soft4changbin

[soft4changbin]

No Cameras

Mingi x video editor!reader

Summary: You’re used to watching Mingi from a screen — loud, charming, magnetic. But when he starts lingering behind in the editing suite after hours, you realize the version of him on camera isn’t the one you’re falling for.

Word count: 1,095

Most people knew Mingi as the loud one.

The life of the party. The one dancing in the hallways, screaming in rehearsals, joking through every behind-the-scenes vlog you edited.

That was the version of him you spent hours scrubbing through every week — frame by frame, laugh by laugh.

But lately, he’d started showing up after the cameras stopped.

You’d be alone in the editing suite — the small, windowless room down the hall with LED-lit screens and far too many coffee cups. And somehow, always just before midnight, the door would creak open.

“You’re still here?” he’d ask, holding two drinks.

“So are you,” you’d answer, accepting the iced tea without question.

You never asked why he stayed.

But one night, you finally did.

“You’re not in any of the footage,” Mingi said quietly, sitting across from you with his hoodie pulled low and his eyes fixed on the preview screen. “But you’re in all of it.”

You glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

He smiled, just a little. “I can tell when something’s your edit. The pacing. The music. The moments you choose to keep.”

You looked down at your keyboard. “I’m just doing my job.”

“No,” he said. “You’re making us real.”

You blinked. That wasn’t something idols usually said to staff. Especially not the loud, confident ones who looked like they were born to perform.

You studied him for a second — the curve of his jaw, the dark circles he wasn’t bothering to hide, the stillness you never saw on screen.

“You don’t talk like this in front of the camera,” you said quietly.

“I don’t feel like this in front of the camera.”

That hung in the air for a beat.

“Mingi,” you said carefully, “are you okay?”

He looked at you — really looked — and for once, didn’t smile.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But when I’m here, I feel a little closer to it.”

“To what?”

“To being myself.”

Your chest ached.

He leaned back, eyes closed. “I like that you don’t expect me to be funny.”

“I like that you let yourself be quiet.”

That made him open his eyes.

“I think about you a lot,” he said, voice soft. “Even when I’m on set. I wonder if you’re the one who’s going to watch me mess up. Or pick which parts of me get shown.”

You swallowed. “That’s a dangerous thing to admit.”

“I know,” he said. “But it’s true.”

You looked down at the paused video on your screen — Mingi, dancing shirtless in rehearsal, laughing with the crew. That version of him felt like a different person.

You clicked the spacebar.

Silence filled the room.

He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, voice low. “Do you ever wish you were in front of the camera?”

You shook your head. “Never.”

“Why?”

“Because I get to see the parts no one else does.”

His gaze on you deepened.

“Are you talking about me?”

You didn’t answer.

Because yes. Yes, you were.

He stood suddenly, circling the desk to stand behind you. His hands didn’t touch — just hovered, like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to do.

“I’m tired of performing,” he whispered. “But I’m not tired of this.”

You turned in your chair to face him.

And found him closer than you’d expected.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you said.

“I know.”

“You’re my subject.”

“You’re the one editing the story,” he said. “Doesn’t that give you all the power?”

You wanted to laugh. But your throat was tight.

“I don’t want power,” you whispered. “I just wanted to do good work.”

“You did,” he said. “You made me feel seen.”

And then, carefully — so slowly you could have stopped it at any moment — he knelt in front of you.

“I don’t need a camera to remember this,” he said. “So don’t worry. This part won’t be in the footage.”

Your heart cracked open.

“Mingi…”

“I’m not asking for everything,” he said. “Just this moment. Just you.”

You didn’t answer with words.

You reached forward — one hand in his hair, the other against his cheek — and held him there. Quiet. Steady.

He closed his eyes.

And for once, you weren’t watching him from behind a screen.

You were right there with him.

No cameras.

Just you and the boy who finally stopped performing.

[soft4changbin]

No Cameras

Mingi x video editor!reader

Summary: You’re used to watching Mingi from a screen — loud, charming, magnetic. But when he starts lingering behind in the editing suite after hours, you realize the version of him on camera isn’t the one you’re falling for.

Word count: 1,095

Most people knew Mingi as the loud one.

The life of the party. The one dancing in the hallways, screaming in rehearsals, joking through every behind-the-scenes vlog you edited.

That was the version of him you spent hours scrubbing through every week — frame by frame, laugh by laugh.

But lately, he’d started showing up after the cameras stopped.

You’d be alone in the editing suite — the small, windowless room down the hall with LED-lit screens and far too many coffee cups. And somehow, always just before midnight, the door would creak open.

“You’re still here?” he’d ask, holding two drinks.

“So are you,” you’d answer, accepting the iced tea without question.

You never asked why he stayed.

But one night, you finally did.

“You’re not in any of the footage,” Mingi said quietly, sitting across from you with his hoodie pulled low and his eyes fixed on the preview screen. “But you’re in all of it.”

You glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

He smiled, just a little. “I can tell when something’s your edit. The pacing. The music. The moments you choose to keep.”

You looked down at your keyboard. “I’m just doing my job.”

“No,” he said. “You’re making us real.”

You blinked. That wasn’t something idols usually said to staff. Especially not the loud, confident ones who looked like they were born to perform.

You studied him for a second — the curve of his jaw, the dark circles he wasn’t bothering to hide, the stillness you never saw on screen.

“You don’t talk like this in front of the camera,” you said quietly.

“I don’t feel like this in front of the camera.”

That hung in the air for a beat.

“Mingi,” you said carefully, “are you okay?”

He looked at you — really looked — and for once, didn’t smile.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But when I’m here, I feel a little closer to it.”

“To what?”

“To being myself.”

Your chest ached.

He leaned back, eyes closed. “I like that you don’t expect me to be funny.”

“I like that you let yourself be quiet.”

That made him open his eyes.

“I think about you a lot,” he said, voice soft. “Even when I’m on set. I wonder if you’re the one who’s going to watch me mess up. Or pick which parts of me get shown.”

You swallowed. “That’s a dangerous thing to admit.”

“I know,” he said. “But it’s true.”

You looked down at the paused video on your screen — Mingi, dancing shirtless in rehearsal, laughing with the crew. That version of him felt like a different person.

You clicked the spacebar.

Silence filled the room.

He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, voice low. “Do you ever wish you were in front of the camera?”

You shook your head. “Never.”

“Why?”

“Because I get to see the parts no one else does.”

His gaze on you deepened.

“Are you talking about me?”

You didn’t answer.

Because yes. Yes, you were.

He stood suddenly, circling the desk to stand behind you. His hands didn’t touch — just hovered, like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to do.

“I’m tired of performing,” he whispered. “But I’m not tired of this.”

You turned in your chair to face him.

And found him closer than you’d expected.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you said.

“I know.”

“You’re my subject.”

“You’re the one editing the story,” he said. “Doesn’t that give you all the power?”

You wanted to laugh. But your throat was tight.

“I don’t want power,” you whispered. “I just wanted to do good work.”

“You did,” he said. “You made me feel seen.”

And then, carefully — so slowly you could have stopped it at any moment — he knelt in front of you.

“I don’t need a camera to remember this,” he said. “So don’t worry. This part won’t be in the footage.”

Your heart cracked open.

“Mingi…”

“I’m not asking for everything,” he said. “Just this moment. Just you.”

You didn’t answer with words.

You reached forward — one hand in his hair, the other against his cheek — and held him there. Quiet. Steady.

He closed his eyes.

And for once, you weren’t watching him from behind a screen.

You were right there with him.

No cameras.

Just you and the boy who finally stopped performing.

[soft4changbin]

No Cameras

Mingi x video editor!reader

Summary: You’re used to watching Mingi from a screen — loud, charming, magnetic. But when he starts lingering behind in the editing suite after hours, you realize the version of him on camera isn’t the one you’re falling for.

Word count: 1,095

Most people knew Mingi as the loud one.

The life of the party. The one dancing in the hallways, screaming in rehearsals, joking through every behind-the-scenes vlog you edited.

That was the version of him you spent hours scrubbing through every week — frame by frame, laugh by laugh.

But lately, he’d started showing up after the cameras stopped.

You’d be alone in the editing suite — the small, windowless room down the hall with LED-lit screens and far too many coffee cups. And somehow, always just before midnight, the door would creak open.

“You’re still here?” he’d ask, holding two drinks.

“So are you,” you’d answer, accepting the iced tea without question.

You never asked why he stayed.

But one night, you finally did.

“You’re not in any of the footage,” Mingi said quietly, sitting across from you with his hoodie pulled low and his eyes fixed on the preview screen. “But you’re in all of it.”

You glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

He smiled, just a little. “I can tell when something’s your edit. The pacing. The music. The moments you choose to keep.”

You looked down at your keyboard. “I’m just doing my job.”

“No,” he said. “You’re making us real.”

You blinked. That wasn’t something idols usually said to staff. Especially not the loud, confident ones who looked like they were born to perform.

You studied him for a second — the curve of his jaw, the dark circles he wasn’t bothering to hide, the stillness you never saw on screen.

“You don’t talk like this in front of the camera,” you said quietly.

“I don’t feel like this in front of the camera.”

That hung in the air for a beat.

“Mingi,” you said carefully, “are you okay?”

He looked at you — really looked — and for once, didn’t smile.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But when I’m here, I feel a little closer to it.”

“To what?”

“To being myself.”

Your chest ached.

He leaned back, eyes closed. “I like that you don’t expect me to be funny.”

“I like that you let yourself be quiet.”

That made him open his eyes.

“I think about you a lot,” he said, voice soft. “Even when I’m on set. I wonder if you’re the one who’s going to watch me mess up. Or pick which parts of me get shown.”

You swallowed. “That’s a dangerous thing to admit.”

“I know,” he said. “But it’s true.”

You looked down at the paused video on your screen — Mingi, dancing shirtless in rehearsal, laughing with the crew. That version of him felt like a different person.

You clicked the spacebar.

Silence filled the room.

He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, voice low. “Do you ever wish you were in front of the camera?”

You shook your head. “Never.”

“Why?”

“Because I get to see the parts no one else does.”

His gaze on you deepened.

“Are you talking about me?”

You didn’t answer.

Because yes. Yes, you were.

He stood suddenly, circling the desk to stand behind you. His hands didn’t touch — just hovered, like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to do.

“I’m tired of performing,” he whispered. “But I’m not tired of this.”

You turned in your chair to face him.

And found him closer than you’d expected.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you said.

“I know.”

“You’re my subject.”

“You’re the one editing the story,” he said. “Doesn’t that give you all the power?”

You wanted to laugh. But your throat was tight.

“I don’t want power,” you whispered. “I just wanted to do good work.”

“You did,” he said. “You made me feel seen.”

And then, carefully — so slowly you could have stopped it at any moment — he knelt in front of you.

“I don’t need a camera to remember this,” he said. “So don’t worry. This part won’t be in the footage.”

Your heart cracked open.

“Mingi…”

“I’m not asking for everything,” he said. “Just this moment. Just you.”

You didn’t answer with words.

You reached forward — one hand in his hair, the other against his cheek — and held him there. Quiet. Steady.

He closed his eyes.

And for once, you weren’t watching him from behind a screen.

You were right there with him.

No cameras.

Just you and the boy who finally stopped performing.

[soft4changbin]

i really hope he creates an emotional dependence on this red hair!!

[soft4changbin]

For appearances

Felix x friend!reader

Summary: When fans start speculating that Felix has a secret girlfriend, his manager suggests faking a relationship to control the narrative. He chooses you—his longtime friend and safe place. But pretending to be in love with someone you’re already in love with? That’s not so easy.

Word count: 1,865 (got carried away again)

It starts as a shield.

A photo gets posted online. A girl leaving Felix’s apartment building. Same bag as you. Same hair color. The internet runs wild with theories.

He doesn’t deny it.

But not because it’s true.

He just… freezes.

The next day, management pulls him aside.

“Let’s get ahead of this. Control the narrative.”

Felix frowns. “How?”

“We go with it. Say it’s real. Fans already love the idea.”

His heart stutters.

You’re his friend. Someone who’s known him before the spotlight. Before bleach-blond hair and encore stages. Before he had to fake a smile on the bad days.

The only person who feels like home.

He doesn’t want to drag you into this.

But when he sees your name trending, when you call sounding scared and overwhelmed, he blurts it out without thinking:

“We could fake it.”

You agree because you trust him.

He agrees because he doesn’t trust himself not to fall deeper.

You’ve always been close — movie nights, quiet cafés, that time you helped him put up fairy lights in his studio.

But this? Walking beside you with fingers laced. Looking at you like the world shrinks to just you.

This is dangerous.

Because somewhere in his chest, real feelings are curling up like ivy, slow and stubborn.

The first “date” is at a night market.

You’re bundled in oversized jackets, sharing a skewer of spicy rice cakes. Cameras flash from across the street. Fans squeal from behind corners.

Felix laughs a little too loudly. You squeeze his hand.

“It’s weird pretending,” you whisper.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You both pretend it’s just the attention that’s weird — not the way your pinkies brush and linger. Not the way his eyes keep flicking to your mouth like he’s memorizing the shape of your smile.

He tells the others about the plan.

They’re surprisingly supportive.

Han wiggles his eyebrows. “So how long till it’s not fake?”

Felix turns red. “It’s not like that.”

But Hyunjin just smirks. “Right. Totally. Except you’re in love with her.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Because it’s getting harder to lie.

Especially when you keep falling asleep on his shoulder during movie nights. Or sending him voice notes of random thoughts that make his day. Or wearing his hoodie without asking.

You’re not trying to kill him.

But you are.

One night, you’re at his place. Rain taps against the windows. The world feels smaller, quieter.

You’re wearing his hoodie again, legs tucked under you on the couch. Felix walks in with tea and sets your mug down gently.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He sits beside you. Not too close. But not far enough to be safe either.

“Are we doing okay?” you ask softly. “Convincing people?”

He nods. “Almost too well.”

You glance at him. “Yeah?”

He meets your eyes.

And something breaks open.

“I think I forget it’s fake sometimes.”

Your breath hitches.

He keeps going—voice low, like he’s afraid to scare the moment away. “You’re the easiest person I’ve ever been around. And now I get to hold your hand in public, call you mine, and people cheer.”

You whisper, “So what’s the hard part?”

He smiles, small and sad. “Letting go when it’s over.”

You kiss him that night.

It’s soft. Timid. Like a question asked without words.

He answers with his hands in your hair, his heart in his mouth.

You decide not to tell the company right away.

Let the rumor fade. Let the plan “end.”

But behind the scenes, you’re still going on walks. Still sneaking each other snacks. Still waking up to good morning texts and falling asleep to voice notes.

Only now, there’s no pretending.

Only now, when Felix holds your hand, he pulls you a little closer.

And whispers things like:

“I love the way you hum when you read.”

And:

“I think I started falling for you the first night we faked it.”

And:

“I’m not faking anything anymore.”

[soft4changbin]

For appearances

Felix x friend!reader

Summary: When fans start speculating that Felix has a secret girlfriend, his manager suggests faking a relationship to control the narrative. He chooses you—his longtime friend and safe place. But pretending to be in love with someone you’re already in love with? That’s not so easy.

Word count: 1,865 (got carried away again)

It starts as a shield.

A photo gets posted online. A girl leaving Felix’s apartment building. Same bag as you. Same hair color. The internet runs wild with theories.

He doesn’t deny it.

But not because it’s true.

He just… freezes.

The next day, management pulls him aside.

“Let’s get ahead of this. Control the narrative.”

Felix frowns. “How?”

“We go with it. Say it’s real. Fans already love the idea.”

His heart stutters.

You’re his friend. Someone who’s known him before the spotlight. Before bleach-blond hair and encore stages. Before he had to fake a smile on the bad days.

The only person who feels like home.

He doesn’t want to drag you into this.

But when he sees your name trending, when you call sounding scared and overwhelmed, he blurts it out without thinking:

“We could fake it.”

You agree because you trust him.

He agrees because he doesn’t trust himself not to fall deeper.

You’ve always been close — movie nights, quiet cafés, that time you helped him put up fairy lights in his studio.

But this? Walking beside you with fingers laced. Looking at you like the world shrinks to just you.

This is dangerous.

Because somewhere in his chest, real feelings are curling up like ivy, slow and stubborn.

The first “date” is at a night market.

You’re bundled in oversized jackets, sharing a skewer of spicy rice cakes. Cameras flash from across the street. Fans squeal from behind corners.

Felix laughs a little too loudly. You squeeze his hand.

“It’s weird pretending,” you whisper.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You both pretend it’s just the attention that’s weird — not the way your pinkies brush and linger. Not the way his eyes keep flicking to your mouth like he’s memorizing the shape of your smile.

He tells the others about the plan.

They’re surprisingly supportive.

Han wiggles his eyebrows. “So how long till it’s not fake?”

Felix turns red. “It’s not like that.”

But Hyunjin just smirks. “Right. Totally. Except you’re in love with her.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Because it’s getting harder to lie.

Especially when you keep falling asleep on his shoulder during movie nights. Or sending him voice notes of random thoughts that make his day. Or wearing his hoodie without asking.

You’re not trying to kill him.

But you are.

One night, you’re at his place. Rain taps against the windows. The world feels smaller, quieter.

You’re wearing his hoodie again, legs tucked under you on the couch. Felix walks in with tea and sets your mug down gently.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He sits beside you. Not too close. But not far enough to be safe either.

“Are we doing okay?” you ask softly. “Convincing people?”

He nods. “Almost too well.”

You glance at him. “Yeah?”

He meets your eyes.

And something breaks open.

“I think I forget it’s fake sometimes.”

Your breath hitches.

He keeps going—voice low, like he’s afraid to scare the moment away. “You’re the easiest person I’ve ever been around. And now I get to hold your hand in public, call you mine, and people cheer.”

You whisper, “So what’s the hard part?”

He smiles, small and sad. “Letting go when it’s over.”

You kiss him that night.

It’s soft. Timid. Like a question asked without words.

He answers with his hands in your hair, his heart in his mouth.

You decide not to tell the company right away.

Let the rumor fade. Let the plan “end.”

But behind the scenes, you’re still going on walks. Still sneaking each other snacks. Still waking up to good morning texts and falling asleep to voice notes.

Only now, there’s no pretending.

Only now, when Felix holds your hand, he pulls you a little closer.

And whispers things like:

“I love the way you hum when you read.”

And:

“I think I started falling for you the first night we faked it.”

And:

“I’m not faking anything anymore.”

[soft4changbin]

For appearances

Felix x friend!reader

Summary: When fans start speculating that Felix has a secret girlfriend, his manager suggests faking a relationship to control the narrative. He chooses you—his longtime friend and safe place. But pretending to be in love with someone you’re already in love with? That’s not so easy.

Word count: 1,865 (got carried away again)

It starts as a shield.

A photo gets posted online. A girl leaving Felix’s apartment building. Same bag as you. Same hair color. The internet runs wild with theories.

He doesn’t deny it.

But not because it’s true.

He just… freezes.

The next day, management pulls him aside.

“Let’s get ahead of this. Control the narrative.”

Felix frowns. “How?”

“We go with it. Say it’s real. Fans already love the idea.”

His heart stutters.

You’re his friend. Someone who’s known him before the spotlight. Before bleach-blond hair and encore stages. Before he had to fake a smile on the bad days.

The only person who feels like home.

He doesn’t want to drag you into this.

But when he sees your name trending, when you call sounding scared and overwhelmed, he blurts it out without thinking:

“We could fake it.”

You agree because you trust him.

He agrees because he doesn’t trust himself not to fall deeper.

You’ve always been close — movie nights, quiet cafés, that time you helped him put up fairy lights in his studio.

But this? Walking beside you with fingers laced. Looking at you like the world shrinks to just you.

This is dangerous.

Because somewhere in his chest, real feelings are curling up like ivy, slow and stubborn.

The first “date” is at a night market.

You’re bundled in oversized jackets, sharing a skewer of spicy rice cakes. Cameras flash from across the street. Fans squeal from behind corners.

Felix laughs a little too loudly. You squeeze his hand.

“It’s weird pretending,” you whisper.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You both pretend it’s just the attention that’s weird — not the way your pinkies brush and linger. Not the way his eyes keep flicking to your mouth like he’s memorizing the shape of your smile.

He tells the others about the plan.

They’re surprisingly supportive.

Han wiggles his eyebrows. “So how long till it’s not fake?”

Felix turns red. “It’s not like that.”

But Hyunjin just smirks. “Right. Totally. Except you’re in love with her.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Because it’s getting harder to lie.

Especially when you keep falling asleep on his shoulder during movie nights. Or sending him voice notes of random thoughts that make his day. Or wearing his hoodie without asking.

You’re not trying to kill him.

But you are.

One night, you’re at his place. Rain taps against the windows. The world feels smaller, quieter.

You’re wearing his hoodie again, legs tucked under you on the couch. Felix walks in with tea and sets your mug down gently.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He sits beside you. Not too close. But not far enough to be safe either.

“Are we doing okay?” you ask softly. “Convincing people?”

He nods. “Almost too well.”

You glance at him. “Yeah?”

He meets your eyes.

And something breaks open.

“I think I forget it’s fake sometimes.”

Your breath hitches.

He keeps going—voice low, like he’s afraid to scare the moment away. “You’re the easiest person I’ve ever been around. And now I get to hold your hand in public, call you mine, and people cheer.”

You whisper, “So what’s the hard part?”

He smiles, small and sad. “Letting go when it’s over.”

You kiss him that night.

It’s soft. Timid. Like a question asked without words.

He answers with his hands in your hair, his heart in his mouth.

You decide not to tell the company right away.

Let the rumor fade. Let the plan “end.”

But behind the scenes, you’re still going on walks. Still sneaking each other snacks. Still waking up to good morning texts and falling asleep to voice notes.

Only now, there’s no pretending.

Only now, when Felix holds your hand, he pulls you a little closer.

And whispers things like:

“I love the way you hum when you read.”

And:

“I think I started falling for you the first night we faked it.”

And:

“I’m not faking anything anymore.”

[soft4changbin]

In between songs

Soul x childhood bestie!reader

Summary: A quiet night in Soul’s studio leads to the softest kind of confession — not with words, but through a song that says everything he never could.

Word count: 1,103

You and Soul have never needed a lot of words.

Even when you were little, he was quieter than the other boys — more focused, more observant. He’d watch the world with wide eyes, never rushing to speak unless it really mattered.

And somehow, you always understood him anyway.

That’s why it doesn’t surprise you when he texts you at 11:42 p.m. on a Friday:

Soul: Can you come to the studio?

You: Now??

Soul: Please.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re slipping into the small, dimly lit room at the back of the company building, still in your hoodie and slippers. He’s already there, hunched over his laptop, headphones around his neck, the glow from the screen painting his face in soft blues and purples.

You sit beside him, breathless. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just passes you one of the headphones and clicks play.

A soft beat begins — ambient and low, the kind that feels like midnight. Layered in are piano chords that sound like rain on pavement. And then: his voice.

You freeze.

It’s not like anything you’ve heard from him before. It’s tender. Intimate. Every word lands like a secret.

And the song is about you.

The hoodie you always wear. The way you curl up in the corner of the couch. The exact shade of your laugh.

“You don’t talk much, but I always know what you mean.”

“You’ve been here since the start — even when I didn’t know where I was going.”

When the track fades out, your chest feels too full.

You take the headphone off slowly, staring at him. “Soul…”

He’s still not looking at you — just fidgeting with the zipper on his hoodie, jaw tense. “I wasn’t gonna play it for you.”

“Why did you?”

“Because I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore.”

Silence.

He finally lifts his eyes to meet yours, and there’s something raw there. Nervous. Unfiltered.

“I don’t say things easily,” he murmurs. “You know that. But I meant every word.”

You inhale shakily. “You wrote a whole song about me.”

He nods once. “I’ve been writing it for months. I just kept telling myself it was nothing. That it was normal to feel this way about someone who knows you so well.”

“And now?”

“Now I know it’s not just friendship.”

The confession lingers between you, delicate and terrifying.

You think back to every quiet moment over the years — the way he’d wordlessly offer you half his snack, how he’d wait behind after dance practice just to walk you home, how his eyes always softened when they landed on you.

The signs were there. You just didn’t want to risk misreading them.

You reach out and take his hand.

He looks at your fingers laced through his like he’s afraid to breathe.

“I don’t talk much either,” you whisper. “But I think I’ve felt this for a long time too.”

He blinks, like he’s trying to process it.

You give a small smile. “I just didn’t know how to say it.”

His shoulders relax — just barely — and the corner of his mouth lifts.

He leans in, resting his forehead against yours.

Neither of you speaks.

You don’t need to.

In the silence between songs, something new begins — something you’ve both been waiting for, even if you didn’t have the words.

[soft4changbin]

𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞

⤷ ゛ ⋮ ⌗ ┆ 𝒇ireman!𝓬hangbin × 𝒇em!𝓻eader ˎˊ˗

₊˚⊹ ᰔ │ smau, fluff, cursing, kys/kms jokes, reader got trapped in a elevator becomes obsessed with the man who saved them.

⟶ [ 𝐤𝐚𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ] based on the time when i got trapped in an elevator and got saved by a sexy fireman. ♡ ︎ [ 𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢 ]

reblogs, likes and replies are appreciated! feel free to send constructive feedback/thoughts in my asks!

[soft4changbin]

In between songs

Soul x childhood bestie!reader

Summary: A quiet night in Soul’s studio leads to the softest kind of confession — not with words, but through a song that says everything he never could.

Word count: 1,103

You and Soul have never needed a lot of words.

Even when you were little, he was quieter than the other boys — more focused, more observant. He’d watch the world with wide eyes, never rushing to speak unless it really mattered.

And somehow, you always understood him anyway.

That’s why it doesn’t surprise you when he texts you at 11:42 p.m. on a Friday:

Soul: Can you come to the studio?

You: Now??

Soul: Please.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re slipping into the small, dimly lit room at the back of the company building, still in your hoodie and slippers. He’s already there, hunched over his laptop, headphones around his neck, the glow from the screen painting his face in soft blues and purples.

You sit beside him, breathless. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just passes you one of the headphones and clicks play.

A soft beat begins — ambient and low, the kind that feels like midnight. Layered in are piano chords that sound like rain on pavement. And then: his voice.

You freeze.

It’s not like anything you’ve heard from him before. It’s tender. Intimate. Every word lands like a secret.

And the song is about you.

The hoodie you always wear. The way you curl up in the corner of the couch. The exact shade of your laugh.

“You don’t talk much, but I always know what you mean.”

“You’ve been here since the start — even when I didn’t know where I was going.”

When the track fades out, your chest feels too full.

You take the headphone off slowly, staring at him. “Soul…”

He’s still not looking at you — just fidgeting with the zipper on his hoodie, jaw tense. “I wasn’t gonna play it for you.”

“Why did you?”

“Because I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore.”

Silence.

He finally lifts his eyes to meet yours, and there’s something raw there. Nervous. Unfiltered.

“I don’t say things easily,” he murmurs. “You know that. But I meant every word.”

You inhale shakily. “You wrote a whole song about me.”

He nods once. “I’ve been writing it for months. I just kept telling myself it was nothing. That it was normal to feel this way about someone who knows you so well.”

“And now?”

“Now I know it’s not just friendship.”

The confession lingers between you, delicate and terrifying.

You think back to every quiet moment over the years — the way he’d wordlessly offer you half his snack, how he’d wait behind after dance practice just to walk you home, how his eyes always softened when they landed on you.

The signs were there. You just didn’t want to risk misreading them.

You reach out and take his hand.

He looks at your fingers laced through his like he’s afraid to breathe.

“I don’t talk much either,” you whisper. “But I think I’ve felt this for a long time too.”

He blinks, like he’s trying to process it.

You give a small smile. “I just didn’t know how to say it.”

His shoulders relax — just barely — and the corner of his mouth lifts.

He leans in, resting his forehead against yours.

Neither of you speaks.

You don’t need to.

In the silence between songs, something new begins — something you’ve both been waiting for, even if you didn’t have the words.

[soft4changbin]

In between songs

Soul x childhood bestie!reader

Summary: A quiet night in Soul’s studio leads to the softest kind of confession — not with words, but through a song that says everything he never could.

Word count: 1,103

You and Soul have never needed a lot of words.

Even when you were little, he was quieter than the other boys — more focused, more observant. He’d watch the world with wide eyes, never rushing to speak unless it really mattered.

And somehow, you always understood him anyway.

That’s why it doesn’t surprise you when he texts you at 11:42 p.m. on a Friday:

Soul: Can you come to the studio?

You: Now??

Soul: Please.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re slipping into the small, dimly lit room at the back of the company building, still in your hoodie and slippers. He’s already there, hunched over his laptop, headphones around his neck, the glow from the screen painting his face in soft blues and purples.

You sit beside him, breathless. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just passes you one of the headphones and clicks play.

A soft beat begins — ambient and low, the kind that feels like midnight. Layered in are piano chords that sound like rain on pavement. And then: his voice.

You freeze.

It’s not like anything you’ve heard from him before. It’s tender. Intimate. Every word lands like a secret.

And the song is about you.

The hoodie you always wear. The way you curl up in the corner of the couch. The exact shade of your laugh.

“You don’t talk much, but I always know what you mean.”

“You’ve been here since the start — even when I didn’t know where I was going.”

When the track fades out, your chest feels too full.

You take the headphone off slowly, staring at him. “Soul…”

He’s still not looking at you — just fidgeting with the zipper on his hoodie, jaw tense. “I wasn’t gonna play it for you.”

“Why did you?”

“Because I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore.”

Silence.

He finally lifts his eyes to meet yours, and there’s something raw there. Nervous. Unfiltered.

“I don’t say things easily,” he murmurs. “You know that. But I meant every word.”

You inhale shakily. “You wrote a whole song about me.”

He nods once. “I’ve been writing it for months. I just kept telling myself it was nothing. That it was normal to feel this way about someone who knows you so well.”

“And now?”

“Now I know it’s not just friendship.”

The confession lingers between you, delicate and terrifying.

You think back to every quiet moment over the years — the way he’d wordlessly offer you half his snack, how he’d wait behind after dance practice just to walk you home, how his eyes always softened when they landed on you.

The signs were there. You just didn’t want to risk misreading them.

You reach out and take his hand.

He looks at your fingers laced through his like he’s afraid to breathe.

“I don’t talk much either,” you whisper. “But I think I’ve felt this for a long time too.”

He blinks, like he’s trying to process it.

You give a small smile. “I just didn’t know how to say it.”

His shoulders relax — just barely — and the corner of his mouth lifts.

He leans in, resting his forehead against yours.

Neither of you speaks.

You don’t need to.

In the silence between songs, something new begins — something you’ve both been waiting for, even if you didn’t have the words.

[soft4changbin]

Hands-on

San x physical therapist!reader

Summary: You’re brought in to help San recover after an injury sidelines him mid-tour. He’s always been intense, but in the quiet of the rehab room — when it’s just your hands and his pain — you start seeing his softer side. And maybe he starts seeing more in you, too.

Word count: 1,094

You were brought in because of San’s shoulder.

A sharp pull during a dance rehearsal. A wince that turned into a day of stiffness, then two. Then the manager called.

“We need someone we can trust,” they’d said. “Someone quiet. Discreet.”

You weren’t new to idol injuries. You’d taped ankles in dressing rooms, iced knees in stairwells, reset misaligned joints between stages. You knew the drill.

But you didn’t know San.

Not really.

He was friendly, loud, always moving — until the injury. Then he was quiet. Frustrated. Distant.

“I’m fine,” he said at the first session, waving you off.

“You’re not,” you said simply, kneeling beside him.

He looked at you then. Really looked. Like no one had said that to him before — or like no one had meant it.

You started with gentle stretches.

Tension tight in his traps, pain spiking when his arm moved too far. You kept your hands steady, voice calm. He followed instructions to the letter.

Until your third session, when the silence finally broke.

“I hate being still,” he murmured, eyes on the ceiling.

You were massaging down his arm, kneading through the tightness.

“I figured,” you replied softly.

“Feels like I’m falling behind.”

You paused. “You’re healing. That’s not falling behind.”

He glanced at you — not smiling, not faking.

“Everyone else is moving forward,” he said. “And I’m here. With my arm taped.”

You gently pressed your thumb into the knot in his shoulder. He flinched.

“That hurt?” you asked.

“No,” he said. “It’s just… you always know exactly where to press.”

You didn’t answer that. You didn’t need to.

Because the truth was — you did know. You’d spent hours studying his posture, his gait, the subtle way he shifted to protect his pain. You knew his body better than you probably should.

And you were starting to worry you were getting to know his heart too.

By the sixth session, something had changed.

He was quieter when others were around, more focused when it was just you. His eyes lingered. His fingers brushed yours when you passed him the heat pack.

You tried to stay neutral. Professional.

But when he winced and instinctively grabbed your wrist — grounding himself, not for pain but for comfort — you didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to be strong here,” you whispered, adjusting his shoulder with slow, careful pressure. “You just have to be.”

He didn’t speak. But he didn’t let go of your wrist either.

After one late session, long after the others had left, he stayed sitting on the mat even after you’d packed your kit.

You gave him a look. “You okay?”

He nodded. “I just… I don’t want to go back to the dorm yet.”

You raised a brow. “That’s not a great sign.”

“No, it’s not that.” He leaned back on his palms, wincing slightly, then relaxing. “It’s just… quiet here.”

“It’s a rehab room,” you said, half smiling. “Not exactly a party.”

“I like the quiet,” he said. “When it’s with you.”

That stopped you.

He glanced at you, uncertain. “Was that too much?”

You slowly sat beside him on the mat.

“No,” you said quietly. “But it’s not nothing, either.”

He looked down at his hands. “I know we’re not supposed to feel things. But I think I do.”

Your heart thudded — because you did too. But admitting it meant cracking something open you couldn’t close again.

Still, you asked, “What do you feel?”

He looked up. Eyes clear, vulnerable.

“Safe. Seen. Not like someone who needs fixing. Just… someone who needs you.”

And just like that, all your rules unraveled.

You reached for his hand.

He met you halfway.

His palm was warm, fingers curling around yours. Slow. Solid.

“Can I keep coming?” he asked. “Even after the shoulder heals?”

Your lips curved.

“As long as you pretend you still need my help.”

He grinned — that bright, boyish smile — and leaned forward slightly.

“I’m always gonna need you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

And when his forehead rested gently against yours, you didn’t move away.

You just closed your eyes and let it happen.

Not a kiss. Not yet.

But something honest. And real.

[soft4changbin]

Hands-on

San x physical therapist!reader

Summary: You’re brought in to help San recover after an injury sidelines him mid-tour. He’s always been intense, but in the quiet of the rehab room — when it’s just your hands and his pain — you start seeing his softer side. And maybe he starts seeing more in you, too.

Word count: 1,094

You were brought in because of San’s shoulder.

A sharp pull during a dance rehearsal. A wince that turned into a day of stiffness, then two. Then the manager called.

“We need someone we can trust,” they’d said. “Someone quiet. Discreet.”

You weren’t new to idol injuries. You’d taped ankles in dressing rooms, iced knees in stairwells, reset misaligned joints between stages. You knew the drill.

But you didn’t know San.

Not really.

He was friendly, loud, always moving — until the injury. Then he was quiet. Frustrated. Distant.

“I’m fine,” he said at the first session, waving you off.

“You’re not,” you said simply, kneeling beside him.

He looked at you then. Really looked. Like no one had said that to him before — or like no one had meant it.

You started with gentle stretches.

Tension tight in his traps, pain spiking when his arm moved too far. You kept your hands steady, voice calm. He followed instructions to the letter.

Until your third session, when the silence finally broke.

“I hate being still,” he murmured, eyes on the ceiling.

You were massaging down his arm, kneading through the tightness.

“I figured,” you replied softly.

“Feels like I’m falling behind.”

You paused. “You’re healing. That’s not falling behind.”

He glanced at you — not smiling, not faking.

“Everyone else is moving forward,” he said. “And I’m here. With my arm taped.”

You gently pressed your thumb into the knot in his shoulder. He flinched.

“That hurt?” you asked.

“No,” he said. “It’s just… you always know exactly where to press.”

You didn’t answer that. You didn’t need to.

Because the truth was — you did know. You’d spent hours studying his posture, his gait, the subtle way he shifted to protect his pain. You knew his body better than you probably should.

And you were starting to worry you were getting to know his heart too.

By the sixth session, something had changed.

He was quieter when others were around, more focused when it was just you. His eyes lingered. His fingers brushed yours when you passed him the heat pack.

You tried to stay neutral. Professional.

But when he winced and instinctively grabbed your wrist — grounding himself, not for pain but for comfort — you didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to be strong here,” you whispered, adjusting his shoulder with slow, careful pressure. “You just have to be.”

He didn’t speak. But he didn’t let go of your wrist either.

After one late session, long after the others had left, he stayed sitting on the mat even after you’d packed your kit.

You gave him a look. “You okay?”

He nodded. “I just… I don’t want to go back to the dorm yet.”

You raised a brow. “That’s not a great sign.”

“No, it’s not that.” He leaned back on his palms, wincing slightly, then relaxing. “It’s just… quiet here.”

“It’s a rehab room,” you said, half smiling. “Not exactly a party.”

“I like the quiet,” he said. “When it’s with you.”

That stopped you.

He glanced at you, uncertain. “Was that too much?”

You slowly sat beside him on the mat.

“No,” you said quietly. “But it’s not nothing, either.”

He looked down at his hands. “I know we’re not supposed to feel things. But I think I do.”

Your heart thudded — because you did too. But admitting it meant cracking something open you couldn’t close again.

Still, you asked, “What do you feel?”

He looked up. Eyes clear, vulnerable.

“Safe. Seen. Not like someone who needs fixing. Just… someone who needs you.”

And just like that, all your rules unraveled.

You reached for his hand.

He met you halfway.

His palm was warm, fingers curling around yours. Slow. Solid.

“Can I keep coming?” he asked. “Even after the shoulder heals?”

Your lips curved.

“As long as you pretend you still need my help.”

He grinned — that bright, boyish smile — and leaned forward slightly.

“I’m always gonna need you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

And when his forehead rested gently against yours, you didn’t move away.

You just closed your eyes and let it happen.

Not a kiss. Not yet.

But something honest. And real.

[soft4changbin]

Just for the lyrics

Han Jisung x reader

Summary: When a dating rumor goes viral, Han Jisung suggests pretending it’s real — all for the sake of “creative inspiration.” But somewhere between inside jokes and late-night songwriting, fake feelings blur into something painfully real. And neither of you are sure how to go back.

Word count: 1,876 (got a little carried away)

It starts with a blurry photo.

You’re leaving a convenience store at 1 a.m. A guy walks behind you. Hood up, mask on. The internet thinks it’s Han Jisung.

It’s not.

Except… it also kind of is.

You two ran into each other by accident that night — same street, same snack run, same dumb craving for banana milk. You said hi, laughed about the coincidence, and left five minutes apart.

But someone snapped a photo, and the rumor mill spins fast.

Within hours, “Han Jisung Dating Mystery Girl?” is trending.

Your phone explodes.

So does his.

“Okay,” Jisung says, spinning in his studio chair like he’s thinking too fast and too much. “This might sound insane, but what if we just… go with it?”

You blink. “Go with what?”

“The dating thing. I say we’re together, we lay low for a few weeks, and boom — controversy dies.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why would you want that?”

He stops spinning.

“Because,” he says, shrugging, “I’ve been trying to write love songs and I’ve got nothing. But if we’re ‘dating’… maybe I’ll get inspired.”

You stare.

He grins, sheepish. “Also, you’re cool and I trust you not to ruin my life.”

“…Great,” you mutter. “The foundation of all solid relationships.”

You agree — partly because you feel bad, partly because it is kind of funny.

You send each other playlists. Text dumb inside jokes. Leave just enough digital breadcrumbs to keep fans guessing.

He starts calling you “my muse” in interviews.

You punch his arm the first time.

But the second time, your heart does something stupid.

Because it’s not just for the cameras anymore.

One night, you’re in his studio watching him work.

He’s chewing his lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard, stuck on a line.

You throw a pillow at him. “Still blocked?”

“I need a lyric that sounds like heartbreak,” he mutters. “But softer. Like… missing someone who was never really yours.”

Your breath catches.

You don’t say anything.

He glances up — and you know he feels it too. The tension. The unspoken.

He doesn’t write anything else that night.

Neither of you leave.

The next day, he sends you a demo.

It’s quiet. Raw. Your name is never mentioned, but every lyric feels like a secret just for you.

You listen to it three times, curled up in bed, heart cracking open in places you didn’t know were soft.

Later, you text him:

you said this was fake

He replies instantly:

i lied

That weekend, he takes you to the same convenience store.

“This feels full circle,” he says, grabbing a banana milk.

You smile. “Yeah, except this time we are dating.”

He looks at you — really looks — like he’s still catching up to the truth of it.

Then softly: “Thanks for pretending.”

You take his hand.

“Thanks for stopping.”

It happens two weeks after the song drops.

The demo becomes a full track. The fans lose their minds over it — claiming it’s the most emotional thing Jisung’s ever written. They dissect every lyric, every harmony, wondering who it’s about.

He never tells them.

But he sends you the final version before it’s out. Along with a message:

“If you’re free… come to the studio tonight?”

You don’t think twice.

The lights are low when you walk in. He’s sitting on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, nervous fingers twisting a ring on his hand.

“You came,” he says, standing up a little too fast.

“You asked.”

He looks you over like he’s trying to memorize you again — but this time, it’s not for pretend. Not for lyrics. Not for the story fans think they know.

It’s just you. And him.

“Look,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck, “I know we agreed to let things fade out. Let the rumors die. No big public goodbye or anything.”

You nod, waiting.

He exhales. “But I can’t do that.”

You blink. “Why?”

“Because…” He finally meets your eyes, and his voice cracks just a little. “Because none of it was fake for me. Not after the first week. I don’t even know when it changed, just… somewhere between laughing with you and writing that stupid song, I caught feelings I didn’t plan for.”

Your heart thuds.

“And I know it’s selfish,” he says quickly, “because we were supposed to fake it for PR or whatever. But I wasn’t acting. Not when I texted you at midnight. Not when I played that demo. Not when I looked at you like I was falling.”

You take a step forward, slow but certain.

“Then stop pretending now.”

He freezes.

You smile, nervous but honest. “I wasn’t acting either, Jisung.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like relief and wonder wrapped into one.

Then he crosses the room in two long steps and kisses you — soft and trembling like he’s scared he’ll wake up from it.

You kiss him back like you’ve been waiting for this moment since the very first lie.

And when you finally pull away, his smile is the realest thing you’ve ever seen.

[soft4changbin]

Just for the lyrics

Han Jisung x reader

Summary: When a dating rumor goes viral, Han Jisung suggests pretending it’s real — all for the sake of “creative inspiration.” But somewhere between inside jokes and late-night songwriting, fake feelings blur into something painfully real. And neither of you are sure how to go back.

Word count: 1,876 (got a little carried away)

It starts with a blurry photo.

You’re leaving a convenience store at 1 a.m. A guy walks behind you. Hood up, mask on. The internet thinks it’s Han Jisung.

It’s not.

Except… it also kind of is.

You two ran into each other by accident that night — same street, same snack run, same dumb craving for banana milk. You said hi, laughed about the coincidence, and left five minutes apart.

But someone snapped a photo, and the rumor mill spins fast.

Within hours, “Han Jisung Dating Mystery Girl?” is trending.

Your phone explodes.

So does his.

“Okay,” Jisung says, spinning in his studio chair like he’s thinking too fast and too much. “This might sound insane, but what if we just… go with it?”

You blink. “Go with what?”

“The dating thing. I say we’re together, we lay low for a few weeks, and boom — controversy dies.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why would you want that?”

He stops spinning.

“Because,” he says, shrugging, “I’ve been trying to write love songs and I’ve got nothing. But if we’re ‘dating’… maybe I’ll get inspired.”

You stare.

He grins, sheepish. “Also, you’re cool and I trust you not to ruin my life.”

“…Great,” you mutter. “The foundation of all solid relationships.”

You agree — partly because you feel bad, partly because it is kind of funny.

You send each other playlists. Text dumb inside jokes. Leave just enough digital breadcrumbs to keep fans guessing.

He starts calling you “my muse” in interviews.

You punch his arm the first time.

But the second time, your heart does something stupid.

Because it’s not just for the cameras anymore.

One night, you’re in his studio watching him work.

He’s chewing his lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard, stuck on a line.

You throw a pillow at him. “Still blocked?”

“I need a lyric that sounds like heartbreak,” he mutters. “But softer. Like… missing someone who was never really yours.”

Your breath catches.

You don’t say anything.

He glances up — and you know he feels it too. The tension. The unspoken.

He doesn’t write anything else that night.

Neither of you leave.

The next day, he sends you a demo.

It’s quiet. Raw. Your name is never mentioned, but every lyric feels like a secret just for you.

You listen to it three times, curled up in bed, heart cracking open in places you didn’t know were soft.

Later, you text him:

you said this was fake

He replies instantly:

i lied

That weekend, he takes you to the same convenience store.

“This feels full circle,” he says, grabbing a banana milk.

You smile. “Yeah, except this time we are dating.”

He looks at you — really looks — like he’s still catching up to the truth of it.

Then softly: “Thanks for pretending.”

You take his hand.

“Thanks for stopping.”

It happens two weeks after the song drops.

The demo becomes a full track. The fans lose their minds over it — claiming it’s the most emotional thing Jisung’s ever written. They dissect every lyric, every harmony, wondering who it’s about.

He never tells them.

But he sends you the final version before it’s out. Along with a message:

“If you’re free… come to the studio tonight?”

You don’t think twice.

The lights are low when you walk in. He’s sitting on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, nervous fingers twisting a ring on his hand.

“You came,” he says, standing up a little too fast.

“You asked.”

He looks you over like he’s trying to memorize you again — but this time, it’s not for pretend. Not for lyrics. Not for the story fans think they know.

It’s just you. And him.

“Look,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck, “I know we agreed to let things fade out. Let the rumors die. No big public goodbye or anything.”

You nod, waiting.

He exhales. “But I can’t do that.”

You blink. “Why?”

“Because…” He finally meets your eyes, and his voice cracks just a little. “Because none of it was fake for me. Not after the first week. I don’t even know when it changed, just… somewhere between laughing with you and writing that stupid song, I caught feelings I didn’t plan for.”

Your heart thuds.

“And I know it’s selfish,” he says quickly, “because we were supposed to fake it for PR or whatever. But I wasn’t acting. Not when I texted you at midnight. Not when I played that demo. Not when I looked at you like I was falling.”

You take a step forward, slow but certain.

“Then stop pretending now.”

He freezes.

You smile, nervous but honest. “I wasn’t acting either, Jisung.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like relief and wonder wrapped into one.

Then he crosses the room in two long steps and kisses you — soft and trembling like he’s scared he’ll wake up from it.

You kiss him back like you’ve been waiting for this moment since the very first lie.

And when you finally pull away, his smile is the realest thing you’ve ever seen.

[soft4changbin]

Just for the lyrics

Han Jisung x reader

Summary: When a dating rumor goes viral, Han Jisung suggests pretending it’s real — all for the sake of “creative inspiration.” But somewhere between inside jokes and late-night songwriting, fake feelings blur into something painfully real. And neither of you are sure how to go back.

Word count: 1,876 (got a little carried away)

It starts with a blurry photo.

You’re leaving a convenience store at 1 a.m. A guy walks behind you. Hood up, mask on. The internet thinks it’s Han Jisung.

It’s not.

Except… it also kind of is.

You two ran into each other by accident that night — same street, same snack run, same dumb craving for banana milk. You said hi, laughed about the coincidence, and left five minutes apart.

But someone snapped a photo, and the rumor mill spins fast.

Within hours, “Han Jisung Dating Mystery Girl?” is trending.

Your phone explodes.

So does his.

“Okay,” Jisung says, spinning in his studio chair like he’s thinking too fast and too much. “This might sound insane, but what if we just… go with it?”

You blink. “Go with what?”

“The dating thing. I say we’re together, we lay low for a few weeks, and boom — controversy dies.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why would you want that?”

He stops spinning.

“Because,” he says, shrugging, “I’ve been trying to write love songs and I’ve got nothing. But if we’re ‘dating’… maybe I’ll get inspired.”

You stare.

He grins, sheepish. “Also, you’re cool and I trust you not to ruin my life.”

“…Great,” you mutter. “The foundation of all solid relationships.”

You agree — partly because you feel bad, partly because it is kind of funny.

You send each other playlists. Text dumb inside jokes. Leave just enough digital breadcrumbs to keep fans guessing.

He starts calling you “my muse” in interviews.

You punch his arm the first time.

But the second time, your heart does something stupid.

Because it’s not just for the cameras anymore.

One night, you’re in his studio watching him work.

He’s chewing his lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard, stuck on a line.

You throw a pillow at him. “Still blocked?”

“I need a lyric that sounds like heartbreak,” he mutters. “But softer. Like… missing someone who was never really yours.”

Your breath catches.

You don’t say anything.

He glances up — and you know he feels it too. The tension. The unspoken.

He doesn’t write anything else that night.

Neither of you leave.

The next day, he sends you a demo.

It’s quiet. Raw. Your name is never mentioned, but every lyric feels like a secret just for you.

You listen to it three times, curled up in bed, heart cracking open in places you didn’t know were soft.

Later, you text him:

you said this was fake

He replies instantly:

i lied

That weekend, he takes you to the same convenience store.

“This feels full circle,” he says, grabbing a banana milk.

You smile. “Yeah, except this time we are dating.”

He looks at you — really looks — like he’s still catching up to the truth of it.

Then softly: “Thanks for pretending.”

You take his hand.

“Thanks for stopping.”

It happens two weeks after the song drops.

The demo becomes a full track. The fans lose their minds over it — claiming it’s the most emotional thing Jisung’s ever written. They dissect every lyric, every harmony, wondering who it’s about.

He never tells them.

But he sends you the final version before it’s out. Along with a message:

“If you’re free… come to the studio tonight?”

You don’t think twice.

The lights are low when you walk in. He’s sitting on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, nervous fingers twisting a ring on his hand.

“You came,” he says, standing up a little too fast.

“You asked.”

He looks you over like he’s trying to memorize you again — but this time, it’s not for pretend. Not for lyrics. Not for the story fans think they know.

It’s just you. And him.

“Look,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck, “I know we agreed to let things fade out. Let the rumors die. No big public goodbye or anything.”

You nod, waiting.

He exhales. “But I can’t do that.”

You blink. “Why?”

“Because…” He finally meets your eyes, and his voice cracks just a little. ��Because none of it was fake for me. Not after the first week. I don’t even know when it changed, just… somewhere between laughing with you and writing that stupid song, I caught feelings I didn’t plan for.”

Your heart thuds.

“And I know it’s selfish,” he says quickly, “because we were supposed to fake it for PR or whatever. But I wasn’t acting. Not when I texted you at midnight. Not when I played that demo. Not when I looked at you like I was falling.”

You take a step forward, slow but certain.

“Then stop pretending now.”

He freezes.

You smile, nervous but honest. “I wasn’t acting either, Jisung.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like relief and wonder wrapped into one.

Then he crosses the room in two long steps and kisses you — soft and trembling like he’s scared he’ll wake up from it.

You kiss him back like you’ve been waiting for this moment since the very first lie.

And when you finally pull away, his smile is the realest thing you’ve ever seen.

[soft4changbin]

Just for the lyrics

Han Jisung x reader

Summary: When a dating rumor goes viral, Han Jisung suggests pretending it’s real — all for the sake of “creative inspiration.” But somewhere between inside jokes and late-night songwriting, fake feelings blur into something painfully real. And neither of you are sure how to go back.

Word count: 1,876 (got a little carried away)

It starts with a blurry photo.

You’re leaving a convenience store at 1 a.m. A guy walks behind you. Hood up, mask on. The internet thinks it’s Han Jisung.

It’s not.

Except… it also kind of is.

You two ran into each other by accident that night — same street, same snack run, same dumb craving for banana milk. You said hi, laughed about the coincidence, and left five minutes apart.

But someone snapped a photo, and the rumor mill spins fast.

Within hours, “Han Jisung Dating Mystery Girl?” is trending.

Your phone explodes.

So does his.

“Okay,” Jisung says, spinning in his studio chair like he’s thinking too fast and too much. “This might sound insane, but what if we just… go with it?”

You blink. “Go with what?”

“The dating thing. I say we’re together, we lay low for a few weeks, and boom — controversy dies.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why would you want that?”

He stops spinning.

“Because,” he says, shrugging, “I’ve been trying to write love songs and I’ve got nothing. But if we’re ‘dating’… maybe I’ll get inspired.”

You stare.

He grins, sheepish. “Also, you’re cool and I trust you not to ruin my life.”

“…Great,” you mutter. “The foundation of all solid relationships.”

You agree — partly because you feel bad, partly because it is kind of funny.

You send each other playlists. Text dumb inside jokes. Leave just enough digital breadcrumbs to keep fans guessing.

He starts calling you “my muse” in interviews.

You punch his arm the first time.

But the second time, your heart does something stupid.

Because it’s not just for the cameras anymore.

One night, you’re in his studio watching him work.

He’s chewing his lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard, stuck on a line.

You throw a pillow at him. “Still blocked?”

“I need a lyric that sounds like heartbreak,” he mutters. “But softer. Like… missing someone who was never really yours.”

Your breath catches.

You don’t say anything.

He glances up — and you know he feels it too. The tension. The unspoken.

He doesn’t write anything else that night.

Neither of you leave.

The next day, he sends you a demo.

It’s quiet. Raw. Your name is never mentioned, but every lyric feels like a secret just for you.

You listen to it three times, curled up in bed, heart cracking open in places you didn’t know were soft.

Later, you text him:

you said this was fake

He replies instantly:

i lied

That weekend, he takes you to the same convenience store.

“This feels full circle,” he says, grabbing a banana milk.

You smile. “Yeah, except this time we are dating.”

He looks at you — really looks — like he’s still catching up to the truth of it.

Then softly: “Thanks for pretending.”

You take his hand.

“Thanks for stopping.”

It happens two weeks after the song drops.

The demo becomes a full track. The fans lose their minds over it — claiming it’s the most emotional thing Jisung’s ever written. They dissect every lyric, every harmony, wondering who it’s about.

He never tells them.

But he sends you the final version before it’s out. Along with a message:

“If you’re free… come to the studio tonight?”

You don’t think twice.

The lights are low when you walk in. He’s sitting on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, nervous fingers twisting a ring on his hand.

“You came,” he says, standing up a little too fast.

“You asked.”

He looks you over like he’s trying to memorize you again — but this time, it’s not for pretend. Not for lyrics. Not for the story fans think they know.

It’s just you. And him.

“Look,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck, “I know we agreed to let things fade out. Let the rumors die. No big public goodbye or anything.”

You nod, waiting.

He exhales. “But I can’t do that.”

You blink. “Why?”

“Because…” He finally meets your eyes, and his voice cracks just a little. “Because none of it was fake for me. Not after the first week. I don’t even know when it changed, just… somewhere between laughing with you and writing that stupid song, I caught feelings I didn’t plan for.”

Your heart thuds.

“And I know it’s selfish,” he says quickly, “because we were supposed to fake it for PR or whatever. But I wasn’t acting. Not when I texted you at midnight. Not when I played that demo. Not when I looked at you like I was falling.”

You take a step forward, slow but certain.

“Then stop pretending now.”

He freezes.

You smile, nervous but honest. “I wasn’t acting either, Jisung.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like relief and wonder wrapped into one.

Then he crosses the room in two long steps and kisses you — soft and trembling like he’s scared he’ll wake up from it.

You kiss him back like you’ve been waiting for this moment since the very first lie.

And when you finally pull away, his smile is the realest thing you’ve ever seen.