#like how expressive it is despite being simple

[ichorai]

chiropterology — balance.

drabble synopsis ; how does one juggle being a dad, husband, and vigilante? warnings ; some swearing.

series masterlist.

Cassandra could read just about anyone’s mannerisms as if it were an exact science. The man working the stage lights: tapping foot, slow eye movements, nails bitten—he was bored, and running on less than five hours of sleep. The woman in the front row of the audience, third seat from the right: quickened breaths, wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and a wide smile stretching her lips thin—she must be a proud mother watching her daughter pirouette on stage. 

And Cassandra’s performance was up next, but Bruce was nowhere to be seen. From your expression, it seemed that he wasn’t going to make it. Pursed lips, drawn brows, and hushed whispers to Alfred, who had the phone up to his ear, presumably on call with Bruce.

Bruce was a busy man, with two whole lives, and an entire soccer team of kids. Cassandra understood that. Despite it all, she felt like she deserved to be bitter about it, even just a little bit. If he was so busy, he shouldn’t have promised that he’d be there for her. Simple as that.

From her place hiding behind the curtains left-stage, Cassandra watched your features morph with disappointment when Alfred murmured something to you. You turned your face back to the stage, and the showrunner behind Cass tapped her clipboard. “You’re on in a minute,” she said, breathless, frazzled. 

Cassandra nodded. “I’m ready.” 

And she was—she’d been practicing this routine for months by now. When she took position in the center of the stage, she forced away the butterflies fluttering in her chest, and started her performance. She danced like droplets of dew sliding down a single blade of grass; smooth, intentional, synchronized. Even Damian, sitting beside you in the audience, had given up his pretense of looking bored and watched his sister glide to and fro with genuine awe.

It was perfect, just as she expected it to be. When the song dwindled to a close, so did Cassandra. Her hands raised into her final position, and the audience burst into raucous applause. She felt warmth blossom in the pits of her stomach when she spotted you standing from your seat, cheering the very loudest for her. 

After the last few performances of the show, Alfred handed her a bouquet of congratulatory flowers and you smothered her with a warm hug. Cassandra felt muscles loosening under your touch, melting into you. Hugs were something she never had with her mother, but with you—it was so easy.

“I’m so proud of you,” you told her. The emotional crack in your voice told Cassandra that you were being as genuine as one could be. “You were amazing. My girl—an actual real life ballerina! This is insane!”

When you pulled away, Damian blinked up at her with a curt nod. “You were sufficiently graceful, Cain.”

Cassandra could tell Damian had been rehearsing that compliment since she finished her performance, so she ruffled his hair with a fond smile. It was quick to fall away, however, when the theater’s doors were shoved open, and Bruce came stumbling in. 

Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, his chest was heaving, and his lips were parted to ask if he missed it—which he very clearly had. Guilt. Cassandra read guilt in his eyes.

You rounded on your husband with a cross expression, giving him a stern talking to, but Cassandra decided she wouldn’t let Bruce bring her down. She did a good job, and she was going to treat herself accordingly. She turned to Damian and Alfred. “Ice cream parlor down block. Want banana splits?”

Damian bowed his head in solemn agreement, as if she were asking him on a deadly mission rather than for some scoops of rocky road. 

The Batcave was useful for many reasons. Training, building, researching—and, apparently, avoiding his own children by brooding. At least, Alfred said the latter was what he was doing. Bruce stubbornly told him he was working, which earned him a short, disapproving sigh, before he disappeared back upstairs to start on prepping lunch. 

Bruce grumbled unintelligibly beneath his breath, pinched the space between his brows, and stood up from the batcomputer. He made his way further into the batcave, hesitated and dawdled for another five minutes, and finally knocked on the door of your laboratory.

The few times the two of you had serious fights—serious meaning it wasn’t another one of your over-the-top inventions, and more Bruce’s short bandwidth for emotion—it always took a long while for you to make up. The last time you fought, your silent treatment lasted nearly two weeks and even Damian was sick of the strange tension in the manor. The kids had eventually conspired together and locked you up in one of the spare guest rooms until Bruce caved and apologized. 

This time, Bruce wouldn’t let it get that far. Not with you, and not with Cass, either.

“Come in!” came your muffled voice. When Bruce did, you glanced over your shoulder and heaved a sigh. “Oh. It’s you.”

“I don’t want to fight,” he said, stepping around the many piles of discarded robot models (some suspiciously cuboid-shaped cake robots he recalled seeing at his wedding all those years ago). He gently took the wrench you were using from your hand and placed it down on the workbench so he could fold his calloused palms over your knuckles. “Can we talk this out?”

You blew out a soft breath. “Okay. Do you want to start or should I?” 

Sheepish, Bruce gestured for you to go first. It was times like these you saw the uncanny resemblance between him and Damian.

It took you a few moments to collect your thoughts, and Bruce waited in patient silence. For you, he would wait eons if he could. Finally, you began to speak, words wobbly and uncertain, “I think… I think you sometimes forget that I was around before you became Batman. Your priorities can be… questionable. And I feel like sometimes… you don’t realize how isolating it can be for Alfred and I being the only non-heroes in this house. And it wasn’t just missing Cass’ performance, but—your constant lateness to everything. Your lack of communication. Your tendency to pull away.” You tried to shrink back with your next words, but Bruce didn’t let go of your hands. “Sometimes I feel less like your wife and more like a glorified task manager.”

“Okay,” Bruce said, slow and gentle, trying to process what you were saying to him. When the two of you were younger and newer to your relationship, he likely would have immaturely spouted off a ton of excuses, and you would have torn yourself away from him in return. 

He said your name, all soft and low in the way that always made your breath hitch. “I had no idea you felt this way. I didn’t realize I was hurting you this way. I’m so sorry. Let me make this clear, you are always my first priority. My very, very first. You’re right—you were there for me before I actually became Batman, and you always were every time I needed you. And I fail to be there for you and the kids so often, and I’m so sorry. You’re not a task manager, or just my wife… you’re the love of my life, and so much more than that. I’m so sorry I didn’t make you feel that way. I just don’t… I don’t know how to do this. Juggle all of this. Being a father, and Batman, and Bruce Wayne…”

“You have to talk to us,” you said, finally drawing closer to him, which Bruce took as a good sign. “Tell us when you need help and know when to take a break. I know, terrifying. But we’re all here to help you, Bruce. I’m not expecting you to be perfect—God knows I’m not, even though I’m cutting it pretty close.”

Bruce let out a chuckle at that. “Can’t say I disagree.” He nodded in understanding, then raised your hand up to his face to press soft kisses to your palm. “I’ll try my best, I really will. I’ll make it up to you.” 

“And Cass,” you reminded. “She’s good at hiding it, but she’s upset you didn’t make it.”

Bruce sank into the closest chair to him, pulling you closer until he was able to rest his face against your stomach. “Is she mad at me?”

“More like disappointed,” you said, which elicited a displeased noise from him, muffled against your lab coat. The number of times Bruce himself had said he was disappointed, not mad, had finally come back to bite him in the ass. “Best you go talk to her. I forgive you, by the way. Thank you for coming to talk to me. I was hoping we wouldn’t have to make the kids act on our behalf this time.”

The laugh Bruce let out echoed about your lab because he pulled away to look up at you with those pretty blue eyes of his, both mischief and amusement clouding his expression. “We could pretend we’re still angry with each other for a little while—would buy us some time alone when they eventually decide to lock us up again…”

You swatted at his shoulder and turned back to your cake robots. “I’m supposed to be the rule-breaker in this relationship.” You paused to think back on your words, realizing you were quite literally married to a vigilante. “But also—I guess it’s not a bad idea…”

The two of you looked at each other in silence for a few seconds before bursting into more laughter. 

“I missed you,” Bruce said, getting up from the seat to press a warm kiss to the side of your head.

“This argument has lasted less than twenty-four hours,” you said, arching a brow. “Is Bruce Wayne going soft on me?”

“Never,” he said, kissing you again, this time for so long you were just about to get dizzy from lack of air before he pulled away with a smug grin. “I’ll speak to Cassandra. Duke should be on patrol duty right now, and I’ll have Tim stationed at the batcomputer if an emergency comes up—I should be able to spend some time with you afterwards? How does a movie sound?”

You smiled at your husband, finding it endearing just how determined he was to curry your favor. “It’s a date, hon.”

To your amusement, Bruce was blushing slightly. “I love you.”

“Quit stalling, go apologize to your daughter!”

Bruce chuckled and made his way towards the lab door. “Yes, ma’am.”

(Cassandra accepted Bruce’s apology almost instantly. She missed her dad a lot.)

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Synopsis: When talented producer Y/n (known professionally as the mysterious "Celeste") accepts a position at JYP Entertainment to help Stray Kids with their comeback, she expects to focus solely on creating music. What she doesn't expect is the immediate connection she feels with Han Jisung—the group's quick-witted, sensitive rapper and producer who's been following her career from afar.

Pairing: Han Jisung x Reader

Warnings: Angst, Smut, Heartbreak

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Chapter 7: Aftermath

Morning arrived far too quickly, dragging you from fitful sleep with the harsh reminder that a new day meant facing Han after last night's painful exchange. You'd spent hours rehearsing your approach—professional, unbothered, focused solely on the work. The comeback album was too important to let personal feelings interfere, regardless of how raw those feelings might be.

You dressed with careful consideration, choosing an outfit that felt like armor—black jeans, a loose-fitting but stylish blouse, and a light jacket that added a layer of professional distance. You pulled your pink hair back into a sleek ponytail, applied makeup that emphasized composure rather than emotion, and practiced your most neutral expression in the mirror.

"Just colleagues," you reminded your reflection. "Just the music."

When your phone chimed with a text from Chan confirming the day's schedule, you felt a twist of anxiety. The morning would begin with a production session involving just you and 3RACHA—meaning you, Chan, Changbin, and Han in the intimate confines of the studio. There would be no avoiding Han, no buffer of other members to dilute the tension.

You were strong enough to handle this. You'd navigated difficult interpersonal dynamics throughout your career. This was just another professional challenge, albeit one that had somehow become painfully personal.

With a deep breath, you gathered your notes and laptop, locked your dorm, and headed for the company building. The spring morning was bright and clear, a cheerful contrast to your turbulent emotions. You walked briskly, using the time to clear your head and fortify your professional resolve.

When you reached the studio, you were relieved to find only Chan present, setting up equipment with his usual methodical focus.

"Morning," he greeted, his tone carefully normal but his eyes assessing your state. "Coffee?"

"Please," you replied, managing a small smile as you settled at your usual workstation. "Strong as possible."

Chan handed you a mug from the machine in the corner, his expression softening slightly. "How are you doing?"

The simple question, asked with genuine concern rather than prying curiosity, threatened to crack your composed facade. You took a sip of coffee to buy time before answering.

"I'm fine," you said finally. "Professional differences happen. It's not a big deal."

Chan's raised eyebrow suggested he didn't believe your dismissal but respected your desire to downplay the situation. "Of course," he agreed. "Just know that if you need anything—adjustments to the schedule, different groupings for sessions—you can tell me. The album is important, but so is everyone's well-being."

His thoughtful offer touched you. "Thank you, Chan. I appreciate that. But really, I'm okay. The work comes first."

He nodded, turning back to the equipment setup but adding quietly, "For what it's worth, Han was still awake when I got up this morning. Looked like he hadn't slept at all."

You weren't sure how to respond to this information. Part of you was vindictively pleased that Han had suffered a sleepless night; a larger part ached at the thought of him in distress, despite your own hurt.

Before you could formulate a reply, the door opened to reveal Changbin, carrying an extra cup of iced coffee and looking unusually somber.

"Morning," he greeted, his typically boisterous energy subdued. His eyes flicked between you and Chan, clearly gauging the atmosphere. "Han's on his way. He was... getting something."

The vague explanation hung awkwardly in the air as Changbin took his usual seat, leaving Han's spot conspicuously empty. The three of you engaged in stilted small talk about technical aspects of the tracks you'd be working on, the artificial normalcy almost worse than acknowledgment of the tension.

When the door finally opened again, you deliberately kept your eyes on your screen, even as you felt Han's presence like a physical change in the atmosphere. There was a moment of absolute silence before he spoke.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, his voice hoarse, as if he'd been awake for too long or speaking too much. Or both.

You glanced up despite your best intentions and immediately wished you hadn't. Han looked terrible—eyes shadowed by dark circles, hair disheveled despite obvious attempts to tame it, complexion pale with exhaustion. He met your gaze for a fleeting second before looking away, guilt evident in his expression.

"We were just getting started," Chan said smoothly, gesturing to Han's empty chair. "We're focusing on the final mix for track three today."

Han nodded, moving to his station with uncharacteristic hesitation. You noticed he was carrying a small paper bag, which he placed carefully beside his equipment before sitting down.

The session began with professional focus, all four of you slipping into the familiar routine of playback, analysis, and adjustment. You spoke when necessary, offering technical observations and creative suggestions with careful neutrality. Han was unusually quiet, contributing only when directly addressed by Chan or Changbin, his usual animated enthusiasm notably absent.

After an hour of this stilted productivity, Chan stretched and announced, "I need more coffee. Changbin, come help me carry some back for everyone."

The transparent excuse to leave you and Han alone was almost comical in its obviousness. Changbin didn't even attempt to make it seem natural, immediately standing and following Chan toward the door with an exaggerated, "Yes, I definitely need to help carry four coffee cups. That's definitely a two-person job."

As the door closed behind them, the studio fell into uncomfortable silence. You continued working, determinedly focused on your screen even as you felt Han's gaze on you.

"Y/n," he finally said, his voice quiet but clear in the silent room. "I need to apologize."

You kept your eyes on your work, fingers still moving across your keyboard though you weren't actually accomplishing anything. "It's fine. We should focus on the track."

"It's not fine," he insisted, his chair creaking as he turned fully toward you. "What I said last night was completely untrue and unfair. I hurt you, and I'm so sorry."

The sincerity in his voice made it harder to maintain your professional detachment. You finally stopped pretending to work and looked at him directly, keeping your expression carefully controlled.

"I understand," you said evenly. "You were put on the spot and said something to deflect attention. It happens."

"That's not—" Han ran a hand through his already messy hair, frustration evident in the gesture. "I'm not apologizing because I was caught in an awkward moment. I'm apologizing because I said something deliberately hurtful to create distance when I felt cornered. That's not okay."

His frank assessment of his own behavior caught you off guard. You'd expected either continued avoidance or superficial apologies, not this direct acknowledgment of the underlying dynamics.

"Like a sister," you repeated his words, unable to keep a hint of bitterness from your tone. "That was quite a distance to create."

Han winced visibly. "I know. It was the furthest thing from the truth that I could think of in that moment. Which only makes it worse."

You weren't sure how to process this admission. "The furthest thing from the truth?"

He held your gaze, something vulnerable and honest in his expression. "You know it is. Whatever is between us—professionally, personally—it's not... that. Not remotely."

The acknowledgment hung in the air between you, neither of you quite ready to define the alternative more explicitly. The moment stretched, tense with unspoken meaning, until Han reached for the paper bag he'd brought with him.

"Here," he said, offering it to you. "A peace offering. Though it doesn't begin to make up for what I said."

Hesitantly, you accepted the bag and looked inside. It contained a small box from a bakery you recognized—the one Felix had introduced you to during your first week. Inside the box was a pastry, but not just any pastry. It was a specialty item that you'd once mentioned in passing was similar to something your mother used to make when you were a child.

The thoughtfulness of the gesture—the fact that he'd remembered such a small detail from a casual conversation weeks ago—made your throat tight with emotion you couldn't afford to show.

"Thank you," you said softly, closing the box. "That was... very thoughtful."

"It's the least I could do," Han replied, clearly relieved at your acceptance. "I was up all night thinking about how to apologize properly. Words seemed inadequate."

You nodded, understanding the sentiment all too well. "I appreciate the gesture, Han. Really."

A tentative smile crossed his tired face. "Does this mean you might forgive me? Eventually?"

The hopeful uncertainty in his voice chipped at your defensive walls. Despite your hurt, you found yourself wanting to ease his evident distress.

"There's nothing to forgive," you said, setting the pastry box carefully on your desk. "We're colleagues working together on an important project. Sometimes tensions arise. It's natural."

Han's expression fell slightly at your professional framing, but he nodded. "Right. Colleagues. Of course."

Before either of you could say more, the door opened as Chan and Changbin returned, conspicuously slowly, as if they'd been waiting in the hallway to give you enough time to talk.

"Coffee delivery," Chan announced with forced brightness, setting cups down for everyone. His eyes darted between you and Han, assessing the atmosphere.

"Thanks," you said, reaching for your cup with deliberate normalcy. "Shall we get back to the bridge section? I had some thoughts about the vocal layering."

The session resumed its professional rhythm, though the earlier tension had transformed into something more complex—not quite resolved, but no longer as raw. You and Han maintained a careful distance, speaking to each other only about technical matters, but the hostility had dissipated into a melancholy sort of acceptance.

By lunchtime, you had made significant progress on the track, professional focus proving to be an effective balm for personal discomfort. When Chan suggested breaking for food, you excused yourself with the excuse of needing to review some notes alone, needing space to regroup after the emotional morning.

"I'll bring something back for you," Chan offered, understanding in his eyes.

You nodded gratefully and watched as the three of them filed out, Han lingering briefly at the door with an unreadable expression before following the others.

Once alone, you allowed yourself a moment of vulnerability, closing your eyes and releasing a shaky breath. The apology pastry sat on your desk, both touching and painful in its thoughtfulness. Han had been genuinely remorseful, had acknowledged the falseness of his hurtful words, had even hinted at the true nature of his feelings.

But nothing had really changed. The fundamental complications remained—your temporary assignment, the contract clause, the professional relationship that had to take priority. His apology might have smoothed over the immediate hurt, but the underlying situation was unaltered.

You opened the pastry box and broke off a small piece, the familiar flavor bringing a bittersweet comfort. Some gestures spoke louder than words, and Han's choice of peace offering suggested he understood you better than you had given him credit for.

When the door opened again sometime later, you expected Chan or perhaps all three returning from lunch. Instead, Felix poked his head in, his usual bright smile replaced by concerned scrutiny.

"Hey," he greeted, stepping inside. "Thought I might find you hiding out here."

"Not hiding," you corrected automatically. "Working."

His skeptical expression made it clear he didn't believe you. "Right. And that very untouched laptop screen is showing you all sorts of important production things."

You glanced at your computer, realizing you hadn't even unlocked it since the others left. "Okay, maybe not actively working at this exact moment."

Felix settled into the chair beside you, his presence comforting in its simplicity. Unlike Chan's careful leadership or Changbin's observant silence or Han's complicated emotions, Felix offered straightforward friendship without ulterior motives.

"How did it go this morning?" he asked directly. "Han was a wreck when I saw him at breakfast. Looked like he hadn't slept at all."

"It was..." you searched for the right word, "professional."

"That doesn't sound promising," Felix observed. "Did he at least apologize properly?"

You nodded, gesturing to the pastry box. "Complete with peace offering."

Felix peered inside the box, recognition dawning in his eyes. "The one that reminds you of your mom's baking? He remembered that?"

"Apparently," you confirmed, unsure whether to be touched or troubled by Han's attention to such details.

"And did you forgive him?" Felix pressed.

You sighed, picking at another small piece of the pastry. "I said there was nothing to forgive. That we're colleagues and sometimes tensions happen."

Felix winced. "Ouch. That's cold, Y/n."

"It's realistic," you countered. "What else am I supposed to say? That I forgive him for panicking when teased about feelings that would violate my contract if they existed? That it didn't hurt to be publicly dismissed as 'like a sister' when we both know that's not how he sees me? That I'm fine with this whole complicated mess when I'm supposed to be here producing an album, not navigating emotional minefields?"

The words spilled out with more emotion than you'd intended, your carefully maintained composure finally cracking under Felix's gentle concern. He waited until you'd finished, then placed a comforting hand on your arm.

"You're supposed to say whatever is true," he said simply. "Not what's easiest or most professional or most convenient."

You looked at him, surprised by the straightforward wisdom. "The truth is complicated, Felix."

"It usually is," he agreed. "But pretending your feelings don't exist doesn't make them go away. Trust me, Han's been trying that approach, and you saw how well it worked for him last night."

The observation struck uncomfortably close to home. "I'm not pretending anything. I'm being realistic about the situation."

Felix's expression was skeptical but kind. "If you say so. Just... don't use professionalism as a shield so much that you forget there's a person behind it. Han messed up, but he's genuinely sorry and genuinely cares about you."

"I know," you admitted softly. "That's what makes this so difficult."

"Difficult things are often the most worthwhile," Felix said with unexpected seriousness. "But I'll stop pushing. Just know I'm here if you want to talk—about Han, about music, about anything."

You smiled gratefully, feeling some of the tension ease from your shoulders. "Thanks, Felix. You're a good friend."

"The best," he corrected with a flash of his usual brightness. "Now eat that apology pastry before it gets stale. Food is too important to waste on emotional standoffs."

His light humor broke through your melancholy, drawing a genuine laugh that felt like the first in ages, though it had only been since last night that joy had seemed so distant. Felix stayed until the others returned, his casual chatter about dance practice and dorm life providing a welcome distraction from heavier thoughts.

When Chan, Changbin, and Han returned with lunch for everyone, including a sandwich for you despite your earlier refusal, the atmosphere had lightened considerably. Felix's presence seemed to ease the tension, his natural social ability creating a buffer that allowed everyone to interact more normally.

As the afternoon session progressed, you found yourself gradually relaxing into the familiar creative rhythm. Music had always been your sanctuary, the place where complications fell away and only sound mattered. Here, in the mathematical precision of beats and the emotional truth of melodies, you and Han could communicate without the awkwardness that now characterized your personal interactions.

When he suggested a counter-melody for the bridge section, you built on it instinctively. When you adjusted the reverb on his vocal track, he nodded in immediate understanding. The musical connection between you remained undiminished, perhaps even enhanced by the heightened awareness of each other that had resulted from the previous night's confrontation.

By the end of the day, track three was nearly complete, the collective effort transforming it from a promising sketch into a polished gem that showcased the best of everyone's abilities. As you listened to the final playback, satisfaction temporarily overshadowed the personal complications that had dominated your thoughts since last night.

"This is exactly what I envisioned," Chan declared as the track ended, genuine pride in his voice. "Great work, everyone."

"Especially considering the circumstances," Changbin added with unusual tact. "Professional focus under personal tension isn't easy."

You and Han exchanged a brief glance, acknowledgment passing between you of how you'd managed to maintain your creative partnership despite everything. It wasn't resolution, but it was something—proof that the work, at least, could survive the complicated emotions surrounding it.

As you packed up your things, Chan announced, "Tomorrow we'll start on the final adjustments for the title track. Same time, same team."

You nodded, already mentally preparing for another day of careful navigation around Han. At least now you knew it was possible—difficult, but possible.

Han lingered as you gathered your notes, clearly wanting to speak to you alone again but unsure how to create the opportunity. You deliberately took your time, allowing Chan and Changbin to leave first, curious despite yourself about what he might say.

When the door closed behind the others, Han spoke hesitantly. "Thank you."

"For what?" you asked, pausing in your packing.

"For not letting my stupidity affect the music," he clarified, genuine gratitude in his tired eyes. "For still working with me like nothing happened, even though we both know it did."

The simple acknowledgment touched you. "The music deserves our best, regardless of personal complications."

"Still," he insisted, "it couldn't have been easy. I know it wasn't for me."

You allowed yourself to meet his gaze directly, dropping some of your careful neutrality. "No, it wasn't easy. But I meant what I said this morning. We're colleagues first, Han. The album has to come first."

He nodded, though something like disappointment flickered across his face. "Of course. The album first."

A heavy silence fell between you, filled with all the things neither of you were ready to say explicitly. Finally, Han gestured to the pastry box, which now contained only crumbs.

"Was it... did it taste like you remembered?" he asked, an unexpectedly vulnerable note in his voice.

The question, so simple yet revealing of how much attention he'd paid to your casual comments weeks ago, made your carefully maintained resolve waver.

"It was perfect," you admitted softly. "Thank you for remembering."

Han's smile was tired but genuine. "I remember everything you say," he confessed, the words slipping out as if without conscious permission. His eyes widened slightly, as if he'd surprised himself with the admission.

The moment balanced on a knife's edge—you could acknowledge the meaning behind his words or retreat to safer ground. Professional wisdom dictated the latter, but something deeper pulled you toward honesty.

"Han," you began, uncertain where the sentence was going, "I—"

The studio door burst open, startling you both as Hyunjin bounded in with his typical energy.

"There you are!" he exclaimed, apparently oblivious to the moment he'd interrupted. "Chan said you were still here. We're ordering dinner for everyone at our dorm. Special celebration for finishing the executive review. You're both required to attend. No excuses."

The interruption effectively shattered the fragile openness that had been building between you and Han. You stepped back, professional mask sliding back into place with practiced ease.

"Sounds great," you replied with a polite smile. "What time?"

"Seven," Hyunjin announced. "Don't be late. I.N. is in charge of ordering, so expect enough food for a small army."

As Hyunjin continued chatting about dinner plans, the opportunity for private conversation with Han evaporated. You finished gathering your things, the moment of potential honesty lost to circumstance.

"I should head back to my dorm before dinner," you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. "Need to call my manager in LA about some paperwork."

Han nodded, disappointment evident in his posture though he maintained a neutral expression. "See you at seven, then."

Hyunjin looked between you with barely concealed curiosity but uncharacteristic restraint, perhaps sensing the delicate equilibrium that had been established. He offered to walk with you back to the dorms, but you politely declined, needing space to regroup before the group dinner ahead.

The walk back to your dorm was filled with conflicting emotions. The professional part of you was pleased with how you'd handled the day—maintaining focus, completing excellent work, establishing appropriate boundaries with Han after his apology. But beneath that satisfaction lurked a persistent melancholy, a sense of opportunities closing before they could be fully explored.

Han remembered everything you said. The simple confession replayed in your mind, its implications both touching and troubling. It suggested an attention to detail, a level of care, that went far beyond professional interest or casual friendship.

As you reached your dorm and unlocked the door, your phone chimed with a text message. Felix, confirming dinner details and adding, "Han's bringing those honey cookies you mentioned liking last week. In case you were wondering if his thoughtfulness extends beyond apology pastries."

You stared at the message, a complicated warmth spreading through your chest. Two carefully chosen food items in one day, both selected based on offhand comments you'd made weeks apart, both remembered with surprising precision.

With a sigh, you set your phone down and moved to the bathroom to freshen up before dinner. The mirror reflected a woman trying very hard to maintain professional boundaries with someone who clearly paid attention to details most people would ignore.

"Just nineteen more weeks," you reminded your reflection, though the words sounded hollow even to your own ears.

Nineteen weeks of careful navigation, of working closely with Han while pretending not to notice how he remembered your favorite foods, how he anticipated your production choices, how he watched you when he thought you weren't looking.

Nineteen weeks of creating intimate, emotionally honest music together while maintaining an artificial distance in person.

Nineteen weeks until you could return to LA and try to forget the way Han had looked at you today when he'd admitted, "I remember everything you say."

As you changed into fresh clothes for dinner, you wondered if professionalism was worth the emotional cost it seemed to be exacting from both of you. But the alternative—acknowledging whatever was growing between you, pursuing it despite the complications—seemed equally impossible.

For now, you would go to dinner. You would interact normally with all eight members, Han included. You would maintain the careful balance established today—colleagues first, with the album as top priority.

And you would try very hard not to read too much into honey cookies or remembered details or moments of almost-honesty interrupted by well-meaning friends.

Nineteen more weeks. You could manage that.

You had to.

Han stood in the bakery near their dorm, staring at the display case with intense concentration. The honey cookies you had once mentioned enjoying were arranged on a tray, golden and inviting. He'd been relieved to find them still available, having worried they might be a seasonal offering.

"Just these, please," he told the cashier, pointing to the cookies. "A dozen."

As the woman boxed his purchase, Han reflected on the day's emotional obstacle course. Your initial coldness had been expected but still painful, your eventual thaw during the apology a relief, the professional productivity of the afternoon a welcome return to familiar ground.

But it was the almost-moment at the end of the day that occupied his thoughts most insistently. Before Hyunjin's interruption, you had been about to say something—something that had required a visible gathering of courage. What would you have said if Hyunjin hadn't burst in?

The question would likely haunt him for days, adding to the collection of almost-moments and unsaid words that characterized your relationship.

"Here you go," the cashier said, handing him the neatly wrapped box. "Special occasion?"

Han considered the question more seriously than she had probably intended. "Not exactly," he replied. "More like... a beginning. Maybe."

She smiled, clearly not understanding his cryptic response but recognizing the hope in it. "Good luck, then."

"Thanks," he said, taking the cookies. "I think I'll need it."

As he walked back to the dorm, cookies in hand and resolution in his heart, Han made a decision. He would give you space, would respect the professional boundaries you'd reinforced today, would focus on the album as agreed.

But he would also stop actively denying the truth—to himself, to you, to anyone who asked. No more "like a sister" deflections, no more pretending his feelings were purely professional or casually friendly.

The truth was complicated, yes. But as Felix had pointed out that morning, pretending feelings didn't exist only led to outbursts like last night's, to hurt and misunderstanding and regret.

For the remaining nineteen weeks of your contract, Han would be honest—not aggressively or demandingly, but consistently. Would let his actions and words align with the truth rather than fighting against it.

And maybe, just maybe, you might eventually trust that truth enough to share your own.

In the meantime, there were honey cookies to deliver and a group dinner to attend. Small steps on a path he wasn't entirely sure of, but one that felt more authentic than the defensive distance he'd been trying to maintain.

Nineteen weeks was both too long and not nearly enough time. But it was all they had, and Han was determined not to waste any more of it on fear-driven denials or false declarations.

Starting tonight, with cookies you'd mentioned once in passing and he'd stored away in his memory like a treasure.

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[starlightshadowsworld]

Hey so this is quite random but remember when akutagawa thought he'd finally killed/beaten atsushi in their battle on that cargo ship in s1? In the manga after Akutagawa's anger has finally calmed down he, with a sorrowful expression on his face, wonders, "what killing him does anything good for me?"

Later in the guild arc we see him making killing atsushi his final goal though he does say killing him a hundred times won't give him any satisfaction in rage

In 55 minutes ( we can assume it happens after the guild arc and before the cannibalism arc) akutagawa confirms that he doesn't hate Atsushi but he just can't simply move forward unless he tears him apart. Which is made more complicated when Atsushi realizes akutagawa had a sorrowful expression when he (aku) cut his (atsu's) throat. Showing the duality of Akutagawa's words and heart.

This duality becomes more prominent when Fukuchi asks akutagawa if atsu's life is that much important to him. You can literally see the expression of shock and realization on his face. Also point to be noted he didn't answer the question.

So my question to you is, when did his feelings start to change? when did he start to associate atsu's death as his primary goal? When did he realize he didn't actually want that? I'd love to hear your interpretation!

( asking the same question to my other fav bloggers too )

First of all thank you for including me in this ☺️ and second of all what an interesting question.

So the way I see it is that Akutagawa has wanted Atsushi dead from the beginning. The moment Dazai opened his big ol mouth with his "my new protege is better then you" speech.

But I feel the reasons for Akutagawa wanting him dead changed after the cargo ship fight.

At first it’s simply rage and jealously. Someone he wants the approval of more than anything else in this life has given it so freely to a weak wretched thing. So I’m going to kill the weretiger to prove I’m better than him to attain Dazai’s approval.

But it was never going to be that simple because these feelings elicit a need for understanding. Akutagawa can’t simply accept that Dazai would approve of someone like this.

So he needs to understand why, what makes Atsushi so special, why is he deserving and not me.

The cargo ship fight is that first step they both take in understanding each other. We get this moment where Atsushi says "people can’t live unless someone tells them it’s okay too" and he questions how Akutagawa can’t understand this.

And then later on we see Akutagawa reminiscing about this moment with a saddened expression because he understands. Of course he does, he’s seeking one man’s approval so that he can live his life feeling worthy and accomplished.

I think that understanding is why the reason to kill Atsushi changes to Akutagawa wanting to kill Atsushi because he reminds him of himself. And that is also exactly why he doesn’t want to kill Atsushi.

It’s that duality as you mentioned.

Akutagawa cares about Atsushi. He tells him that his past has nothing to do with who he is now. Despite himself being tied by his own. He calls him a coward. He tells him his life’s goal is to kill him. But that killing him with give him nothing. He despises him. But it’s not hate. Akutagawa who values strength and yet intentionally depowers himself to aid Atsushi.

The way Akutagawa so often projects his own issues onto Atsushi as if he was talking about himself. How he tells Atsushi to tell Kyouka what it’s like to be looked down upon while he’s reminiscing about his past in the slums.

His first meeting with Atsushi is after he badly injuries Junichiro and Naomi in a way that could parallel his meeting with Dazai after being too weak to save his own friends. Something he berated and mocks Atsushi for being unable to do.

And how he continuously berating Atsushi to get up everything time he knocks him down like Dazai did to him in the warehouse.

It comes from a place of malice and to hurt Atsushi but it’s also Akuagawa re-enacting situations he’s has to overcome to become stronger for Atsushi to also have to overcome. Which would then make Atsushi stronger which is something Akutagawa takes pride in while also being annoyed by.

I feel that in the same way Atsushi views the tiger as all the things he can’t hide. His shame, his vulnerability, his weaknesses and his fears, that’s what Akutagawa sees when he looks at Atsushi.

His flaws, his shame and his weakness that he needs to eradicate because this is a world where the weak must fall to give way to the strong.

I feel that the more Akutagwa grows to understand and learn more about Atsushi and who he is. The more he grows to care about him the stronger his goal to kill him becomes. Because Atsushi reminds him of himself. Because Atsushi reminds him of everything he was, everything he is and he can’t move on from the past unless he kills him.

He cares about Atsushi and that’s why he has to kill him.

So I feel the moment Akutagawa realised he needed to kill him because of that was also the moment he realised it was the last thing he wanted to do. But even now Akutagawa can’t admit it so he won’t say it with words but actions.

Also you mentioned that sorrowful expression on Akutagawa’s face when he had to cut Atsushi’s throat during 55 minutes. He wears a similar look of sorrow when he realises the flames are going to engulf him.

For in the same way Atsushi can’t outrun the tiger no matter how hard he tries. Akutagawa can’t kill Atsushi because it’s akin to killing himself. And yet even then he still chooses to sacrifice himself without hesitation.

I hope that made sense thanks for the question.

[da-janela-lateral]

I'll never get people who don't watch MP100 exclusively for the artstyle because what do you mean? Do you think he is ugly? Do you have an adverse reaction by looking at him? Would you rather have Generic Anime Prettyboy #368637 blessing your eyes with conveniently handsome dullness for 37 episodes? Never speak such things. He is perfect the way he is.