#because like i need to have that conversation with them first | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

seospicybin · 2 days ago

Text

TASTE.

CHAPTER I

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (15,3k words)

Author's note: It's my first fic series this year so pls enjoy it and don't be shy to share your thoughts on it ♡

Piquant. /ˈpikənt/ , /piˈkɑnt/ adj. 1. having a pleasantly strong or spicy taste 2. interesting and exciting, especially because of being mysterious.

Farfalle was more than a restaurant—it was an institution.

Nestled in the heart of city’s bustling upscale district, the Italian fine dining establishment stood as a beacon of culinary excellence. With its pristine white façade adorned with golden lettering, it was a destination where food enthusiasts and critics alike gathered to experience the extraordinary. Inside, chandeliers sparkled like constellations above the polished marble floors, while the soft hum of conversation merged with the clinking of crystal glasses and the soothing notes of classical Italian music.

For years, Farfalle had been celebrated not just for its impeccable dishes but for its unwavering commitment to authenticity. Each plate told a story—one of passion, precision, and tradition. The handmade pastas, aged Parmigiano, and imported olive oils were matched only by the artistry of the chefs who brought them to life.

Yet, behind the glamour of the dining room, the kitchen was a battlefield. The restaurant’s reputation rested on a relentless pursuit of perfection, and the pressure to uphold its Michelin star weighed heavily on the staff. Every dish was scrutinized, every garnish meticulously placed, and every mistake unforgivable.

But this year marked the start of something new—a transition that sent ripples through the culinary world. Farfalle’s long-time head chef had retired, leaving behind a legacy that seemed impossible to surpass. The news of his replacement had been met with equal parts excitement and trepidation.

Enter Lee Minho.

The name alone was enough to spark both awe and dread. A man renowned for his uncompromising standards and fiery temper, Chef Lee’s reputation preceded him. Some called him a genius; others called him impossible. And now, he was poised to take Farfalle into uncharted territory.

As the restaurant prepared for his arrival, the staff whispered in hushed tones, speculating about what the new head executive chef would bring—or destroy. Would he preserve Farfalle’s legacy? Or would he tear it apart to rebuild it in his own image?

Only time would tell.

Minho adjusts the cuffs of his tailored coat, standing across the street from Farfalle. The restaurant glows like a jewel in the night, its golden lettering catching the soft light of the streetlamps. A small line of well-dressed patrons stretches from the door, their faces a mix of excitement and impatience. Even from here, he hears the faint hum of life—clinking glasses, muted laughter, and the occasional burst of chatter.

He doesn’t need to step inside to know the kind of experience Farfalle offers. The meticulous exterior, the perfectly aligned tables glimpsed through the window, the hushed efficiency of the servers—it all speaks to a restaurant accustomed to excellence. Yet, as his sharp eyes scan every detail, his mind already races with ideas.

The plating could be more dynamic. The menu, from what he’s seen online, needs innovation without losing its roots. And the staff? Well, he’ll find out soon enough if they can match his standards. If not, he’ll shape them into what he needs—or replace them altogether.

Minho crosses his arms, the corner of his mouth twitching in thought. He can see why Farfalle is revered, but to him, it’s still just a canvas. A blank slate ready for his brushstrokes. He has no intention of simply maintaining its legacy; he intends to redefine it.

A gust of wind sweeps through the street, carrying the aroma of freshly baked bread and roasted garlic. The dinner rush is in full swing, and the kitchen must be at its peak intensity. His fingers itch to walk in, to observe the chaos, to see how the staff functions under pressure. But he knows better than to intrude during service.

“Not the time,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

He lets his gaze drift down the street. The nightlife in the area seems just as vibrant as the restaurant itself. Neon signs flicker above bars and clubs, and the sound of music spills out into the crisp evening air.

With a final glance over his shoulder at Farfalle, Minho makes his decision. “Let them have their dinner rush. I’ll see it when it matters.”

He strides down the street, blending into the flow of people, his thoughts shifting to the possibilities awaiting him in the city’s nightlife.

Minho wanders the streets for nearly an hour before he finds what he’s been looking for—a bar tucked away from the chaos of the city’s nightlife. The dimly lit sign above the door reads Ambra, and the soft jazz drifting from inside piques his interest.

Stepping in, Minho instantly knows he’s made the right choice. The bar is intimate, with low lighting and leather seating that exudes understated elegance. The hum of quiet conversations fills the space, blending seamlessly with the music. Shelves stocked with an impressive selection of liquors line the wall behind the counter, and the bartender moves with practiced precision.

Minho takes a seat at the bar, orders a beer, and leans back to absorb the atmosphere. It’s rare for him to feel this at ease, but tonight, he allows himself to indulge. The first glass goes down quickly, a refreshing antidote to the brisk evening air. By the time he’s nursing his second, he feels a satisfying warmth settle over him.

After a while, he slides off his stool and heads to the restroom. When he returns, however, he stops in his tracks.

Someone’s taken his seat.

You.

You’re perched on the stool, casually sipping a drink, your posture radiating effortless confidence. Minho narrows his eyes as he approaches.

“That’s my seat,” he says, his tone clipped and direct.

You glance at him, unfazed. With the faintest of smirks, you take another sip. “So what if it is?”

Minho raises an eyebrow, the intensity of his gaze sharpening. Most people would flinch under the weight of it, but you remain completely indifferent, your calm demeanor only intriguing him further.

He stares at you for a moment longer, his mind tugging at a strange sense of familiarity. “Have we met before?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. “You’re not an actress or a model, are you?”

The corner of your mouth twitches, and you let out a soft chuckle. “Why? Do I look like one?”

“Something like that,” he replies, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering. “Or maybe I’ve seen you somewhere.”

You lean in, just enough for him to catch the faint scent of your perfume and the warmth of your breath. Your voice drops to a playful murmur. “Maybe you saw me in your dreams.”

For a moment, Minho blinks, caught off guard by the audacity of your response. Then, to his own surprise, he laughs quietly.

“Is that so?” he says, his lips curving into the faintest of smirks.

You lean back, returning to your drink as if nothing happened. But Minho doesn’t take his eyes off you. There’s something about the way you carry yourself that keeps him hooked, an unshakable confidence that challenges him in a way he’s not used to.

“What’s your name?” he asks, his voice soft but insistent.

You glance at him, taking your time as you swirl the liquid in your glass. “Why? Do you need it to keep dreaming?”

His smirk deepens, his curiosity growing. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m interested in making it a reality.”

You study him for a moment, your gaze unwavering as you sip your drink. Then, with deliberate slowness, you set your glass down and tilt your head. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. “Come with me. Let’s see if your theory holds up.”

The corner of your lips curves into a smile. You take another sip, letting the moment stretch out. Finally, you set your glass down and rise from the stool, brushing past him as you head for the door.

Minho follows, his interest piqued more than ever.

The elevator ride is quiet, but the air between you and Minho crackles with unspoken tension. Minho keeps his hands in his pockets, stealing quick glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking. You, however, seem entirely at ease, leaning casually against the elevator wall, your lips curved in a faint, knowing smile.

When the doors slide open on his floor, Minho leads the way, his steps purposeful but unhurried. His hotel room is at the end of the hallway, and the sound of his keycard beeping against the lock breaks the silence.

He glances at you, the faintest flicker of uncertainty crossing his sharp features, but it’s gone in an instant. The door clicks open, and he steps back, gesturing for you to enter first.

You flash him a smile—one that’s more challenging than polite—and step inside. The room is spacious but sterile, the kind of impersonal luxury that defines high-end hotels. Warm, ambient lighting softens the edges of the modern furnishings, and the faint hum of the city outside seeps through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Minho trails behind, quietly closing the door as his eyes follow your every movement. You take in the space, walking slowly, your fingers grazing the back of the leather armchair by the window. It’s a room meant for passing through, a temporary refuge, but tonight, it feels charged with possibility.

Turning around, you face him, your gaze locking onto his. The intensity in your eyes mirrors his own, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

The silence stretches, taut and electric, until you break it. Your voice is low and laced with challenge. “So… are you ready to make your dream come true?”

Minho exhales softly, his lips curving into a slow, deliberate smirk. He takes a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “That depends,” he says, his voice rich with quiet confidence. “Are you?”

You hold his gaze, letting the tension simmer between you, a charged pause filled with unspoken promises. You move toward the bed, each step deliberate, each motion radiating quiet confidence. You climb onto the bed without hesitation, settling back against the pillows with an air of unshakable ease. His eyes follow the slow arch of your movements as you stretch out, your gaze locking onto his with an almost defiant intrigue.

You tilt your head slightly, one leg bending at the knee as your skirt shifts, revealing a whisper of lace beneath. The soft, seductive curve of your lips carries a challenge as you murmur, “Come. Make your dreams come true.”

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of Minho’s lips, sharper on one side than the other. His dark eyes glimmer with something dangerous, something intent, as he steps forward with measured precision. His gaze never wavers, a simmering intensity that would make most crumble—but you hold it, your calm composure only fueling his fascination.

He reaches the bed and leans down, his hands braced on either side of you, caging you in without touching. His breath is warm against your cheek, the closeness of his presence a magnetic pull. You feel the weight of his gaze as it lingers on your face, searching, daring you to falter.

But you don’t.

Minho leans over you, bracing one hand on the mattress beside your head, the other sliding gently along your jaw. His thumb brushes your skin, a touch that sends sparks down your spine. He’s so close now that his breath mingles with yours, warm and tantalizing.

You don’t break the gaze, your lips curving into the faintest of smiles as if to challenge him further. Minho takes the bait, his smirk fading into something darker, something more intent. He closes the distance, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s slow at first, deliberate, testing.

His mouth moves against yours with a growing fervor, each kiss deeper, more demanding than the last. His hand shifts, trailing down to your waist, pulling you closer as his weight settles beside you. The heat between you builds, your breaths quickening as the world outside the room fades to nothing.

You feel his fingers brush against the fabric of your skirt, his touch firm yet unhurried, as though he’s savoring the moment. His lips leave yours briefly, trailing down to your jaw, then your neck, each kiss igniting a fire that spreads through you.

Minho lets the silence stretch for just a moment longer before his hand trails down, finding your bent knee. With a touch that’s both deliberate and unhurried, he lifts your leg slightly, tilting it closer to him. His lips graze the soft skin of your thigh, leaving a slow trail of kisses that climb higher with every breath.

The air between you grows heavier, the atmosphere charged and electric. You sense the shift as his focus sharpens, his movements deliberate yet unspoken, the tension between you nearly tangible.

Minho finally dips his head lower, the closeness of his breath on your clothed core igniting a fire along your skin. You close your eyes briefly, caught in the moment, every action a silent promise of what’s to come.

Taking you off guard, Minho tugs the fabric of your underwear between his teeth and drags it down your legs until it's off of you. Nothing is getting in his way now but before that, he shot you a menacing look before planting his mouth on your cunt, taking the first step in making his dream comes true.

Minho is wrong to think that he's the one who won't be easily satisfied tonight. You're on all fours, taking it well even though he is going as hard as he can, the skin slapping sounds echoing in the room louder than the lewd noises spilling out of your parted mouth.

“Harder, harder,” you repeatedly say between your moans. You're barely holding on, your hands are gripping the sheet under you, your legs trembling, a sheen of sweat coated your skin yet Minho finds it hot that you're asking for me.

Minho grabs a fistful of your hair and gently tugs at it, using it to tilt your head to the back, allowing him to plant ferocious kisses on your neck. He then presses his mouth to your ear and whispers. “Harder, huh?”

You slightly turn your head to the side to meet his gaze. “Harder,” you simply say back to him.

Hearing you saying that with a commanding yet seductive tone, he feels challenged. He grips each side of your hips, hard enough his nails digging into the flesh and he takes a second of break before launching himself into you, harder than before.

Your moans grow louder so you plant your head onto the pillow to try muffle it, your hands are now holding the side of the pillow like it's your lifeline.

Minho lowers his mouth on your back shoulder, placing kisses with his teeth faintly scraping your skin. “Isn't it what you want, huh? I'm giving it to you.”

He adds speed to his thrusts and the intensity of his movements make the bed quakes along with it. At first, he thought you were just being greedy but fuck, you're taking it so well.

“You're close, huh?” Minho murmurs with his eyes fixated on the way his cock slipping in and out of you.

He lowers himself until his chest meets yours and putting his arms around your waist, he plants his mouth on your shoulder as he takes you with him, kneeling on the bed. His muscular, veiny arms wrapped around you, keeping you steady as he keeps thrusting into you despite you're on the brink of climaxing.

You tilt your head to the back, letting it drops onto Minho’s shoulder, your moans grow low and hoarse as you're closing in on your high.

Minho silently holds back himself from getting carried by the way your fluttering around him but he likes it, oh, the way you sucking him deeper into you. There’s nothing like it, he's enjoying every second of being inside you. His hands wander your sensuous body as you're relishing your orgasm. He catches you smiling with your eyes closed and satisfaction painted on your face, nothing arouse him more than realizing that he made you like that.

“That good, mmh?” his lips graze your ear as he speaks.

When he thought that you couldn't impress him more, you turn around and push him hard until he collapses onto the bed. He props an elbow but your hand pressed to his chest, gesturing him to stay down.

You slyly smile as you hover above him, your eyes filled with mischief as you say. “Now, I'll make your dream comes true.”

It's like you’re not tired or spent at all from the previous session. You're bouncing on his cock with both of your hands firmly resting on his chest as support and when you get tired, you're switching to rolling your hips back and forth at a painstakingly slow motions.

“I can see that you like that more,” you murmur, now rolling your hips in circular motions, earning low grunts from Minho.

He thinks it's not just about the way you're fucking him but it's also the way you're enjoying doing it to him. The sly smile never strays away from your face, provoking him but at the same time, arousing him so much that he knows his high is close, too damn close that it happens without him realizing it.

By the time he knows he’s cumming, he finds himself gripping your thighs as you keep moving, slowly and deliberately, teasing his sensitive cock as it's filling the condom with his seed.

Throwing all of your hair to the side, you lower yourself on him until your lips meet in a rapturous kiss that keeps Minho floating on cloud nine. You continue peppering his face and neck with kisses, you prop an elbow next to his head, just staring at his face with that crooked smile lingering on your pretty face.

“So, how does it feel now that you dream came true?”

Minho closes his eyes and blissfully smiles, he then shakes his head. When he opens his eyes, they instantly found yours. He hastily kisses your lips before speaking, “But it’s not the end of the dream yet.”

The soft shuffle of footsteps pulls Minho from sleep, his body reluctant to stir. He groans quietly, his eyes heavy with the weight of lingering exhaustion. Cracking them open, he squints at the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. It’s still dark out—far too early for his liking.

He turns his head, catching sight of you moving around the room, your bare silhouette outlined in the dim light. You’re bent slightly, picking up your clothes from the floor, the soft rustle of fabric filling the quiet space.

Minho watches, saying nothing, his gaze following the fluid movements of your body. There’s a magnetic pull in the way you carry yourself, confident and unhurried. He wants to call out to you, ask you to come back to bed, but the words stay lodged in his throat.

You step into your underwear, sliding the fabric up with practiced ease before reaching for your bra. Minho’s eyes trace the lines of your figure as you fasten it behind your back, your fingers deft and steady. Next comes your skirt, which you pull up with a casual swing of your hips.

Turning around, you catch his gaze, a flicker of amusement dancing in your eyes when you realize he’s awake.

He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow. His voice is rough with sleep as he asks, “So when can I see you again?”

Your lips curve into a playful smile, your demeanor coy as you tilt your head slightly.

“Do you have plans tomorrow?” Minho tries another way.

You remain coy and continue buttoning up your blouse, a small smile tugging at your lips as you look at him.

“Why are you hesitating? You're supposed to refuse on the first time,” he teases.

“I'll be working,” you simply answer.

“What time you get off work?”

You tuck your shirt into your skirt. “I would only be free at night.”

Minho tilts his head to the side, slightly narrowing his eyes as he asks you, “At what time?”

“Around midnight.”

Minho’s eyes narrow slightly, his curiosity piqued, but he doesn’t press further. He can tell you’re not one to be cornered easily, and there’s something about the mystery that only draws him in more.

“There's only one thing a man and a woman could do together at that time,” his voice filled with playful lilt as he's sitting up on the bed and sending the duvet slides down his shoulders, exposing his bare upper half body.

Getting no response from you, Minho scoots closer to the edge of the bed. “I guess you find me attractive. You didn't turn me down once.”

His eyes are commanding as he searches for yours and won't stop until you hold his gaze. “I'll see you around midnight at the same bar then. Not tonight or tomorrow, but the day after. Let's say you turned me down for tonight and tomorrow. Okay?”

You slip on your jacket, adjusting it with a quick, practiced motion before walking toward the door. Pausing with your hand on the handle, you glance back at him, your smile softening just a fraction.

“You’ll see me soon enough,” you say simply, your voice carrying an ease that lingers in the air long after you’re gone.

The door clicks shut behind you, leaving Minho in the quiet stillness of the room. He exhales slowly, running a hand through his tousled hair. A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he stares at the spot where you stood, already thinking of the next time he might see you again.

The faint hum of kitchen appliances fills the early morning quiet at Farfalle. Minho arrives even earlier than expected, the weight of his position settling into his steps. He walks through the restaurant as if already claiming it. His first stop is the dining hall.

The soft morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the elegant tables adorned with pristine white linens. He takes note of the layout—the alignment of tables, the polish of the silverware, and the sparkle of the glassware. It’s all flawless, but Minho already imagines ways to elevate it further.

His steps lead him to the heart of the restaurant: the kitchen. The air inside is cool, the silence only broken by the occasional clatter of utensils and the low murmurs of the few staff already prepping for the day. Heads turn as he strides in, his presence commanding attention even without an introduction. He doesn’t offer a word of explanation, his sharp gaze enough to unnerve those caught staring too long.

Minho moves through the space, examining the stations, the organization of the pantry, the sheen—or lack thereof—on the stoves. Every detail is cataloged in his mind. A few whispers ripple through the staff.

“Who is he?”

“Is that the new head chef?”

“He looks... intense.”

By the time the morning briefing begins, everyone is assembled in the main kitchen. The restaurant manager, Mr. Oh, clears his throat to silence the chatter.

“Good morning, everyone. As you all know, we’ve been in search of a new head chef to lead this kitchen. Today, I’m pleased to introduce the person who will be taking Farfalle to new heights.” Mr. Oh gestures to Minho, who steps forward with a composed, almost cold demeanor.

“This is Chef Lee Minho.”

Minho scans the room, his gaze sharp and assessing. “Good morning,” he says, his voice low but carrying an edge that commands respect. “Before we begin, I’d like to get to know the team I’ll be working with. Introduce yourselves—name and position.”

One by one, the staff steps forward.

“Seo Jun, Sous Chef, Meat Station.”

“Ha Yura, Sous Chef, Pasta Line.”

Each introduction is met with a brief nod from Minho, his expression unreadable.

Then it’s your turn. Dressed in your white chef’s attire with your hair tucked neatly under a bandana, you look like any other member of the team. Minho’s gaze briefly skims over you before moving on, but when you step forward and speak, something halts him.

“I'm in the pasta Line.”

Your voice is calm, but there’s a teasing lilt to it. His eyes snap back to you, narrowing slightly as recognition flickers across his face. You meet his gaze, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. The same lips he kissed the night before.

Minho’s jaw tightens imperceptibly. He feels the faintest twinge of disappointment—mixed with intrigue. You’re not just someone who caught his attention for one night. You’re one of his chefs. His interest deepens, but it’s complicated now, tangled in a dynamic he can’t control.

You hold his stare with a confidence that unsettles him. It’s clear you’re enjoying his momentary lapse, the way his usually steady composure falters just slightly.

“Welcome to Farfalle, Chef Lee,” you say smoothly, the faintest hint of amusement in your tone.

Minho recovers quickly, masking his thoughts behind his usual cold demeanor. “Thank you,” he replies, his voice clipped. He moves on to the next introduction, but the tension lingers, thick and unspoken.

The rest of the briefing passes without incident, but as the team disperses to begin their tasks, Minho’s thoughts remain on you. He can’t decide whether this is a cruel twist of fate or a challenge he’s strangely eager to face. Either way, it’s clear to him: working in this kitchen just got a lot more complicated.

The kitchen hums with quiet activity, a low symphony of clinking utensils and running water. The scent of freshly chopped herbs lingers in the air as you wipe down your station, the stainless steel gleaming under the fluorescent lights. You’re focused, meticulous, ensuring every corner of your workspace is spotless before the chaos of service begins.

From the corner of your eye, you notice Minho entering the kitchen. Dressed in his crisp chef's coat, he radiates authority, his steps deliberate and measured as he takes in the environment he now commands. He doesn’t say anything at first, but you can feel his gaze on you.

You glance up, catching his eyes. His expression shifts, a playful smirk curling the corner of his lips.

“When you said we’d meet again soon,” he begins, his voice low and teasing, “I didn’t think you meant here. In this kitchen of all places.”

You lean casually against the counter, resting a hand on your hip. “And here I thought you’d be glad to see me again.”

His smirk deepens, but his eyes remain unreadable. “Should I be?”

“You tell me,” you counter, tilting your head slightly. “Or did you regret meeting me that night?”

Minho pauses, letting the silence stretch. His gaze lingers on you, as if weighing his response carefully. Then, with a faint chuckle, he shakes his head. “How could I regret it?”

You raise an eyebrow at his answer, sensing there’s more he’s about to add.

“But,” he continues, his tone dropping just enough to send a subtle chill through the air, “something tells me you’ll regret meeting me here.”

His smirk turns sharper, more menacing, as he flashes a smile that feels like a warning. He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before turning away and walking to the chef’s table at the center of the kitchen.

Minho surveys the area, his sharp eyes missing nothing as he settles into his position of authority. The chef’s table, positioned strategically for both observation and action, will serve as his command post. Every dish will pass through him, every detail scrutinized to ensure it meets his exacting standards before it leaves the kitchen.

One by one, the rest of the kitchen staff begins to trickle in. The chatter picks up as stations are claimed and preparations continue. Knives flash as vegetables are diced with precision, and the air grows warmer as the stoves are fired up.

By the time the restaurant opens, the kitchen is a hive of activity. Minho stands at the helm, his arms crossed as he observes his team. His sharp gaze flicks from one chef to the next, silently assessing their movements and demeanor.

“There’s this nervousness when waiting for the first order. But there’s always happiness when empty plates return so just relax and continue what you have been doing before.”

“Yes, chef!” everyone replies in unison with a hint of excitement in their voices.

The sound of the printing machine cuts through the hum of the kitchen, signaling the arrival of the first order. The staff pauses, their eyes darting to the small slip of paper as it prints out.

“Shall we start?” Minho’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife, steady and authoritative. “Table number four. One Grancio, one porcini, two fettuccine and one vongole.”

“Yes, chef!” Everyone answers in response to Minho’s order.

The kitchen springs to life, the rhythm of Farfalle's service beginning in earnest. Minho’s eyes linger on you for just a moment longer before turning his attention to the plates coming his way, ready to set the tone for the day—and for his reign in the kitchen.

The faint aroma of freshly baked bread still lingers in the shared apartment as you sit at the small kitchen table, peeling apples for a late-night snack. Yura and Minji, your roommates and fellow chefs at Farfalle, chatter animatedly in the living room. Their excitement fills the quiet space with a buzz of energy.

“I swear, he’s like a fresh bottle of olive oil,” Yura gushes, her eyes practically sparkling. “Sleek, refined, and expensive.”

Minji giggles, her tone dreamy. “Not to mention, he’s so handsome. Those sharp features... and the way he walks? Confident, but not cocky.”

You stay silent, focusing on the rhythmic glide of the knife over the apple’s skin. Their words echo in the background as you continue peeling, occasionally flicking the pieces into a small bowl.

Yura’s gaze suddenly shifts to you, curiosity lighting up her features. “Hey, didn’t you say you and Chef Lee went to the same culinary school in Italy?”

The question makes you pause, if only for a fraction of a second. You quickly resume peeling, keeping your expression neutral. “Yeah, we did.”

Yura leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “So? What was he like back then? Was he always this good?”

You slice the apple cleanly, avoiding her eager gaze. “He was... impressive,” you answer, keeping your tone even. “He was one of the best students and won a lot of cooking competitions.”

Minji’s eyes widen. “Wow, really? That’s amazing! Did you guys ever talk or hang out?”

You shake your head, carefully cutting the apple into thin slices. “Not really. He was focused on his work, and I was... just trying to keep up. I doubt he’d even remember me.”

Minji frowns slightly, clearly unsatisfied with your response. “But you must have crossed paths, right?”

“Sure,” you reply casually, placing another neatly sliced piece into the bowl. “But Minho wasn’t exactly the type to stop and chat.”

Yura sighs dreamily. “Well, he’s certainly something now. I mean, did you see how sharp he looked in his chef coat? And the way he handled the kitchen today? So commanding!”

Minji nods enthusiastically. “I wouldn’t mind getting scolded if it’s from someone like him.”

You suppress a smile, the corner of your lips tugging upward briefly. Their admiration feels almost innocent, a sharp contrast to the memories quietly tucked away in your mind.

Instead of commenting, you place the knife down and start arranging the apple slices on a plate. Yura and Minji continue gushing over Minho, their excitement filling the room with a warm, almost naive energy.

You glance at them briefly, observing the way their faces light up as they talk about him. You don’t say a word, letting their admiration float freely in the air. The stories you could share stay locked away, hidden behind the veil of your quiet demeanor.

It’s not your place to ruin their perception, not yet. So you offer the plate of neatly sliced apples to them with a small smile, pretending you know nothing about the man they’re so smitten with.

The sound of laughter echoes faintly through the apartment as you shuffle out of your bedroom, still bleary-eyed from sleep. In the living room, Minji is curled up on the couch, glued to the television. She’s watching her favorite cooking show—the one with Chef Sara, her idol—her expression full of admiration.

“Minji,” you call, your voice heavy with morning grogginess, “How about breakfast?”

She glances over her shoulder, her innocent smile catching you off guard. “But it’s the episode where Chef Sara visits Florence. You know how much I love this one!”

You sigh, dragging a hand through your hair. It’s not like you expected Minji to be in the kitchen; she rarely helps with breakfast. As the youngest in the apartment, she’s grown comfortable letting you take on the responsibility.

The clinking of utensils draws your attention to the kitchen. Yura’s sitting at the dining table with her hair wrapped in a towel, sipping coffee while scrolling through her phone. She doesn’t even look up as she says, “Good morning. Breakfast ready yet?”

You suppress a groan and trudge into the kitchen, tying your apron over your pajamas. It’s always like this—Minji caught up in a show, Yura leisurely sipping coffee, and you stuck cooking for the three of you. You start peeling eggs and slicing fruit, your mind wandering as you go through the motions.

By the time you finished getting ready for work, you rush out of your apartment, nearly tripping over your untied sneaker in your haste. The morning routine has become a battlefield of time with Yura and Minji monopolizing the bathroom and leaving you scrambling to get ready after them. The faint echo of the apartment door slamming shut behind you accompanies your hurried footsteps down the hallway.

Reaching the elevators, you frantically jab the button and bounce on your toes, silently pleading for it to arrive before you’re late for work. The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal Minho standing inside, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his sleek black coat.

You freeze for a second, caught off guard by his presence. Regaining your composure, you step in and flash him a faint smile. “Good morning,” you murmur, keeping your tone neutral.

Minho acknowledges you with a brief glance, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he’s amused by something. The doors close, and the elevator begins its descent, the silence stretching between you like a taut string.

You focus on the glowing numbers above the door, counting down to the lobby. Your heartbeat quickens, though you’re not sure if it’s from the rush or his proximity.

As the elevator hums softly, Minho’s voice breaks the quiet. “Don’t forget. Midnight.”

You turn your head slightly, your brows furrowing in confusion for a split second before his words click. The bar. The unspoken rendezvous.

You glance at him, catching the faint smirk tugging at his lips. His tone is casual, but the way his dark eyes linger on you hints at something more.

The elevator dings open, and the cool morning air from the lobby filters in. You step out, pausing just long enough to glance back over your shoulder. “I’ll see you there,” you reply, your voice steady despite the subtle thrum of excitement coursing through you.

Without waiting for a response, you stride toward the exit, leaving Minho behind as the promise of midnight lingers in the air like the taste of something forbidden.

Minho strides into the kitchen, his polished chef coat pristine, and his expression unreadable. He takes his usual place at the chef's table, positioning himself so he can observe every station in the kitchen. His eyes sweep over the staff like a hawk surveying its territory, lingering just long enough to unsettle.

Leaning casually against the table, he crosses his arms. “Is everyone excited for the first order?”

Next to you, Minji perks up, her voice carrying a coquettish lilt. “Yes, Chef.”

The kitchen momentarily halts as all eyes turn toward her, some raising eyebrows, others hiding their amusement. You keep your gaze down, focusing on your pasta dough, but you can feel Minho’s sharp stare shift toward her.

A faint smirk touches his lips. “Let’s see if you can live up to that enthusiasm.”

The printer by the wall whirs, and the first ticket slides out with a soft beep. Minho snatches it and glances at the list, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Table number two. Three Caesar salads, two fillets, one pasta primavera.”

“Yes, chef!” Everyone responds in unison.

The kitchen bursts into life, the clatter of pans and the hiss of flames filling the air. You focus on your station, expertly tossing fresh pasta in a creamy sauce, the rhythm of the kitchen taking over.

Not long after, Seungwan approaches the pass with a plate of Caesar salad. The portion towers on the plate, the croutons precariously stacked like a culinary Jenga. Minho’s brow furrows as he steps forward, his gaze fixed on the dish.

“What is this?” he asks, his voice deceptively calm.

“It’s the Caesar salad, Chef,” Seungwan replies, a nervous edge creeping into his tone.

Minho picks up the plate, holding it at arm’s length as if inspecting it for flaws. Then, in one swift motion, he sends the plate crashing to the floor. The shattering sound reverberates through the kitchen, freezing everyone in place.

“Does this look like a Caesar salad meant for a fine dining restaurant?” Minho’s voice rises, sharp and unforgiving. “This isn’t a family buffet! Start over, and this time, don’t make it look like a joke.”

Seungwan stammers, his face flushed with embarrassment as he scrambles to clean up the mess and start again. The rest of the kitchen watches in stunned silence, hands momentarily still, as if afraid to move.

Another ticket prints, and Minho retrieves it with unnerving composure. “Table number eight. Two more fillets, one minestrone, one ravioli.”

He glances around, his voice cutting through the tension. “Why is no one responding?”

The silence stretches painfully until the staff collectively murmurs a hesitant, “Yes, Chef.”

You tighten your grip on the handle of your pan, throwing yourself into your work to avoid his scrutiny. Next to you, Minji fumbles with her sauce, her earlier confidence replaced by nervous energy.

Minho’s gaze sweeps over the kitchen again, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Good. Now, let’s see if you can keep up.”

The atmosphere is heavier now, every move calculated, every dish triple-checked before reaching the pass. The truth is clear to everyone—this is Minho’s kitchen now, and no one is safe from his exacting standards.

The atmosphere in the kitchen is strained, the tension palpable as every chef rushes to perfect their dishes under Minho’s watchful eyes. Minji approaches the chef’s table, her plate of risotto carefully balanced in her hands. She sets it down with a nervous smile, stepping back to let Minho inspect it.

Minho glances at the dish, his expression unreadable. For a brief second, it seems like he might pass it, but then his hand moves with unexpected force, shoving the plate back toward Minji.

“This isn’t a risotto,” he says coldly, his voice cutting through the hum of the kitchen. “Do it again!.”

Minji’s face flushes with embarrassment, but she nods quickly, snatching the plate and retreating to her station.

Minho straightens, his sharp gaze sweeping over the kitchen. He steps away from the table, moving with purpose toward Hyunwoo’s station, where the younger chef is carefully garnishing a bowl of soup.

“Stop,” Minho orders, his tone laced with authority. He picks up a shrimp from the garnish and holds it up for everyone to see. “Is this a joke? You didn’t even bother to devein it.”

Hyunwoo stammers, “I-I didn’t think it was necessary for this dish—”

“Do I need to devein your brain too?” Minho interrupts, his words laced with sarcasm. Hyunwoo’s face turns red as he mumbles an apology and quickly begins redoing the garnish.

Minho moves on, stopping next to Seojun’s station. The sous chef’s cooking is impeccable, but Minho’s attention is drawn to the trash can beside him. He picks it up, examining the contents with a grimace.

“This,” Minho says, lifting the can higher, “is worth months of your salary.”

Before anyone can react, Minho dumps the contents of the trash can in front of Seojun, creating a mess of perfectly good ingredients discarded unnecessarily. The room goes silent, all eyes on Seojun, whose jaw tightens in suppressed anger.

“Next time,” Minho continues, his tone icy, “if you feel the urge to waste food, do it at home. Not in my kitchen.”

“Yes, chef,” Seojun weakly respond, his hands gripping the edge of his station, but the fury in his eyes is unmistakable. Minho smirks, satisfied, and strides back to his chef table.

The uneasy calm is broken when a dish is returned from the dining hall. The staff member hesitates before approaching Minho, holding the plate carefully.

“The customer said the lobster is too tough,” they report nervously.

Minho’s eyes narrow as he glances at the dish, then shifts his gaze to Yura. “Redo it. Now.”

Yura, already simmering with frustration, nods sharply and returns to her station. Minutes later, the same dish comes back to the kitchen, the dining hall staff once again bearing the plate.

“The customer still says the lobster isn’t right.”

Yura’s temper snaps. Without a word, she storms out of the kitchen, ignoring the stunned silence of her colleagues. She marches into the dining hall, her face flushed with anger, and approaches the table where the complaint originated.

“Excuse me,” she says loudly, placing her hands on her hips. “What exactly is the problem with this dish? Do you even know what properly cooked lobster is supposed to taste like?”

The customer, a middle-aged man with a calm demeanor, raises an eyebrow. He sets down his fork and looks up at her, his expression unreadable.

“Actually, I do,” he replies evenly, pulling out a business card and placing it on the table. “I’m a food critic for Culinary Gazette. This restaurant is being reviewed for next month’s issue.”

Yura’s eyes widen, the weight of her mistake crashing down on her. The rest of the kitchen staff watches through the small window, horrified. Minho, standing at his table with his jaws tensed.

Yura walks back into the kitchen, her face pale and her usual fiery confidence replaced by dread. The moment she steps through the door, she’s met with Minho’s piercing gaze. He’s standing near his chef table, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but undeniably intimidating.

The silence in the kitchen is suffocating as everyone watches the exchange, their work forgotten. Minho doesn’t waste time. He strides toward her, stopping just a foot away, and lifts a finger to point at her.

“You’re fired,” he states coldly, his voice carrying an air of finality.

Yura’s shock quickly turns to indignation. Her face flushes, and her temper reignites as she begins protesting. “Fired? For what? For defending my work? That critic doesn’t know anything—”

Minho interrupts her with a dismissive shrug, stepping around her and returning to his chef table. He casually picks up a spoon to inspect a sauce from a nearby plate, tasting it as if the argument isn’t worth his attention.

“Defending your work?” he says, not even looking at her. “You stormed out of the kitchen and embarrassed this restaurant in front of a food critic. If you think that’s defending your work, then you’re not cut out for this industry.”

Yura clenches her fists, her voice rising. “This is ridiculous! I’ve been working here longer than you. You can’t just walk in and—”

“Enough.” Minho’s voice slices through her tirade like a knife. He looks at her then, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “This is my kitchen now. And in my kitchen, there’s no room for your temper or your excuses.”

The finality in his tone leaves no room for further argument. Yura stands there, breathing heavily, her defiance wavering as she realizes there’s no changing his mind. The rest of the staff exchange nervous glances but remain silent, unwilling to draw Minho’s ire.

Satisfied, Minho turns back to the dish in front of him, as if the conversation never happened. “Someone clean this station,” he says over his shoulder. “We have orders to get out.”

Yura stands frozen for a moment before storming out, slamming the door behind her. The tension in the kitchen lingers, but everyone quickly gets back to work, unwilling to be the next target of Minho’s wrath.

Minho tastes another dish and smirks faintly, his voice low but audible enough for those nearby. “Let this be a lesson—anyone who steps out of line will face the same fate.”

The room is silent except for the sound of knives against cutting boards and the faint hum of the kitchen appliances. Minho’s authority is unquestionable now, his control over the kitchen absolute.

Minho steps out of the kitchen freezer with Taesoo following close behind, their breaths visible in the cold air as they finish inspecting the frozen stock. He closes the freezer door and turns to speak, but his attention snaps to an unexpected scene at the far corner of the kitchen.

Minji and Seungwan are leaning against a counter, locked in an intimate embrace, completely oblivious to the two men’s presence. Their quiet murmurs and soft laughter fill the otherwise silent kitchen, unaware they have an audience.

Taesoo clears his throat deliberately, and the sound jolts them apart. Minji and Seungwan freeze, their faces paling as they register Minho's cold stare.

“I-I’m sorry, Chef,” Minji stammers, stepping back from Seungwan. “We—uh—it won’t happen again.”

Seungwan nods quickly, his face a mix of guilt and fear. “It was a mistake, Chef. We weren’t thinking.”

Minho says nothing, his sharp eyes flicking between them before he turns on his heel and walks away.

“Gather everyone in the dining hall after service,” he says to Taesoo, his voice low but commanding. “We have some things to address.”

The dining hall is eerily quiet, the usual warm glow of its chandeliers casting an ominous light over the small group of kitchen staff seated at one of the larger tables. Minho stands at the head of the table, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“Let’s start with the lobsters,” he says, his gaze settling on Yura. “The issue lies in how they were stored in Styrofoam boxes, making it impossible for the freezer to maintain the correct temperature.” He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. “That’s your responsibility, Yura. You failed to ensure the proper handling of the seafood for your station.”

Yura opens her mouth to argue, but Minho raises a hand, silencing her.

“You embarrassed this restaurant in front of a critic, and now I find this. You’re fired.”

Yura’s temper flares immediately. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Minho cuts her off, his tone cold and final. “This is my kitchen, and you’re no longer part of it. Pack your things.”

The room feels heavy with tension as Yura storms out, slamming the door behind her.

Minho’s attention shifts to Minji and Seungwan. “Now, about you two.” His voice is calm, but his words are razor-sharp. “The kitchen is a sacred space. It’s where we create, where we work, where we respect the craft. It is not where we indulge in personal relationships.”

Seungwan swallows hard. “It was a mistake—”

Minho cuts him off again. “There are no excuses. Romance has no place in my kitchen. For that, you’re both fired.”

Minji’s eyes widen, and she steps forward quickly. “Wait! Chef, it’s my fault. I—” Her voice falters slightly, but she pushes through. “If someone has to leave, it should be me. Seungwan is a great chef. Don’t take this opportunity away from him because of me.”

Minho studies her for a long moment, his cold gaze flickering with something unreadable. Finally, he nods. “Fine. Seungwan stays. But you... you’re fired.”

Minji’s shoulders sag, but she nods in resignation. “Yes, Chef,” she says quietly before walking out of the dining hall without looking back.

As the door swings shut behind her, Minho allows himself a faint smirk. Everything is falling into place. No women in his kitchen, just as he intends.

But then his eyes land on you, standing quietly at the end of the room, your expression neutral. Minho’s smirk falters for just a moment before he turns away, heading for the door.

“This kitchen isn’t for the weak,” he says over his shoulder. “I hope the rest of you can keep up.”

As the door clicks shut behind him, you feel the weight of his unspoken challenge settle over you. Minho’s plan might be working for now, but he hasn’t dealt with you yet—and that, you realize, makes you his next obstacle.

Minho pushes open the door to the locker room, his steps echoing faintly against the tiled floor. He walks toward his locker, his focus seemingly on the lock in his hands. The metallic clang of the lock twisting open echoes, but it’s quickly overshadowed by the soft rustling of clothes behind him.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Minho freezes. Two lockers away, you’re standing half-dressed, your black lace bra visible as you methodically pull on your shirt. His breath hitches for just a moment, though his expression remains neutral.

He doesn’t say a word, instead quietly observing your movements. The way you move—unhurried, deliberate—strikes him as oddly familiar. But he can’t place where he’s seen it before.

You button your shirt, unaware of his watchful eyes. Finally, you grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder, sparing a brief glance in his direction. Your expression is unreadable as you walk out of the locker room, leaving Minho behind in the lingering silence.

Moments later, Taesoo enters, a casual grin on his face. “Hey, Chef,” he calls out, leaning against a row of lockers. “So… you really don’t remember her, huh?”

Minho frowns, closing his locker with a sharp click. “What are you talking about?”

Taesoo chuckles softly. “You and her went to the same culinary school in Italy. Everyone thought you two were close.”

The words hit Minho like a puzzle piece snapping into place. His eyes narrow, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Memories flash through his mind—bits and pieces of a classmate who rarely took things seriously, who was more interested in fleeting romances than perfecting recipes.

“Oh? She’s the one who was always slacking off,” Minho mutters, almost to himself.

Taesoo gets confused. “Huh? She still graduated, didn’t she?”

Minho stands still for a moment, letting the realization settle in. That’s why you seemed so familiar. That’s why he couldn’t quite figure you out until now.

With this newfound knowledge, Minho’s lips curl into a faint smirk. He shuts his locker with finality, grabs his coat, and walks out of the locker room without another word.

The night air is cool as Minho steps out of the restaurant. The city buzzes around him, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. His destination is clear.

The bar isn’t far, just a short walk away. As he approaches, the faint hum of music and chatter grows louder. Minho pauses at the entrance, running a hand through his hair.

He pushes open the door, stepping into the warm, dimly lit space. His eyes scan the room, searching for you. Tonight, he plans to uncover more than just a drink.

It's midnight and you're here at the bar where you met Minho. You sit at the same spot, quietly sipping your drink as the faint hum of music and chatter fills the space. The warmth of the liquor burns your throat, grounding you amidst your swirling thoughts. The door creaks open, and you feel a presence slide onto the stool next to you.

You don’t have to look to know who it is.

“Funny,” Minho says, his voice low and teasing. “That’s quite a face for a girl who came to meet a guy.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing. His smirk is as sharp as ever, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.

“I wonder if you're still dating around like you did back in culinary school?” he asks casually, tilting his head as if he’s genuinely curious.

The comment stings, and you clench your glass tighter. So, he recognizes you now.

“Finally remembered me, huh?” you retort. Then, leaning slightly closer, you counter, “What about you? Still traumatized by your past experience, I see? Is that why you fired all the female chefs?”

For a moment, Minho’s smirk falters, but he recovers quickly. “Is this how you treat a guy on a date?” he asks, brushing off your words like dust on his coat.

You scoff but don’t respond. Instead, you press forward, determined to get answers. “You planned it, didn’t you? Firing all the women in the kitchen because you don't want women in your kitchen.”

Minho doesn’t answer right away. His silence feels heavier than the music playing in the background. Then, suddenly, he leans in. His face is inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Let’s do it,” he says, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. “You and me. Go out. Date.”

The words catch you off guard, and you blink at him, trying to read his expression. He’s serious, but his seriousness feels like a challenge rather than a confession.

You hesitate, weighing the implications. To say yes would mean leaving the job—leaving the kitchen you worked so hard to be in. As if reading your thoughts, Minho adds, “You can’t work in my kitchen. There’s no place for women there, and you know it.”

The bartender interrupts the moment, sliding closer to ask, “Another round?”

Minho seizes the opportunity, turning to you. “Well?” he asks, his voice smoother now, almost seductive. “What’s it going to be? Another drink with me or...?”

He leans in closer, his lips just brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Stay. Have another drink. Let’s see where this goes.”

You feel the heat rise in your chest, but you don’t look away. Instead, you drain the rest of your drink, the glass making a soft clink as you set it down on the counter.

Still holding his gaze, you rise from your stool. You say nothing as you turn and walk out of the bar, your decision clear in your mind. If Minho wants to get rid of you, he’ll have to try harder.

Minho watches as you disappear into the night, the sway of your silhouette fading into the city’s glow. You didn’t look back, not even once, and yet he knows—he knows—you’ve accepted the challenge he silently laid at your feet. A smirk tugs at his lips, though his chest tightens with an unfamiliar ache he refuses to name. This isn’t just about control or proving a point anymore. There’s something about you that unnerves him, something that stirs a dangerous mix of irritation and intrigue. You’re a complication he didn’t plan for, and complications, Minho thinks, always have a way of unraveling the best-laid plans.

The kitchen is chaos. Orders spill from the printer at an unrelenting pace, each ticket a stark reminder of the restaurant’s packed lunch service. Farfalle is fully booked, and the staff can barely keep up. The tension is palpable, the air thick with the mingling aromas of simmering sauces and stress-induced perspiration.

At the pasta line, you’re barely holding it together. Seungwan has stepped in to help, his movements quick but clumsy as he fumbles with the pasta portions. It’s clear he’s unfamiliar with the intricacies of the station, but there’s no time to complain. With fewer hands in the pasta line, the pressure feels insurmountable.

“Move faster!” Minho’s voice cuts through the cacophony, sharp and biting. He stands at his chef table, watching every station like a hawk, barking orders that keep the team on edge. “Don’t just stand around like electrical poles.”

Your hands ache from tossing pasta, the boiling steam stinging your face as you strain spaghetti and toss it into the pan. Beside you, Seungwan drops a ladle, cursing under his breath as sauce splatters onto the counter.

“Pick it up!” you snap, your patience thinning as the next order comes in. You’re already juggling three pans, but the thought of falling behind propels you forward.

Minho’s footsteps echo as he approaches. “What’s taking so long on that linguine?”

“It’s coming!” You shout over your shoulder, refusing to meet his gaze.

You can feel his eyes boring into you, assessing every move you make. The weight of his scrutiny is suffocating, but you push through it, your focus unwavering. You can’t afford to falter—not now, not ever. Not when proving yourself means everything.

“Faster, faster!” Minho demands, his tone clipped. “The customers are screaming in hunger.”

The words sting, but you bite them back, tossing the finished linguine onto the plate and sliding it onto the pass. “It’s done,” you say, your voice steady despite the fire burning in your chest.

You won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter. No matter how overwhelming the orders, no matter how loudly he shouts, you refuse to let him believe—even for a second—that you can’t handle this.

The weight of the frying pan, clams, broth, garlic and pasta is 1,5 kilograms. Since you're holding two pans, that's 3 kilograms combined. That's almost the weight of a newborn baby so right now you're practically rocking a baby in your hands and Minho is trying to say is that in the kitchen, men are better with babies? Not a chance.

This isn’t just about the pasta or the orders. It’s about proving him wrong, about showing him that women can not only survive in his kitchen but thrive.

By the time the rush subsides, your arms feel like lead, your body drenched in sweat. But when Minho glances your way, his face unreadable, you meet his gaze head-on. You don’t say a word, but your silence speaks volumes: I’m still standing.

The kitchen is eerily quiet after the lunch rush, save for the faint clinking of utensils and the hum of the exhaust fans. Most of the staff are resting their arms on counters or sipping water, their faces etched with exhaustion. You stand by the pasta station, massaging your sore wrists discreetly, hoping no one notices.

But Minho notices.

From his position at the chef table, his sharp eyes catch the subtle movements of your fingers rubbing against the tender skin of your wrists. His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes—a brief, almost imperceptible calculation.

Without a word, Minho leaves the kitchen, disappearing into his office. A faint murmur of conversation filters out from the slightly ajar door, his voice low and measured as he makes a phone call.

Dinner service looms, and the staff are back at their stations, bracing themselves for another storm. The tension is palpable, a collective anxiety that builds with each passing second. You’re adjusting your mise en place when the kitchen doors swing open.

Minho strides in, a commanding presence as always, but it’s the figure trailing behind him that draws everyone’s attention.

The new guy is tall and lean, with long, bleached hair pulled into a loose bun. Freckles dust his cheeks and nose, softening his sharp features. He’s beautiful, almost too pretty to be real, and for a moment, everyone wonders if Minho’s broken his own rule about women in the kitchen. But no—there’s no way.

Minho stops in the center of the kitchen, his eyes sweeping over the staff.

“Let me be clear,” he begins, his voice cold and biting. “Today’s lunch service was a disaster. I overestimated all of you—thought you could at least prepare one meal correctly without fumbling like amateurs. Clearly, I was wrong.”

The staff exchanges uneasy glances, the air thick with unspoken tension.

Minho turns his gaze to Seungwan. “Get back to your station,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Seungwan nods stiffly, retreating to his corner of the kitchen.

Then, Minho gestures to the newcomer. “This is Felix. He’ll be taking over the pasta line.”

Felix steps forward, his expression calm but focused as he positions himself beside you. He gives you a brief smile—warm and genuine, a stark contrast to the cold indifference that permeates the kitchen.

Before everyone can process the change, the first order for dinner service comes through.

Minho wastes no time. “Table number six. Two risottos, one linguine with clams, one carbonara!”

The kitchen springs to life, knives chopping, pans sizzling, and voices calling out orders. Felix moves with practiced ease, his hands deft and precise as he takes over part of your workload.

For the first time all day, you feel a flicker of relief. But as you glance at Minho, watching him observe the chaos he’s orchestrated, you know this is far from over.

The bar is dimly lit, the warm glow of amber lights reflecting off the rows of bottles behind the counter. Minho sits at a corner table, nursing a glass of whiskey. Across from him, Felix sips a cocktail, his relaxed demeanor a sharp contrast to Minho’s brooding intensity.

Felix sets his glass down, his freckled face tinged with amusement. “I’m still surprised you called me. What’s it been? Two years?”

Minho tilts his glass, the liquid swirling lazily. “I didn’t have a choice,” he says bluntly. “The kitchen is chaos. Everyone’s far below my expectations.”

Felix leans back in his chair, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Sudden desperation, huh? Not very Minho of you.”

Minho gives a short laugh. “I should’ve called earlier, but you know how it is. Didn’t think I’d need help.”

Felix raises a brow. “Well, I’m here now. But I gotta say, I was surprised to see her there.”

Minho’s grip on his glass tightens ever so slightly, but his expression remains neutral. “Who?”

Felix smirks knowingly. “You know who. The girl at the pasta line. What’s her name again?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Minho replies dismissively, waving a hand.

Felix chuckles, leaning forward. “So, you’re letting women in your kitchen now? Never thought I’d see the day.”

Minho lets out a low, sinister chuckle, shaking his head. “Don’t get the wrong idea.”

Felix’s teasing fades, replaced by curiosity. “You haven’t moved on from it, huh?” he asks, his tone quieter, more serious now.

Minho doesn’t answer right away, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stares at his glass.

Felix continues, “You know, Italian kitchens demand commitment and adaptability. Times are changing. There are tough female cooks these days, and some are damn good at what they do.”

Minho smirks, finally meeting Felix’s gaze. “You don’t need to worry about it,” he says, his voice smooth and composed. “My kitchen isn’t just any kitchen. It’s not meant to be easy-going.”

Felix studies him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before taking another sip of his drink. “Fair enough,” he says, though there’s a hint of something—disapproval or resignation, perhaps—in his tone.

Minho downs the rest of his whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass. “Thanks for stepping in, Felix. Just do your job, and don’t get too comfortable.”

Felix laughs lightly, raising his glass in a mock toast. “With you around? Never.”

The conversation shifts to lighter topics, but the weight of Felix’s words lingers in the air, unspoken yet undeniable.

The soft hum of the coffee machine fills the small apartment as you shuffle into the kitchen, still groggy from the night before. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the faint aroma of cinnamon, a small comfort in an otherwise tense atmosphere.

Yura and Minji are already seated at the kitchen table, their postures slouched as they stare at their laptops. Each of them clutches a steaming mug of coffee, their expressions tired and resigned. Yura is the first to glance up at you, offering a half-hearted smile.

“Morning,” she mutters, her voice hoarse.

“Morning,” you reply, moving toward the fridge. The silence is heavy, save for the occasional click of keys as Minji scrolls through job listings.

You decide to make breakfast, a small gesture to lighten the mood. Pulling out eggs, bread, and vegetables, you get to work, the sound of chopping and sizzling breaking the quiet. You carefully avoid mentioning Farfalle or Minho, knowing it’s a sore subject for both of them.

Yura breaks the silence first, her tone hesitant. “We’ve been talking,” she starts, her eyes fixed on her screen. “Minji and I… we’re going to have to move out soon.”

Your hand stills on the spatula for a moment before you force yourself to keep flipping the eggs. “Oh?”

“We just… we can’t afford rent anymore,” Yura continues, her voice tight. “Especially without jobs lined up. And, uh, we’ll need to take the deposit money too.”

The words hit you harder than you expect. You knew this was coming, but hearing it aloud makes the reality sink in. Living alone will be expensive—rent, bills, groceries—it’s a lot to shoulder on your own. You might have to find a roommate sooner rather than later.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “I get it,” you say, your voice calm. “You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do. I hope you both find something soon.”

Yura gives a small nod, though her eyes are still glued to her screen. Minji doesn’t say much, just takes a long sip of her coffee.

You finish plating breakfast and place the dishes in front of them. “Here,” you say, managing a smile. “Eat up. And good luck with the job hunt.”

“Thanks,” Minji murmurs, finally looking up.

As they start eating, you sit down with your own plate, your mind already racing. The weight of their impending departure looms over you, but you push it aside for now. You’ll figure it out—just like you always do.

The dining hall buzzes with low murmurs as the kitchen and service staff assemble for the morning briefing. You stand in your line, feeling Taesoo’s presence lingering just behind you, a quiet support in the tense environment.

Felix strides in moments later, his presence like a burst of sunshine cutting through the cloudy atmosphere. His bleached hair glows under the morning light, and his freckled face radiates a kind, unbothered smile. “Hey,” he greets, his voice soft yet carrying a note of warmth. “It’s nice to see another familiar face here.”

You offer him a polite smile. Of course, Minho would call Felix. The two were practically inseparable back in culinary school, despite Felix being a year below Minho. Felix had always trailed after him, eager and wide-eyed. It doesn’t surprise you in the least to see him here, undoubtedly Minho’s protégé by now.

“Nice to see you too,” you reply with a small smile. “Looking forward to working with you in the kitchen.”

Felix grins, his gaze sweeping the gathered team. He greets the others with the same warmth, extending his hand as a gesture of goodwill. The service staff respond with polite nods, but the kitchen team barely acknowledges him, their faces etched with stony indifference.

Felix leans closer to you, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Why are they acting like that?”

You glance at the kitchen crew, their tension palpable. “Probably because they think the Italian grads are taking over the pasta line,” you murmur back.

Before Felix can respond, the manager enters, followed closely by Minho, who radiates authority with his sharp, no-nonsense expression. The low hum of conversation dies down as the manager clears his throat and begins the briefing. He details the full lunch and dinner bookings, emphasizing the need for efficiency and teamwork.

When the manager finishes, Minho steps forward, his presence commanding the room. “There’ll be further restructuring in my kitchen,” he announces, his voice calm yet laced with an edge.

The manager blinks in confusion. “Restructuring? You fired people yesterday, and we barely managed the orders. We need more hands, not—”

Minho cuts him off with a raised hand. His gaze sweeps the room before landing squarely on you. His finger points in your direction, sharp and accusatory. “You,” he says, his tone cold. “From today, you’ll share the locker room with the service staff.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. You stiffen, refusing to back down. “No, chef,” you flatly refuse.

Minho’s brow arches, his lips curling into a faint, mocking smile. “Why not?”

“Because I’m part of the kitchen staff,” you reply firmly, meeting his gaze head-on.

The room holds its breath as the two of you lock eyes in a silent battle of wills. Minho’s jaw tightens, his gaze never wavering, but you refuse to look away. After a moment that feels like an eternity, he looks elsewhere, a faint flicker of annoyance crossing his face.

“Fine,” he mutters, his voice dripping with disdain. “Do whatever you want.”

Minho pivots, addressing the team again. “Moving on. First, Farfalle will no longer serve foie gras.”

“But that provides us a lot of sales,” someone from the service team blurts out.

Minho’s eyes snap toward the entrée line where the most resistance is coming. “Foie gras is made by shoving a funnel down a goose's throat and force feeding it until its liver becomes the size of a fist. I don’t support animal cruelty, and this restaurant won’t either.”

A ripple of shock and murmurs sweeps through the room. Sous Chef Seojun steps forward, his face twisted in disbelief. “But foie gras is our VIP customers' favorite.”

“I’m not here to pad your wallets with unethical practices,” Minho snaps, daringly gazes into Seojun’s eyes.

Before Seojun can argue further, Minho barrels ahead. “Second, spoons will no longer be served with pasta dishes.”

Hyunwoo mutters under his breath, loud enough for the room to hear, “This is ridiculous.”

Minho’s gaze snaps to him, sharp as a blade. “From now on, we're going to use half as much sauce on our pasta. Pasta should soak up the sauce so that you don't need a spoon to eat it. In other words, pasta shouldn't be so watery. You should be able to to chew it and enjoy the nutty texture, instead of slurping it down. It should be served on a flat plate without a spoon and watery sauce. So that means, there'll be no more bowl type dishes as well.”

The air is thick with tension, animosity brewing among the staff. Minho, however, stands unshaken, his stance firm, his eyes daring anyone to challenge him further. Felix shifts beside you, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and unease.

You can feel the kitchen’s collective resentment bubbling beneath the surface. And though you don’t agree with Minho’s methods, a part of you can’t help but admire the sheer audacity with which he holds his ground.

This is Minho’s kitchen, and everyone is learning that the hard way.

The lunch rush descends upon the kitchen like a storm. Orders pile in, each ticket a new test of patience and precision. But today, the storm is harsher. The absence of foie gras and spoons from the menu seems to have lit a fuse among the patrons. Complaints echo from the front of the house to the kitchen, carried in by the servers who are met with Minho’s unflinching glare.

“Table six wants to know why there’s no foie gras,” a server stammers, holding the ticket like it’s a shield.

“Because we’re not barbaric,” Minho snaps without looking up from the plated pasta he’s inspecting. “Next question.”

Another server rushes in. “Table three says there’s not enough sauce on their pasta.”

“It’s a sugo, not a soup,” Minho barks, flicking his hand dismissively. “If they wanted a bowl of tomato water, they came to the wrong place.”

The kitchen vibrates with tension. Even the sous chef, who usually keep his grumbling to a minimum, can’t mask their irritation. Seojun’s jaw tightens as he works the grill, his movements sharp and mechanical. Across your station, Hyunwoo mutters curses under his breath, his hands trembling as he reduces yet another sauce to Minho’s exact specifications.

You stand at your station, hands moving on autopilot as you toss a pan of pasta, the repetitive motion grounding you. The complaints weigh on you too, but you keep your head down. You’ve made it this far; you’re not about to let Minho—or anyone else—see you falter.

“Focus!” Minho’s voice cuts through the chaos like a whip, directed at no one and everyone. “If I hear one more plate leaves this kitchen without my approval, someone’s going home early. And not in a good way.”

“Yes, chef!” Despite the chaos, the kitchen soldiers on. Plates go out, tables are cleared, and somehow, the lunch service marches toward its conclusion. By the time the last order is fired and plated, an exhausted hush falls over the team.

The other cooks exchange glances, their disdain for Minho unspoken but palpable. Felix, ever the optimist, claps Taesoo on the shoulder and offers a reassuring smile.

Minho surveys the room, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. “Good work,” he says, his tone begrudging, like the words physically pain him. “But don’t think for a second this means you’re keeping up. Dinner service starts in five hours. Clean up and get back to prep.”

As the team disperses, you take a deep breath, the ache in your wrists flaring as you stretch. Another day in hell, you think. And yet, you can’t help but feel a flicker of pride. Against all odds, you finished the service.

But you know this is just the beginning. With Minho at the helm, there’s no such thing as smooth sailing. Only storms.

The dining hall is crowded as all of the staff are taking their break and having lunches, indulging in the rare peace before dinner service. But you have other plans. Quietly slipping away, you make your way to the cashier’s terminal, your heart thumping with anticipation.

The order history is your goal—a record of the Italian consulate’s dining habits. Scrolling through the list of past reservations, you start to see the pattern. Each visit showcases a different dish, meticulously selected as though the consulate is sampling the entire menu, piece by piece. One glaring omission stands out: Vongole.

The realization lights a spark of determination. Heading to the freezer, you prep the clams with care, imagining the dish that might just win over one of the most discerning palates to grace Farfalle’s dining room. But as you emerge with your bounty, Minho appears, as if conjured by your audacity.

“What are you doing with that?” he asks, his voice laced with curiosity and skepticism.

You straighten your back. “The Italian consulate will order Vongole tonight,” you reply confidently.

Minho’s expression shifts into a cynical smile. “And what makes you so sure?”

“I checked his previous orders,” you explain, meeting his gaze without flinching. “He’s ordered everything on the menu except Vongole. It’s the only dish left.”

For a moment, Minho simply stares at you, as though debating whether to dismiss you outright or acknowledge your boldness. Then, a sly smirk tugs at his lips. “We’ll see,” he says, brushing past you.

Dinner service is in full swing, the clamor of the kitchen almost deafening. Minho’s sharp commands ring out above the noise, each order executed with mechanical precision.

Then comes the moment everyone has been waiting for—the consulate’s arrival. The manager sweeps into the kitchen, a nervous energy radiating from him as he announces their presence.

Minho’s expression remains unreadable. “Focus,” he orders, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

The anticipation is palpable as the consulate’s table lingers over their menu, debating their options. When the order finally comes through, all eyes turn to Minho as he reads the slip of paper. His gaze flicks to you, holding it for just a second longer than usual before he barks out the order.

“Vongole!”

Felix raises his hand immediately. “I’ll make it,” he volunteers, his enthusiasm earnest.

But Minho ignores him, his attention fixed on you. “You,” he says firmly, pointing in your direction. “Make the dish.”

Your heart pounds, but you give no outward sign of hesitation. “Yes, Chef,” you reply, moving to your station with purpose.

As you work, Minho hovers nearby, his presence both unnerving and oddly reassuring. Halfway through your preparation, he approaches, holding a bottle of wine.

“Use this,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You hesitate, glancing at the label—it’s an expensive bottle, undoubtedly his personal stash. “Chef, this is—”

“It’ll elevate the flavor,” he interrupts, his voice steady. “Use it.”

Swallowing your nerves, you nod and accept the bottle. The addition of the wine transforms the dish, the aroma wafting through the kitchen as you plate the pasta with precision.

The staff exchange glances—some envious, others suspicious. But Minho ignores them all, his focus entirely on the dish in front of you.

“Serve it,” he orders once the plate is finished.

As the dish is carried out to the dining hall, a charged silence falls over the kitchen. All that remains is to see if your gamble—and Minho’s faith—will pay off.

The dinner service nears its end, the kitchen quieting as the last orders are plated and sent out. You’re tidying up your station when the manager steps in, his expression unreadable.

“The consulate wants to meet the chef,” he announces, then adds, “and the one who cooked his Vongole.”

Your heart skips a beat, an icy wave of anxiety washing over you. Did you mess up? Did it fail to meet his standards?

“Let’s go,” Minho says, already heading toward the dining hall.

You fall in step behind him, nerves gnawing at your composure. Minho walks with his usual confidence, his back straight and his presence commanding. It’s only when you reach the consulate’s table that you notice someone unexpected seated beside him.

Chef Choi Sara.

Recognition hits like a slap. Sara isn’t just a famous culinary star; she’s Minho’s ex from culinary school. They were inseparable back then, both as a couple and as rivals, constantly pushing each other to excel. Stories of their relationship are almost legendary in the culinary world—a whirlwind of passion, competition, and ambition. But something happened between them, and whatever it was, it ended both their romance and their partnership.

You glance at Minho, searching for a reaction. His face remains as unreadable as ever, but there’s a tension in his posture, a flicker in his eyes that betrays his composed demeanor.

The consulate rises with a warm smile, shaking Minho’s hand first. “Congratulations on your new position,” he says. “The food tonight was exceptional, as always. You’ve truly elevated this restaurant.”

“Thank you,” Minho replies, his voice steady and professional.

Then the consulate turns to you. “And you,” he says, his tone lighter but no less sincere. “The Vongole was exquisite. You’ve got a remarkable talent.”

You bow slightly, your voice soft with humility. “Thank you. I’m flattered you enjoyed it.”

Before the conversation can continue, Sara interjects, her smile sharp and knowing. “Well, it’s no wonder the food is so good,” she says, her voice laced with confidence. “The three of us went to the same culinary school, after all.”

Her words hang in the air, pointed and loaded. It’s as if she’s reminding Minho—and perhaps you—of their shared history, of the heights they reached together and the tension that pulled them apart. Minho doesn’t respond, his focus remaining on the consulate, but the air between him and Sara is thick with unspoken words.

The consulate gestures to a box beside his chair, lifting a few bottles of wine. “A gift,” he says, handing them to Minho. “I hope you’ll enjoy them as much as I’ve enjoyed your cooking.”

Minho accepts the gift with a polite nod, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, a glimpse of memories resurfacing. You can’t help but wonder what this exchange is stirring up for him.

“Shall we take a picture to commemorate the evening?” the consulate suggests, already standing to pose.

You barely have time to process the request before you’re lining up beside Minho. As you smile for the camera, you feel the faintest brush of movement. Glancing down, you see Sara’s arm looped through Minho’s, her posture relaxed and confident, as though she belongs by his side.

Your smile falters for a split second before you force it back into place. The flash goes off, but your mind is already racing.

As you walk back to the kitchen, questions swirl in your mind. What’s the nature of Minho and Sara’s relationship now? Did their rivalry ever truly end, or was it just another layer of their complicated dynamic? And more troublingly, does Minho still harbor feelings for her? The possibilities unsettle you, leaving you to wrestle with a mix of curiosity and unease.

The kitchen is less hectic as the only sounds that can be heard is the low hum of post-service cleanup, exhaustion settling into the faces of the staff. Minho stands in the center, a bottle of wine in hand, his expression unreadable. With a sharp twist, he pops the cork and pours glasses for everyone.

"Here," he says curtly, passing out drinks. "Celebrate while you can."

The team exchanges wary glances before lifting their glasses. Minho's tone is brusque, but his actions are a rare acknowledgment of their hard work. You sip the wine in silence, watching him walk away with the second bottle tucked under his arm.

Minho heads toward his office, his steps measured and deliberate. He’s halfway to the door when he freezes, his sharp eyes catching a figure leaning casually against the wall near his office—Sara.

"Minho," she calls, her lips curling into a knowing smile. "Still the last to leave, I see."

“What do you want?” he asks coldly, brushing past her toward his office door.

Sara pushes off the wall and falls into step behind him. “I just wanted to check on you,” she says breezily, her tone too light to be genuine. “Word is that Farfalle’s sales are plummeting since you took over. Not exactly the success story everyone expected.”

Minho stops abruptly, turning to face her. His eyes are dark, his patience clearly thin. “Mind your own business.”

She tilts her head, feigning innocence. “I just hate to see someone who used to be the best… fall so far.”

Minho doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he steps into his office, setting the bottle of wine down on the desk. He gestures toward it, his lips curling into a bitter smile.

“Recognize this?” he asks.

Sara’s gaze flickers to the bottle, and for a moment, her confident facade cracks.

“It’s just wine, Minho,” she says, though her voice is quieter now.

“Not just wine,” he counters. “It’s a reminder. A reminder of the moment you ruined everything. Of how you planned to take me down.”

Her expression hardens, but she doesn’t deny it.

“It was a mistake,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “A shameful, momentary mistake.”

Minho laughs, though there’s no humor in it. “A mistake?” he repeats, his disbelief cutting through the room. “You planned it, Sara. Every step. And now you’re trying to rewrite history?”

Sara looks away, her silence speaking volumes.

Minho steps closer, his voice low and laced with disdain. “The real mistake wasn’t trusting you. It wasn’t even competing with you. The real mistake was falling in love with you.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and final. Without waiting for a response, he grabs his coat and strides past her, leaving Sara standing alone in the dim light of the office. Her carefully constructed poise falters, her hands clenching into fists at her sides as the door closes behind him.

The soft ding of the elevator echoes in the quiet corridor as you wait, exhaustion heavy in your limbs after a long day. Your mind drifts to the task you’ve been putting off—informing the property agent about listing your apartment for a roommate. Just as the thought settles uncomfortably, you hear footsteps approaching.

Minho steps into view, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. He takes a spot beside you, his presence commanding the space as you both wait for the elevator in silence.

The doors slide open, and the two of you step inside. The hum of the elevator is the only sound until Minho finally breaks the silence.

“You must be happy,” he says, his tone laced with mock indifference. “I let you keep your job, I let you cook for the consulate, and I even let you use my wine.”

You glance at him, a small smile playing on your lips. For the first time in a while, this feels like the Minho you’d met that night, not the cold, sharp-edged chef from the kitchen.

“Thank you, chef,” you say softly, your smile widening. “You really are the best.”

Minho’s lips twitch as though he’s fighting a grin. “Flattery does not work on me,” he mutters, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

Amused, you turn slightly to study him. His jaw is set, his expression stoic, but there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes. Acting on impulse, you step closer and gently cup his jaw, tilting his face toward you. His eyes widen in surprise, but before he can react, you lean in and press your lips to his.

For a moment, he freezes, but then he relaxes, his hands finding your waist as he returns the kiss. The warmth of his lips, the way he pulls you just a little closer—it’s electrifying, and the rest of the world fades away.

The elevator chimes, signaling your floor. Slowly, you break the kiss, a playful smile on your face as you step back.

Minho leans in as though to capture your lips again, but you quickly place a hand on his chest, teasingly stopping him. “Goodnight, Chef,” you say, your tone light and mischievous.

His lips part, as if to protest, but you’re already stepping out of the elevator. Glancing over your shoulder, you catch the look of longing on his face before the doors slide shut, leaving him standing there, wanting more.

Ever since that kiss, Minho can’t stop thinking about it. The memory keeps replaying—the warmth of your lips, the way your breath hitched right before it happened. It wasn’t supposed to happen. It can’t happen. And yet, he can’t deny how much he still wants to pursue whatever this is.

If only you weren’t working in his kitchen...

Stepping out of his apartment, Minho sighs quietly, raking a hand through his hair. He presses the elevator button and stares at the numbers lighting up as the lift ascends. The soft creak of your door opening makes him turn, and he sees you stepping out, adjusting the strap of your bag.

You spot him and offer a faint smile. “Morning,” you say, your voice light but cautious.

The elevator doors slide open, and you both step in. The space between you feels charged, the silence heavier than it should be. Minho shoves his hands into his pockets, debating whether to say something. This is his chance, but he knows he has to tread carefully.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low but steady. “Listen to me carefully.”

You glance at him, waiting for him to continue, your expression unreadable.

“I don’t want to fire you,” he says firmly. “But I need to remind you… you’re just a chef in my kitchen. Nothing more.”

The words land heavier than he expects, and he watches as your expression shifts. A flicker of something he can’t quite place crosses your face before you mask it again.

You stay silent for a moment before nodding.

Minho frowns slightly, uneasy. “Understood?” he asks, needing confirmation—for himself as much as for you.

“Yes, Chef,” you reply, your voice calm and unwavering.

The formal response makes his chest tighten. It’s what he wants to hear—what he needs to hear. But it feels like a wall has gone up between you, colder and more impenetrable than before.

The elevator dings softly, and the doors slide open to the ground floor. Minho steps out first, reminding himself of his own rules. No women in his kitchen. No romance in his kitchen. Even if he wants to break them.

The dining hall hums with quiet conversation as the service and kitchen staff gather for the usual morning briefing. You stand among them, arms crossed, waiting for Mr. Oh to arrive. It's strange—he’s never late for these meetings.

The minutes stretch, and impatience grows. Finally, Minho steps into the scene, exuding authority as he takes charge. “Let’s not waste time,” he says, his voice cutting through the murmurs. “We’ll start—”

The double doors to the dining hall creak open, silencing everyone. All heads turn toward the entrance, and a collective murmur ripples through the room as a figure strides in.

Dressed in a tailored black suit that seems to absorb the light, the man’s presence is magnetic. His pale skin contrasts sharply with his dark attire, and his piercing gaze sweeps over the staff, commanding their attention without a single word.

He moves with an air of calculated confidence, each step echoing in the hushed hall. Reaching the front of the room, he turns to face the gathered crowd, his lips curling into a faint, enigmatic smile.

“I apologize for the disruption,” he begins, his voice deep and smooth, laced with a subtle edge of authority. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Chris, and as of today, I am the new manager of Farfalle.”

A wave of whispers breaks out among the staff, curiosity and unease blending in their expressions.

Chris doesn’t waver. He clasps his hands behind his back, his sharp eyes scanning the room with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. “I look forward to working with each of you.”

His words hang in the air like a challenge, leaving an unspoken tension that prickles at your skin. Without waiting for a response, Chris gives a final nod and steps aside, his presence lingering even as he moves.

Minho watches him with a subtle narrowing of his eyes, his jaw tight. The air in the room feels heavier, charged with the dramatic shift Chris's arrival has brought.

“I'll make it short,” Chris begins, his tone steady and authoritative. “I'm closing down the restaurant.”

And just like that, the briefing takes on an entirely new weight, ending not with words, but with the undeniable realization that change is here—and it wears a sharp black suit.

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starkwlkr · 1 day ago

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girl, so confusing | f1

an: this is SADLY the last part :( don’t worry, i do plan on writing more fics for the f1 dilf!! here’s your long awaited reveal on the baby daddy lol made this one extra long for y’all <3 enjoy!!

part 1 part 2

faceclaim gisele bündchen

liked by ynstyle, goss1pformulas and others

f1gossiproom could mark webber be the father? recently former red bull and williams drivers, mark and y/n have been spending time together. the pair were spotted having dinner several times and a source confirmed that webber attended y/n’s daughter’s recital! they were once again spotted out in australia spending time in bondi beach with y/n’s daughter (not pictured to protect her privacy) they were soon joined by friends and webber’s family. a source, who wishes to remain anonymous, saw them and said y/n’s daughter, gemma, and mark were bonding as if they were dad and daughter 👀 he even calls her ‘gem’ and ‘gemmy’! what do you think? is mark webber the real father? we certainly think so!

formulaho3 how about just leave them alone?

roscoesno1fan mark looks like a total dilf in that pic so yes

oscarspastry what if the real father is the friends we made along the way?

webberxvettel i need to know the truth before i die

hamiltonsmerecedes not f1 twitter trying to cancel y/n for getting with their faves 😭

lnwhores i stand by my cancelled wife

myhonestbitchface and when y/n reveals that sebastian is the bd then what 🤨 i feel it in my gut 👀 that german bitch is the bd

blackwidowswife bitch you’re just hungry

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THE PADDOCK SESSIONS has posted a new YouTube video!

Italics = voiceover by y/n

“Hello!” Y/n’s daughter, Gemma, opened the door to Dan. She knew that he was going to film an interview with her mother about her racing career. She watched as Dan’s camera man waved to her. She assumed they had already started filming.

“Gemma hates and loves when I’m away. She stays with her grandparents when I have to leave or if her dad is not busy then they’ll be together. I think she loves it because her dad lets her have ice cream before bed. I’m more of a strict parent between me and him.”

Photos of little Gemma appear on screen. The young girl was picture with her mother on her first birthday, then with Mark and family members then Sebastian and Jenson.

Dan entered Y/n’s London home with Gemma by his side. He spotted Y/n making tea. “Got here just in time.” He laughed as he joined the former driver in the kitchen.

“I hope the flight here wasn’t too bad.” Y/n passed a mug over to Dan.

“Slept my way through it,” before Dan could take a sip from his tea, he noticed the mug that he was given. It had ‘best dad ever’ sloppily written in paint. “Cute.” He held the mug up and smiled.

“Yeah, Gemma made it for her dad last year for Father’s Day.” Y/n smiled proudly at her daughter’s creation.

That’s when Gemma joined the conversation. “But I couldn’t give it to him on actual Father’s Day! He was away racing and couldn’t be here so I had to give it to him later.” She explained.

After the pair finished their tea, they walked together to Y/n’s small garden. There she had a little seating area where the rest of the interview would take place.

“Lovely garden.” Dan commented.

“Thank you, although I won’t take all the credit. Sebastian comes to help, Gemma kind of bosses him around telling him where each flower looks best.” Y/n laughed, setting her mug on the glass table.

“Dad loves the flowers I picked out for the garden.” Gemma pointed out as she joined them outside. As Dan started the interview, Gemma kept playing outside with her toys.

More images of a young Y/n flashed on screen. She was driving for Williams at the time, they were her first ever team.

“Williams was my first home. They were nice to me, but they put so much pressure on me to perform, like every race had to be perfect. And when it wasn’t, you could feel the disappointment, like a weight hanging in the air. I’d go back to my hotel room at night, and it was just me and the silence.”

The video showed a clip of young Y/n in the Williams garage getting ready for her debut race. She noticed the camera then smiled and waved. The video then cuts to from a happy, full of life Y/n to a gloomy, quiet Y/n sitting alone in her garage.

“I didn’t have friends in the paddock back then. Everyone was focused on their own thing, and the people around me—the trainers, the engineers—they all kept their distance. One of my trainers actually told me, ‘I’m not here to be your friend; I’m here to work.’ And that’s when I realized I was completely on my own."

Y/n then looked over her shoulder and saw Gemma using a teddy bear that her father had bought the girl for her birthday last year in Germany. The former driver smiled at the memory of her little family spending a special day together.

Back to the interview, Y/n then talked to Dan about her divorce. It was a dark time for her. She had been young when she said ‘I Do’ to a man she thought was the love of her life. At the time of her marriage, her husband was six years older. She was nineteen at the time, about to turn twenty.

Several headlines from the day her marriage was announced appeared on screen.

“Barely an Adult, Already a Wife: Y/N Marries Six Years Her Senior”

“Y/N’s Whirlwind Marriage: Chasing Love, Not Podiums?”

“Teenage Racer’s Rush to the Altar: Desperate for Love or Just Immature?”

“Is Y/N Looking for Validation in All the Wrong Places?”

“‘She’ll Marry Anyone’: Critics Slam Y/N’s Hasty Decision at Just 19”

"They painted me as some kind of desperate girl who couldn’t handle being alone. The truth was, I was 19, scared, and in love—or at least I thought I was. But that didn’t matter to them. They just wanted to sell papers."

Dan then spoke. “What led to the divorce?”

Y/n sighed deeply. Only a few people knew the real reason. “It’s . . . a complicated thing to talk about. I mean, when you’re nineteen and in love, or what you think is love, you don’t always see the red flags. At the time, I thought I’d found someone who believed in me, who would support me no matter what. But as time went on, I realized that wasn’t the case."

A picture of Y/n getting ready by herself on her wedding day appears on screen. Her family were not present as her husband at the time wanted it to be only them. She smiled brightly at the camera as her photo was taken. The image fades then clips of Y/n racing in the early 2000s play.

“He wanted a family. Kids, a house, the whole thing. And there’s nothing wrong with that, but he wanted it then, right when my career was just beginning. He gave me an ultimatum—racing or him."

Dan lightly gasped at her words. “Oh . . .”

“I chose racing. How could I not? It was everything I’d worked for, everything I’d dreamed of. But he didn’t take it well. He made me feel like I was selfish, like I was throwing away a chance at a ‘real’ life."

Several more images of Y/n and her then husband flash on screen. There’s no photos of him attending races, mostly because he thought racing was dumb and didn’t like loud crowds.

“He didn’t trust me. Whenever I was away at races, he’d insist I call him every single day, sometimes multiple times. If I missed a call because I was in a meeting or debrief, he’d accuse me of . . . things. Things that weren’t true. I couldn’t even have a normal conversation with my trainer or my team principal without worrying about how he’d react."

"There were times I wanted to visit my family, to go home and just breathe. But he’d make me feel so guilty for even thinking about it, like I was abandoning him. So I stopped trying."

The screen cuts back to Y/N on the sofa. Her hands are clasped tightly now, her voice calm but with an undercurrent of emotion.

“And then the divorce was final and for a moment I was happy until he went to the media spreading all sorts of lies.” Y/n added.

Several more magazine headlines appear on screen.

“The Truth About Y/N: Ex-Husband Reveals Why Their Marriage Failed”

“‘She Wanted the World to Love Her, Not Me’: Y/N’s Ex Speaks Out”

“‘All She Cared About Was Fame’: Y/N’s Ex-Husband Speaks Out About Their Divorce”

Then the screen cuts to clips of Y/n’s ex husband being interviewed about their marriage.

“I sacrificed so much to support her career, but she couldn’t give me the one thing I wanted: a family. She was too busy chasing the cameras and the glory.”

“It was rough. Instead of being asked about racing, I was asked about my failed marriage.” Y/n recalled all the times during interviews when her ex-husband’s name was mentioned. “I just wanted to go home a cry, but I had a job to do. But of course the attention I was getting got me fired.”

“How were you told you were no longe driving for Williams?” Dan asked.

“Would you believe it if I said it was a ten second phone call from Claire Williams?” Y/n laughed. “Claire and I were never enemies. A few days after I got her call, she had dinner in my house and explained to me that she didn’t want to be the one to call me, but she was pressured to. Apparently the Williams team thought it was best for her to tell me in a phone call because they thought it would be ‘easier’ if the news came from her, since she’s a woman. They thought it would hurt less coming from her. Can you believe that?"

Dan noticed how Y/n laughed at the mention of the famous ten second phone call.

“It was definitely ridiculous of them. But they didn’t understand how humiliating it was either way. But Claire . . . I could tell she hated it. She ended the call so quickly because she didn’t want to do it. She didn’t want me to be dropped from the team."

A photo showed of Claire Williams talking to Y/n before a race. At the time, Y/n didn’t know it, but Claire was her only friend.

“I don’t blame her for how it happened. She was caught in the middle of a decision that wasn’t hers to make. And honestly, her coming to my house afterward to explain—that meant something. It didn’t fix anything, but it showed she cared." Y/n finished drinking her tea then resumed speaking. “That ten-second call changed everything for me. But at least I know it wasn’t Claire’s choice. It was just . . . Williams being Williams."

“After everything that happened with Williams, you had every reason to step away from the sport. But instead, you joined McLaren. Looking back now, would you say that was the decision that changed everything for the better?" Dan questioned. He watched as her face softened. She truly adored her time with mclaren.

Y/n nodded. “Joining McLaren felt like a fresh start, like a second chance to prove what I was capable of. At Williams, I was just surviving. But at McLaren, I got to thrive."

Clips of Y/n during her time with the mclaren team played. Her smile was genuine and she looked happier than ever.

“I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep racing. I didn’t know if I could trust another team. But McLaren . . . they believed in me in a way no one else had."

"It wasn’t just about the racing, though. McLaren gave me a second chance, not just at my career, but at myself. It reminded me why I fell in love with this sport in the first place."

“And then came those three idiots.” Y/n laughed when she remembered becoming friends with Mark, Jenson and Sebastian. Her cheeks tinting slightly, but her smile stays steady.

“But with that friendship came negative comments. I remember reading articles calling you horrible names just for having friendships with them.” Dan commented.

“Those negative comments still come my way even after many years,” Y/n added. “I stayed away from social media for that same reason until recently.”

“But with sharing your life on social media also came questions about your daughters life as well.”

Y/n knew it was something that was going to come up in the interview. Dan didn’t want to ask, but Y/n wanted to share. Gemma’s father and her had discussed it before and they both agreed to the interview.

“Yeah, the whole ‘who’s the father?’ thing has taken over every social media app i have. I can’t avoid it, especially when people constantly message me about it.” Y/n spoke. “Jenson thinks it’s hilarious.”

“Jenson?” Dan questioned.

“Yeah, he sent me a meme about it comparing us to Mamma Mia. I sent it to Sebastian and he sent it to Mark.”

The remainder of the interview, Y/n talked about her family she shared with the man who endlessly supported through everything. Every time she talked about him, she smiled brightly. It was clear that she loved him and their daughter more than anything.

As the video came to an end, Gemma was seen running towards someone who was out of frame. “Dad’s home!” Gemma jumped into his arms and hugged him.

“I thought you were flying in next week.” Y/n stood up to hug him.

“I come here to surprise you and Gem and this is how I’m treated?” He placed a kiss on Y/n’s temple, still holding onto Gemma. “Sorry, I definitely interrupted you two, haven’t I?”

“It’s alright, Jenson. We were just wrapping things up.”

INSTAGRAM

liked by landonorris, wagstyle and others

f1gossip after finally revealing the identity of her daughter’s father, y/n and her daughter gemma were seen together in a beach in california 👀 jenson button also lives in california so we’re thinking the button family is spending some time together.

vettelsbees GIRL SEB WAS SPOTTED AT LAX

hamiltonsmercedes AND MARK

nicorosbergisadiva WHAT IS GOING ONNNN

landonorris hey i know her

ferraridepressionclub ARIANA WHAT ARE YOU DOING HEREEE

webbertears what do you know you gremlin

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“Can I have money for ice cream?” Gemma ran up to her parents, Mark and Sebastian. The former drivers were all enjoying the sunshine of California, an idea that came from Gemma. She had been the one to call Mark and Sebastian to join her and her parents. They agreed even if they cancelled their plans with friends. They would literally do anything for the young girl.

Without hesitation, all the men took out their wallets and took out money for the girl. Their actions caused both Gemma and Y/n to laugh.

“Okay, thank you.” She gladly took the money from each of them.

“I’ll go with you, Gemmy,” Mark said as he got up from his spot and took Gemma’s hand in his. Together they walked to the ice cream stand.

“Has Claire called you?” Sebastian wondered. Ever since the interview was posted, the Williams team had posted several posts of Y/n when she was driving for them. They were finally acknowledging her wins and podiums. And of course they received some criticism from fans.

“She messaged me letting me know she watched the interview. She’s happy I did it.” Y/n replied.

“We all are. You should’ve done the interview years ago.” Jenson said.

Y/n only nodded and turned her attention to Mark and Gemma. The girl had always been close to both the German and Australian drivers, how couldn’t she when they had been in her mothers life and now they were in hers.

“Gemma asked if she could go to a race, but she wants you all to be there.” Y/n spoke up. Gemma desperately wanted the three men to join her. Y/n knew they would all say yes immediately.

“Did she say which one?” Sebastian asked.

“She said she wants to go to each of your home races.” Y/n grinned as Jenson immediately said he was in. Sebastian laughed then nodded. Of course they would join Gemma, the girl had them all wrapped around her finger.

“And will you be attending too?” Jenson winked at her. “We could do a repeat of what happened after Australia.”

“Funny, I was about to suggest the same thing but it happened in Canada.” Sebastian teased.

“Well weren’t you a busy woman.” Jenson smirked. “And Mark?”

Y/n kept quiet, innocently sipping her lemonade. After setting her drink down, the former drivers waited for her answer. “If you must know . . . We were in Vegas.”

Jenson groaned. “I was thinking Monaco.”

“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, baby.”

#formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #f1 x you #f1 #mark webber x reader #sebastian vettel x reader #jenson button x reader #f1 driver!reader #sv5 x reader #mw2 x reader #jb22 x reader

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wonderjanga · 2 days ago

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Little British Boy

The Batsons were both British people who immigrated to America. As a result of this when Mary and Billy were born, they gained British accents causing them to sound like little Victorian children.

Store Owner: “Thanks for the help, young man.” *hands him five dollars*

Billy: “Thank you sir!”

Store Owner: “No problem-” *has to do a double take at that accent* “A Brit?”

Billy: “No sir. But my parents were. I was raised in America.”

Yeah… It confused some people at first, but after a while of the little British kid coming around and doing odd jobs for money, most store owners got used to it. Then came the time Billy wanted a stable job a.k.a. being the Whiz kid.

Mr. Morris: “So you want to be a radio host?”

Billy: “Yes, sir. I need the money.”

Mr. Morris: “Wow… It’s been a long while since I’ve heard a British accent.”

Billy: “Ah, sorry.” *tries to make himself sound more American, but it comes all across as more transatlantic* “Is that better?”

Mr. Morris: *heard the transatlantic accent and was immediately interested* “Very. Why don’t we have you do a trial run and then we’ll go from there?”

Billy: “I’d really appreciate that, sir.” *thinks he thinks his American accent is good, but doesn’t realize he’s doing a perfect transatlantic*

The Britishness also bled into his Captain Marvel form. Though like with Billy, he tried to sound more American and ended up coming across as more transatlantic. People in the 60s loved it, and when the time bubble popped surprisingly people from the 2000s loved it too. And because in this AU the bubble popped in the 2000s, this was when most heroes were first starting out. He ends up meeting a young Batman. Billy had originally gone to Gotham because they wanted to see if the city was still cursed to heck and sure enough it was.

Batman: “You sound just like the old Gray Ghost movies…”

Marvel: “What was that?”

Batman: “Nothing.”

Somehow, about a couple years after this, they ended up developing a friendship. Marvel was even allowed down in the Batcave on the condition he doesn’t touch anything. (Bruce literally saw the man touch something with his pinky and it short fused. He is not taking any risks until he is sure the Batcomputer can handle enough volts of electricity to take out a power plant.) One of these days while Bruce was working, and Marvel was in the cave pacing and chattering incessantly to Bruce about something random, Alfred came down. The butler distracted the Captain and after a bit, all Bruce could hear was unintelligible words.

At first, Bruce just assumed it was him zoning out of the conversation and thought nothing of it, but then Robin tiptoed over:

Robin!Dick: *pokes Bruce to bring him back to reality* “What are they saying…?” *points to Alfred and Marvel*

Alfred and Marvel: *speaking in Welsh*

Batman: “I… don’t know.”

Robin!Dick and Batman: *stares*

Ah… How could he have forgotten? Alfred’s Welsh. Though, the butler now speaks in a different English accent, likely due to his time as a stage actor. Bruce remembered the man telling him that long ago when he was still a boy. How… unprepared of Bruce. He should’ve learned Welsh by now. He’s a little embarrassed he hasn’t. As for Marvel, Bruce was a little upset he didn’t know the man was from England, let alone the same place as Agent A. But then where did the transatlantic-ness come from?

Robin!Dick: “I still can’t tell what they’re saying…”

Marvel and Alfred: *switched back to English at this point, but the accents are still strong*

So yes, Billy has three accents folks. His mother Marilyn was Welsh so he knows how to mimic the accent and speak the language because I say so. His father had a classic London accent which Billy defaults to most of the time. So, Billy’s double British, or just British and Welsh is you want to separate the two. Then there’s the fail-to-try-to-sound-more-American-accent or accidental transatlantic accent.

#billy batson #shazam #dc captain marvel #captain marvel dc #fawcett city #fawcett #fawcett comics #batman #bruce wayne #alfred pennyworth #dick grayson #richard grayson #robin dc #dc robin

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cloudgirlsonfilm · 1 day ago

Text

for 0️⃣☁️ because i have a lot for them...

1. pure morning by placebo

both are a little washed up when they meet each other, and one of their first proper conversations probably over drinks and smokes over the course of a long night. it's as they realize the sun is rising that they look to each other and really think about what's sparked

2. oh! darling by the beatles

3. lonely in your nightmare by duran duran

lili tends to have very vivid dreams, good and bad, and it shows on her face when she sleeps. if it's evidently a good dream, rei can't help but feel jealous he can't look into it... he wishes he could be a witting part of her dreams, but he doesn't realize her dreams can be quite vacant without him

4. let's dance by david bowie

5. running up that hill (a deal with god) by kate bush

they struggle to communicate their needs constantly, and they both feel like they need each other even after their biggest fights. if only a deal with god could happen...

6. ... see number 4

7. save a prayer by duran duran

uncertainty in how long their unbridled passion will last them before lili's bed is left with a vacant spot again. he'll tell her to not worry about it in the morning, and then he's not there at all by then

8. usurahi shinjuu by megumi hayashibara

9. lay all your love on me by abba

10. two options

on the bound by fiona apple if we're talking one of them (0️⃣) seeing a truly repressed side

cold hearted by paula abdul if we're being lighthearted (he's a cold hearted snake!)

11. they don't get married, but if they did... refer to number 4 again

12. kiss me good-bye by buck-tick

13. matte kudasai by king crimson

Make a playlist for your ship

A song that plays over when they first see/meet each other

A song that reminds them of each other

A song that represents when they're dreaming of the other

A song that represents their happiest moment together

A song that represents their mutual struggle in life

A song they'd dance to together

A song that represents their uncertainty

A song when they're stuck in a room with the other

A song that represents (one of) their confessions

A song when they see the other's dark/secret side

A song that plays at their wedding

A song that would play over when one of them is near death or dies

A song they'd put on to comfort each other

Inspired by @more-oc-questions OC playlist template post

Angst alternative version

#.☁️#.0️⃣#lilirei

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rosemariiaa · 2 days ago

Text

02 sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇs, ғɪʀsᴛ ᴄʀᴜsʜᴇs

𐙚—pairing: Paige x Azzi

𐙚—rosie’s note:i have nothing to say but enjoy this long and sad ass flashback and yeah..pls don’t humor me! live reacts are very much wanted and needed!! also wanted to say tysmmm for 700+ followers, i love evb soo much and ty for being here! happy reading lovelies 💌

𐙚—links: rosie’s bookshelf, series masterlist , prologue

𐙚—themes: au (time travel), angst, fluff (if you squint), hurt/comfort, mentions of depression

𐙚—taglist: @thaatdigitaldiary @ohbueckers @makethemhoesmad @imaginespazzi @sierrale8ne @bueckersbitch @xxloveralways14 @kmoneymartini @lupinqs @pboogerswbb @pbaz7 @guesswhoitsn @patri-ots87 @ashortyluvsports @absolutelydreadful @pazzilover101

enjoy!!!

Storrs, Connecticut 2021

It started a few weeks after Azzi and Paige made their “agreement”. That’s what Azzi called it in her head—a way to convince herself it was something mutual, something they both wanted. In reality, it was her idea. She was the one who said, “We can’t keep doing this,” and Paige had gone along with it, like she always did.

Azzi thought it would be better this way, safer. If they stayed just friends, they couldn’t hurt each other. But watching Paige move on, watching her live out this version of their lives that Azzi thought she wanted—God, it was killing her.

The first time Paige mentioned Leana, Azzi didn’t think much of it. Paige always had a way of making friends quickly, effortlessly. But then Leana started showing up, a lot. At the end of practice. At team dinners. At their apartment.

Paige introduced her to the team a few days after their conversation, her arm slung around Leana’s shoulders like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t the same way she used to hold Azzi. And Leana? She was perfect. Nice. Pretty. Confident in a way that made Azzi’s stomach churn with jealousy? No, Azzi never really got jealous when Paige would be with other girls. Especially because they would only last a day or a few hours, but Leana would not stop showing up.

So, it was definitely not jealousy. Hatred.

Azzi hated her. She hated how she laughed at Paige’s jokes, how she touched Paige’s arm all the time like it was it was gonna grow legs and run away if she didn’t, how Paige seemed to shine a little brighter whenever Leana was around.

She hated how much she wanted Leana to be awful. Selfish. Mean. Anything that would give Paige a reason to leave her, to come back to Azzi. So Azzi could hold her and comfort her, the way she always used to. But that wasn’t going to happen. Leana wasn’t a bad person, and Paige didn’t need Azzi anymore.

Fuck. What did I do?

Azzi tried to convince herself she was fine. That she didn’t care. That this was what she wanted. Right?

But then, tonight, she saw them in the dining hall. Paige was leaning against the table, laughing at something Leana had said, her head tilted back, blonde waves brushing her back. She looked happy. Free.

And then Paige’s hand went to the small of Leana’s back.

Azzi froze.

Her breath caught in her chest, her heart pounding in her ears. That was her spot. Paige used to do that to her all the time—those small, familiar touches that felt like secrets only they shared. And now Paige was doing it to someone else.

She would never do that to Azzi again.

The realization hit her like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, she thought she might be sick. She thought her heart had already broken, but somehow, it found a new way to break.

Because even though Azzi was the one who asked for this—even though she was the one who insisted they be just friends—watching Paige with someone else made her realize just how wrong she’d been.

She turned away before they could see her, her fists clenched at her sides as she hurried out of the dining hall. Her vision blurred, hot tears slipping down her cheeks before she could stop them.

This was what she wanted.

This was what she’d asked for.

So why did it feel like this?

Azzi wiped at her face, angry at herself for crying. She couldn’t help but think about the agreement again, how it all started.

She could still see Paige’s expression that night, the way her brows furrowed, her lips pulling into a small frown as she listened to Azzi stumble through her words.

few weeks earlier..

Paige sat down beside her, resting her elbows on her knees. “We need to talk.”

Azzi’s shoulders tensed, but she closed her laptop and turned to face Paige. “About what?”

“About why you’ve been avoiding me,” Paige said bluntly.

Azzi’s lips parted, but she hesitated. “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

“Az,” Paige said softly, giving her a pointed look.

Azzi sighed, leaning back against the couch. “I just… I needed space. To figure things out.”

“Figure what out?” Paige asked, her voice steady but laced with concern.

Azzi stared at her hands, fidgeting with the hem of her sweatshirt. “Paige, I can’t keep doing this. We said we’d be friends, and then I end up in your room, in your bed… It’s confusing.”

Paige leaned closer, her brows furrowed. “You just wanted to sleep and it’s not confusing to me. I know how I feel about you, Az.”

Azzi shook her head quickly, cutting her off. “That’s the problem. I don’t think I know how to stop letting this happen. And I don’t trust myself not to hurt you or get hurt again.”

Paige’s jaw tightened, her voice dropping. “So, what? You’re scared, so you’re just gonna shut me out? We’ve been through too much for that.”

“I’m not shutting you out,” Azzi said, her voice rising slightly. “I’m trying to protect us. You and me. If we keep crossing these lines, it’s only gonna end the same way it did before.”

Paige exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re making this harder than it has to be. I get it, Az. I do. But I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I don’t want more.”

Azzi’s eyes softened, but she looked away. “And what happens when it gets messy again, Paige? What happens when we mess this up? I can’t lose you completely.”

Paige’s voice was quiet but firm. “You’re not gonna lose me.”

Azzi didn’t respond, her silence weighing heavy in the room.

Paige hesitated before speaking again. “So, what does this mean? Do I still get my goodnight kiss, or is that part of the deal over too?”

Azzi’s eyes shot to Paige, her cheeks flushing. “Paige…”

“What?” Paige said, trying to keep her tone light despite the tension. “I’m just asking.”

Azzi sighed, her lips curving into a reluctant smile. “Yes, you still get your goodnight kiss. But just… don’t make it a thing, okay?”

Paige grinned. “No promises.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered as she stood up. “I’m going to bed.”

“Hold up,” Paige said, standing too. She leaned down slightly, her voice soft. “Goodnight, Az.”

Azzi hesitated, then stepped closer, pressing a quick kiss to both of Paige’s cheeks. “Goodnight, Paige.”

As she walked away, Paige watched her go, her heart heavy but hopeful. This wasn’t what she wanted, not entirely. But it was something. And for now, that was enough.

present day

Azzi knew she was fucked the moment she made the decision. She knew she was fucked when Paige agreed. She knew she was fucked when she realized Paige could talk to, kiss, and hold any girl she wanted now.

Because they were just friends.

And Azzi was completely, utterly fucked.

—

The past weeks have been hell. It was like she was going through the stages of “grief” or whatever. That’s how Azzi thought of it, at least. How else could she explain the sinking pit in her chest every time Paige and Leana walked into a room together? Or the way her throat tightened when she saw Paige’s hand on Leana’s ass or her arm thrown over Leana’s shoulder, her smile too wide, her laugh too loud? Seems fake to me. She thought.

The team noticed it, of course. How could they not?

Azzi’s energy had shifted. She was way quieter, more withdrawn during practice. When Leana was around, her answers became clipped, her eyes glued to the floor like she couldn’t bear to look at anyone. It didn’t help that Leana fit in so well. The team adored her.

KK had asked her once, “Az, you good?” when they were running laps.

“I’m fine,” she’d lied, her voice sharp enough to end the conversation. But KK’s look lingered, filled with concern Azzi refused to acknowledge.

She wasn’t fine. Not even close.

First stage: Denial

Azzi told herself this was temporary. It had to be.

Paige didn’t really like Leana, not like that. It was just something new, something casual to pass the time. Paige didn’t do relationships, not seriously, and this one wouldn’t last either.

Azzi clung to that thought like a lifeline.

But then Paige started bringing Leana to team dinners. She started showing up with her at practice, standing too close, laughing too hard. And when Azzi saw them together, her chest tightened like someone was physically squeezing the air out of her lungs.

One night, she sat on the couch in Caroline’s apartment, her hands gripping a throw pillow as if she could crush the ache out of her chest.

“I keep telling myself it’s nothing,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “That she’ll get bored and come back. But what if she doesn’t, Carol? What if—” Her voice cracked, and the words wouldn’t come.

Caroline pulled her into a hug, her voice soft and steady. “I’m sorry, Az. I know this sucks. But you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

Azzi didn’t reply. Because what was she supposed to say? That she didn’t know how to stop?

Second stage: Anger

The denial didn’t last. It couldn’t—not when Paige started bringing Leana to their apartment.

Azzi walked in one day after practice to find Leana sitting on the couch, Paige sprawled next to her, both of them laughing at something on Leana’s phone. Paige looked up, her face lighting up when she saw Azzi.

“Oh hey, Az. You hungry? We’re ordering sushi.”

We. Azzi hated the word.

She dropped her bag by the door, her jaw tight as she muttered, “I’m good,” before disappearing into her room.

That night, she slammed her bedroom door harder than necessary, her chest heaving with an anger she couldn’t contain.

Paige was supposed to be hers. She didn’t care how selfish it sounded—she didn’t want to share Paige with anyone else. Especially not Leana.

Third stage: Bargaining

Azzi started picking apart every moment she’d shared with Paige, searching for something she could’ve done differently.

Maybe if she hadn’t been so stubborn about staying “just friends.” Maybe if she’d let herself fall the way she wanted to—completely, unapologetically. Maybe Paige would’ve stayed.

She confided in Caroline again one night, her voice barely above a whisper as she lay curled up on the couch.

“What if I just tell her?” she asked, her hands twisting the hem of her hoodie. “What if I tell her I messed up, that I want her back?”

Caroline gave her a look that was equal parts sympathy and concern. “Az, you’re the one who pushed her away. Do you think telling her now is going to change anything? She’s with Leana.”

Azzi’s stomach sank at the words, but she couldn’t let go of the thought. What if Paige still loved her? What if there was a chance, no matter how small?

When Caroline finally left, Azzi retreated to her bedroom, unable to escape the weight of her emotions. Her eyes landed on the photo frame on her nightstand—the picture of her and Paige after their U16 gold medal win. Paige’s smile in the photo was the kind that made Azzi’s chest ache, bright and unguarded, as if she’d never known heartbreak.

It had become a nightly ritual, one that Azzi couldn’t bring herself to stop. She picked up the frame, her fingers trembling as she brushed over the glass. “I’m sorry, P,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I shouldn’t have pushed you away.”

She pressed her lips to the corner of Paige’s smile in the photo, just like she used to do before bed. It was their tradition—their goodnight kiss. Only now, it was one-sided. A ghost of a memory that haunted her.

“Goodnight,” she murmured, her lips still resting against the glass. “Sweet dreams, P.”

Azzi set the frame back down and collapsed onto her bed, clutching the pillow to her chest. Maybe if I hadn’t been scared. Maybe if I just told her now…

Her mind raced with impossible scenarios, rewinding and replaying their history, searching for the moment she could fix, the word she could take back, the step she could retrace.

But in the end, she was left clutching nothing but a pillow and a memory, her tears soaking into the fabric.

Fourth stage: Depression

The hope didn’t last.

It was gone the night Azzi walked into the gym to find Paige and Leana standing by the bleachers. Paige’s hand was on Leana’s waist, positioning her towards the basket, Azzi felt her heart crack open all over again.

She barely made it through practice, her movements sluggish, her mind a blur. By the time she got home, she was shaking, tears streaming down her face as she stumbled into her bedroom.

Caroline found her an hour later, curled up on the floor, her chest heaving with silent sobs.

“I can’t do this,” Azzi whispered, her voice broken. “I can’t—she’s everywhere, Care. And I can’t—” She gasped for air, her words dissolving into another sob.

Caroline sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Az, you don’t have to go through this alone. I’m here, okay? Whatever you need.”

Azzi nodded, but the ache in her chest didn’t fade.

She thought about their first kiss. On the dock, at the lake house of Azzi’s grandparents, the way Paige’s lips had been so soft, so sure.

Would Paige still think about it?

Would she remember the way they’d laughed afterward, giddy and breathless, as if the world had suddenly cracked open and spilled all its light into their lives?

Azzi closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Will I still cross your mind in a year, Paige? she wondered, her heart aching. Will you miss us, even for a second?

Because Azzi did. She missed Paige every day, every second of every day. She missed the way they fit together, like two halves of a whole, and the way Paige used to make her feel seen, like she was the only person in the world who mattered.

I miss you, she thought, her chest heaving with the weight of it. I miss us.

But Paige was with Leana now, and Azzi was just a ghost in her life—a shadow of what they used to be.

And no matter how much she wanted to believe otherwise, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Paige had already moved on.

Stage 5: Acceptance? No. The lack of Acceptance

No matter how hard she tried, Azzi couldn’t let go.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the way Paige used to look at her, like she was the only person in the room. She couldn’t stop replaying their last kiss in her mind—the warmth of Paige’s lips, the way she’d whispered, “Just friends,” like it was a promise they could keep.

But they couldn’t.

And Azzi couldn’t accept it. She couldn’t accept that Paige was gone, that she’d moved on, that the life they’d imagined together was slipping further out of reach with every passing day.

She wanted to scream, to cry, to do anything that might ease the crushing weight on her chest. But all she could do was sit in her room, staring at the wall, as the realization settled in:

She wasn’t grieving Paige. She was grieving herself—the part of her that had believed in them, the part of her that had loved Paige so fiercely it burned.

And now, all she had left were the ashes.

—

Paige didn’t like Leana.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She liked her well enough to talk to her, to hang out with her when the apartment felt too quiet, too empty, too suffocating without Azzi. But when it came to everything else—when it came to the little things—Paige didn’t like her at all.

She didn’t like that Leana couldn’t cook. It wasn’t like Azzi was an all-star chef or anything—Azzi could barely cook either—but it was different. It was Azzi. At least Azzi could make scrambled eggs. And those nasty green smoothies she used to force Paige to drink after workouts? Yeah, Paige hated them, but she never really hated them because they were from Azzi.

Leana couldn’t even make toast without burning it.

Paige didn’t like how Leana was so touchy-feely all the time. It was suffocating. She hated how Leana’s hands always found her waist or her shoulders, how her arms would wrap around Paige’s neck, clinging like a vine. Paige was supposed to be the clingy one. She was the one who used to jump into Azzi’s arms after practice, planting kisses all over her face or pulling her into hugs just because she felt like it.

And Azzi? She didn’t need to be all over Paige all the time. Sometimes, Azzi would just sit next to her, quiet and comfortable, letting Paige know she was there without saying a word. Paige loved that. She loved being in Azzi’s presence. It was Azzi, after all. Who wouldn’t want to just exist beside her?

But with Leana? God, sometimes Paige wanted to yell, “Can you just get the fuck away from me already?”

Leana’s hair? Always slick, stick-straight, and perfect. Paige hated it. She missed Azzi’s hair—how she’d wear it in curls or braids, switching it up depending on her mood. Paige loved running her hands through Azzi’s curls, loved how soft they felt and how they smelled like flowers.

Leana always smelled like strawberries. Safe to say Paige never had an appetite for them anymore.

She didn’t like the way Leana chewed her food, loud and careless, or the way she slurped her drinks like she grew up with no one teaching her manners. Azzi chewed her food so pretty—if chewing could even be called pretty—with that bright, wide smile she always had when Paige surprised her with ice cream sundaes every Friday night.

Leana always wanted to eat out, and not even at good places. She was obsessed with Jimmy John’s. Paige was too, but only when she went with Azzi every other week after games. Paige couldn’t stand it. She missed how Azzi would insist they eat at home, complaining about how Paige didn’t eat healthy enough.

And God, Paige hated the way Leana fucked. She hated the way her tongue moved on her breasts, her stomach, and just her body. The way her small, slender fingers never hit the right spot, the way her kisses felt too wet, too desperate, too wrong. Leana always tasted like candy, but Paige didn’t even like that anymore. She liked when Azzi tasted like candy.

Because it was Azzi.

Leana was all wrong—her touch, her smell, her laugh, her everything. Paige didn’t like anything about her, not really. And the more she tried to forget Azzi with Leana, the more it became painfully clear.

She didn’t want Leana. She never did.

She wanted Azzi.

But Azzi didn’t want her, not like that. Not anymore. And Paige couldn’t admit it out loud, but she knew the truth.

She was in a tangled mess she doesn’t think she can cut herself out of.

The worst part was Paige only really showed Leana affection when other people were around—when the team was watching, or worse, when Paige knew Azzi was somewhere nearby. It was all for show. A charade. She wanted to convince everyone, herself included, that she was fine. That she didn’t think about Azzi day and night. That she didn’t spend every waking moment wishing things were different.

She faked a laugh at Leana’s terrible jokes, forcing herself to look interested, to act like she wasn’t distracted by the mere thought of Azzi. But she was. She always was.

Every time Leana touched her, Paige’s mind wandered to Azzi’s touch instead. Every time Leana spoke, Paige thought about Azzi’s voice, the way it softened whenever she called Paige’s name. Every time Leana kissed her, Paige found herself comparing it to Azzi’s kisses—how they tasted sweeter, felt deeper, left her breathless in ways Leana never could.

It didn’t matter how much Paige pretended. She wasn’t fooling anyone. Certainly not Azzi. Certainly not herself.

She was a fucked fool.

Present day (au)

The night was colder than Paige expected. The sharp winter air bit at her cheeks as she adjusted the duffel bag slung over her shoulder, glancing over at Azzi walking beside her. Her girlfriend’s hands were stuffed deep into her coat pockets, her brow furrowed in curiosity.

“You really aren’t gonna tell me where we’re going?” Azzi asked, her voice soft but laced with amusement.

Paige smirked, shaking her head. “Nope. You gotta trust me, princess.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, though the nickname softened her expression. “Last time you said that, we ended up at that hole-in-the-wall pizza spot where you made me eat that ‘experimental’ pineapple jalapeño pizza.”

Paige held her hand to her chest, feigning offense. “Okay, first of all, that pizza was fire, and you know it.”

Azzi gave her a side-eye, her lips twitching upward despite herself. “It made me throw up on your shoes but okay! Just hurry it’s cold.”

Paige rolled her eyes and grinned, nodding toward the gym as it came into view. Its towering doors stood shut, the building silent under the faint glow of campus lights.

Azzi frowned, glancing between Paige and the gym. “Uh, you do know the gym is closed, right?”

Paige pulled a key from her pocket, holding it up with a mischievous grin. “Not for me, it’s not. Perks of being a super senior and coach’s favorite.”

Azzi followed her inside, the smell of the gym familiar but the sight in front of her unexpected. The center court lights glowed softly, illuminating a small setup Paige had prepared: a picnic blanket, a thermos of hot cocoa, a container of chocolate-covered strawberries, and a jar of Nutella sitting neatly on top.

Azzi’s jaw dropped slightly. “Wait—is that Nutella and strawberries? Wow Paige, you really thought this through.”

Paige shrugged, trying to play it cool but clearly pleased with herself. “You’re the one who put me onto it. Said they’re ‘life-changing’ or whatever. Figured I’d return the favor.”

Azzi laughed, kneeling down on the blanket and picking up the jar of Nutella. “I didn’t just say they’re life-changing. I said they’re essential. There’s a difference.”

Paige chuckled, setting her duffel bag near the bleachers before grabbing a basketball. “Yeah, yeah. Now let’s see if you still got that jumper.”

For the next hour, they played like they were kids again—shooting around, teasing each other, laughing until their stomachs hurt. Paige couldn’t help but steal glances at Azzi, marveling at how at ease she looked, her usual focus replaced with unfiltered joy.

When they finally settled back on the blanket, Azzi leaned into Paige’s side, her head resting on her shoulder. She dipped a strawberry into the Nutella and popped it into her mouth, sighing contentedly.

“This is perfect,” Azzi said softly.

Paige smiled, her fingers tracing small circles on Azzi’s thigh. “Yeah. I figured we could use something like this. It’s been…a lot lately.”

Azzi tilted her head to look up at Paige, her brow creasing slightly. “What do you mean? You’ve been killing it this year, P.”

Paige hesitated, her fingers stilling. “Yeah, but…it’s weird, you know? Knowing this is my last year here. I’m really gonna miss this place.”

Azzi’s smile faltered, and she sat up a little straighter. “You don’t have to think about that yet, though.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking. “What about you? You’ve been quiet about what you’re gonna do. Are you staying another year or declaring?”

Azzi blinked, caught off guard. “I—” She stopped, her gaze dropping to the blanket. “I haven’t decided yet.”“I don’t know. It’s a big decision, and I don’t want to rush it. But…sometimes I think staying wouldn’t be so bad.”

Paige reached out, gently turning Azzi’s face toward her. “Hey,” she said softly. “We’ll figure it out, no matter what. You staying or going doesn’t change us, Az.”

Azzi’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, her eyes shining with uncertainty. “It’s just…a lot to think about.”

Paige’s expression softened, and she leaned in to press a kiss to Azzi’s temple. “I get it. Take your time. You don’t have to decide tonight.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the gym’s stillness wrapping around them like a blanket. Finally, Paige broke the quiet, a playful grin tugging at her lips.

“So,” she said, glancing down at Azzi. “Am I still get my goodnight kiss tonight, or what?”

Azzi laughed, rolling her eyes. “You’re ridiculous, you ask this everytime” she teased, but her cheeks flushed pink.

Paige tilted her head, her grin widening. “That’s not a no.”

Azzi sighed dramatically, leaning forward to press a soft, lingering kiss to Paige’s lips. When she pulled back, Paige was grinning like she’d won a championship.

“See?” Paige said, leaning back against the blanket. “This is why I’m gonna miss UConn. Nobody does goodnight kisses like you.”

Azzi laughed, shaking her head. “You’re lucky you’re cute, because you’re so corny.”

Paige chuckled, pulling Azzi closer. For the first time in a while, she let herself just be present—with Azzi, with this moment, with this version of her senior year.

—

The gym was almost empty now, the faint echo of their laughter still hanging in the air. Paige knelt beside her duffel bag, tossing in her shoes and a few loose pieces of tape she’d peeled off her wrists. Azzi was a few feet away, waiting patiently for paige to finish.

The night had been everything Paige hoped for—light, easy, and full of the kind of love that made her forget, even for a moment, about everything weighing her down.

Azzi turned to Paige, her brown eyes sparkling even under the harsh fluorescent lights. “You okay?” she asked, tilting her head.

Paige zipped up her bag and stood, throwing it over her shoulder. “Yeah, I’m good,” she said with a small smile.

Azzi didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push. Instead, she nodded toward the doors. “Come on, let’s get home, KK is blowing up my phone.”

They walked side by side, their footsteps echoing off the walls as they made their way to the exit. Paige glanced over at Azzi, watching the way her ponytail swayed with each step, the way she hummed softly under her breath. She was so beautiful, so effortlessly radiant, and Paige felt her chest tighten at the thought of everything she was keeping from her.

As they stepped outside, the cold air hit them immediately, their breath visible in the chilly night. Paige unlocked the car with a press of a button, and Azzi walked ahead, tossing her bag into the backseat before climbing in. Paige lingered for a moment, staring up at the stars as if they might hold the answers she was looking for.

“Paige?” Azzi called softly from inside the car.

Paige snapped out of her thoughts and climbed in, shutting the door behind her. The heater kicked on as she started the engine, and for a moment, they just sat there, the quiet hum of the car filling the space between them.

Paige had one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on her thigh. Azzi sat in the passenger seat, her head turned slightly toward Paige as if she was studying her. The hum of the engine and the faint sound of the radio filled the space between them, but Paige’s thoughts were so loud they might as well have been screaming.

She’d done her best to stay in the moment tonight—to soak in Azzi’s laugh, her smile, the way her nose scrunched whenever Paige teased her. But as they neared campus, the weight in Paige’s chest grew heavier.

It wasn’t just about what she’d gotten a second chance at; it was what she’d lost the first time around.

Azzi broke the silence first. “Hey, you wanna just crash in my room tonight?” Her voice was soft, almost hypnotizing.

Paige glanced at her briefly before returning her eyes to the road. “Yeah,” she said, her voice just as quiet. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Azzi smiled, reaching out to give Paige’s arm a squeeze before settling back into her seat.

For the rest of the drive, Paige’s thoughts spiraled.

What if she could fix things?

The question had been haunting her since the moment she woke up in this second chance of a life. She could do so much—change so much—but every action had consequences. Good ones, bad ones. Ones she couldn’t even begin to predict.

Her grip on the steering wheel tightened.

And then there was the truth. The one thing she knew she could never fix, never change. The one thing that had already shattered Azzi once before.

Paige swallowed hard, her jaw clenching. She couldn’t think about that now. Not tonight. She needed to focus on the present—on Azzi, on the way her voice softened whenever she said Paige’s name, on the way her fingers always found Paige’s whenever they were walking side by side. Just focus on Azzi, just focus on pretending.

But was she really pretending? No. No, she wasn’t.

Paige knew she loved Azzi. Everyone did. She loved her so much it felt like it was tearing her apart from the inside out. She loved her enough to want to protect her, even if it meant keeping this secret. She loved her enough to die for her.

But loving her didn’t make what she was doing any less wrong.

By the time they reached Azzi’s dorm, Paige felt like she could barely breathe. Azzi didn’t seem to notice; she was already climbing out of the car, waiting for Paige to grab her things before leading the way inside.

When they reached Azzi’s room, Paige hesitated in the doorway, her duffel bag slung over her shoulder. Azzi turned to her, frowning slightly.

“You good?” she asked.

Paige forced a smile and nodded. “Yeah. Just tired, that’s all.”

Azzi’s frown deepened, but she didn’t press. Instead, she grabbed Paige’s hand and pulled her inside.

They moved through their usual routine with ease—Azzi handing Paige a pair of sweats, Paige tossing her hoodie onto the back of a chair, both of them brushing their teeth side by side in the small bathroom. But as they finally settled into Azzi’s bed, the silence between them felt heavier than before.

Paige lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling while Azzi curled up beside her, her head resting on Paige’s shoulder.

“You’ve been quiet,” Azzi murmured, her voice barely audible in the darkness.

Paige exhaled slowly, her fingers brushing through Azzi’s hair. “Just…thinking.”

“About what?”

Paige hesitated. She could feel the words bubbling up in her throat, threatening to spill out. But she couldn’t say them. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“Everything,” she said instead.

Azzi shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to look at Paige. “Hey,” she said softly, her fingers brushing against Paige’s cheek. “Whatever it is, you can talk to me. You know that, right?”

Paige closed her eyes, the weight in her chest almost unbearable. “I know,” she whispered.

Azzi’s thumb traced slow circles on Paige’s cheek. “You’re scaring me, P. What’s going on?”

Paige opened her eyes, her gaze locking with Azzi’s. And for a moment, she thought about telling her—about laying it all out there, no matter the consequences. But the thought of the look on Azzi’s face, the hurt in her eyes, stopped her cold.

“I’m just…I’m scared too,” Paige admitted, her voice trembling.

Azzi frowned, leaning closer. “Scared of what?”

Paige swallowed hard, her fingers tightening in Azzi’s hair. “Of losing this. Of messing it all up again.”

Azzi’s expression softened, and she leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Paige’s forehead. “You’re not gonna lose me, Paige. Not now, not ever.”

Paige closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her cheek. “I hope you’re right,” she whispered. Oh, hope, hope was a beautiful thing.

Azzi pulled her closer, wrapping her arms around Paige as if she could hold her together. Paige buried her face in Azzi’s neck, her heart pounding in her chest.

She wanted to believe her. God, she wanted to believe her.

But deep down, she knew that as long as she kept this secret, the clock was ticking.

And she was terrified of what would happen when it finally ran out.

——

𐙚— rosie’s note: so how do we feel? do we love rosie ?? 😊

#pazzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #rewind my heart fic #rosie’s works 🎧⋆｡ °⋆#pazzi fics

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doreminimi · 3 days ago

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love is blind [Bang Chan One-Shot]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ 𝓟𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰: Idol!Bang Chan x Teacher!Reader

₊˚⊹♡⋆ 𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽: 15.1k (I got a bit carried away sksksk)

‧͙☾⁺༓˚*･ 𝓦𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰: None

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ 𝓢𝔂𝓷𝓸𝓹𝓼𝓲𝓼: In this modern era of finding love and vulnerability, Christopher and Y/N embark on an extraordinary journey in the experiment of "Love Is Blind." From the intimate and emotionally charged pods where they connect deeply without seeing each other, to the reveal and romantic getaway that cements their bond, their story explores the highs and lows of finding true love in unconventional ways. As they navigate the challenges of returning to their real lives, meeting families, and integrating their vastly different routines, their relationship is tested in ways they never anticipated. With moments of joy, tension, and growth, Christopher and Y/N learn what it means to truly commit to each other, culminating in a heartfelt preparation for their wedding. Will their love withstand the pressures of reality and blossom into forever?

a/n: Hi guys! I wrote this story because I’ve been recently obsessed with the Love Is Blind series, and it sparked an idea. I also noticed that there’s a Too Hot to Handle series about Bang Chan on here (do read her series @seospicybin — it’s so good, I’m obsessed! but remember it is for +18 audiences!). I thought, why not add a Love Is Blind one-shot to the mix? I hope you guys enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it! If you have any suggestions or requests for stories, feel free to let me know—I’d love to hear your ideas. Don’t forget to like and comment if you enjoyed reading this story. Your support means the world to me! Thank you for reading, and I can’t wait to hear your thoughts! 💕

One:

Bang Chan adjusted the microphone inside his pod, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest as he took a steadying breath. Despite years of performing on the world’s biggest stages, this moment felt completely different. Here, he wasn’t the leader of Stray Kids or a global sensation—he was just Chris, a man hoping to connect with someone who saw him for who he truly was.

The anonymity of Love Is Blind was both exhilarating and terrifying. Without the weight of his career or the expectations of others, he felt a rare sense of freedom.

He tapped the microphone gently and leaned forward, his Australian accent warm and inviting. “Hi, I’m Christopher, but you can just call me Chris. What about you?”

There was a brief pause before a voice came through, light and confident. “Hi Chris, I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”

Chris smiled, a bit of his nervousness fading. He leaned slightly closer to the opaque wall, as if that could somehow shorten the distance between them. “Nice to meet you too, Y/N. So, is this as weird for you as it is for me? How are you feeling about this whole... talking-to-a-wall situation?”

Y/N’s laugh was immediate, bright and disarming. “Oh, absolutely. It’s bizarre! I mean, I’ve had long phone conversations before, but knowing there’s a person on the other side who might... you know, become my future husband? That’s a first.”

Chris chuckled, his own nerves softening at her lighthearted tone. “Same here. It’s exciting, though, isn’t it? A bit nerve-wracking, but exciting. Like, this could actually lead to something real.”

“Exactly,” Y/N agreed. “Okay, let’s start simple. Tell me something about you—what’s your dream vacation?”

Chris leaned back, thinking for a moment. “Definitely the beach. Growing up in Sydney, the ocean was my happy place. There’s something about the sound of waves, the salt in the air—it just clears your head, you know?”

“Oh, I know,” Y/N replied with a sigh. “Anywhere with a beach and good food? That’s my dream too. Add in no cell phones, and I’m sold. I’d love to completely disconnect for a while.”

Chris laughed softly. “Alright, but if we’re talking beaches, I need to know—are you competitive? Because I’m already imagining us having a sandcastle-building contest.”

Y/N’s tone turned playful. “Competitive? Let’s just say I don’t like to lose. But what about you?”

“Oh, I’m competitive, alright,” Chris said, his grin evident in his voice. “But I should warn you, I don’t lose easily.”

“We’ll see about that,” Y/N teased, her voice laced with mock challenge. “I hope you’re ready to eat your words.”

“So, Chris,” Y/N began, her voice curious. “If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

Chris hummed thoughtfully. “Tough one, but I think I’d have to go with pizza. You can change the toppings, make it fancy, or keep it simple. Plus, who doesn’t love pizza? What about you?”

“Noodles,” Y/N said without missing a beat. “You can have them fried, in soup, hot or cold, with all kinds of meats, veggies, or sauces. Plus, there are so many different shapes, each one feels like a whole new experience!”

Chris laughed. “Solid choice. Okay, what’s your guilty pleasure TV show?”

“Oh, definitely The Great British Bake Off,” Y/N admitted. “There’s something so comforting about watching people bake under pressure while I’m curled up on the couch, eating snacks.”

Chris flashed a wide grin. “That’s a solid pick. Mine’s probably Friends. I’ve seen it so many times, it’s practically a comfort blanket at this point. And yes, I absolutely dominate at trivia.”

Y/N laughed, her voice playful. “Oh, is that so? Challenge accepted. Trivia showdown coming up—you better bring your A-game.”

A mischievous glint sparked in her eye as she leaned closer to the wall. “Alright, let’s switch gears. If you could have any superpower, what would it be?”

Chris chuckled, the question catching him off guard. “Teleportation, without a doubt. Imagine skipping traffic or spontaneously showing up at a beach halfway around the world. Total game-changer.”

“Good choice,” Y/N said approvingly. “I’d go with the ability to stop time. Think of all the naps I could take and still get everything done!”

Chris laughed, his voice warm. “Now that’s both practical and genius. I’d never have thought of that, but honestly, I might be jealous of your choice.”

As their laughter echoed in the pods, both felt a growing ease and connection. The wall between them didn’t seem like a barrier—it was just part of the journey toward something real.

By the second day, Chris and Y/N’s conversations felt natural, as if they’d known each other for years. The initial nerves had faded, replaced by genuine curiosity and growing comfort.

“So, tell me about your family,” Y/N asked. “Do you have siblings?”

Chris smiled, leaning back. “I do. I’m the eldest of three. Growing up, I was always the one looking out for everyone else. I guess that’s why I’ve always been in leadership roles,it’s kind of ingrained in me.”

“Sounds like a lot of pressure,” Y/N said empathetically.

“It was,” Chris admitted. “But it also taught me a lot about love and responsibility. My family’s my anchor. When I moved to a new country to pursue my career, they supported me, even though it meant being so far away. That kind of love... it’s something I want to give back.”

“That’s beautiful, Chris,” Y/N said softly. “It’s clear how much they mean to you.”

“What about you?” he asked. “What’s your family like?”

“Well,” she began, “I’m the oldest too. But things changed a lot when I lost my younger sister. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through, but it also made me appreciate the little things. It’s why I ended up going into teaching,I wanted to make a difference, even in small ways.”

Chris’s voice softened. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. That must have been incredibly hard.”

“It was,” she admitted, “but it shaped who I am. Teaching gives me purpose. I love seeing kids discover their potential, it reminds me to keep pushing forward.”

“You sound like an amazing teacher,” Chris said sincerely. “Your students are lucky to have you.”

Y/N chuckled. “Thank you. And if I ever need to win over their attention, I’ll just bring you in to talk about your sandcastle skills. What about you? What’s something that’s shaped who you are today?”

Chris hesitated for a moment, then spoke. “Honestly? Music. It’s been my constant through everything, good days, bad days, everything in between. It’s how I express myself when words don’t feel like enough.”

Y/N’s voice softened. “That’s beautiful, Chris. It sounds like music isn’t just something you do, it’s who you are.”

Chris smiled, even though she couldn’t see it. “Exactly. Thanks for getting that, Y/N. Talking to you... it just feels easy.”

“It does,” Y/N agreed, her voice warm. “I can’t wait to see where this goes.”

Chris glanced at the clock, reluctant to end their conversation but knowing they’d have more time tomorrow. “I guess we have to wrap up for now,” he said, his tone tinged with regret. “But I can’t wait to talk to you again tomorrow.”

Y/N’s laugh was soft and shy. “Me too, Chris.”

“Sweet dreams, Y/N. See you tomorrow,” he said softly, listening as the gentle click of the door on her side signaled the end of their conversation.

As the session ended, Chris leaned back in his chair, a lingering smile on his face.

In the men’s lounge, Chris quickly bonded with a few of the other participants. Mason, a marketing executive, and Elijah, a chef, became his closest allies.

“Alright, Chris,” Mason said, leaning back on the couch. “Tell us about Y/N.”

Chris grinned, his dimples deepening. “She’s incredible. Thoughtful, smart, funny... Talking to her feels effortless. Like we just click, you know?”

Elijah raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re smitten.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Chris said, his grin widening. “But yeah, there’s something special about her. She has this way of making me feel comfortable, like I can just... be myself.”

Mason clapped him on the back. “Sounds like you’ve got a keeper, mate.”

Meanwhile, in the women’s lounge, Y/N found a confidante in Amelia, a bubbly nurse with a knack for reading people.

“You have to tell me about Chris,” Amelia said one evening, practically bouncing with excitement.

Y/N smiled, her cheeks flushing. “He’s amazing. He listens in a way that makes me feel... seen. It’s like he really cares about what I have to say.”

Amelia sighed dreamily. “That’s how it should be. So, are you falling for him?”

Y/N hesitated before nodding. “I think I might be. He just gets me in a way no one else has.”

By the fourth day, their conversations turned more reflective and meaningful.

“What does love mean to you?” Y/N asked one evening, her voice soft but steady.

Chris paused, considering his words. “I think love is showing up. Even when it’s hard, even when you’re scared. It’s about being vulnerable and trusting someone with the messy parts of you.”

“That’s beautiful,” Y/N said. “For me, love is a choice. It’s deciding every day to be there for someone, no matter what.”

Chris smiled. “I like that. It feels real.”

They spent hours talking about their hopes, fears, and dreams. Chris shared stories about nights when he felt lost and how he’d turn to his guitar for solace. Y/N opened up about her first teaching job and the joy of watching her students grow.

By the fifth day, Chris was certain he had found something truly extraordinary. Kneeling in his pod with a velvet box in hand, he took a deep breath, steadying himself before finding the words to speak.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice steady but emotional, “I’ve never felt so connected to someone I’ve never even seen. You make me want to be better, to show up in ways I never have before. Will you marry me?”

There was a moment of silence, and then her voice came through, trembling with emotion. “Yes, Chris. I’ll marry you.”

Though separated by the pod walls, both felt an overwhelming sense of joy and certainty. Chris had found someone who understood him, not as an idol, but as a man. And Y/N had found someone who made her feel cherished and seen.

Their journey was just beginning.

Two:

The moment had arrived,the reveal. The anticipation was palpable as Chris, dressed sharply in a tailored suit, stood at one end of the runway. He fidgeted slightly, rolling his shoulders and adjusting his cuffs, his nerves visible despite his calm demeanor. At the other end, Y/N waited, her heart hammering in her chest. She smoothed down her dress, whispering to herself, “This is it. No turning back now.”

The sound of the sliding screens filled the room as they began to part. Y/N took a deep breath, her hands gripping the sides of her dress. As the screens opened fully, their eyes met for the first time.

Both froze.

Chris’s breath caught in his throat. She’s stunning.

Y/N’s eyes widened as recognition sparked. “Wait a second,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over her pounding heartbeat.

The man standing before her wasn’t just Chris, the kind, thoughtful voice she had grown to love in the pods. This was Bang Chan,Bang Chan, leader of Stray Kids, a global music sensation.

Chris noticed her hesitation and smiled nervously, his dimples deepening. He stepped forward tentatively, his voice soft. “Hi.”

Y/N blinked, snapping out of her daze. “Hi,” she replied shyly, her voice muffled against his shoulder as he pulled her into a warm embrace.

As they stepped back, her hands instinctively flew to her mouth. “You’re...you’re Bang Chan,” she finally managed, her voice a mix of disbelief and awe.

Chris scratched the back of his neck, a sheepish smile on his face. “Uh, yeah. That’s me. Surprise?”

Y/N laughed nervously, her eyes darting between his face and the rest of him. “This is... I mean, I didn’t expect, You’re him! I didn’t think I’d be meeting a literal superstar!”

Chris chuckled, his voice soothing. “I was kind of hoping I could just be ‘Chris’ for you. The guy you’ve been talking to in the pods, not the guy on stage.”

She nodded, taking a deep breath as she tried to process. “You’re still him. You’re still Chris. But... wow. This is a lot to take in.”

“I get it,” he said gently, his eyes searching hers. “I should’ve told you, but in the pods, I just wanted to be honest and real without all the noise that comes with... you know, my career.”

Y/N’s initial shock began to fade, replaced by a soft smile. “You’re right. And honestly, I’m glad I got to know you like that first. You’re amazing, Chris. Superstar or not.”

His smile widened, relief evident in his expression. “Thank you. That means everything to me.”

He reached for her hand, his touch grounding her. “Can we start over, right here? Just Chris and Y/N?”

She nodded, her smile growing. “I’d like that.”

They moved to the nearby bench, their hands naturally finding each other. Sitting down, Chris turned to her, his expression serious but filled with warmth. “You’re exactly who I hoped you’d be,” he said, his voice soft. “Inside and out.”

Y/N laughed nervously, still absorbing the reality of the moment. “It’s so weird seeing your face now. It’s like... I know you, but you’re also this whole new person.”

Chris chuckled. “I feel the same. You’re familiar, but seeing you now... you’re even more incredible than I imagined.”

A soft laugh escaped her lips, and she squeezed his hand. “And you... well, you’re way more than I ever dreamed of.”

Chris took a deep breath, reaching into his pocket. “I’ve been waiting for this moment,” he said, his tone tinged with excitement.

Y/N watched as he knelt down on one knee, her breath catching.

“Y/N,” he began, opening a small velvet box to reveal a sparkling ring. “I already know I want to spend forever with you. Will you marry me?”

Her hands flew to her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. “Chris,” she whispered, her voice trembling. She nodded fervently, her words spilling out. “Yes, Chris. Yes, I’ll marry you!”

He slipped the ring onto her finger, his hands steady despite his own emotions. Standing, he pulled her into a tight embrace, their laughter and tears mingling in a moment of pure joy.

As the screens began to close behind them, signaling the end of the reveal, they walked back toward their respective lounges. But their eyes never left each other, their faces lit with joy and the promise of the life they were about to build together.

Y/N glanced back at Chris one last time before stepping through the door, a wide smile spreading across her face. “This is going to be one heck of a story to tell,” she said, her voice tinged with excitement and disbelief.

Chris grinned back, his dimples deepening. “Our story,” he said softly. “And it’s just beginning.”

Three:

The following week, the couples began arriving at the resort, one limo at a time, provided by the production team. The energy was palpable as each pair prepared for the next stage of their journey.

Day One

Y/N was the first to arrive. Stepping out of the sleek black limo, she marveled at the beauty of the beachfront property. The hotel’s elegant façade and the sound of crashing waves immediately put her at ease. A staff member escorted her to her suite, a luxurious space with a spacious balcony overlooking the ocean.

She placed her bags in the bedroom, admiring the plush king-sized bed adorned with soft white linens, then began to explore the rest of the suite. She trailed her fingers along the marble countertops in the kitchenette, peeked into the enormous bathroom with its spa-like tub, and finally stepped out onto the balcony. The sunset cast a golden hue over the water, and Y/N smiled to herself, feeling a sense of peace.

Chris arrived shortly after. As his limo pulled up, he took a deep breath, adjusting the collar of his shirt. He was excited and a little nervous to see Y/N again after their reveal. He quickly made his way to their shared suite, the door opening with a soft click.

“Hey beautiful,” he whispered as he stepped inside, spotting her on the balcony. She turned around, her face lighting up as she saw him. He walked up to her and placed a sweet kiss on her cheek. “Long time no see.”

Y/N laughed softly, her heart fluttering at the sight of him. “You’re late,” she teased, leaning into him.

“Worth the wait?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

“Definitely,” she replied, her smile widening.

They spent the next few minutes exploring the suite together. Chris pointed out the little details he loved, like the vintage-inspired art on the walls and the sleek coffee maker in the kitchenette. Y/N couldn’t stop laughing as Chris dramatically tested the couch for “maximum comfort.”

Eventually, they found themselves back on the balcony, watching the sun dip below the horizon. Chris leaned against the railing, his arm around Y/N’s shoulders. “This feels unreal,” he said softly. “Like a dream.”

Y/N nodded, her eyes on the horizon. “But it’s our dream,” she replied. “And I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

After a while, they began preparing for the evening’s event. Y/N slipped into a stunning crocheted bodycon dress that accentuated her figure, while Chris opted for a casual yet stylish beach-ready look: a cotton button-up shirt paired with khaki shorts.

“You look beautiful,” Chris said as Y/N adjusted her earrings.

“And you look like you belong on a magazine cover,” Y/N teased, brushing a hand over his shoulder.

Hand in hand, they strolled toward the poolside bar, anticipation bubbling as they prepared to meet the other couples.

On their first night at the resort, the couples gathered by the pool for drinks, laughter, and the much-anticipated moment of putting faces to the names they’d been hearing about in the pods. The warm breeze carried the faint sound of waves in the background as everyone slowly began to gather, the energy buzzing with curiosity.

The men grouped together by the bar while the women settled into lounge chairs near the pool. Both groups exchanged nervous glances, clearly intrigued by the people their significant others had been talking about during the pod experiment.

Mason, one of the more outspoken men, finally broke the ice. “Alright, let’s meet these women you’ve been talking about nonstop,” he said, nudging Chris playfully. “I need to see if Y/N is as amazing as you’ve made her sound.”

The women laughed from their side of the pool, clearly overhearing the comment. Amelia leaned over to Y/N and whispered, “They’re already hyping us up. Let’s see if they live up to the chatter.”

Y/N grinned. “No pressure, right?”

One by one, the men approached the women, introducing themselves and exchanging warm handshakes or hugs. Chris found himself locking eyes with Sarah first. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, smiling. “Mason hasn’t stopped talking about how funny you are.”

Sarah laughed. “I’m sure he’s exaggerating, but it’s nice to finally meet the guy Y/N won’t stop gushing about.”

When Chris finally reached Y/N, the room seemed to pause for a moment. He leaned down slightly, grinning. “So, this is where you’ve been hiding.”

Y/N laughed softly, her cheeks warming. “And this is the guy who’s been making me blush in the pods.”

The group naturally broke off into smaller conversations, everyone eager to learn more about each other. Mason was deep into a conversation with Amelia about their mutual love for hiking, while Chris and Y/N mingled with the others, exchanging stories about their pod experiences.

Eventually, the women regrouped on the lounge chairs, a playful energy bubbling between them. “Alright,” Amelia announced, holding her drink up dramatically, “it’s time to interrogate these men. Let’s call them over one by one.”

The women erupted into laughter as Sarah called Mason over first. “Come on, Mason! Time to put you in the hot seat.”

Mason walked over, mock apprehension on his face. “What are you guys plotting?”

Amelia grinned. “What’s your favorite thing about Sarah?”

Mason’s expression softened as he looked over at Sarah. “It’s her humor. She has this amazing ability to make everyone feel comfortable and laugh, no matter the situation.”

The women cheered as Mason walked back to the bar, shaking his head and laughing. One by one, the men were called over and asked the same question. Each gave heartfelt answers, earning playful teasing and cheers from the women.

Finally, it was Chris’s turn. “Alright, Y/N,” Amelia said, turning to her with a grin. “Get ready. Your boy’s about to spill all.”

Chris walked over, his usual confident demeanor softened by the teasing smiles of the women. “What’s going on here?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

“Chris,” Amelia began dramatically, “what’s your favorite thing about Y/N?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Her heart,” he said simply, his eyes finding Y/N’s. “She’s got this way of making everyone around her feel seen and appreciated. Every time I talk to her, I feel like I can be completely myself. And her laugh? Don’t even get me started.”

The women swooned collectively, cheering loudly as Y/N blushed. “Okay, that was definitely the best answer of the night,” Amelia declared.

Chris returned to the bar, shaking his head and laughing as the women continued their playful teasing. Y/N leaned back in her chair, her heart full from the words he’d shared.

The group dissolved into laughter, and the evening continued with lively games, shared anecdotes, and even a chaotic impromptu karaoke session where Chris belted out a tune. Y/N cheered louder than anyone else, clapping along with the beat.

After the couples mingled for a while, the men naturally gravitated to a corner by the pool, drinks in hand, while the women gathered near the lounge chairs. Chris leaned back in his seat, listening to the other men recount their pod journeys and impressions of their partners.

“So, Chris,” one of the guys asked, nudging him, “what’s Y/N like in person? She seems really sweet.”

“She’s incredible,” Chris replied, his dimples deepening with his smile. “She’s so much more than I expected. She’s got this strength that’s so inspiring but also this warmth that just draws you in. Honestly, she makes me feel grounded.”

The other men nodded in approval. “That’s a big deal, man. You seem smitten,” one of them teased.

Chris chuckled. “Guilty. What about you guys? How are things looking now that we’re out of the pods?”

The conversation turned lively, with each man sharing stories of their first impressions and the quirks they were discovering about their partners. Laughter erupted as one recounted a chaotic wardrobe mishap earlier in the day, and another shared how his partner had dominated him in a poolside trivia game.

“It’s crazy how different this is now that we’re face-to-face,” Chris remarked. “But honestly, I think it’s made everything feel...real.”

The others nodded in agreement, raising their glasses for a toast. “Here’s to surviving the pods and what comes next.”

Meanwhile, Y/N and the other women sat on lounge chairs, chatting animatedly. One of the women leaned closer to Y/N. “Okay, spill. What’s Chris like in real life?”

Y/N smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “He’s amazing. He’s thoughtful and funny, and honestly, I think I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he’s real. And those dimples...they’re dangerous,” she added with a laugh.

The group laughed along, and one of the women playfully fanned herself. “Dimples will get you every time.”

“So, what’s surprised you the most about him?” another asked.

“How much he pays attention,” Y/N said, her voice softening. “In the pods, I knew he was a good listener, but now I see how much he remembers the little things I’ve shared. Like earlier today, he mentioned this random thing I said about my favorite flowers, and I didn’t even remember telling him.”

One of the women sighed dramatically. “Ugh, he sounds perfect. Can we trade?”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “Not a chance.”

The women exchanged more stories, comparing notes about their partners’ habits, quirks, and sweet gestures. They cheered each other on, promising to support one another through the challenges ahead.

The conversations among the men and women set the tone for a night filled with camaraderie and connection. As the evening wound down, both groups left with a deeper appreciation for their relationships and the shared journey they were all embarking on.

Day Two

The sun peeked over the horizon, casting golden hues across the ocean as Chris bounded down the sandy path, his energy contagious even this early in the morning. He stopped by a row of surfboards neatly propped against a wooden rack, glancing back to see Y/N trudging behind him, her coffee still in hand.

“You’re way too cheerful for this hour,” she grumbled, taking a sip.

“That’s because today’s mission is to turn you into a pro surfer,” Chris declared, flashing his signature grin.

Y/N raised a skeptical brow, looking at the boards like they might attack her. “A pro? Let’s aim for ‘not immediately falling flat on my face,’ shall we?”

“Trust me,” he said, grabbing a board and handing it to her. “I’m a fantastic teacher. Just follow my lead.”

“And by ‘fantastic,’ you mean you’ll laugh at me when I inevitably wipe out?” she teased.

“Absolutely,” Chris replied with a wink.

After a quick lesson on the basics, they waded into the water. Chris demonstrated how to paddle and pop up onto the board with effortless grace. “See? Easy,” he said, balancing perfectly as a wave carried him to shore.

Y/N glared at him, hands on her hips. “Show-off.”

Her first few attempts were, predictably, disastrous. She fell forward, then backward, swallowing a fair share of saltwater. Chris paddled over, chuckling. “You okay there, champ?”

“I’m fine,” she huffed, spitting out water. “Just rethinking all my life choices.”

“Come on,” he said, his voice encouraging. “You’re getting there. Just keep your knees bent and look straight ahead. You’ve got this.”

With his guidance,and a fair amount of determination,Y/N finally managed to stand on the board as a gentle wave carried her toward the shore.

“Look at me!” she shouted triumphantly, her arms flailing for balance.

“Who’s the pro now?” she teased, glancing back at Chris just before she lost her balance and tumbled into the water.

Chris paddled over, laughing so hard he nearly fell off his own board. “That was impressive for a solid three seconds.”

Y/N splashed him playfully. “You’re supposed to be encouraging, not heckling.”

By the afternoon, the adrenaline of surfing gave way to the peaceful calm of paddleboarding. The turquoise waters shimmered under the sun as they drifted side by side.

“So,” Y/N said, balancing her paddle across her lap. “What’s a guilty pleasure you’d never admit on TV?”

Chris paused, his paddle still. “Rom-coms. I’m a sucker for a good ‘enemies-to-lovers’ plot.”

“No way!” Y/N said, nearly tipping her board as she burst into laughter. “That’s my favorite trope! Alright, we’re definitely having a rom-com movie night after this.”

“You’re on,” he replied, his grin widening. “But only if you promise not to roast me for quoting all the lines.”

“Deal,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, they sat at a small table on the beach, the flicker of candlelight casting soft shadows. Plates of fresh seafood and tropical drinks adorned the table.

Chris reached for Y/N’s hand across the table. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this at peace,” he admitted, his voice quiet but sincere.

Y/N smiled, her fingers curling around his. “Me neither. This feels... easy. Like it’s supposed to be this way.”

He nodded, his eyes locking with hers. “I could get used to this.”

“Well, you’ll have to keep up the charm, Mr. Surf Pro,” she teased.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Chris replied with a smirk. “I’ve got plenty more where that came from.”

Later that night, they sat on the sand, the ocean waves gently lapping at their feet. Chris leaned back, resting on his hands as he looked up at the stars.

“Alright, my turn to ask a tough question,” Y/N said, tilting her head. “What’s something you’ve always wanted to do but never had the chance?”

Chris thought for a moment. “Honestly? Just... take a step back. Life’s always been so go-go-go. I’ve never really taken the time to just be.”

Y/N’s gaze softened. “Well, consider this your start. No deadlines, no expectations. Just... being.”

Chris smiled at her, his expression filled with gratitude. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Maybe it is,” she replied, leaning her head against his shoulder.

Day Three

The third day brought a new kind of excitement as Chris and Y/N ventured into a charming seaside town. The cobblestone streets were lined with colorful storefronts, their windows displaying everything from hand-painted ceramics to jars of locally made jam. The air was thick with the aroma of freshly baked pastries, sea salt, and hints of lavender from a nearby flower stand.

Y/N’s eyes lit up as she spotted a small bakery with its doors wide open, the scent of buttery croissants wafting through. “We’re stopping there,” she announced, grabbing Chris’s hand and tugging him along.

“You don’t have to convince me,” he said, laughing as he pulled out his wallet. “I smelled that place from two blocks away.”

Inside, the bakery was cozy and inviting, with wooden shelves stacked high with golden pastries and an old chalkboard menu listing the day’s specials. Y/N pressed her face to the glass display case, eyes darting between the flaky croissants, glistening fruit tarts, and delicate macarons.

“Everything looks so good,” she said, practically drooling.

Chris leaned over her shoulder, pointing to a chocolate almond croissant. “That one. Trust me, it’s life-changing.”

They ordered a selection to share, along with iced lattes, and found a small table by the window. Y/N took a bite of the croissant and closed her eyes, letting out an exaggerated groan of delight. “Oh my god. This is heavenly. How did you know?”

“I have excellent taste,” Chris said smugly, taking a bite of his own.

She raised an eyebrow, smirking. “We’ll see about that when we debate ice cream flavors later.”

After their indulgent breakfast, they wandered the streets, stumbling upon a street performer playing a soft melody on his guitar. The music drifted through the air, drawing a small crowd. Y/N stopped in her tracks, a mischievous smile spreading across her face.

“You know what I’m going to say,” she teased, turning to Chris.

“No,” he said immediately, though the corners of his mouth betrayed his amusement.

“Come on,” she coaxed, nudging him with her elbow. “You’re literally a musician. How can you not?”

“I’m not doing it,” Chris insisted, shaking his head.

“Please?” Y/N said, her eyes widening in mock pleading. “For me?”

He sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. “Fine. But only because you’re cute when you beg.”

Y/N clapped excitedly as Chris approached the street performer, who graciously handed over his guitar. “Don’t judge me too harshly,” he muttered to the crowd before launching into a cheesy rendition of I'm Yours by Jason Mraz.

The playful tone of his voice and exaggerated gestures had everyone laughing and clapping along. Y/N’s cheeks flushed red as he pointedly sang the chorus to her, but she couldn’t stop smiling.

When he finished, the small crowd erupted into applause, and Y/N threw her arms around him. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, laughing. “But I love it.”

“Ridiculous and charming,” he corrected, grinning. “Don’t forget that.”

The rest of the day was spent wandering through the town’s quirky shops. They tried on silly hats at a boutique, debated over the best scents for candles at a local artisan’s stall, and picked out small souvenirs for each other.

“Okay,” Chris said, holding up a tiny ceramic seahorse. “This one’s for you because it reminds me of how determined you were on that surfboard yesterday.”

Y/N laughed, taking the figurine from him. “And this,” she said, handing him a keychain shaped like a wave, “is for you, because you’re officially my surf coach now.”

They continued their playful banter as they explored, eventually stumbling upon an ice cream stand with a long line of locals,a clear sign of quality.

“Alright,” Y/N said as they approached the counter. “What’s your flavor?”

“Chocolate. No contest,” Chris said confidently.

“Boring,” Y/N teased. “Strawberry’s where it’s at.”

“Strawberry?” Chris repeated, feigning disbelief. “You’ve lost all credibility.”

As they sat on a bench overlooking the pier, licking their cones, they continued their mock argument.

“You’re objectively wrong,” Y/N declared.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Chris said with a smirk. “But deep down, you know chocolate is superior.”

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the horizon in shades of pink and orange, Y/N leaned her head on Chris’s shoulder. The gentle sound of waves lapping against the pier added to the tranquil atmosphere.

“This is officially one of my favorite days,” she said softly, her voice carrying a note of contentment.

Chris kissed the top of her head, his hand resting lightly on hers. “Mine too. You make everything better.”

Day Four

“Today,” Chris announced with theatrical flair as they entered the resort’s open-air kitchen, “we conquer the art of pasta-making. Prepare to be amazed.”

Y/N paused, eyeing him skeptically as she tied her apron. “Amazed at how badly this will go?”

“Have a little faith,” Chris teased, adjusting his own apron with a flourish. “I’m practically a professional chef.”

She snorted, rolling up her sleeves. “You burnt toast the other day.”

“Details,” he said, waving her off dramatically. “That was a fluke. Today, I’m in my element.”

The kitchen was set up with individual stations, each equipped with flour, eggs, rolling pins, and pasta machines. The instructor,a jovial Italian chef named Marco,gave them a brief tutorial on making fresh pasta.

“Remember,” Marco said with a heavy accent, “the dough must be smooth, like a baby’s cheek.”

“Smooth like a baby’s cheek,” Chris repeated, winking at Y/N. “Got it.”

It wasn’t long before the kitchen descended into chaos. Chris’s dough came together quickly, the perfect blend of soft and elastic. He kneaded it with surprising precision, humming a little tune as he worked.

Y/N, on the other hand, was struggling. Her dough stubbornly stuck to the counter, her hands, and even the rolling pin.

“Are you sure you’re following the instructions?” Chris asked, leaning over to inspect her work.

“Excuse me, Chef Gordon Ramsay,” Y/N shot back, “but this dough has a personal vendetta against me.”

Chris chuckled, effortlessly rolling out his own dough into a perfect sheet. “Natural talent,” he said smugly, tossing a small pinch of flour in her direction.

Y/N narrowed her eyes, a mischievous glint flashing. “Oh, it’s on.”

She grabbed a handful of flour and flicked it at his face, laughing as it landed on his nose and hair.

Chris froze, blinking through the cloud of flour. “You just declared war,” he said, his voice low and playful.

Before she could react, he scooped up a handful of flour and lobbed it back at her, laughing as she squealed and ducked.

The instructor sighed dramatically from across the room. “This is not how you make pasta!”

By the time they finished, the kitchen looked like a war zone. Flour covered the counters, the floor, and both of them. Despite the mess, they managed to produce two plates of pasta, though neither looked particularly appetizing.

Sitting at a small table overlooking the garden, they tasted their creations.

“Mine has character,” Y/N declared, twirling a forkful of slightly lumpy pasta.

“Character is code for uneven and chewy,” Chris countered, smirking as he took a bite of his perfectly uniform noodles. “Boringly perfect tastes better.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, taking a bite of his pasta. “Okay, fine. Yours is better. But mine has personality.”

“Personality doesn’t make up for the fact that you almost broke your teeth,” Chris teased, dodging a playful swat.

That evening, they lounged by the resort’s infinity pool, the moon casting a silver glow over the water. Each had a cocktail in hand, their earlier antics giving way to a quieter, more reflective mood.

Chris leaned back on the chaise lounge, swirling the ice in his glass. “You know, I used to sneak out of the house to write songs when I was younger. My parents thought I was sleeping, but I’d be in the garage scribbling lyrics.”

Y/N turned to him, intrigued. “What kind of songs?”

“Terrible ones,” he admitted, laughing. “But it didn’t matter. Writing was my escape. It felt like the only way I could say what I was feeling.”

“That’s amazing,” Y/N said, her voice soft. “I used to make my cousins sit through my ‘teaching lessons.’ I’d make these little worksheets and quizzes, and they’d bribe me with candy to let them leave.”

Chris chuckled. “Sounds like you were a natural educator from the start.”

Y/N smiled, leaning her head back to look at the stars. “I guess we both found what we love early on.”

Chris glanced at her, his expression thoughtful. “You know, I’ve been on a lot of adventures, but this? Sitting here with you, talking about life? This might be my favorite.”

She turned to him, her cheeks warming under his gaze. “You’re going to make me blush, Chris.”

“Good,” he said with a grin, raising his glass. “Here’s to many more moments like this.”

Y/N clinked her glass against his. “To many more.”

Day Five

By the fifth day, Chris and Y/N had settled into an effortless rhythm,a blend of playful teasing and deeply meaningful conversations. The morning began lazily, with the soft sound of waves in the distance and the gentle strumming of Chris’s guitar on the balcony.

Y/N emerged from the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, and leaned against the doorframe, watching him. The sunlight caught the angles of his face, and she smiled to herself, feeling a warmth she couldn’t quite explain.

“Good morning, Rockstar,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee.

Chris glanced up, his dimples showing as he grinned. “Morning. Sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” she replied, settling into the chair across from him. “Play something for me?”

“What do you want to hear?” he asked, his fingers pausing on the strings.

“Surprise me,” she said, resting her chin in her hand.

He nodded, strumming a few soft chords before launching into a gentle, romantic melody. His voice, low and smooth, carried the tune effortlessly. The lyrics spoke of longing, connection, and finding someone who felt like home.

When he finished, Y/N clapped softly, her smile wide. “You’re unfairly talented. It’s actually annoying.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he teased, setting the guitar aside. “Do you play any instruments?”

Y/N shook her head. “Nope. I tried piano as a kid, but my teacher said I had the attention span of a goldfish.”

Chris laughed. “That’s a shame. You could’ve been my duet partner.”

“Well,” she said with a grin, “I’ll just have to be your number-one fan instead.”

In the afternoon, they headed to the beach for a snorkeling excursion. The water was crystal clear, revealing vibrant coral reefs teeming with marine life. Chris helped adjust Y/N’s mask, his hands steady as he tightened the strap.

“Alright,” he said, his voice muffled slightly by his snorkel. “You ready to meet some fish?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Y/N replied, though her wide eyes suggested she wasn’t entirely confident.

They waded into the water and dipped below the surface. Y/N’s initial nervousness melted away as she marveled at the underwater world,schools of colorful fish darting among the coral, sea urchins nestled in crevices, and the gentle sway of anemones.

Chris stayed close, pointing out interesting sights and giving her an enthusiastic thumbs-up every time she spotted something new.

Suddenly, a small, curious fish darted toward Y/N, brushing against her leg. She squealed, surfacing quickly.

“What happened?” Chris asked, laughing as he came up beside her.

“That fish got way too personal!” she said, her voice half-exasperated, half-amused.

Chris laughed so hard he nearly swallowed seawater. “This was your idea, remember?”

“Yeah, and it was a great idea,until the fish decided to invade my personal space,” she retorted, making him laugh even harder.

They floated side by side, the gentle waves lulling them into a peaceful rhythm.

“This is amazing,” Y/N said, her voice softer now. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so... connected to everything.”

Chris nodded. “It’s pretty incredible. Moments like this remind you how small we are, in the best way.”

That evening, they found themselves back on the balcony, the sky painted in hues of orange, pink, and purple as the sun dipped below the horizon. The sound of the ocean was a soothing backdrop to their conversation.

Chris leaned against the railing, his gaze on the horizon. “What scares you most about this?” Y/N asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

He glanced at her, his expression thoughtful. “Letting you down,” he admitted. “I know my life can be chaotic,always moving, always busy. I don’t want that to overshadow what we have.”

Y/N reached out, her hand finding his. “We’ll figure it out,” she said firmly. “I don’t expect perfect,I just want us to try. That’s all I need.”

Chris smiled, lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “You make me want to try,” he murmured, his voice filled with emotion.

They stood there for a while, watching as the last rays of sunlight disappeared and the stars began to twinkle in the darkening sky.

Later, they curled up together on the outdoor sofa, wrapped in a soft blanket. The night air was cool, but the warmth between them made everything feel just right.

Chris traced patterns on Y/N’s hand with his thumb, his voice low. “I don’t know how this happened, but I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

Y/N smiled, resting her head against his shoulder. “I was just thinking the same thing. It’s like... all the pieces just fit.”

They talked about their favorite moments from the week,the flour fight during pasta-making, their impromptu duet with the street performer, and Y/N’s three-second surfing triumph.

“You’ve made this week unforgettable,” Chris said, his voice soft.

“So have you,” Y/N replied, her eyes meeting his.

They sat in comfortable silence after that, the weight of the moment settling over them. Both knew they’d found something extraordinary,something worth holding onto long after the week was over.

Four:

The final morning of the honeymoon phase arrived, and the couples were gathered together at the resort’s grand dining area. The hosts greeted them with a bittersweet announcement. “The holiday is over,” one began. “Now, the real test begins. You’ll be returning to your day-to-day lives. The following weeks will determine if the connection you’ve built can survive outside this bubble.”

There was a mix of excitement and apprehension among the couples. The hosts continued, “During this phase, you will meet each other’s families, experience their homes, jobs, and routines. You’ll get a glimpse into the realities of what married life might look like for you. This is your chance to see how your lives align.”

As the gathering concluded, the couples were handed their phones for the first time in weeks. “You can reconnect with your loved ones,” the hosts explained. “Update them on what’s happened in the pods and during your vacation.”

Y/N turned on her phone, her notifications exploding with missed messages from friends and family. Beside her, Chris chuckled as he scrolled through similar chaos. “Looks like we have a lot of catching up to do,” he said.

Returning home meant diving headfirst into the rhythm of their daily lives, a stark contrast to the dreamy bubble they had shared at the resort. The transition was jarring, but both Y/N and Chris were determined to make it work.

For Y/N, her first day back at school was chaotic yet fulfilling. As soon as she walked into her classroom, a chorus of excited voices greeted her.

“Miss Y/N! You’re back!”

“Where did you go? Did you go somewhere fun?”

“Did you bring us souvenirs?”

Y/N laughed, setting her bag down on her desk. One of her younger students, Sarah, tugged on her sleeve, her eyes wide with curiosity. “Miss Y/N, was it a secret mission?” she asked, whispering as if she’d uncovered something big.

“Something like that,” Y/N replied with a playful smile. “Let’s just say it was a very special adventure.”

Her students buzzed with excitement, their imaginations running wild. The joy of being back reminded Y/N why she loved teaching, but the demands of her job quickly caught up to her. Lesson planning, grading, and endless meetings filled her days, leaving her exhausted by the time she got home. Still, she made it a point to text Chris during her breaks, sharing snippets of her day,a funny thing a student said, a picture of the classroom art project, or simply a quick, “Hope your day’s going okay.”

Meanwhile, Chris was equally swamped at his music company. His team welcomed him back enthusiastically, but a mountain of projects awaited him. Deadlines loomed, and the pressure to catch up was intense. Late nights in the studio became the norm as he worked to tie up loose ends and push forward with new initiatives.

During one particularly hectic day, Chris slipped into a quiet corner of the studio and dialed Y/N’s number. The line rang twice before she picked up.

“Hey, you,” she said, her voice soft but tired.

“Hey,” he replied, leaning against the wall. “How’s my favorite teacher?”

She chuckled. “Exhausted. My kids were like little tornadoes today. One of them tried to convince me that glue sticks are edible.”

“Sounds like an adventurous day,” he said, grinning. “I, on the other hand, have been trapped in the studio for hours. If I hear one more drum loop, I might lose it.”

“Can’t you take a break?” she asked, concern lacing her voice.

“This is my break,” he said warmly. “Talking to you.”

Her heart softened, and for a moment, the exhaustion melted away. “I miss you,” she admitted quietly.

“I miss you too,” he said. “But we’ll get through this. Just a little more juggling, and we’ll find our balance.”

Balancing their busy schedules was no easy task. There were days when their texts went unanswered for hours and calls were cut short by unexpected meetings or studio interruptions. Yet, they both made an effort.

One evening, Y/N sent him a photo of a sunset she’d caught on her drive home with the caption, “Reminded me of our trip. Hope your day’s winding down.”

Chris replied with a quick selfie from the studio, his headphones askew and a tired but playful smile on his face. “Not quite, but this helped. You always know how to make my day better.”

Though they were miles apart, those little moments of connection kept them tethered to each other. Both Y/N and Chris knew the road ahead wouldn’t be easy, but they were determined to navigate it together, one day at a time.

The weekend brought the much-anticipated meeting with Y/N’s family. Chris, dressed in a crisp button-up shirt and jeans, clutched a bouquet of flowers in one hand while the other fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve as they walked up the driveway to her parents’ house.

Y/N noticed his nervous energy and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’re nervous,” she teased, her eyes twinkling.

Chris chuckled nervously. “Just a little,” he admitted with a sheepish smile. “Meeting the parents is a big deal. What if they don’t like me?”

“They’ll love you,” she said confidently. “Just be yourself. And maybe don’t mention the time you set off the fire alarm trying to cook.”

He laughed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Noted. No fire alarm stories.”

The door opened before they could knock, revealing Y/N’s mother, who greeted them with a warm smile. “There you are!” she exclaimed, pulling Y/N into a tight hug. Her gaze then shifted to Chris, scanning him curiously but kindly. “And this must be the famous Chris.”

Chris stepped forward, extending the bouquet. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Y/L/N.”

Her mother’s smile widened as she accepted the flowers. “A gentleman. I like him already. Come in, both of you.”

Inside, Y/N’s father stood near the dining table, his arms crossed in a posture that was more analytical than intimidating. His handshake with Chris was firm, deliberate, and conveyed an unspoken message: I’m watching you.

“Good to meet you, sir,” Chris said evenly, meeting his gaze.

“Good grip,” her father replied with a small nod of approval. “That’s a start.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but smiled, pulling Chris toward the living room.

As dinner was served, the atmosphere began to relax. The conversation started light, with Chris sharing anecdotes about his work in the music industry and Y/N’s mother gushing over the stories of their recent trip. Her father, however, steered the conversation toward more serious topics.

“So, Chris,” he began, setting his fork down and fixing him with a pointed look, “what are your plans for the future?”

Chris didn’t flinch. “I’ve worked hard to build a career I’m proud of,” he said, his voice steady. “But I’ve realized that having someone to share life with makes everything more meaningful. Y/N has shown me what that could look like, and I’m committed to making sure we build something strong together.”

Y/N’s father nodded, his expression softening slightly. “Good answer.”

Her mother smiled, clearly charmed by Chris’s sincerity. “You know,” she said, “it’s been a while since I’ve seen Y/N this happy. It’s good to know you’re treating her well.”

“She makes it easy,” Chris replied, glancing at Y/N with a warm smile.

By the time dessert was served, the initial tension had dissolved into laughter and easy conversation. Y/N’s father even seemed impressed when Chris volunteered to help with the dishes.

As they stood by the sink, her father handed him a towel. “You’re a hard worker, I’ll give you that,” he said gruffly. “But relationships take more than that.”

“I understand, sir,” Chris replied, meeting his gaze. “I’m not perfect, but I’m willing to put in the effort for Y/N. She’s worth it.”

Her father gave a small nod, the faintest trace of a smile on his face. “Good. That’s what I like to hear.”

When it was time to leave, Y/N’s mother hugged her tightly at the door. “He’s wonderful,” she whispered. “You’ve found someone special.”

Y/N smiled, her heart swelling. “I think so too.”

As they walked to the car, Chris let out a long breath. “Well, that was... intense.”

Y/N laughed, slipping her hand into his. “You did great. I think you might’ve even impressed my dad.”

“Really?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because I’m pretty sure he was trying to bore a hole into my soul during that handshake.”

“He does that with everyone,” she assured him, grinning. “But for the record, my mom already adores you.”

Chris looked relieved, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Good. Because I adore her daughter.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, and she leaned against him as they walked. Meeting her family was a milestone, and Chris had passed with flying colors.

The following weekend, it was Y/N’s turn to meet Chris’s family in Sydney. The flight was a whirlwind, and as they arrived at his childhood home, Y/N felt her nerves creeping in. “Do I look okay?” she asked, adjusting her dress.

Chris laughed softly and kissed her temple. “You look perfect,” he said, squeezing her hand. “They’re going to love you. Trust me.”

The door opened before they could knock, revealing Chris’s mother, who greeted them with open arms. “Welcome, Y/N,” she said warmly, pulling her into a hug. “We’ve heard so much about you. It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

“Thank you for having me,” Y/N replied, her nerves easing slightly at the warmth of her welcome.

Chris’s father appeared next, shaking Y/N’s hand firmly. “We’ve been looking forward to this,” he said, his tone kind but appraising. “Chris’s been singing your praises.”

“Only the good stuff, I hope,” Y/N joked, earning a chuckle.

Hannah, Chris’s younger sister, was the first to approach Y/N. At 20, she was vibrant and brimming with curiosity. “So, you’re the famous Y/N,” Hannah said with a teasing smile. “Chris talks about you nonstop.”

Y/N grinned, feeling more at ease. “I hope it’s all good things.”

“Mostly,” Hannah joked, nudging her brother. “He left out how pretty you are, though.”

Dinner was a lively affair, filled with animated conversation and heartfelt moments. Chris’s mother served a delicious spread, and the family quickly made Y/N feel at home. Chris’s father shared stories about his childhood, many of which had Y/N laughing so hard she had to wipe tears from her eyes.

“He was always the most responsible one,” his father said, a touch of pride in his voice. “But don’t let that fool you,he was just as mischievous as the rest of them.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Chris interjected, shaking his head. “I was an angel.”

“Sure you were,” Hannah teased, rolling her eyes. “Like the time you got us locked out of the house because you were busy playing your guitar on the roof?”

Y/N leaned into Chris, laughing. “I need to hear more of these stories.”

“I’ll tell you all the embarrassing ones later,” Hannah promised with a grin.

Later in the evening, Y/N and Hannah found themselves chatting on the back patio, the cool Sydney air wrapping around them. Hannah’s teasing demeanor gave way to a more serious tone. “So, how’s it really going?” she asked. “With Chris, I mean.”

Y/N took a moment to consider the question. “It’s amazing,” she admitted, “but it’s not without challenges. We’re both figuring out how to balance our lives with this new relationship.”

Hannah nodded knowingly. “He works a lot. Sometimes I worry he doesn’t slow down enough to enjoy the little things.”

“I’ve noticed that too,” Y/N said, her voice thoughtful. “But I think he’s trying. He wants this to work just as much as I do.”

“I can tell,” Hannah said with a small smile. “He’s different with you. Happier. Just... don’t let him get away with making excuses, okay?”

Y/N laughed, appreciating her candor. “Deal.”

By the end of the night, Y/N felt a genuine connection with Chris’s family. As they prepared to leave, his mother hugged Y/N tightly. “You’re exactly what he needs,” she whispered. “Thank you for making him so happy.”

Y/N’s heart swelled at the words. “He makes me happy too,” she replied, glancing at Chris, who was engaged in a cheerful goodbye with his father.

As they walked back to the car, Chris looked at Y/N, his eyes filled with warmth. “So? How did I do?”

“You mean how did I do?” Y/N teased, nudging him. “Your family’s wonderful. They’re so warm and welcoming. And Hannah’s a riot.”

Chris grinned. “They loved you. I knew they would.”

Y/N smiled, slipping her hand into his. “Well, they raised a pretty great guy, so I’m not surprised.”

He stopped walking and turned to her, his expression suddenly serious. “Thank you for doing this,” he said softly. “It means a lot to me.”

“It means a lot to me too,” Y/N replied, leaning in to kiss him. Meeting his family was a milestone, and it felt like one more step toward the future they were building together.

After meeting Chris’s family, Y/N thought she had a good grasp of the important people in his life. But when Chris told her they’d be meeting his bandmates next, her stomach fluttered with a mix of excitement and nerves. These weren’t just his friends, they were his second family, his brothers in music and in life.

As they arrived at the studio, Chris gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry, they’re going to love you. Just... brace yourself for the chaos. They’re not exactly subtle.”

Y/N laughed nervously. “Noted. Should I be scared?”

Chris smirked. “A little, maybe.”

The moment they stepped into the lounge area, a wave of energy hit them. The room was filled with laughter, loud voices, and snacks strewn across the table. All eyes turned to Y/N as Chris led her in.

“Guys,” Chris announced, his voice cutting through the noise, “this is Y/N.”

There was a brief pause before Felix bounded over, his face lit with excitement. “Finally! We’ve been dying to meet you!”

“Dying,” Han echoed dramatically, throwing himself onto the couch. “We thought he made you up!”

“Very funny,” Chris muttered, rolling his eyes.

Y/N smiled, instantly charmed by their playful energy. “It’s nice to meet you all. Chris talks about you guys all the time.”

“Does he now?” Lee Know said, raising an eyebrow as he leaned back in his chair. “All good things, I hope.”

“Mostly,” Y/N teased, shooting Chris a playful look.

Seungmin smirked, crossing his arms. “Well, if you’re here, you must already know that he’s a bit... intense. Has he started rearranging your schedule yet?”

“Not yet,” Y/N laughed. “But he did try to reorganize my fridge the other day.”

The room erupted into laughter, Chris groaning as he ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t ‘reorganize’ it. I just... suggested a more efficient layout.”

“Classic Chris,” Changbin said, shaking his head. “Always optimizing.”

“Alright, Y/N,” Han said, scooting closer with a mischievous grin. “You’ve got to hear some of the juicy stuff about Chris. Like the time he tripped on stage during our debut performance.”

Chris groaned, covering his face. “Don’t—”

Han ignored him, leaning in conspiratorially. “It was this dramatic fall too, like slow motion. And he tried to play it off by doing some weird spin.”

Y/N burst out laughing, her eyes sparkling as she looked at Chris. “Is that true?”

“It was not that dramatic,” Chris protested, his cheeks flushing. “And the spin was intentional.”

“It wasn’t,” Hyunjin added with a smirk. “But we all pretended it was because we felt bad for him.”

Felix chimed in. “Or the time he accidentally called himself ‘Bang Can’ during an interview and didn’t realize it until the fans started trending it.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Chris said, throwing a cushion at Felix, who dodged it with a laugh.

“Oh, no, we’re just getting started,” Changbin said, grinning. “Y/N, did he tell you how he tried to bake us cookies once and used salt instead of sugar?”

Y/N’s jaw dropped, her laughter spilling out. “No way!”

“Way,” Seungmin said, his tone deadpan. “He tried to bribe us with free coffee to forget about it.”

Chris sighed dramatically, though he couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips. “You guys are supposed to make me look good, not ruin my image.”

“That’s our job as your bandmates,” Han quipped. “To keep you humble.”

As the afternoon went on, the teasing turned into genuine conversation. The members asked Y/N about her life, her job, and how she’d managed to put up with Chris so far.

“I’m honestly impressed,” Seungmin said. “You’ve survived this long.”

“He’s not that bad,” Y/N replied, smiling at Chris. “I think the secret is just letting him think he’s in charge.”

The room erupted in laughter, Chris shaking his head but clearly enjoying the banter.

By the end of the visit, Y/N felt like she’d been welcomed into a new family. The warmth and camaraderie between the members were undeniable, and their teasing only made her love Chris more—it was clear how much they all cared for him.

As they left the studio, Chris slipped an arm around her waist. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Not at all,” Y/N said, leaning into him. “I think I love them almost as much as I love you.”

Chris grinned, his dimples deepening. “Well, they already love you. So I guess it’s a win.”

However, as the days passed, the honeymoon glow began to dim, replaced by the realities of their demanding lives. Their packed schedules started to take a toll, and the cracks became evident one evening when Chris canceled plans for the third time in a row due to work.

Y/N, who had spent the day looking forward to their rare night together, couldn’t hold back her frustration anymore. She set her phone down with a heavy sigh, her disappointment evident. When Chris finally walked through the door, his tie loosened and fatigue written all over his face, she stood in the kitchen, her arms crossed.

“I get that your job is demanding, Chris, but I can’t keep feeling like I’m second place,” Y/N began, her voice tight with emotion. “I’m always the one making time, rearranging my schedule. It’s like... I’m the only one fighting for this.”

Chris dropped his bag by the couch and rubbed his temples. “It’s not about priorities, Y/N,” he said, his tone weary. “I’m trying to make this work, but my job,there’s so much at stake. Deadlines, responsibilities,they’re not just going to disappear because I want them to.”

“And you think I don’t have responsibilities?” she shot back, her voice rising slightly. “We both have demanding lives, Chris. But relationships take effort. I can’t be the only one putting us first.”

The room went silent for a moment, the weight of their words hanging heavily in the air. Chris let out a long breath and walked closer, leaning against the counter. “You’re right,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve been so caught up in trying to stay afloat at work that I didn’t realize how much I’ve been neglecting us.”

Y/N softened slightly at his admission but still felt the sting of being sidelined. “I just... I need to know that we’re on the same team here,” she said, her voice trembling. “That no matter how busy life gets, we’re making time for us.”

He nodded, running a hand through his hair. “I hear you,” he said. “And I hate that I’ve made you feel this way. What can we do to fix it? I don’t want you to feel like you’re doing this alone.”

Her arms uncrossed as she leaned against the counter across from him. “We need to make changes. Let’s set aside one night a week, no matter what’s going on, just for us. No work, no distractions,just time together. And if you have to cancel something, I need you to communicate better. Let me know what’s happening instead of me waiting around.”

Chris nodded earnestly. “Okay. I can do that. And I’ll try to plan better so I’m not always last-minute scrambling.”

They continued talking late into the night, unpacking their frustrations and figuring out how to navigate their busy lives together. By the time they were done, the tension had eased, and a sense of understanding filled the room.

“I’m not perfect,” Chris said softly, taking her hand. “But I want this to work. I want us to work.”

Y/N squeezed his hand, her gaze steady. “Me too,” she said with a small smile. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

For the first time in weeks, they felt like they were on the same page, ready to face whatever challenges came their way.

Five:

As the wedding date approached, Y/N and Chris dove into preparations. The process was both exciting and overwhelming, filled with appointments, decisions, and moments of unexpected joy.

One sunny afternoon, they visited a tailor for Chris’s suit. Chris stepped onto the platform, looking slightly out of his element as the tailor measured his shoulders and chest.

“I’ve never done this before,” he admitted, glancing nervously at Y/N.

She smiled, stepping closer to adjust the fabric draped over his arm. “That’s what I’m here for,” she teased. “And don’t worry, you’re a natural. Look at you, already looking like a movie star.”

Chris chuckled, the tension easing from his shoulders. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” she said, tilting her head as she studied him. “Let’s go with the navy suit. It makes your eyes stand out, and it’s classic but modern,just like you.”

“You’re good at this,” Chris said, reaching for her hand. “Remind me to take you shopping every time I need a new outfit.”

“Deal,” Y/N replied with a laugh.

Later, Y/N went dress shopping with her mother, Chris’s mother, Hannah, Sarah, and Amelia. The boutique buzzed with excitement as the women sifted through racks of gowns, their voices mingling in a symphony of opinions and laughter.

“What about this one?” Hannah asked, holding up a dress with a plunging neckline.

Y/N’s mother raised an eyebrow. “It’s beautiful, but maybe not for the ceremony.”

“I’ll save it for the honeymoon,” Y/N joked, making everyone burst into laughter.

When Y/N emerged from the dressing room in a lace gown with a flowing train, the room fell silent. The intricate details of the dress caught the light, and the soft fabric seemed to mold perfectly to her figure.

“You look stunning,” Hannah whispered, her eyes wide with admiration.

Chris’s mother clasped her hands to her chest, tears welling up. “Absolutely breathtaking,” she said softly.

Y/N turned to face the mirror, her own reflection taking her breath away. Her mother stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “This is the one, isn’t it?”

Y/N blinked back tears, her voice barely above a whisper. “This is the one.”

Hannah enveloped her in a tight hug. “Chris is going to lose his mind when he sees you,” she said, her voice full of affection.

“He’d better,” Y/N replied with a watery laugh. “Otherwise, I’ll make him wear this dress.”

The room erupted in laughter again, and the boutique became a place of shared joy and anticipation. By the end of the day, Y/N felt more connected than ever to the people around her, and the dream of her wedding felt more real than ever.

As they left the boutique, Chris’s mother squeezed Y/N’s hand. “You’re going to make a beautiful bride,” she said warmly. “But more importantly, you’re going to make Chris very happy.”

Y/N smiled, her heart full. “Thank you. That means so much.”

The preparations were far from over, but in moments like these, Y/N realized that it wasn’t just about the wedding day,it was about the love and connections they were building along the way.

The week before the wedding, the excitement reached a fever pitch as Y/N and Chris celebrated their bachelor and bachelorette parties. It was a chance to unwind, laugh, and revel in the company of their closest friends before stepping into their new chapter.

Y/N’s party, orchestrated with flair by Amelia, was a beach-themed soirée that felt like a scene straight out of a romantic movie. The women gathered at an elegant beachfront venue, complete with twinkling fairy lights, tiki torches, and a soft ocean breeze. The air was filled with laughter, music, and the scent of tropical flowers.

As they sipped colorful cocktails and nibbled on gourmet hors d’oeuvres, Amelia clinked her glass to gather attention. “Ladies,” she began with a mischievous grin, “tonight, we celebrate our girl Y/N, who somehow managed to meet her soulmate without the usual dating disasters. Let’s make this a night she’ll never forget!”

The group erupted into cheers, raising their glasses high.

“Speech, speech!” someone called out, nudging Y/N.

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “Not a chance. You’re not getting me to cry before the big day!”

Amelia smirked. “Oh, don’t worry. That’s my job during the toast later.”

The night kicked off with an impromptu karaoke session. Y/N and Sarah took the stage for a hilariously off-key rendition of their favorite throwback hit, complete with dramatic dance moves.

“Whose idea was this?” Y/N panted, doubling over with laughter as the group roared.

“Yours,” Sarah shot back, grinning. “And you’re welcome!”

Later, as the evening mellowed into a series of heartfelt toasts, Amelia took center stage. “Y/N, you’ve always been the kind of friend who lights up a room just by walking in. Watching you and Chris together is like witnessing a fairy tale come to life. You deserve every bit of happiness coming your way. Here’s to you, my beautiful friend.”

Y/N dabbed at her eyes with a napkin, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank you, Amelia. And thank all of you for being here tonight. You’ve made this whole journey so special.”

Amelia leaned over, whispering with a teasing smile, “So, are you ready to trade in freedom for married bliss? Any second thoughts?”

“Not even for a second,” Y/N replied with a grin. “He’s my person. I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The night wrapped up with the women dancing barefoot on the sand, cocktails in hand, under the glow of the stars. At one point, Sarah raised her glass again. “To Y/N, the most radiant bride-to-be. Chris better know how lucky he is!”

“Oh, he knows,” Y/N replied, laughing, her cheeks glowing from the drinks and joy of the night.

Meanwhile, Chris’s bachelor party had a different vibe,a relaxed yet spirited gathering at a swanky rooftop bar overlooking the city skyline. Mason, took on the unofficial role of emcee, ensuring the night was filled with camaraderie, laughter, and just a touch of chaos.

“Alright, gentlemen,” Mason began, raising his beer, “a toast to Chris,the man who found love without having to swipe left or right a hundred times. Here’s hoping he doesn’t screw it up now!”

Laughter rippled through the group as Chris rolled his eyes, smirking. “Wow, Mason, your faith in me is truly overwhelming.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Mason replied with mock seriousness. “I just know your track record with grand gestures.”

The banter gave way to more heartfelt moments as Mason added, “In all seriousness, Y/N’s an incredible woman, and you’re lucky to have her. Here’s to a lifetime of happiness and no more karaoke attempts.”

Chris chuckled, raising his glass. “I’ll take that. And for the record, no karaoke at the wedding.”

The night unfolded with rounds of pool, dart games, and nostalgic stories about Chris’s less-than-graceful younger days.

“Do you guys remember the time Chris tried to impress a girl by quoting poetry and ended up reciting the Pledge of Allegiance instead?” one friend teased, causing the group to erupt in laughter.

Chris groaned, shaking his head. “It was dark! I panicked!”

As the laughter settled, Chris’s younger brother pulled him aside. “You sure you’re ready for this?” he asked, his tone quiet but sincere.

Chris didn’t hesitate. “I’ve never been more ready for anything. Y/N’s everything I’ve ever wanted. She’s my future.”

Later, as the group stood against the backdrop of twinkling city lights, Mason clapped Chris on the shoulder. “You’re a lucky guy, mate. Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t,” Chris replied with a smile. “And thanks for being here tonight. It means everything.”

As both parties wound down, Y/N and Chris found a quiet moment to exchange messages.

“I can’t wait to marry you,” they texted each other simultaneously.

The celebrations left them brimming with love and excitement, their hearts full as they looked forward to their future together. Surrounded by friends and laughter, they knew the best was yet to come.

Six:

The wedding day dawned with a sense of magic in the air. Y/N and Chris arrived at the venue separately, each in a flurry of excitement and nerves. The grand estate, with its sprawling gardens and elegant architecture, was the perfect backdrop for their love story’s most significant chapter.

Chris’s dressing room buzzed with energy as his groomsmen,his Stray Kids bandmates,filled the space with their usual blend of camaraderie, teasing, and chaos. Dressed in sleek suits, they were each focused on something different: Hyunjin fiddled with his hair in the mirror, Han was pretending to practice a wedding march, and Felix was intently tying Chris’s bowtie.

“Hold still, mate,” Felix said, a bit exasperated. “I can’t pin this lapel flower on if you keep fidgeting.”

Chris sighed but stood still, glancing nervously at the clock. “I’m not fidgeting; I’m preparing. This is a big day.”

Seungmin smirked, crossing his arms. “Big day? That’s the understatement of the year. Never thought I’d see the day our old man settled down.”

“Seriously,” Changbin chimed in, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “You’re always buried in your music projects, Chris. We figured you’d just marry your laptop.”

“Hey!” Chris protested, laughing. “I can multitask, okay? And for the record, I prioritize Y/N over my laptop.”

“Wow,” Han said dramatically, clutching his chest. “True love really does exist.”

Hyunjin turned from the mirror, shaking his head with mock solemnity. “Let’s be real. None of us expected Chris to even make it past the pods stage. Remember how awkward he was during the first few days?”

“Awkward?” Chris shot back, feigning offense. “I was charming.”

“Yeah,” Lee Know quipped, sitting on the edge of the couch. “Charmingly awkward. But hey, it worked, so I guess we’ll give you that.”

Felix finished pinning the flower and stepped back to admire his work. “There. Perfect. You actually look decent for once.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Lix,” Chris said dryly, adjusting his jacket.

Jeongin, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up. “You know, I think this is the first time I’ve seen you look nervous, hyung. What’s up with that?”

Chris hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not nerves, exactly. It’s just... Y/N’s everything to me. I want today to be perfect for her.”

The room fell quiet for a moment, the teasing giving way to genuine camaraderie.

Changbin clapped him on the back. “You’ve got this, Chris. She’s lucky to have you, and honestly, you’re lucky to have her. You’re both going to kill it out there.”

“Yeah,” Seungmin added with a sly grin. “Even if she’s technically marrying an overworking workaholic.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Chris said, rolling his eyes but smiling. “Aren’t you guys supposed to be hyping me up, not roasting me?”

Hyunjin smirked. “We roast because we care.”

“True,” Han said, throwing an arm around Chris’s shoulders. “But seriously, hyung, we’re proud of you. And you’d better believe we’re all going to cry when you say your vows.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lee Know said, though his smirk suggested otherwise.

Chris shook his head, a soft smile playing on his lips as he looked around at his bandmates. “Thanks, guys. It means a lot.”

“Alright, enough with the sappy stuff,” Felix declared, grabbing a small box from the table. “Time to make sure you don’t trip over your own feet. Who’s got the checklist for the ceremony?”

“Not me,” Han said quickly, stepping back. “Last time I had a checklist, we ended up in the wrong city.”

“That’s a story for another day,” Chris muttered, earning a round of laughter from the group.

As the banter continued, the nerves that had been bubbling inside Chris began to fade. Surrounded by his brothers, he felt ready to take the next step, straight down the aisle to the love of his life.

The bridal suite was a haven of calm amidst the bustling activity outside. Y/N sat in front of a full-length mirror, watching as the hairstylist expertly pinned her hair into an elegant updo. The makeup artist worked her magic, enhancing Y/N’s natural beauty with soft, glowing tones. The gentle hum of a love ballad played in the background, adding to the serene atmosphere.

Hannah lounged on the plush chaise nearby, scrolling through her phone. “Y/N, I swear, this venue is out of a fairy tale. The gardens, the lights, the view,Chris is going to lose his mind when he sees you.”

Y/N smiled faintly, but her fingers fidgeted in her lap. “I hope so. I’m starting to feel the nerves kicking in. What if I trip? Or cry so much during the vows that I can’t even speak?”

Hannah put her phone down and leaned forward, her tone soothing. “First of all, if you trip, we’ll all pretend it’s a part of the choreography. And if you cry, it’ll only make the vows more beautiful. You’ve got this, Y/N. You and Chris are meant for this.”

Before Y/N could respond, the door opened, and Chris’s mother and Y/N’s mother walked in, their faces glowing with pride and emotion.

“Sweetheart,” Y/N’s mother said, her voice soft as she approached, “you look absolutely breathtaking.” She bent down, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s forehead. “I can’t believe my little girl is getting married today.”

Chris’s mother took Y/N’s hand gently, her eyes misty. “Y/N, from the moment Chris told us about you, we could see how much he loved you. You’ve brought out a happiness in him that we hadn’t seen in years. Thank you for loving him so completely.”

Y/N’s throat tightened, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Thank you both for being here, for everything. And for raising such an incredible man. He’s... everything to me.”

The mothers shared a knowing smile, their hands resting on Y/N’s shoulders as if to steady her.

Hannah broke the tender silence with a playful grin. “Alright, ladies, no more making the bride cry before the ceremony! We need her makeup intact.”

The makeup artist laughed. “Yes, please. I worked hard on this masterpiece.”

The stylist stepped back, admiring her work. “You’re ready, Y/N. Absolutely stunning.”

Y/N stood, smoothing her dress with trembling hands. She turned to the mirror and took a deep breath, a soft smile spreading across her face. “Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s do this.”

The ceremony began with the hosts of Love is Blind standing in front of the gathered crowd, their smiles warm and welcoming. The venue buzzed with excitement as the music faded and the hosts took their places.

Chris stood at the altar, his hands clasped tightly in front of him as he tried to steady his racing heart. His groomsmen stood beside him, offering quiet support. Han leaned over and whispered, “Breathe, hyung. You don’t want to pass out before she even gets here.”

Chris shot him a mock glare but chuckled under his breath. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“Welcome, everyone,” the first host began, her voice resonating with emotion, “to what we can only describe as the culmination of a journey that started with blind faith and an open heart.”

Her co-host nodded, adding, “We’ve all been witness to a remarkable story, one that began in the pods,a place where appearances didn’t matter, and voices carried the weight of emotions. Chris and Y/N were strangers when they first sat down, separated by a wall, and yet, through vulnerability and trust, they built something extraordinary.”

The crowd murmured in appreciation, many glancing at the altar where Chris stood, his eyes locked on the aisle in anticipation.

“Chris and Y/N’s connection was immediate,” the first host continued. “They spent hours in the pods, sharing their hopes, dreams, and even their fears. And while they couldn’t see each other, they were seeing something far more important,each other’s hearts.”

Her co-host smiled. “We watched as their relationship blossomed during the retreat, where they finally saw each other for the first time. And let me tell you, when Chris saw Y/N, his face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.”

The crowd chuckled, and even Chris smiled, momentarily breaking his nervous focus.

“They’ve spent the past weeks building on that foundation,” the first host added. “Navigating the challenges of blending two lives, getting to know each other’s families, and figuring out what it means to truly say, ‘I choose you.’”

“And today,” the co-host said, his voice brimming with excitement, “they’re here to make the ultimate choice,to stand before all of you, their friends and family, and promise to spend their lives together.”

The first host turned toward Chris, addressing the audience but clearly speaking to him as well. “This journey hasn’t been easy,it never is. Love is messy, imperfect, and requires work. But Chris and Y/N have shown us that when two people commit to seeing each other beyond the surface, love can truly conquer all.”

“And now,” her co-host said, gesturing to the aisle as the music swelled, “it’s time to witness the moment we’ve all been waiting for. Ladies and gentlemen, here comes the bride.”

The sound of the music shifted, and every head turned as Y/N appeared at the end of the aisle, arm in arm with her father. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by applause and cheers. Chris’s breath caught in his throat as he took her in,radiant, confident, and every bit the woman he had fallen in love with.

Y/N’s father leaned in as they walked. “You look beautiful, sweetheart. This is your moment. Let’s get you to your future.”

When they reached the altar, her father placed her hand in Chris’s, his voice steady but emotional. “Take care of her, Chris. She’s our world.”

“I promise,” Chris said sincerely, his voice firm with conviction.

The officiant began the ceremony, guiding the couple through the traditional moments with grace and a touch of humor. When it was time for the vows, Y/N took a deep breath and began.

“First of all, I would like to thank your parents for giving birth to such a sweet and kind-hearted son. Christopher, from the moment I heard your voice, I felt a connection I couldn’t explain. You’ve shown me patience, kindness, and love in ways I never thought possible. I promise to support your dreams, cherish our laughter, and stand by you, no matter what life throws our way. Today, I choose you, and I’ll keep choosing you every day.”

Chris’s eyes glistened as he held her hands tightly, his voice soft but steady as he began his vows.

“Y/N, you are my best friend, my partner, my everything. From the moment I met you, even without seeing your face, I knew my life would never be the same. You make me a better man, and I promise to love you fiercely, to listen, to laugh, and to always have your back. You’re my greatest adventure, and I can’t wait to spend forever with you.”

The officiant smiled warmly, her voice clear and celebratory. “Y/N and Christopher, do you take each other as husband and wife, to love, honor, and cherish, for all the days of your lives?”

“I do,” they said in unison, their voices filled with love.

“You may kiss your bride,” the officiant declared.

Chris leaned in, capturing Y/N in a kiss that sealed their promises. The crowd erupted into applause and cheers, the air alive with celebration.

As the newlyweds made their way back down the aisle, hand in hand, the guests erupted into cheers and applause. Petals floated through the air, a cascade of color and joy that mirrored the happiness on Y/N and Chris’s faces. Chris glanced at Y/N, his smile radiant, and whispered, “We did it.”

Y/N squeezed his hand, her eyes sparkling. “We really did.”

The reception space was a masterpiece of elegance and charm. Tables adorned with lush floral arrangements and twinkling candles filled the room, and the air was filled with the soft hum of music and excited chatter. As Y/N and Chris entered, the DJ announced them with enthusiasm, “Please welcome, for the first time as husband and wife, Y/N and Chris!”

The crowd erupted into cheers once again as the couple walked in, waving to their loved ones. Chris leaned close to Y/N, his voice low. “You ready for the spotlight?”

“With you? Always,” Y/N replied, her cheeks glowing with happiness.

The couple took their seats at the beautifully decorated sweetheart table, and the celebration began. Plates clinked, glasses were filled, and laughter echoed throughout the room.

Chris’s bandmates,his groomsmen,were the first to take the mic for their toast. Felix, acting as spokesperson, stood up, raising his glass with a grin.

“Well,” he began, glancing at Chris, “I think I speak for all of us when I say we never thought we’d see this day. Chris, the guy who spends more time in the studio than sleeping, is now a married man. Honestly, we were all starting to think he’d marry a mixing board.”

The room burst into laughter, and Chris shook his head, grinning. “Thanks, Lix. Appreciate the support.”

Felix continued, his tone softening. “In all seriousness, we’ve watched you grow, not just as a leader and musician but as a person. Y/N, you’ve brought out a side of him that we’ve always known was there,a side that’s kind, patient, and full of love. We’re so happy you found each other. To Chris and Y/N,may your life together be as harmonious as our music... and less chaotic!”

The bandmates raised their glasses, and the room joined in, the toast met with cheers and applause.

Next, Y/N’s father took the mic. He stood tall, his voice warm as he addressed the crowd.

“When Y/N was a little girl, she used to dream big,” he began. “She’d tell me stories about castles, princes, and grand adventures. And now, looking at her and Chris, I realize she’s found her own kind of fairy tale,one rooted in love, respect, and partnership.”

He paused, his voice catching slightly. “I remember one time when Y/N was about seven. She told me she was going to marry someone who made her laugh every day. Chris, I can see by the way she looks at you that you’ve done just that. Thank you for loving her as she deserves to be loved.”

The room was silent, save for the sniffles of a few guests. Y/N wiped a tear from her cheek, smiling up at her father.

“To my daughter and her husband,” her father concluded, raising his glass. “May your journey together be filled with laughter, love, and the kind of happiness that makes life truly magical.”

The guests raised their glasses, and Y/N hugged her father tightly as the crowd erupted into applause once more.

The lights dimmed, and a soft spotlight illuminated the dance floor. Chris extended his hand to Y/N. “May I have this dance, Mrs. Bahng?”

“You may, Mr. Bahng” she replied with a giggle, taking his hand.

The music began,a slow, romantic melody that seemed to capture their entire journey in its notes. They swayed together, eyes locked, as the world around them faded away.

“Have I told you how stunning you look tonight?” Chris murmured.

“Only about twenty times,” Y/N teased, her smile wide.

“Well, it’s worth repeating,” he said, his voice tender.

The crowd watched, enraptured, as the couple shared their first dance. Toward the end, Chris twirled Y/N, eliciting cheers and applause from their guests.

After the first dance, the party kicked into full gear. The DJ played a mix of classics and modern hits, and the dance floor quickly filled with guests of all ages. Chris’s bandmates led a lively routine that had everyone laughing and clapping, while Y/N’s friends organized a dance-off that became a highlight of the night.

At one point, Chris pulled Y/N aside, away from the crowd, to share a quiet moment. “You having fun?” he asked, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“The best,” she said, leaning into him. “I still can’t believe this is real.”

“Believe it,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Because this is just the beginning.”

The couple’s wedding cake was a masterpiece,five tiers of decadent flavors decorated with intricate floral designs. As they cut the cake, Chris playfully smudged a bit of frosting on Y/N’s nose, earning laughter from the crowd.

“You’re going to pay for that,” Y/N warned, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she dabbed frosting on his cheek in retaliation.

The night ended with a grand farewell. Guests lined up with sparklers, creating a glowing pathway for the newlyweds. As Y/N and Chris walked through, hand in hand, their faces lit with joy, the crowd cheered them on.

“Ready to start forever?” Chris asked as they reached the waiting car.

“More than ready,” Y/N replied, her smile soft and full of love.

As the car drove away, the guests waved, their cheers fading into the night. The celebration had been everything they dreamed of and more, marking the start of a beautiful forever.

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