his wife a split second later, appearing at the foot of the stairs with a smirk, ready to tease his son. He immediately clocked the gradient of red and purple blooming across Noah's left eye socket, and he gawped at him, eyes widening in horror. “What did you do?”

“Ange fell asleep, had a nightmare, woke up and punched me,” Noah explained simply. He stopped moving once his father placed his hands on his shoulders, and he let the older man examine his face with furrowed brows. “Think she'd make a solid boxer.”

Once he was sure there wasn't any extra damage, Chris couldn't help it; he burst into laughter and slung his arm around Noah's neck, playfully ruffling up the mop of curls atop his head. “Can't believe you got beaten up by the love of your life.”

“Hey,” Noah huffed, though a flush spread across the bridge of his nose. “That's not what happened.”

“Really? She is the love of your life though, no?” Chris wiggled his eyebrows.

Noah's blush deepened. He was saved from replying when his mother appeared in front of him, and her mouth dropped open at his appearance.

“Noey … what were you both doing up there?” Y/N blinked, brushing her fingers over Noah's bruised skin. “I thought you took her to get some rest, not fight with each other?”

“We didn't fight,” Noah protested, though he smiled at the playfulness of his mother's tone. “She had a nightmare and was completely out of it … she was still half dreaming when she punched me.”

Y/N looked sympathetic. “That poor girl. God knows what she's been through.”

“She told me,” Noah said quietly. He watched as Y/N opened the door to the freezer, retrieving a soft ice pack. “I'll tell you later. If I think about it again I'll end up murdering someone.”

“That bad?” Chris raised an eyebrow.

“Her father's a piece of shit,” Noah said darkly, taking the ice pack from his mother. “And her brothers are the same. I can't let her go back there. She has her own place, but … I don't want her to be on her own right now.”

He didn't see the way Y/N and Chris shared a private glance with one another, memories floating between them both. Nor did he see the way Chris traced a soft finger down the inside of his wife's scarred arm, or the way she leaned into him ever so slightly.

“She can stay here for as long as she wants, Noey,” Y/N's voice was soft. “She can stay in one of the spare bedrooms. Or with you - whatever she prefers.”

“Just as long as you don't fight again,” Chris joked, chuckling to himself.

Noah grinned, pressing the ice pack to his eye. “I came to get your pasta, dad.”

Chris's eyes lit up. He clasped his hands together with joy, and he immediately moved towards the kitchen just as Y/N peered up at her son again.

“Does it hurt a lot?” She asked him.

Noah shrugged. “Nothing compared to what she's probably feeling.”

Y/N smiled a little sadly. “She's lucky to have you, Noey. I'm proud of you.”

Noah wrinkled his nose. “I don't wanna know what it feels like to cry with a swelling eye, mum.”

Laughing at that, Y/N stood on her tip toes and pressed a kiss to Noah's forehead. She patted his cheek softly. “You really remind me of your father, you know that?”

“Funny. Ange said when she saw dad earlier he reminded her of me too,” Noah said.

“She did?” Chan chuckled a little nervously as he brought over two large plates of steaming pasta.

“She said we look alike,” Noah said, taking the pasta. “And it made her miss me. Or something.”

“Or something?” Y/N teased.

“Ugh. You're gonna make me sick,” Sky suddenly appeared in front of them all, her tongue hanging out and her face one of pure disgust. “Not you too, Noey. Mum and dad are sappy enough … don't you start too.”

“I didn't do anything,” Noah rolled her eyes. “Go back to your frogs.”

“I will,” Sky pulled a face at him. “They're better than you.”

Shaking his head fondly as his sister disappeared again, Noah inclined his head towards his parents. “Gonna take these upstairs. Might crash after, so … goodnight?”

“You? You're gonna sleep?” Chris folded his arms across his chest as he cocked his head to the side.

“I'm gonna try,” Noah groaned.

“If you end up not sleeping, and you want some company, your mother and I will probably be awake,” Chris offered. “She's had too much coffee and I napped earlier. No sleep for us tonight.”

“Tell me something new,” Noah shook his head. It made his parents chuckle, and he flashed them both a grateful smile before returning to the staircase.

Angeline was fiddling with her phone when he entered the room. She looked up and shot him a warm smile, one that made Noah's heart lurch.

He still wasn't used to her not looking at him as though she wanted to lob a saucepan at his head.

“What were you doing?” Noah asked her as he handed her a plate of pasta.

In response, she held up her phone. She had stuck the holographic frog sticker Sky had given her earlier onto the back of her phone case, and Noah smiled.

“She's gonna go nuts when she sees that,” Noah sat down beside her, shivering as he slipped his legs between his cosy bed covers. “She already claimed we're making her sick, by the way.”

Angeline started to laugh. “I like her. She seems like she's a lot of fun.”

“She is,” Noah agreed. “Until she starts telling you her frogs are better than you or some shit.”

“What?” Angeline giggled, baffled.

“No clue,” Noah shook his head. He had started to fork the pasta into his mouth, and he groaned; he hadn't been able to savour the taste of it earlier when he'd rushed out of the door, but now the richness of it flooded through him with a wave of immense comfort. “My dad makes Michelin star worthy food and has the nerve to say it’s not good enough.”

Intrigued, Angeline scooped up pasta for herself. Upon chewing her first mouthful, her eyes widened and she stared at Noah who was nodding at her with a knowing smile.

“Fuck,” Angeline said in a soft voice, going in for a second mouthful.

It made Noah chuckle. “Told you.”

“Do your parents want another child?” Angeline asked; it was half a joke, but Noah looked at her with affectionate eyes nonetheless, and he bumped his shoulder against hers lightly.

“They said you can stay here for as long as you want,” he replied. “You can stay in here with me, or you can have your own room.”

Angeline was quiet. “Would you mind if I stayed with you?”

“Of course I wouldn't,” Noah breathed. “I think I'd prefer that.”

The girl blushed. She was about to reply when there was a knock at the door, and Noah smiled.

“Come in, mum,” Noah said.

“How'd you know it was me?” Y/N asked, tipping her head to the side. “It could have been your father. Or Ky. Or a ghost.”

“You have different knocks,” Noah chuckled. “Sky doesn't knock, she barges in. And I don't think ghosts can knock.”

“You'd be surprised,” Y/N hummed as she brought over a small tray, balancing two mugs atop it. “Angeline, darling, how are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you,” Angeline smiled up at her. “I think this is the best pasta I've ever had.”

Y/N beamed. “I'll tell Chris. His ears might fall off with embarrassment though. Here … I brought you both a drink - I made you some chai since you ordered that at the café earlier. If you'd like something else I can make you that?”

“Chai's perfect,” Angeline shook her head, accepting the mug gratefully. “It's my favourite drink … it's cosy.”

“Well, I can't deny that,” Y/N grinned.

“What do you have?” Angeline asked Noah curiously.

Noah grinned devilishly. “Coffee.”

“At this hour?” Angeline stared.

“It's decaf,” Noah whispered. “Don't tell anyone.”

“Fraud.”

Noah snorted with laughter.

“Do you want any more pasta?” Y/N asked them a moment later.

Noah looked to Angeline. She shook her head, patting her stomach.

“Thank you for letting me stay,” Angeline said then, her voice quiet. She looked as though she wanted to say something else, but her words caught in her throat, and Y/N's eyes softened in the dim lighting.

“Like my husband said, our home is your home,” Y/N said to her gently. She leaned down and dropped a motherly kiss to the top of the girl's head before moving towards the bedroom door again. “Don't kick her in your sleep, Noey.”

“Mum.”

Y/N's mischievous laughter trailed after her as she left, shutting the door behind her. It made Angeline smile, and Noah shook his head as he finished off the last of his pasta, a contagious chuckle of his own leaving him.

“She's so … nice,” Angeline whispered.

Noah smiled a little sadly. “She grew up in an abusive house too.”

Eyes widening, Angeline sat up a little. “Really?”

“Really,” Noah nodded. “Mix of physical and mental … she struggled a lot. She used to hurt herself when she was a teenager.”

Angeline's eyes started to water. “I … I had no idea.”

“She's okay now,” Noah shook his head. “Sometimes she tells me stories about her time at her parents’ house and it just … it makes me so angry. I don't know my grandparents on her side, but … I genuinely don't understand how some people can treat their own children that way.”

“Do you want to?”

Noah looked at her in question.

“Know your grandparents.”

Noah snorted. “No. I used to, as a kid. But now … I don't really want to involve myself with people who hurt my mum.”

Angeline suddenly felt for the older woman. She looked a little wistfully at the shut door, her heart twinging. “I want to hug her.”

“I think she'd like that,” Noah chuckled. He sipped on his coffee as she drank her chai, and the two of them fell into a comfortable silence again as they slowly finished their hot drinks.

When Angeline couldn't stop yawning, Noah decided it was time for the both of them to get some sleep. She had rolled onto her side on one side of his bed, her back towards him, and Noah paused for a moment; he didn't know whether to lay down beside her, or to roll out of bed and sleep on the floor.

“Noah?” Angeline's voice was soft in the dark.

“Hmm?”

“Can you … stay? With me.”

Her words were tentative, and Noah's heart thumped slowly in his chest. His eyes softened, and after a moment of hesitation, he pulled his hoodie off of his frame. He was left in a matching t-shirt to Angeline's, the fabric soft and warm as he laid down beside her, his gaze hooded as he took in the outline of her against his sheets.

His touch was gentle as he moved closer to her. He looped his arms around her waist, pulling her into his embrace, and Angeline exhaled lightly, her frame melting into his as he tucked her up in the safety of his warmth.

“Is this okay?” he whispered against her hair.

Angeline nodded, the top of her head brushing against the underside of his chin. “You're warm.”

Noah smiled. “Go to sleep, Ange. Sweet dreams.”

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