#fallout rebellion | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

falloutstasis · 1 year ago

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That's not where I want to be Part 2

WARNING: light descriptions of a wound

Beverly Hills Precinct Station

Veronica Briscoe was stopped in her tracks when she saw the scene before here. "What the hell is going on here?"

If Kelsey was a betting ghoul, she'd bet on the fact the she won't be getting that precinct tour she was promised.

The gang and the newly 'temporary' detective saw at least 2 Paladins in Power Armor, 3 Knights, 2 Initiates, and 1 Sentinel. That's 8 Brotherhood members who do not look happy.

□ Find out what the Brotherhood are doing at the Beverly Hills Precinct Station.

"Detective Briscoe." The Sentinel, Ezekiel Armstrong, stepped toward Veronica the moment he saw him. "You better give me a damn explanation on why we had to find out one of our own Paladins was gruesomely murdered today by one of the civilians in Beverly Hills."

The team of Detectives were all confused. "That fast, Sentinel? That crime scene happened hours ago. Today!"

The body was already taken away, so where, Kelsey didn't know. What she did know is there's not one happy camper in this room.

"We were told that you found a dog tag of the deceased Paladin."

Briscoe squinted her eyes at Ezekiel. "Who gave you that information?"

"I told you. A civilian."

"You expect us to believe that just some random person gave you information? Seriously?" Johnathan wasn't having it with the Sentinel's excuse. "You guys hardly ever go out, much less talk to anyone! Next thing you're going to tell us is that you want the dog tag right now."

"Actually, Detective Logan. We do want the dog tag. Right now."

"Alright, alright." Kelsey stepped in this time. "Look, Sentinel. That dog tag is evidence and it's not going to you guys anytime soon."

Ezekiel looked absolutely disgusted at the sight of Kelsey, you know, being a ghoul and all. "Who in the hell is this abomination and why is she in this precinct?"

Oh, if this Sentinel was going to act like this....

Kelsey grinned and got right into Ezekiel's face. "I'm going to be the knot at the pit of your stomach if you don't get the hell out of this precinct."

"Enough!"

The Captain in the group of detectives, Leonard McCoy, stepped in the precinct from his office. When everyone turned to him, he too, much like Kelsey was a ghoul.

"Detective Briscoe," He asked, his voice commanding enough to have everyone on their toes. "May I ask why are the Brotherhood are in my precinct?"

"That's a damn good question, Leo." Veronica said, keeping a straight face the whole time.

"I'm here to retrieve the dog tag. It belongs to us."

"It belongs to our John Doe." Leonard said, "I don't know who do you think you are, Sentinel, but this is my precinct. And last time I checked, this is NCR territory not the Brotherhoods. I would appreciate it if you get your little boy and girl scouts the hell out of my precinct. Or do I have to get your father in this and tell him that your interfering with an investigation."

He scoffed and said nothing to Leonard. He looked at his squad and ordered them to leave the precinct. It was amazing how no fight broke out. Kelsey didn't know what kind of leverage or impact Leonard had when it came to this precinct and NCR. The longer she stayed here, the sooner she's going to find out.

■ Find out what the Brotherhood are doing at the Beverly Hills Precinct Station.

"Hey, Vero-" Another Detective, Archie Green, had just arrived in the precinct, confusion and a slight bit of fear in him when he spotted the squad of Brotherhood soldiers coming out of the precinct.

"Did I miss the party or something? What the hell just happened?" He asked.

"Archie, you're late as usual." Veronica scolds, but not without a grin.

"Apparently, they wanted our John Doe's Brotherhood dog tag. And as per usual, our captain got us out of a jam. Big time." Johnathan said with a grin.

"Geez, it was that bad, huh?"

"Yeah! We're lucky no one got vaporized!"

Kelsey rubbed the bridge of her nose and walked slowly towards the back area of the room. "Is it me or are the Brotherhood got more annoy-"

Imagine her surprise when she see's a familiar ghoul, tapping his fingers against desk. He was sitting in an empty chair where no one is using it.

"Boss! What the hell are you doing out of the hotel that I had for us?!"

The Ghoul grinned at her. "I just wanted to see what you were doing."

"And that meant getting no rest? Like you were suppose to?"

He quickly nodded. "Yeah. I come down and see you playing Detective."

"Uh, is that who I think it is?"

Kelsey turned around to see the squad looking at the two. Archie shook his head and mumbled under his breath, "I need more coffee for this."

"Well, well, well. If it isn't 'the Ghoul'." Johnathan squinted his eyes at him, walking pass Kelsey. "If that's even your real name."

The Ghoul didn't even flinch at the sight of Johnathan's 'intimidation' tactics.

"Listen, wiseass," He pointed at him, "Just because your some hotshot bounty hunter, doesn't mean you can do whatever the hell you want, got that?"

"You got a problem with that?" He asked. "With me running my business as a bounty hunter? Minding my business?"

"I got a problem with you because you're just like any other crazy asshole shooting people willy nilly."

The Ghoul was about to get up from his chair, when Kelsey lightly shoved him back into his chair. "Hey, calm down."

She turned to the Detective. "I would appreciate it if you stop badgering my boss."

She moved behind the chair and held on to the backrest. "You guys got like a medical room? I gotta take this senior citizen for his check up on his leg."

The Ghoul looked up at her, more than offended at her comment.

Johnathan sighed and pointed at the door. "When you see an elevator, turn left, then go straight. On the left side, you should see the medical room two doors down."

"Thanks!" With that, she pushed the chair, which helped rolled The Ghoul in the means of a quick transportation to the doctor's office.

"Hey!" Johnathon yelled out. "I'm gonna need that chair back!"

It was barely audible but Kelsey yelled back, "Yeah, yeah!"

Kelsey rolled the chair all the way to the medical room, taking the directions she needed to go there. When she arrived with the Ghoul, no one was there. So she pushed him into the room and placed him near the medical table.

She patted on the leather matters that was on the table. "Up."

The Ghoul begrudgingly hopped on to the medical table and as he laid down, Kelsey brought in anti-biotics, stiches, bandages, and a rag from her bag.

She placed them all on a table beside the medical bed. When she rolled up the sleeve where his leg got shot, up to his thigh. She removed the dirty bandages, took the rag, and went to the sink to turn on the water.

"Did you wobble all the way here, boss?" She asked.

"Hey." The Ghoul only turned his head to the side to look at her. "I was walking mostly fine."

She wet the rag and turned off the water, squeezing it to let the leftover water out of the rag. "Without your crutches?"

"Like I said, I was walking mostly fine."

She returned to the table to clean the wound. She used tweezers and scissors to remove the stitches, slowly pulling them out. When she was done she cleaned it again, adding new stitches on the wound, then wrapping the wound around. She rolled back the sleeve and handed him a Nuka Coka.

"Is this for the radiation?"

"Yeah." She nodded and put everything back in her bag. "As you know, us ghouls can get healed by the radiation. A little bit goes a long way for gun shot wounds like yours."

Well, the Ghoul wasn't going to turn down a free Nuka Coka either way. As he drank it, the two can hear a knock on the door.

"Kelsey! Heads up," Archie is seen holding the door. "Veronica wants us to check out a new lead. Our John Doe has a name, Charlie Dawn, and she found where his sister lives. I'll wait for you outside."

As he left, the Ghoul raised his brow. "Well, I guess you still got to play Detective, Doctor."

"Well, I guess you still gotta play patient, Boss." Kelsey sassed back.

Before she left the room, she pointed at him. "This time, your bounty hunter butt better stay at the hotel room. I don't want you ruining that bandage."

As he usually does, he waved her off. "Yeah, yeah. I know the drill."

When she left the room, the Ghoul actually returned the chair back to the precinct. Before he went the hotel room, he took his own unofficial tour around the building, surveying the rooms before him. There was still other floors that needed to be fixed, at least two or three more before it was complete.

It wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but it was a different environment that what he's usually used to. When he was at the 5th floor before Kelsey, the other Detectives, and the Brotherhood got there, people were actively and actually working together. He...liked this environment more than he like to admit.

He coldly looked at her surroundings and left towards the elevator, where he would make it back to the shared hotel room in BH Hotel.

#fallout rebellion

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kathaelipwse · 1 month ago

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Not Just a 'Stylist' | Bangchan 1.1k Followers special!! <3

Pairing: Bang Chan × Stylist!Reader

Word Count: 9,145 Words | Reading Time: 33-ish mins

Genre: Angst | Slow Burn | Hurt/Comfort | Idol AU | Romance

Trope: Second Chance · Miscommunication · Lovers to Strangers to Lovers · Forbidden Love

Warnings: Mentions of body image issues & industry pressure, Angst-heavy themes, Harsh words, emotional fallout, Mental health struggles (insecurity, self-hate), Mild suggestive content, Strong language, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

Synopsis: She was never just their stylist. She was the one who made sure their voices were heard—even if it meant putting herself in the line of fire. Bang Chan didn’t know how much she mattered until she walked away. Now, two years later, a sly plan, an awkward reunion, and a very overdue confession might be what brings them back to each other… if their wounds can finally heal.

Author’s Note: This one’s for the parts of us we try to hide—because insecurities aren’t flaws, they’re just softer truths we haven’t learned to love yet. Chan’s story in this fic is a reminder that vulnerability doesn’t make you weak; it makes you human. And that’s where the real beauty lives. 🤍 I hope all are doing fine! {I know i was gone for a little too long! Sorry lovies, i was trying to heal and keep up with myself first cause it was reflecting on my writings and i didnt wanna write so much angst, i haven't been feeling to write and post since a few weeks its just complicated lol, i hope its just a phase... And i am sorry if this one is a bit of more angst than fluff..}

Notice: Requests a closed for a little while, if y'll wanna talk or share thoughts feel free to do so!!

The K-Pop industry was a dazzling, often bewildering, kaleidoscope of vibrant colors, synchronized choreographies, and the relentless hum of constant activity. For many, it was a dream factory, churning out idols worshipped by millions. But beneath the glittering facade lay grueling schedules that stretched days into sleepless nights, and an often unforgiving set of beauty standards that could strip an idol of their individuality faster than a stage light could flicker. Perfection, in this world, was not just admired; it was meticulously engineered, often at the cost of authentic self-expression. Yet, for you, a stylist barely two years into the unforgiving depths of this demanding world, it was also something far more profound: a blank canvas, ripe for a quiet, yet revolutionary, change.

You hadn't simply landed in the K-Pop scene; you had carved out a niche, not with aggressive self-promotion, but with a philosophy that was both innovative and deeply empathetic. Your reputation had spread like wildfire, not just for the avant-garde, trend-setting ensembles you conceptualized, but for an almost fierce, unwavering dedication to the idols' comfort, well-being, and genuine self-expression.

In an industry obsessed with a narrow definition of perfection, your rebellion was subtle but potent. Whitewashing, the pervasive practice of lightening an idol's skin to an often unnatural pallor, was your personal nemesis—a cultural erasure you fought tooth and nail against.

You saw it as a deliberate act of stripping away an idol's natural heritage and unique beauty. Unnecessary layers of makeup on already flawless, youthful skin felt like a crime against nature and authenticity, smothering their natural glow under a mask of heavy product. And the rampant destruction of natural hair, often through harsh chemicals, relentless heat styling, and aggressive bleaching, was a personal affront you simply could not tolerate.

You championed originality, seeing each idol as a unique individual with their own inherent beauty to be amplified, not erased. Your mission was to ensure they felt seen, celebrated, and authentically themselves, rather than merely being packaged into a marketable, albeit homogenous, product designed to fit a preconceived mold.

This philosophy, initially met with skepticism and quiet resistance from management, slowly began to take root among the idols themselves. The members, accustomed to a more rigid, company-driven approach to their appearance—where they were often told what to wear, how to pose, and even how to smile—gradually adjusted to your radical kindness. They started to trust you, to see you not just as a technician of trends, but as an ally, someone who genuinely had their best interests at heart. Slowly, tentatively, some even began to confide in you, whispering their preferences, their discomforts, their secret desires for a different look, a softer fabric, a bolder color—preferences you always, without fail, honored and fought for, often pushing back against directives from higher-ups.

Among them was Han, a whirlwind of creative energy, known for his rapid-fire raps and boundless stage presence. Beneath his vibrant exterior, he carried a canvas of intricate tattoos that told stories only he truly understood, a deeply personal expression of his journey. He had silently endured countless applications of heavy, industrial-strength body tape, used to conceal his art for various concepts, leaving his sensitive skin raw, red, and irritated after every single performance. It was a silent agony he'd simply accepted as part of the job.

One afternoon, after a particularly long photoshoot for a new album, Han approached you cautiously, a faint wince on his face as he gently peeled a corner of tape from his inner arm. "Hey, [Y/N]," he began, his voice low. "Could… could we possibly try something different with this next time? The tape… it's really tearing up my skin." He showed you the angry red marks, some already forming blisters.

You immediately knelt, examining his reddened torso with a frown. "Oh, Han, that looks painful," you murmured, your concern genuine. "Of course, we will. Show me exactly where it hurts, where the tape causes the most irritation. We'll find a way around it, I promise. Your comfort comes first, always." From that day on, you made it your unwavering mission to ensure his clothing was stylish, often strategically covering him in ways that felt natural and chic, using round tops and under mesh that seamlessly integrated into the concept. But there were times, moments of pure, unadulterated playfulness on stage or during content shoots, when Han, swept up in the moment, wanted to show off his tattoos, to let his true self shine through. In those instances, you would take the fall, absorbing the inevitable scoldings and frustrated sighs from management with a calm, unyielding demeanor, a silent shield protecting his artistic freedom and personal comfort. You were their advocate, their quiet guardian against the industry's more suffocating demands.

Yet, despite your growing influence and the trust you had cultivated with most of the members, there was one who struggled profoundly to adapt to your different approach: Bang Chan. The group's leader, he was the embodiment of tireless dedication and relentless self-improvement, but years of relentless industry conditioning had deeply ingrained a specific, often self-deprecating, image in his mind. He couldn't reconcile with the idea of embracing his natural curly hair, which he saw as unruly, messy, and unprofessional, a stark contrast to the sleek, sharp looks favored by many K-Pop idols. Similarly, his slightly tanned, sun-kissed skin, earned from hours in the dance studio and occasional outdoor filming, was something he believed detracted from the desired "idol aesthetic" of pale, ethereal beauty.

After a particularly bright outdoor shoot under the Seoul sun, Chan approached you, rubbing his arm with a towel, a hesitant smile on his face that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Hey, [Y/N]," he said, almost apologetically. "Could we… maybe go a bit lighter on my skin for the next concept? Like, a foundation shade or two up? I think it would suit the theme better, give it a more… polished feel."

You met his gaze directly, your expression gentle but unwavering. "Chan, your skin tone is beautiful," you countered softly, your voice firm. "It's healthy, it's natural. There's no need to lighten it. You're just fine the way you are." You watched a flicker of disappointment cross his face, quickly masked.

A few days later, during a hair styling session for a variety show appearance, he tried again, running a hand through his slightly damp, springy curls. "My curls are… a lot, aren't they?" he mumbled, tugging at a particularly unruly strand near his temple. "They always seem to have a mind of their own. Maybe we should straighten them out for the comeback? Or at least heavily slick them back? It would look more… put together, I think. More professional."

You smiled, gently pushing his hand away from his hair. "Chan, your curls are incredible," you insisted, beginning to work a light serum through them to enhance their natural texture. "They have so much character, so much life. The fans adore them, you know? They talk about 'Chan's curls' all the time. We can define them, keep them healthy, but why hide something so unique and beloved?" He mumbled something noncommittal, still looking unconvinced. The irony was not lost on you: the other members, and even their incredibly devoted fanbase, Stay, absolutely adored his natural curls, often praising them in fan calls and online comments, begging him not to straighten them cause he is damaging his own hair. But Chan, locked in his own internal struggle, his self-perception deeply rooted in years of industry expectation, remained stubbornly unconvinced, a silent battle being waged beneath the surface of his charismatic stage persona. You knew he needed to see himself as truly "fine" before anyone else's opinion would matter.

The air after the concert was thick with the lingering buzz of fan cheers and the exhaustion of performance, a faint scent of sweat and stage smoke clinging to everything. The dressing room was a hive of activity: members peeling off stage clothes, makeup artists packing up their kits, and staff bustling about. You were meticulously helping Felix unhook an intricate, albeit slightly heavy, ear cuff, your fingers nimble as you navigated the delicate clasp. It was a moment of quiet focus amidst the post-show chaos, when snippets of a staff conversation, sharp and unwelcome, sliced through the general chatter.

"Honestly, I don't know what our new stylist is thinking," a voice, unfamiliar but clearly disgruntled, grated from a few feet away. "She absolutely refuses to cover up Bang Chan's slight tan. It's distracting, especially with the concept photos coming up."

Another voice, a little higher pitched, chimed in, dripping with disdain. "And his hair! It's never properly styled. Those curls just don't suit him. He looks… unpolished. It's not the image the company wants."

The words hit you like a physical blow, a cold knot tightening in your stomach. Your hands stilled on Felix's ear. Without a second thought, driven by instinct and a fierce loyalty to the idols you protected, you straightened up, turning slowly towards the voices. "Excuse me?" you interjected, your voice deceptively calm, though your eyes, you knew, flashed with a dangerous glint. "Chan's skin is perfectly fine. It's natural, and frankly, beautiful. It makes him look healthy and strong. And his curls are adored by fans. My job is to highlight their natural features, not erase them to fit some outdated, unrealistic so called toxic shitty standard."

A sudden, uncomfortable hush fell over the immediate area. Jeongin, who had been quietly packing his bag, looked up, his eyes wide with surprise and a hint of alarm. Han, who had just walked over to grab a water bottle, stopped dead in his tracks, his hand hovering over the cooler.

"Exactly!" Han exclaimed, stepping forward, his voice rising in defense. "Have you seen how many fans comment about his curls? They love them! They're iconic! And his tan? It just makes him look healthier, more real. It's part of who he is!"

"Yeah!" Felix chimed in, stepping away from you, his usually bright demeanor replaced with a stern frown. "And [Y/N] always makes sure we're comfortable. That's way more important than some old-fashioned beauty standard that makes us feel bad about ourselves!"

Changbin, who had been listening from a distance, his arms crossed, nodded firmly. "She helps us feel like ourselves. Chan Hyung looks great. He looks authentic and cute and sexy and the stays and we love him just the way he is."

But it was too late. Chan, who had been walking past the dressing room entrance, having just finished a quick call, paused. His back was to you, but the sudden rigidity of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, told you he had heard every single word. His face unreadable, he turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over you, the hushed staff, and then his fiercely loyal members, before he simply pivoted and walked out of the room, his footsteps heavy and deliberate.

You glared at the gossiping staff, a silent, chilling promise of retribution in your eyes—a promise that your next styling choices for them would be… unflattering. Then, without another word, you quickly pushed past the startled members and followed him. You found him standing against a cool, brick wall just outside the building, gazing up at the indifferent night sky, his shoulders hunched, radiating a palpable tension that seemed to crackle in the air around him.

"Chan, wait," you began, reaching out a hand, your voice soft, but he cut you off, spinning around to face you. His eyes were dark, his jaw clenched, and his voice was tight with frustration, barely above a whisper, yet sharp as a knife which was just sharped as in to slit throats and then hearts.

"I told you… I told you I don't wanna be different!" he exclaimed, his words laced with a raw edge of pain and exasperation. "I just wanna fit in, like everyone else! I just want to be normal! But you wouldn't listen to me! You never listen!"

You stepped closer, trying to reason, to soften the blow, to make him understand. "Chan, listen to me. No matter what you do, no matter how you look, no matter how much you change yourself, people will always find something negative to say. You can't please everyone, and you shouldn't try to erase yourself for them. Your worth isn't determined by their opinions."

But he snapped, the dam breaking, unleashing a torrent of cruel words that felt like physical blows, each one landing squarely on your chest. "Don't you get it, [Y/N]? I don't care about what they say when it means I look like this! I don't care about 'authenticity' if it means I'm constantly being criticized! I need a stylist who understands the industry, who doesn't nag me about my personal choices. Someone who will just… do their job! Someone who will just make me look the way I need to look! Pale skin. Straightened hair. I don't need someone like you! I don't want a new style. Maybe the others do, not me!" His voice cracked on the last words, but the venom was clear, sharp, and undeniable.

The words stung, a deep, nauseating ache spreading through your chest, echoing the painful truth that he truly meant them, at least in that moment of raw anger. You knew he was upset, deeply so, frustrated with himself and the pressures he felt, but it still hurt. Of course, it did.

You had liked him the most, perhaps even loved him, in a way that transcended the idol-stylist dynamic. You had witnessed his entire rise, his struggles, his countless "Chan's Room" lives on YouTube where he’d openly expressed his insecurities about his looks, his hair, his identity, his constant battle with self-doubt.

You loved him more than you cared to admit, not as an idol, but as the genuine, vulnerable person you knew him to be beneath the bravado and the leader's facade. He stormed off, the sound of his retreating footsteps echoing in the sudden silence, leaving you alone with the bitter echoes of his harsh, cutting words in the cold night air, a profound sense of betrayal settling heavy in your heart.

The next week was their much-needed break, a rare window of respite in their relentless schedule. For you, however, it was a blur of silent, agonizing pain. The raw wound of Chan's words festered, preventing you from facing him, or even his concerned members.

Your phone remained stubbornly on silent, vibrating with unread messages, your fingers hovering over them, unable to bring yourself to respond. Each buzz was a fresh reminder of the chasm that had opened between you and a desperate plea to bridge it, but the hurt was too deep, too fresh. The guilt, meanwhile, gnawed at Chan, a constant, dull ache in his chest, a poison he couldn't flush out.

He replayed the scene in his mind over and over: the surge of anger that had driven his cruel outburst, fueled by years of internalized insecurity, and the shattered, heartbroken look in your eyes as he stormed away. That image, the way your expression had crumpled, haunted his waking hours and infiltrated his restless sleep.

That night, unable to shake the feeling of dread, he paced the dorm living room, the quiet too loud, too heavy. "Has anyone heard from [Y/N]?" Chan finally asked, his voice strained, a raw edge of desperation he couldn't quite hide.

Han, scrolling through his phone, shook his head, his own face etched with worry. "No, Hyung. I've sent like, five texts. And checked every social media she used to have. Nothing. No reply. Lix has called her, too, probably a dozen times."

Felix nodded sadly, his usual bright demeanor dimmed. "Just goes straight to voicemail, Hyung. Every single time. I don't know what to do. This isn't like her."

The members, sitting in their living room, exchanged worried glances, a silent conspiracy of concern. None dared to explicitly ask either of you about what had truly transpired that night. They had heard it all, after all, the sharp words and the sudden silence. The chilling silence from both sides was deafening, a tangible, suffocating weight in the dorm, replacing the usual easy camaraderie.

The very next day, a cold, formal email landed in everyone's inboxes: the company announced your resignation. There was a terse, uninformative notice posted internally, stating only that you had "decided to pursue other opportunities." You hadn't given a reason, not to management, not to the members, not to anyone. Just a clean, sharp break, like a snapped string. But the members knew. Every single one of them. And Chan, oh, Chan knew with a searing certainty.

"What do you mean, she resigned?" Changbin asked, disbelief coloring his voice, staring at the stark text on his phone screen as if it might spontaneously change. "She just… left? Without a word?"

"She wouldn't just leave," Jeongin whispered, looking genuinely distraught, his eyes wide and clouded with unshed tears. "Not without saying goodbye to us. Not after everything."

Han slammed his fist lightly on the table, the muffled thud echoing the frustration in his voice. His gaze was fixed on Chan, a mixture of raw anger and deep despair. "It's because of what happened, isn't it, Hyung? Because of what you said! It broke her, didn't it?"

Chan flinched, the accusation hitting him squarely, like a physical blow. His face was ashen, his jaw tight. "I… I know," he mumbled, his voice thick with guilt, barely audible. He felt a sickening lurch in his stomach, a dizzying wave of regret. You weren't just their stylist; you were someone who always put their needs first, their comfort first, their problems first, even before the company's often rigid directives and relentless bottom line. You were a true friend, an advocate, a safe space they had implicitly relied on, a rare source of genuine care in an often impersonal industry. Now, that friend was gone, not exactly, but you never replied to anyone's messages, no matter how many they sent, how desperate they became, how many pleas for a simple 'I'm okay' went unanswered.

Months bled into each other, each one feeling heavier than the last for the group. The stylist changed, a new face taking your place. This person was efficient, professional, and entirely detached. They just "did their job," rarely spoke beyond necessary instructions, and worked solely for the company, not for the idols' individual well-being or comfort. The careful considerations you had put in place slowly eroded, like sand slipping through fingers. Han's body tapes reappeared, along with other unwelcome changes to their styling that prioritized concept over comfort, leaving the members feeling like mannequins, stripped of their individuality.

One evening, after another long day of taped-up skin and restrictive, itchy outfits, Han sat on his bed, frantically texting you, a silent, desperate prayer. "Please, [Y/N]," he typed, his thumbs flying across the screen, his face drawn. "Are you okay? We miss you so much. This new stylist… it's not the same. My skin is raw again, just like before you came. Please, just reply. Anything?" But the messages remained stubbornly undelivered, stuck on 'sending,' or simply unread. He had been closest to you, relying on your understanding and empathy more than anyone. Your silence was a constant, gnawing void.

Tours came and went, a dizzying cycle of stages and cities, airports and hotel rooms. The high of performing was always followed by a lingering emptiness. Occasionally, the members would catch glimpses of you, a fleeting figure working with other idols and groups at music shows or industry events. You looked good, professional, sometimes even seemed to laugh, but always just out of reach, a distant figure in a bustling crowd.

"Look, there she is!" Felix exclaimed one day, his voice a mix of excitement and longing, pointing across a crowded backstage area. You were laughing with a girl group, adjusting a sparkling top for one of their members, your head thrown back, a genuine smile on your face.

Chan watched from afar, a sharp, physical pang in his chest. You seemed so vibrant, so at ease, so happy, even if the smile didn't quite reach your eyes like before when seungmin would friendly bully chan about his age, but it was in the same profound way he remembered. It twisted something inside him to see you thriving, knowing it was a world he was no longer a part of, a happiness he had pushed away.

Han, though initially unable to forgive Chan for what he'd said, the unspoken resentment a thick wall between them, eventually did. The silent tension between them was too heavy to bear under the constant pressure of idol life, a crack in their brotherhood. One late night, he found Chan staring out the dorm window, lost in thought. "Hyung," Han said softly, his voice surprisingly gentle, "I… I'm still mad about it, believe me. It hurt me too. But I miss you too. We need to be okay. As a group, we can't let this break us." Chan just nodded, a silent acknowledgment of forgiveness and shared pain, a fragile truce. The other members, too, slowly, resignedly, reverted to their old ways, accepting the discomforts as an inevitable part of their careers. They missed you, desperately, but the hope of your return dwindled with each passing month, replaced by a quiet resignation.

And Chan, through it all, finally understood. The empty space you left behind wasn't just a missing stylist; it was a void in his life, a silent reproach to his own insecurities, a constant, visceral reminder of his harsh, cutting words. He had fallen for you long ago, slowly, subtly, in the quiet moments behind the scenes, during late-night recording or editing sessions where he'd often find himself thinking of your gentle corrections, your unwavering support, your quiet strength.

He had always made sure not to hurt you, to never cross that line, to protect that unspoken bond, that fragile trust… and that's exactly what he had done. He wasn’t afraid of losing you, not exactly, not in the typical sense of fearing how he would be without you, how it would affect himself. That kind of fear, he now realized, was selfish.

But hurting you?

That pained him to his very core. That was a different kind of terror. He had always believed that being afraid of losing someone meant being afraid of how one would be without that person, how it would affect themselves. But being afraid of hurting someone meant being afraid of leaving a mental scar, a painful memory that they would carry forever, a wound they might never fully heal from. And he had hurt you. Brutally. He had watched you walk away because of his own words, his own self-doubt, his own inability to see his worth. The realization was a torment he carried every single day, a constant, gnawing regret that ate at him from the inside out, a silent scream in his chest.

Two years had passed by in a blow, each day a slow, grinding testament to the void you'd left. The memories of your easy laughter, your firm but gentle touch during styling, and your fierce protection had faded slightly around the edges, but the impact of your absence was a constant, dull ache for all the members. Chan, especially, carried a heavy burden. Han had keenly observed his Hyung's quiet torment – the way Chan would replay old videos of them, of you effortlessly styling other groups at music shows, his gaze lingering on your figure. He'd catch Chan scrolling through old fan photos, zooming in on your fleeting appearances in the background. Everyone had picked up on the signals; it was clear, painfully so, that Chan was suffering and that he missed you more than words could say.

"He's never going to move on, is he?" Felix whispered to Han one night, watching Chan stare blankly at a screen. "It's like he's stuck."

Han sighed, running a hand through his hair. "He won't. Not until he gets a chance to fix it. He messed up, yeah, but he's been kicking himself for two years straight."

He hatched a plan, a desperate, audacious gamble, unsure if it would work, but it was worth a try. He knew you'd blocked all their numbers, even the company's official lines. You’d probably changed yours too. But he also knew you were meticulous, always checking for new opportunities, especially if they came from an unfamiliar but professional source.

"Okay," Han muttered to himself, scrolling through his contacts. He found an old, burner phone number he’d used for a brief, ill-fated prank war months ago. Perfect.

He crafted a message carefully, trying to sound as un-Han-like as possible, adopting an overly formal, slightly stiff tone.

To: [Your old number & a guess at your new number] From: [Fictional Company Name] - Mr. Jin Subject: Urgent Styling Opportunity

"Dear Y/N, I hope this message finds you well. My name is Jin, manager at [Fictional Company Name]. We have an urgent project requiring a stylist of exceptional reputation and innovative vision, specifically with a keen understanding of idol comfort and authentic expression. Your name has come highly recommended. We are looking to revolutionize our group's image. Would you be available for a confidential meeting to discuss this potential collaboration? Please reply to this number at your earliest convenience. Regards, Mr. Jin."

He re-read it, wincing at the overly formal phrasing, but deciding it might just sound legitimate enough to pique your professional interest. He pressed send, holding his breath.

To his utter surprise, that very night, his burner phone buzzed. A text message, short and to the point.

To: Mr. Jin From: [Your new number] "Dear Mr. Jin, Thank you for reaching out. I am available for a meeting. Please propose a time and location suitable for your schedule. Regards, [Y/N]."

Han almost dropped the phone. It worked! A wide, triumphant grin spread across his face, quickly followed by a rush of nerves. Now for the hard part: getting Chan there, oblivious, and then getting out of the way. This was either going to be the best plan he'd ever concocted, or the most catastrophic.

A few days later, after a particularly grueling dance practice that left the members drenched in sweat and utterly exhausted, their muscles aching, Han, surprisingly cheerful despite the workout, casually approached Chan. "Hey, Hyung," Han said, swinging his arm around Chan's shoulders, a mischievous glint in his eye that Chan, in his own weary state, barely registered. "I'm starving. Absolutely famished. Wanna grab some coffee? There's this new, not-so-famous cafe down the street I heard about – supposed to have really good pastries."

Chan, still feeling a vague, persistent sense of unease from the unresolved tension of the past weeks, and the constant, throbbing void in his life where your presence used to be, simply grunted in agreement. "Sure, why not. Anything beats staying in the dorms staring at the ceiling, thinking." He was simply glad Han was talking to him again, without the usual subtle undercurrent of disappointment or coldness that had been present in their interactions for so long. It felt like a fragile truce, a tiny crack of light in his self-imposed darkness.

They dressed quickly, pulling on hoodies and baseball caps, the familiar disguise for anonymity, and walked the short distance in the crisp evening air. The city lights began to twinkle, blurring into streaks as cars rushed past. As they neared the cozy-looking cafe, its warm glow spilling onto the pavement, Han paused, feigning a sudden, panicked realization. "Alright, Hyung, I actually need to run back to the dorm for something I totally forgot. My phone! You know how I am – useless without it." He gave Chan a wide, innocent grin, almost too innocent. "Mind going in ahead? Just tell them you're with 'Mr. Jin.' We have a table reserved. He’s already there, probably."

Chan's brow furrowed in confusion, a tired sigh escaping him. "'Mr. Jin'? Who on earth is Mr. Jin?" he asked, scanning the cafe's unfamiliar facade, a vague suspicion tickling the back of his mind, but he was too tired to argue.

Han just shrugged, his eyes sparkling with suppressed mirth. "Ah, you know, we're well-known, brother. Company connections, maybe? Just go in, I'll be right there. Don't worry about it, Hyung, just grab the table." He gave Chan a light shove towards the entrance, a gesture of fraternal encouragement.

It was a flimsy, almost ridiculous, but seemingly reasonable enough excuse, especially coming from Han. Chan, still a bit confused but trusting Han, pushed open the cafe door. The warm, inviting aroma of roasted coffee beans and sweet pastries, tinged with a hint of cinnamon, filled the air, a comforting contrast to the lingering chill outside. A young waiter, bustling but polite, approached him with a professional smile.

"Reservation for Mr. Jin?" Chan asked, feeling a little silly saying the name out loud, a faint flush rising to his cheeks.

The waiter's smile brightened. "Ah, yes, right this way, sir. Your party is already seated." He led Chan through the cozy, dimly lit interior, past the gentle murmur of conversations and the clinking of cups, to a secluded table nestled in the back, near a large window overlooking the street.

You were sitting there, nursing a half-empty latte, scrolling through your phone, completely engrossed in something on the screen, your brow slightly furrowed in concentration. As the waiter gestured towards the table, you looked up, your eyes meeting his across the small, round surface. Time, for a heart-stopping moment, simply ceased to exist. Both of you froze, a silent, electric shock rippling through the air. The gentle hum of the cafe faded into an indistinguishable buzz, swallowed by the sudden roaring in Chan's ears. You lowered your phone slowly, almost reverently, your mouth slightly agape, a mixture of profound surprise and something akin to a guarded curiosity flickering in your eyes. Chan’s heart hammered against his ribs, a sudden, dizzying rush of blood to his head. It was really you. After two agonizing years, standing right there, looking both utterly familiar and heartbreakingly distant.

Outside, pressed against the glass wall like a grinning gargoyle, Han watched the scene unfold. He saw the instant recognition, the collective paralysis, the unspoken tension that hung between you two. A wide, triumphant grin spread across his face. He pumped a silent fist in the air, a quiet victory dance, before turning and practically skipping back to the dorms, his mission accomplished, a hopeful lightness in his step.

Chan slowly, almost mechanically, pulled out the opposite chair and sat down, his limbs feeling heavy and disconnected, as if gravity had intensified. He couldn't tear his eyes away from you, a silent plea in his gaze, a desperate hope blooming in his chest. You, meanwhile, were already holding up your phone, displaying a text conversation. "This is you, isn't it?" you accused, a wry eyebrow raised, though a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched your lips, a ghost of the old warmth he remembered so vividly. "Trolling me over texts, pretending to be 'Mr. Jin' from some random company? I almost took the bait, you know. I even looked up their fictional website."

Chan leaned forward, peering at the screen, a fresh wave of mortification washing over him, followed by a surge of gratitude towards Han. He recognized Han's overly formal, slightly ungrammatical writing style instantly. "Oh my god," he mumbled, a blush creeping up his neck, warmth flooding his cheeks, not just from embarrassment, but from the overwhelming proximity to you, the sheer reality of your presence. "Han! I am so, so sorry. I had no idea. He set me up completely. I swear. I would never…" His voice trailed off, lost in the enormity of the moment.

You sighed, a small, exasperated sound, but nodded, a flicker of something in your eyes – perhaps understanding, perhaps resignation, perhaps a hint of the old affection. "I figured as much. He always was a menace, that one. And surprisingly dedicated when he sets his mind to something." You began to gather your things, reaching for your bag, the brief amusement fading, replaced by a familiar, guarded distance that chilled him. "Well, since this was clearly a setup, and not a legitimate meeting, I should probably go—"

"Please wait!" Chan blurted out, his voice thick with a sudden, desperate urgency, a raw, primal fear that you would disappear again. His hand instinctively shot across the table, lightly, almost reverently, holding your wrist, stopping your movement. His fingers were surprisingly warm against your skin, a jolt of familiar contact after so long, sending shivers through him, a stark reminder of everything he'd lost. "Ten minutes. Please. Just ten minutes. That's all I ask. Don't leave again." His voice was raw, pleading, a crack in his usual composure, utterly exposed. He felt like he was suffocating, this one fragile chance to explain, to atone, slipping through his grasp.

You hesitated, your eyes searching his, seeing not just desperation, but a profound vulnerability, a deep, silent anguish there that truly surprised you. The grip was light, but firm, a silent plea that resonated deep within you, touching a dormant chord of concern. After a long moment, watching the raw emotion play out in his eyes, the unshed tears reflecting the dim cafe lights, you slowly released your bag and sat back down, a small, resigned sigh escaping your lips. "Ten minutes," you conceded, your voice soft, almost a whisper, a fragile thread of hope linking you.

He nodded, a visible wave of profound relief washing over his face, as if he'd just been granted a stay of execution, a reprieve from an unbearable sentence. He pulled his hand back, then, driven by a sudden nervous energy that made him incapable of sitting still, he got up from his seat and began to pace the small area around the table, his words tumbling out in a sincere, rapid-fire apology, a confession he'd rehearsed a thousand times in his head, each word weighed and re-weighed, now bursting forth with unbridled emotion.

"I know… I know what I said was messed up," he started, running a hand through his hair, his eyes fixed on you, pleading for understanding, for just a glimmer of the kindness he remembered. "That night… I was just so frustrated, so angry. But it wasn't about you, not really. It was all about my own stupid insecurities. My own hang-ups about how I looked, how I was perceived, how I felt like I was never enough. Like I always had to be perfect for everyone else, even if it meant hating myself. And I hated that I hurt you. I saw your face," his voice cracked here, a raw, exposed nerve, "and… and I knew I messed up so badly. The look in your eyes… it just shattered me. It still shatters me every time I close my eyes. You didn't deserve that. You were only ever trying to help me, to protect me from the very things I was too blind to see, too conditioned to accept about myself. And I just… I threw it back in your face like a complete idiot, like a coward." He stopped pacing, turning to face you fully, his gaze intense, earnest, pleading. Tears welled in his eyes, though he fought them back fiercely, blinking rapidly. "I know you're not supposed to forgive me. I don't even know if I deserve it, to be honest. I’ve lived with that regret every single day."

He took a shaky breath, then continued, his voice dropping, his confession raw and vulnerable, laden with years of unspoken feelings, a dam finally breaking. "But I just… I don't know what to do without you around. It's been two years, [Y/N], and it still feels like… like there's something fundamentally missing. Like a part of me just… wasn't right when you weren't there. Everything felt… muted. Less real. The colors drained from everything. The jokes didn't land right. Even the music felt a little emptier. I missed your presence, your perspective, your just being you."

He stepped closer, his voice barely a whisper, thick with emotion. "And… and I liked you. More than 'liked.' I tried to deny it, tried to push it down because it felt wrong, complicated, impossible. Because you were our stylist, and I was an idol, and there were rules, and fear. But I…I fear that I love you, [Y/N]. I know it's crazy. I know it's wrong, you were our stylist, and I’m an idol, and it's all so messed up and complicated, and I’m probably going to regret saying this later, risking everything, but… I’m fucked, [Y/N]. I truly, deeply, unequivocally love you. I missed you more than I can even begin to say. Every single day was a struggle, a constant reminder of my own stupidity, my own foolish pride. And I’m still a mess, okay? A guy filled with insecurities, a heart that can't quite explain what it is or what it wants… but even then, even though I'm all that… I would always be yours, no matter what. My heart belongs to you, always has, even when I was too stupid to realize it. But if you gave me a chance… I want to get to know you again. Not just as an idol and a stylist. As a friend, first. And then… if it's okay… if you could ever find it in you… I want to try for something more. Something real. Something honest. With you. Always with you." He finished, breathless, his confession hanging heavy in the air between you, raw and exposed, a silent plea for forgiveness and a future he desperately craved.

You stood up. The ten minutes he’d begged for were over, but the weight of his raw confession hung heavy in the air, vibrating between you like a plucked string. Every agonizing word, every exposed vulnerability, echoed in the quiet space.

"Ten minutes are over," you stated, your voice calm, betraying nothing of the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you—the profound surprise, the lingering hurt, and the unexpected tenderness his raw honesty had stirred. The urge to stay, to reach across the table and bridge the chasm that had formed between you, was immense, almost overwhelming, but the hurt of the past two years, the cold sting of his cutting words, was a formidable wall, still too high to easily climb.

You turned and walked past him, heading towards the exit, the faint scent of his cologne, a familiar comfort, now tinged with the desperation that had clung to his every plea. You reached the door, your hand resting on the cool metal handle, the decision to leave or stay warring within you.

Just as you were about to push it open and step back into the anonymity of the bustling street, you paused. A tiny, almost imperceptible shift in your posture. Then, slowly, you looked back over your shoulder. A small, knowing grin, a ghost of a smile he once knew, a hint of the playful teasing he remembered so fondly, played on your lips. "See you soon… Christopher."

Then, without another word, you pushed the door open and walked out into the late afternoon bustle, disappearing into the crowd like a fleeting shadow. Poor Chan was left utterly confused, rooted to the spot, staring after you, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The cryptic farewell, the almost-smile, the use of his full name – it tore at him. Did it mean something? Or nothing at all? Was it a promise, or just a polite dismissal?

The next week passed in a blur of anticipation, doubt, and a gnawing uncertainty for him, each hour stretching into an eternity as he replayed your words, your smile, that single, enigmatic glance. He found himself dissecting every syllable, searching for hidden meanings, for any sign of hope. Sleep offered little solace, his dreams filled with your face, both near and impossibly far.

It was time for their next tour, a sprawling schedule of concerts across multiple continents, a whirlwind of flights, rehearsals, and performances. The usual excitement was overshadowed by an underlying tension, a silent worry about the impending change in staff. As he was meticulously packing his suitcase, folding clothes with obsessive precision, trying to decipher the cryptic meaning of your parting words, the dorm room door burst open without a knock. The other members piled in, an unusual seriousness on their faces.

"Hyung! Urgent meeting in five minutes!" Jeongin announced, his usual bright energy replaced with a grim, almost apprehensive tone.

"Yeah, the manager sounded super serious," Felix added, his usual cheer subdued. "He said it's about the tour staff, specifically about the new stylist."

Chan's stomach twisted. He braced himself for another cold, impersonal professional. As confused as the others by the sudden announcement, he quickly zipped up his bag and headed to the main office where their manager sat, a stern, unreadable expression on his face. The air in the room was thick with unspoken tension, heavy with the collective dread of the unknown.

"Alright, boys," the manager began, his voice devoid of its usual warmth, his eyes sweeping over their anxious faces, seeming to relish the dramatic reveal. "I have an important announcement regarding your upcoming tour. As you know, we've been looking for a long-term solution for your styling needs." He paused for dramatic effect. "You're getting a new stylist, effective immediately for this tour."

A collective groan, low and heartfelt, filled the room, a wave of palpable disappointment washing over them. "Oh, no," Seungmin mumbled, slumping further in his chair, already picturing the rigid, impersonal approach they’d come to dread, the return of uncomfortable outfits and forced looks.

"Not another cruel one," Han muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible, exchanging a worried glance with Changbin. The memory of the past two years, with the cold, detached stylist and the relentless return of old discomforts like Han’s body tapes, weighed heavily on them all. Their hopeful spirits had been slowly chipped away.

Just then, as if on cue, the office door opened. All heads snapped towards it. And then, you walked in. Your gaze swept over the surprised faces of the members, a faint, mischievous glint in your eyes as you took in their slumped postures and glum expressions, a knowing amusement playing on your lips. Your eyes finally landed on Chan, and a subtle, almost imperceptible, but undeniably knowing smile played on your lips, a direct, unspoken acknowledgement of your last conversation, a silent question hanging between you.

"Seems like you all don't want me… sure then, I will go b—" You began, your voice laced with playful challenge, a hint of teasing that was so uniquely you.

Before you could even finish the sentence, a roar of pure, unadulterated relief and joy erupted in the room. Han and Felix, moving with a speed that belied their earlier exhaustion, had already sprung from their seats, practically tackling you in a synchronized, relieved hug. "You're back! Oh my god, [Y/N], ahhhhhh, I swear we missed you too much!" Han mumbled into your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion, careful not to let the manager hear the sheer, overwhelming happiness in his voice. "We thought you were gone for good! We thought we messed up forever!"

"Don't you dare go anywhere ever again!" Felix exclaimed, tightening his embrace, his voice cracking with relief. "We hated the others! They made us wear itchy sweaters!"

The rest quickly joined in, a tangle of arms and excited exclamations, their previous gloom instantly evaporated, replaced by a radiant collective joy. "No! We do want you! We need you!" Seungmin exclaimed, pulling back with a wide grin, tears glistening in his eyes. "We really, really do!"

"You have no idea how much we missed you, Stylist-nim!" Hyunjin added, his eyes sparkling with genuine happiness, a rare unguarded emotion. Even I.N., usually the quietest, was beaming, his usual reserved demeanor replaced with pure delight as he clung to your arm. "It's so good to have you back."

As for Chris, he simply stood, rooted to the spot, a profound sense of utter, unburdened relief washing over him, so strong it almost brought him to his knees. A genuine, unadulterated smile, the first truly free one in two years, spread across his face, lighting up his features and reaching deep into his eyes. His heart swelled, a warmth spreading through his chest, seeing you there, safe and sound, surrounded by the joy you brought to the group. He just smiled at you, a silent, heartfelt welcome home, a wordless apology and a renewed promise echoing in his gaze. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, but his eyes said everything.

They soon backed off, untangling themselves from you, though Han still kept an arm loosely around your shoulders, as if afraid you might vanish again. The manager, looking distinctly put out by the blatant display of affection and the interruption to his formal announcement, cleared his throat loudly, regaining his composure. He looked at you, then at the group, his expression still stern, attempting to reassert control. He began rattling off all the "rules" and expectations for the tour, the company's directives, the strict guidelines for their image – rules you, of course, had no intention of following if they compromised your principles or the members' well-being. You just smiled sweetly, meeting the manager’s gaze with a confident, knowing look, a silent promise to yourself and to the boys that things were about to change for the better, once again. This time, for good.

The tour was a whirlwind, a triumphant blur of flashing lights, roaring crowds, and adrenaline-fueled performances. With every passing day, the group grew closer, their bond strengthening, mending the cracks that had formed in your absence. You effortlessly slipped back into your role, not just as their stylist, but as their confidante, their shield. The manager's "rules" quickly became polite suggestions you creatively circumvented. Han's body tapes, once a painful reminder of past discomfort, were gone for good, replaced by innovative layering and clever fabric choices that allowed his tattoos to peek out when appropriate, or be subtly covered without irritation. The other members felt a renewed sense of confidence, embracing their natural hair textures and varied skin tones under your encouraging guidance.

Chan and you, in particular, grew closer than ever before. The initial awkwardness after his confession had quickly melted away, replaced by a comfortable, almost electric familiarity. There were stolen moments backstage, whispered conversations on long bus rides, and shared glances across crowded rooms that spoke volumes. The members often caught you two being "too close," their knowing smiles and raised eyebrows a constant, playful commentary. You'd laugh it off, still calling yourselves "friends," a private joke that only deepened the unspoken understanding between you.

It was a delicate dance, navigating the professional boundaries of your roles with the undeniable pull that drew you together. The trust was back, stronger than ever, built on the foundation of his raw honesty and your quiet forgiveness. His lingering insecurities about his appearance began to fade under your consistent affirmation. He found himself looking at his curls in the mirror not with disdain, but with a new sense of appreciation, remembering your gentle touch, your unwavering belief in his natural beauty. The memory of his harsh words still pricked, but now, it served as a stark reminder of how far he had come, and how much he valued the person who had brought him back to himself.

A year slipped by in a joyful blur, marked by the steady hum of a rekindled connection. The tour ended, but the closeness between you and Chan only deepened. It became a cherished routine: late-night sneak-ins to each other's hotel rooms on tour, or hushed tiptoeing down the dorm corridor after the others were asleep. These secret rendezvous were filled with movie nights, deep talks that stretched into the early hours, and even soft cuddles on the couch or a shared bed, a comforting warmth radiating between you. Intimacy, however, remained a silent, unspoken promise, a tender line you both respected, a slow burn of anticipation that made every touch, every shared glance, electric.

Until…

It was October 3rd, his birthday. A significant day for both him and Stay. After a long day of live streams, fan greetings, a special broadcast of "Chan's Room," and being out of the dorm for various schedules, he returned, utterly exhausted but content. As he pushed open the door to his room, he stopped dead in his tracks. The room was transformed. Balloons in silver and black floated near the ceiling, fairy lights twinkled along the walls, casting a soft, ethereal glow, and the unmistakable aroma of his favorite comfort food filled the air. A small table was laden with drinks and snacks, but what truly caught his eye was a human-sized, clumsily wrapped gift sitting conspicuously on his bed. A note, written in familiar handwriting, was taped to the door: "Suggestion: lock the door, don't want the kids in."

He giggled, a genuine, delighted sound that bubbled up from deep within him. "Oh, you guys," he murmured, his heart already swelling with affection. He carefully closed and locked the door behind him, a sense of playful anticipation bubbling in his chest.

"My human burrito!" he exclaimed, hovering over the immense wrapped present on his bed, his eyes wide with curiosity and a growing hope. He carefully tore away the layers of wrapping paper, his fingers fumbling in his eagerness. As the last sheet fell, a burst of laughter erupted from within the paper, and then, much to his utter astonishment, Han unfolded himself from the box, bursting into laughter himself at Chan's priceless, crestfallen expression. Han had seen the brief flicker of disappointment, the way Chan’s eyes had gone from wide expectation to utter bewilderment. He had been hoping, oh so desperately, for you.

From the bathroom, where you had been hiding, barely containing your own amusement, you too erupted in uncontrollable laughter, stepping out into the room.

"Get off him, Chrisie, unless~" Han teased, his eyes dancing with mischief, already wiggling out of the box and heading for the door. "Don't want to interrupt anything!" He shot a knowing wink at you both, giggling like a maniac.

Chan, totally embarrassed, backed away from Han, his face a fiery red. "Yah, Han Jisung!" he protested, a mock glare on his face. He had been tricked! The little menace! Han walked out, still cackling, leaving the door ajar. Chan quickly moved to close and lock the door again, a more deliberate, hopeful click this time.

You emerged fully from the bathroom, dressed in a sleek black satin dress that shimmered in the soft fairy lights, clinging to your figure in all the right places. You were still laughing, your eyes crinkling at the corners. "Very funny, hm?" Chan said, a playful smirk twisting his lips as he pinned you gently against the wall beside the bathroom door, his hands resting lightly on either side of your head.

You bit your bottom lip, trying to stifle your laughter, your eyes sparkling up at him. "Sorry, Channie~" you cooed, the affectionate nickname rolling off your tongue naturally.

"Nope, won't forgive ya," Chan said, feigning seriousness, though the warmth in his eyes betrayed him. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes.

"Whyyyy? It was a prankkkk, Chrissssss," you whined, leaning into his space playfully. "What do I do so you forgive me, you evil man?"

Chan's smirk deepened, a slow, predatory warmth entering his gaze. His voice dropped to a low, husky whisper that sent shivers down your spine. "Simple," he breathed, his eyes locked on yours. "Kiss me like you own me, darling. Just like the one you always have been wanting to. Just like the way your thoughts go straight to hell when you look down at my lips and then away. You think I won't notice, love?" He lowered his head, his gaze intensely fixed on your mouth, then back to your eyes, a silent question. Then, with deliberate slowness, he grabbed your waist, pulling you flush against him, the soft satin of your dress brushing against his clothes.

You didn't need to be asked twice. The unspoken promise of a year, the yearning that had simmered between you, finally erupted. You kissed him, rough, raw, hungry, a culmination of years of longing, of unspoken words, of pain endured and hope sustained. His lips were soft, yet firm, tasting of coffee and the lingering excitement of his birthday. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, as if to meld your bodies together. It was a kiss that devoured the past and ignited the future, a symphony of desperate need and profound love.

After the passionate make-out session, breathless and flushed, you pulled back slightly, your foreheads resting against each other. You whispered, your voice husky, "I love you, Chris."

He opened his eyes, a radiant, triumphant smile breaking across his face. He held you tighter, burying his face in your hair. "I love you more. Don't argue, it's my birthday."

You just rolled your eyes, a wide, utterly contented smile gracing your lips, and hugged him tightly, finally home, finally, truly, in his arms.

…The End

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