#seo changbin scenarios

[catiuskaa]

omg not the subway lmaooo

im soso happy you liked it! and saying it felt like a movie is honestly god tier compliment bc i kid you not i struggled so much with all the fire and destruction and the fire logistics so bigbigbig thank youuu i hope you like the second one almost as much!!💗💗💗

𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬.

from: love bites burns.

chapters: intro / EP 1 / EP 2 /

short syn. trapped in a devastating fire, you’re rescued by firefighter Seo Changbin, and maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe it’s something more—either way, neither of you is walking away from this unshaken.

wc. 20.7k (IKR IM SO PROUD OF MESELF)

cw. angst, character self-doubt and insecurities, life-threatening situations, high-tension moments of danger, intense physical strain, medical procedures, emotional vulnerability, minor injuries sustained during the fire, hospital checkup, unresolved issues, fluff, sweet and tender care, silly banter and emotional conversations, and I think that’s all, folks!

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

You blink a couple of times, as you stare down at the table in front of you. It was… a weird sentence. One that after hearing it —even if it doesn��t mean to— leaves a soap-like aftertaste in one’s mouth.

“I overstepped, didn’t I?”

Your eyes drift back at your friend’s, and suddenly, it’s as if the noise coming from the room next door pops back into play, the rest of the friend group already back on track. as if someone noticed they pressed pause by accident, and then mindlessly started back up and kept on going.

You’re not sitting in front of the table anymore. You’re in the kitchen, and your friend meets your eyes with what seems to be genuine emotion.

She’s trying to apologize.

Quick things aren’t scarce in life, and one of them has to be how your smile reaches your face before your friend gets to frown worriedly. She does eventually, before you start speaking.

“No, like, I get it.” You sigh gently, turning to face her and comfortably leaning back on the counter behind you, crossing your arms over your chest. “You’re all a bit worried for me, it’s fine.” You wait until the nervousness leaves your friend and she lets her shoulders relax. Only then, you continue. “But really, it’s not like that. it’s just…”

“Complicated.”

Your friend repeats the same word you mentioned when the topic first struck. You pay attention to the tone she uses, and you too relax, because she’s taking this seriously.

“Yeah. I… I’m sorry…”

Your hand reaches her shoulder, and that’s as far as the conversation goes.

However, when you get to your car and let your head fall limp against the steering wheel, less than half an hour later, it’s almost as if you don’t believe it yourself. As if complicated was nothing more than a mere excuse.

If someone had told you back when you were in high school that you would end up within the same troubles as a grown up, you would’ve frowned —curse, even—, but it still remains true. Just like stages of some kind of game —a boring one, perhaps, but a game nonetheless. A game that with each world, one encounters the same obstacles.

It’s not like you have anything against anyone in particular. These people you were with were your group of friends— but are they your friends, though.

As if it wasn’t self-deprecating enough, you buckle your seatbelt and leave your friend’s home early, like always. With no one wondering about it. Like always.

Surely, exclusion comes off too strong a word for it. Besides, they probably didn’t know about it —except for today, of course, because someone noticed, and you’re sure the others did too—, but there’s little to no use in lying to yourself, which you have done before.

You lied to yourself when you started feeling insecure because your group of friends started liking and dating and doing all sorts of things— just not with you. You lied to yourself when you noticed that most things within the group you were unaware of. You hadn’t known about the issues prior to a big fallout before high school ended. No, you lied to yourself and shrugged it off, because even with two people less in the group, five people were a number high enough. Good enough. Then, you lied to yourself when you started dating in your first year in college, something that ended just as fast as it had started. Something that didn’t quite feel… right.

But you refuse to lie to yourself now, when all of your friends are starting to get married. It’s ridiculous because you can’t really do anything about it. Marriageable men don’t show up on your doorstep, and even if they did, considering the ten-story apartment you lived in —located on the cheaper side of the city—, they were probably busy being already married to your other neighbours.

You can’t even recall exactly why it was that your friend had made that specific comment. She hadn’t started the conversation, someone else had, going on and on about how her soon-to-be-husband and her were really excited for their wedding, that would happen sometime in june, because —as she repeated on, and on, and on…— the weather in june is not too warm yet and it still feels nice, but she wants a wedding in summer, not in autumn. You couldn’t help but get a bit tired of the topic, while cheers and giggles continued all over the room, as she was met with understanding hums and comments about how they too wanted a wedding in the summer, because they couldn’t be bothered to prepare in case it rained…

And then it hit you. Unrestrained, unprepared, and unwarranted. The tone, teasing, as if it was just some sort of joke. The sentence, weirdly prickly. Like some sort of cactus that stings your tongue as you force yourself to swallow it, feeling it as it passes down your throat.

Your name first, followed by, “Don’t you ever get worried that you’ll be the last one left? Or are you having too much fun being single?”

You scoff as you park, and you jingle your keys in your hand as you walk to your doorstep. Marriage. What was marriage even for? Originally, marriage made sense when the main purpose was the exchange of assets. A wealthy lady meets a wealthy man, they marry, and they stay wealthy. A not-so-wealthy man meets a wealthy lady, they marry, and problem solved.

“Maybe I should marry rich,” you mumble absentmindedly as you go up the floors inside the now-empty elevator, and you shrug when you reach your floor, opening your door.

And as you kick your shoes off by the entrance, leave your keys in the nail that sticks out the wall because of the painting you removed, and discard your clothes to the chair, you can’t help but feel a bit tired.

You can’t really place it. Like some nagging feeling in the back of your head. Not quite fuck-i-forgot-something, but rather one that sinks in your chest.

You close the window before heading to bed, and whatever it is that you last think of before falling asleep, it is not related to marrying rich.

[.]

Fire.

It’s the first thing that comes to your mind once you wake up, smoke all over your room, as one does.

Now, we’ll keep the sarcasm because it’s funny, but still, words happen to scatter away at the thought of the fire, because, how to describe a fire except from scary, far too hot, and… scary again? Well, no one can blame you for that, so, this author thinks we should leave it to someone who has a little more experience with the flamy subject.

Changbin wakes up that Tuesday with no thoughts in his head. Maybe it’s because he wakes up really early, but when I say no thoughts, I mean it. Completely blank. Nothing. Zero. Nada. He doesn’t quite remember how he mentioned that to his buddy and coworker either, but he remembers how Chan laughed.

“Blank?” Chan chuckles, opening another medical kit to check if everything was in order or whether he’d need to restock it, as he sips from his too-dark-for-normal-humans coffee.

To which Changbin shrugs, a downturned smile on his face. He doesn’t mind Chan laughing. He likes it, if he is honest. Refilling oxygen tanks alone with his blank, empty mind on a chilly Tuesday at around 5:30 am isn’t exactly how he had expected he’d go about his day. He’d rather listen to kangaroo giggles and smell burnt coffee in the air.

“As white as… I don’t know. Snow?”

“Wow,” Chan does exactly what he’s there for, and he giggles, refilling the Band-Aids in bag number 4. “I can’t believe you’re not some sort of poet. What a simile, dude.”

Had the firetruck been closer, Changbin would’ve dosed that stupid Australian with the hose. He says that out loud, which only makes Chan giggle even more.

“I’ll beat you up with this oxygen tank,” Seo threatens with a cheeky smile.

“What’s that thing Hyune called you back in the bar last night?” Chan asks out loud, but his eyes widen as his smile gets bigger, figuring it out himself, “Ah, yeah! Omega male!” He laughs—no, cackles, his eyes like slits as he throws his head back. “Only omega males do that.”

Maybe Changbin should throw the oxygen tank to his flatmate, Hyunjin.

“I’m so not an omega male,” Changbin starts. “In fact, Hyunjin’s an omega. Because I say so.”

Chan’s laugh ends with that weird sigh that people sometimes do after they laugh. Like a sigh, but with sound, and he scratches his eye, smiling funnily.

And surely you wouldn’t expect a conversation like this between two firemen. The best of the best in the city, as it stands. But hey, omega males can do anything. Even be firemen.

“Shut up,” Changbin side-eyes at Chan, who can’t help but snort. “Let’s change the subject. Was it your turn to make lunch for today, or was it mine?

But as if someone had heard that —won’t say god, because it’d be quite dark to think that god starts all fires, and it’s far too early for that— and decided that talking about lunch wasn’t a good enough change of subject, the alarm shatters the little silence that remains in between different sentences.

Changbin’s body falls right into alert mode with a quick flinch. Not because he’s scared —which does happen, don’t get me wrong—, but because of the sharp, blaring tone that now echoes through the station, followed by the dispatcher’s voice crackling over the intercom:

“Engine 3, Engine 5, Engine 7, Engine 9—Ladder 2, Ladder 5—Battalion 1, Battalion 2—respond to a structure fire at 143 City Street. Ten-story residential building, fire reported on the second floor, spreading upwards. Multiple occupants trapped. Time out: 5:26.”

The shift is instant, almost as fast as how a video moves in two times speed, but even with the urgency, it still comes out routine-like. Everything moves fast: how he closes the oxygen tanks and loads up the trucks —the engines available in the station—, how the whole station chaotically wakes up, sleepiness forgotten.

Chairs are scraped back, half-eaten meals are abandoned. Boots thud against the floor as the firefighters bolt for the gear racks, moving on muscle memory.

Changbin steps into his boots—one, two—yanking the heavy turnout pants up over his waist. His coat followed, the Velcro and buckles snapping shut as his brain caught up to the adrenaline now pounding in his chest. Huh. Maybe a snow-blank brain can actually be helpful for something. The Nomex hood was next—over his head, down his neck.

Someone shouted the address again, and he’s glad he’s not the one who drives today, because he can’t think of the fastest route to get there.

Helmet on. Gloves stuffed into his coat pocket for now. He settles the oxygen tank’s straps over his shoulders, the familiar weight pressing into his back. His hands work fast—clipping his radio to his coat, checking his mask, securing everything.

By the time he climbs into the truck, sirens already wailing, his blank mind starts buzzing alive. Four engines, two ladders, and two battalions? His palm itches, and he’s glad he hasn’t put his gloves on yet, scratching it subconsciously.

Four trucks solely to extinguish the fire —engines manage the hoses and water supply—, and two ladders —self-explanatory enough, thanks— together don’t sound good.

His mind turns from white to smoky grey, as the two trucks from his station leave barely three minutes after the alert.

[.]

Fires in real life look quite similar to those in movies, only this time, the fire is real.

There are no make-up artists waiting at the entrance of some fake building when the firetrucks pull over the closest to what used to be your classic, everyday building in the middle of a busy city. That's a real building— a shell of what it used to be, covered in ash, thick black smoke on top, and fire that roars through some broken windows. Changbin's heart beats to the rhythm of glass windows shattering due to the amount of heat that takes hold of the structure.

Other fire teams are already there, and his team swiftly joins them, as he and Chan rush towards the building, following the rules of their Incident Commander.

"Team 3!" the Commander lets out loudly as soon as they jump out of the fire engine. "You three, with the attack team. You —that’s him and Chan who he points at—, join the search team. Get inside, now!"

Protocol isn't something Changbin needs to revise before an emergency. After all this time, it rushes through his veins like the adrenaline he so desperately needs right now.

Steps one and two are done, because the other engines have already assessed the situation —bad, very bad, terrible in fact, or so it seems to him— and located different sources of water throughout the neighbourhood. And so, step three follows. Search and rescue.

And, vulnerably so, with his mouth dry and his pulse beating in his ears, he enters the inferno of a building in front of him.

There are no colours except the dull yellow of his suit and the darkened tone his helmet glasses settle over his eyes, as the orange tone of fire seeps and destroys everything in its way.

"What were the quick assessment results?" Changbin hears Chan on the helmet's headphones.

"Four victims reported on different floors, seen through the windows." He recognizes the voice of one of the members of Team 6, Yeonjun. "Commander said we should check for victims on the higher floors. The fire spread really fast."

It's tense, it's fast, and it's heavy, everything happening like a buzz behind his eyes as Changbin and the rest of the firefighters sprint up the stairs.

Doors and windows, broken. Changbin doesn't know the name of the person he's searching with, as the teams separate into different pairs to search.

"Floor six is hellfire!" Team 4 member Jeongin lets out, and Changbin sweats as he hears his erratic breathing through the headset in his helmet. "I need backup, stat!"

"There's someone here!" his neck almost hurts when he turns to watch his pair partner exit the apartment's main room with a young man in his arms.

"Unconscious?" Changbin watches the fireman nod, and he nods, too. He lets out a heavy breath as quickly as he moves to activate the microphone on his shoulder. "Is floor five handled?"

"Floor five is clean now!" Team 4 Hongjoong replies in less than a beat. "Me and Taehyun have our hands full!"

Changbin's eyes roam over his partner's suit until he finds his name tag. "Jongho will join you downstairs. Join the attack team after leaving the victims outside. Jeongin, status?"

His last question is said as he rushes upstairs. He crosses the ventilation team, breaking windows. Everything that happens around him feels nothing more than madness, as he feels the fresh air on the back of his neck.

Whatever he thought floor six could be, he underestimated it. Smoke—thick, dark, and suffocating—billows out, rolling down the side of the building like a heavy fog, threatening to climb even higher. Still, inside, the air is unbearable. The heat doesn’t just sting—it crushes. It moves like a living thing, clawing at oxygen, making it harder and harder to breathe were it not for their oxygen tanks. The ceiling groans under the strain of the fire eating through wooden beams and drywall. The wallpaper has curled back into ash.

The floor is a danger zone. Flames creep along corridors, swallowing door frames. Sprinklers either don’t work or sputter uselessly, overwhelmed by the sheer size of the blaze. Every time a door is forced open, the sudden rush of air feeds the fire, making it roar louder, hotter.

It’s a nightmare. The heat distorts his vision even through his face mask, and the smoke reduces visibility to almost nothing. His radio crackles with reports of the attack team several floors down, about how the fire is spreading—crawling into the walls, threatening the floors above. It’s a race against time—if the fire breaches the stairwell or weakens the floor too much, the structure might give. And we all know what that could mean.

More members dash in, but they all halt by Seo’s side. 

"Jeongin, status?" he asks again.

He hears the sound the suit makes when one of the members by his side moves and calls for what he hasn’t done yet—or maybe he doesn’t quite dare—as the fire burns and creates havoc in front of his eyes, and dares to trespass and ruin his insides too. He hears what he hasn’t done yet, and someone calls for the rapid intervention team. A team whose sole mission is to rescue firefighters in trouble.

"RIT team, stand by —firefighter unaccounted for."

“RIT team ready, waiting for further instructions.” 

Speedy as always.

Seo’s heart stops in his chest, and Chan joins him, patting his shoulder. "Bin, we should let the RIT get in with the attack te-"

"I'm okay!" Jeongin unknowingly interrupts Chan, coughing out panted words through the mic. "Floor six is a fucking nightmare, but it’s clear!"

And Changbin's ears stop making his world spin. He takes a big breath, thanking science for his oxygen mask as Jeongin comes out of the fire and another fireman —Chan, maybe, from what Changbin’s lost, weary eyes could decipher— hugs him tightly.

Downstairs, downstairs, downstairs. His breathing is all over the place, the weight of his gear pressing down on his shoulders, the oppressive heat seeping through his suit like a second skin, and he’s grateful for all the times he’s done cardio this full month, thankful he does exercise on a regular basis, and he thanks deities he doesn’t believe in that he doesn’t fall down the stairs. The five people he is with all need to get the fuck out and join the attack team or ventilation team, depending on the Commander’s orders.

Until, as if someone had summoned him, his voice roars in his helmet. 

“Search team, report status.”

Chan’s hand is faster than his in getting to his microphone and replying. “We’re heading down, sir.”

“Sir, we have an issue.” 

Changbin frowns. He doesn’t recognize that deep, low voice, and he’s been working with the same people for years. He may be bad with names, but not with voices. And it seems his ears stand corrected, for he hears distinctly the Commander’s voice again. 

“Who else is using this line?”

“Sir, it’s a man from the medical unit.” He recognizes Wooyoung’s voice, member of Team 4 and one of his old training partners. 

That isn’t good. This is out of the usual protocol.

“What the fuck is he doing in my voice channel?”

There’s a slight gasp of hesitation as the low, unknown voice speaks again. 

“I’m using the microphone on this man’s jacket because I have a hyperventilating patient who claims that there’s someone still in the building.”

And that is the moment Changbin’s heart sinks. There is no rain outside —that would have been too good for how the situation is now— but he feels as if a storm is settled right over them. Not with the clarity and hope it would usually mean for a fireman, but with the dread that a bolt of lightning has struck, and another fire is on its way.

“What?” He doesn’t know which of the firemen he’s with said that, but they all stop in their tracks, slowing down in the hall on the third floor.

“What?” The Commander repeats the question, unaware he has done so. “Search team, the floors were all clear, yes?”

“Affirmative, Commander,” Yeonjun replies, uneasy as he stands next to Seo. “Firefighter Yang Jeongin was the last one to need to check floor six.” 

Changbin’s arms rest impatiently on his sides, the heat radiating through his suit, sweat pooling at the small of his back despite the heavy protective layers, as the situation unfolds. He grows restless as the wood in the building creaks, burns, and churns, his body sweaty and his suit covered in deep, dark ash. He looks at Chan, only to find his own reflection in the fireman’s glasses.

“Who does she say is missing?”

“A young woman in her late twenties. Lives on the seventh floor.” He hears the low voice groan softly in what seems like tense annoyance. “The patient is refusing care until that woman is taken care of.”

It’s then and there when Changbin’s soul threatens to leave his body. It’s… It’s practically a death sentence. If the sixth floor was that bad, the seventh floor…

“Commander, there’s… there’s no way that woman is still alive.”

Changbin can almost hear the gears on the Commander's head tick and clack as the man thinks, and as silence claims the chat for itself. Like glissandos in a violin piece, it all falls in one solid, stoic slide of a hand. 

“Changbin.” 

Seo hasn’t even realized his body has moved toward the stairs again, the heat gingerly intensifying with each step closer, a blistering yet somehow teasing reminder of what awaits him above. As if the fire is tempting him to go upstairs. Threatening him with the life of a woman he does not know. 

His feet stand before the first step. “Chan, I-”

“No.” Ye-ouch. “We all need to leave.” He states lowly. Clearly, too, if it weren't for the slight tremor in his low voice. “Now.”

“Commander.” Seo turns his head to his microphone. “It’s Seo Changbin. Permission to head upstairs.”

Changbin can’t see how Chris’ piercing stare threatens to kill him before he heads up, and he, on his own, risks killing himself.

The Commander, however, doesn’t hesitate to tell him. 

“Permission?” The Commander’s voice crackles through the line with incredulity, a rare pause stretching too long. There’s a beat of silence—just long enough for the weight of the question to settle. It almost weakens him. Almost. “You want permission to barbecue yourself, Changbin?”

He doesn’t turn around, but Jeongin does, grabbing him by the shoulder and forcing the shorter man to look at him, Jeongin’s visor off, allowing Changbin to see the buzzing tension behind the young man’s eyes, right under his deep frown. Seo doesn’t allow himself to accept and truly feel how the fireman’s grasp makes burning shivers travel through his whole body. He’s a proud coward, because accepting how scared he is nearly threatens to make him sob.

“What are you-?” A question that Jeongin fails to end, his voice shattering just as Changbin reaches for his microphone again. 

“Commander.”

It isn’t a question. Maybe it’s because he truly doesn’t want to ask again, in fear of feeling glad to be rejected. 

“Goddamnit.” Someone murmurs, as the six of them all pace around in the third floor’s hall. 

“You can’t be serious, Bin.” Chan’s voice is low. “That floor is suicide. The woman could already be dead.”

“And if she isn’t?” Changbin states in a fierce, stoic tone, determination being one of the sole things that makes him able to hold himself straight. “Commander, orders.” 

“I can’t fucking think.” 

The Commander lets out a sharp sigh. His hesitation only adds to the gravity of what Seo is truly asking, as the six firemen stand motionless while the building gives in to the roars of fire. Until, finally, he lets out the six words that could have damned his sleep for long. 

“Officially, you have my absolute denial.” 

And it could have ended there, with a quick snap of the commander's sharp-edged tongue. Until he sighs, and quieter, almost like he’s spitting out the words, he mutters. 

“But damn me if I know you’re gonna do it anyway, so make it worth the fucking risk. Understood, firefighter Seo?”

“Bin.” Chris’ hand is faster than Changbin’s affirmative response to the Commander. “If you so much as hesitate, you turn the hell back.”

The words slam into him harder than the heat pressing against his suit. For a brief, flickering moment, something cold trickles down his spine—not from the sweat pooling at the base of his neck but from the weight of what Chris is saying. Hesitate. Like the word itself could tether him to the ground, hold him back from running headfirst into flames. He clenches his jaw. 

There’s no room for hesitation. There can’t be.

Hesitation is not and will never be part of protocol.

“Chan-”

“It’s an order as your team’s captain.”

Both of their faces turn solemn. The air between them feels heavier than the smoke outside.

“Yes, captain.”

At 5:44, the firemen and engines arrived. 

At 5:54, the search and rescue team were in the third floor’s hall, already exiting the building to let the attack unit manage. 

It’s at 5:56 that firefighter Seo Changbin runs straight toward what could be his final rescue. 

[.]

His body moves on instinct, muscle memory propelling him forward even as the heat gnaws at his suit. The building groans, an eerie symphony of burning wood and collapsing metal, and Changbin doesn’t think—he can’t think—because if he does, he might stop. He might hesitate. And there’s no room for that now.

He keeps going up the stairs. Up, up, up. If he stops before the seventh floor, he fears his legs might give out. And his knees do buckle once he realizes the state in which the stairs are now.

The heat meets him like a wall as he keeps on going up the stairwell, each breath through his oxygen mask feeling thinner, shallower, like the air itself is fighting back. The roar of the flames above isn’t just a sound—it’s a presence, a living thing that crackles and howls, angry and impatient. Every step is a countdown, every second a reminder that he’s racing not just against the fire, but against death itself.

His weight threatens to damage the stairs further. The crackle of flames overpowers the chatter and loudness that takes hold of the voice chat the attack team uses, coordinating with the ventilation unit to attempt to control the fire in the floors below him. 

He coughs, not because of the smoke, but because his breathing is erratic now, and he has to find a way to calm it before his oxygen tank betrays him and leaves him stranded. 

Changbin jumps and keeps running. He does not care if the stairs have just fallen beneath his feet. He does not care if he has to duck and roll before the ceiling crushes him. He keeps running until he finally reaches the seventh floor. 

It’s then and there that the view before him threatens to change his beliefs. He wouldn’t describe himself as a religious man, but as the scene unveils right before his very own eyes—a place of “black darkness” where “weeping and gnashing of teeth” is all that will be heard, and what awaits before him can only seem “a lake that burns with fire and sulfur,” Changbin isn’t sure if it had been God or himself that had damned him, but as he curses and rushes in, he swears the feeling may compare with that of entering the thresholds of Hell.

The apartment on the seventh floor is a blur of grey. Smoke bleeds from door frames, and the air is so hot it feels solid—like breathing through wet fabric. Seo keeps his right hand against the wall, moving fast but steady.

“Fire department!” he shouts through his mask. “Call out if you can hear me!”

But he himself can’t hear anything. There’s a loud beeping noise in his ears that buzzes with his every move, fueled by the adrenaline that keeps him moving. He swears, biting his lip. He needs to stop thinking he’s going to die buried by scraps of burnt wood. 

“Firefighter Seo, the structure is weakening faster that we can control it.” His dizzy mind can’t tell if that’s the Commander speaking or someone else. “Get the hell out!”

He looks back. As if to punish him, the door he has just broken down falls and collapses into the flames nearby. He ignores protocol and trusts his gut. He faces forward again. The conditions are the same, if not worse. The stairs could fall. The ceiling could cave. He doesn’t stop.

“Fire department! Call out if you can hear me!”

He doesn’t know why he’s not walking towards the exit, but his legs move him against the only safe wall he can find, and he gasps as he leans against it for a millisecond. 

It’s as if then, the beeping noise in his ears goes away. He can faintly hear the Commander swearing, but he lowers the volume of his headphones, the flames sounding even more, until he hears it again.

A faint cough. Then another.

He pushes forward, boots heavy against the heat-buckled floor.

“Fire department!” He screams, louder than what his throat can manage before feeling sore. 

He moves around, trying to find a way toward that room in the apartment, to no avail. The floor had collapsed close to the door, close to the sole entrance. 

“Firefighter Seo. Commander, I’ve found her.”

“Jesus Christ on a motorcycle, Changbin, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”

He doesn’t know how, but Seo finds the energy to chuckle.

“Window on the east side, facing the street,” he pants into the mic, his head popping out the window and looking below. “I’m going to need a ladder rescue.”

“Mate, I can’t get you a ladder to the seventh floor,” Chan answers speedily. 

“Get one.”

His tone is matter-of-fact, and Changbin doesn’t care if there are no engines with tall enough ladders, nor does he hear Chan anymore as he breathes in slowly before breaking the window and turning toward the coughs he had heard. 

You know that feeling you get sometimes when you’re standing on a high place? Sudden urge to jump? Changbin swallows as he steps on the broken windowsill.

He doesn’t have it.

His body screams at him—not to move, not to step, not to breathe. Every instinct drilled into him from years of training begs him to stay put, to retreat, to survive. The human part of him, the part that understands fire as a predator and not an opponent, wants to back away.

But the part of him that’s a firefighter—the part that moves without permission, without fear—pushes forward.

He doesn’t have the urge to jump. He has the urge to save.

Changbin grips the jagged edge of the broken windowsill, the glass biting through his gloves, but he doesn’t flinch. His pulse is a relentless drumbeat in his ears, louder than the fire raging behind him. The other window —the one leading to the room where the woman is trapped— feels both impossibly far and dangerously close, a cruel tease of safety.

He knows the floor won’t hold for long. His body screams at him to back away, to anchor himself somewhere solid, but there’s no time to think—only move.

Without a second thought, he plants one foot on the frame, his heel slipping slightly against the blackened wood. The drop yawns beneath him like an open jaw, but his focus tunnels to the window ahead. His legs coil, muscles burning, and then—

He jumps.

The air feels thick and unforgiving, a second too long stretching between him and the next ledge. His fingers slam against the other windowsill. The impact rattles his bones, but he grips tight, white-knuckled, and hauls himself up. His knee scrapes against the frame, the fire’s glow licking at his back, and all at once, he’s there.

He’s on the windowsill.

“Firefighter Seo, just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

He doesn’t answer just yet, because he isn’t dull enough to let his hands off the top part of the window. No, instead, he breathes in, breathes out, grabs the brick-like edge over his head, and pushes himself forward, breaking the window with hard kicks.

He’s in.

His head snaps toward the sound, and he sees it. A shape, moving shakily behind a thin curtain of smoke. 

Finally.

You’re huddling by the door, one hand pressing against it as if trying to push the air outside closer. Your other arm clutches your chest—struggling to breathe, coughing so hard it doubles you over.

“W-what?” you mumble weakly, drowsily turning to the big silhouette that stands over you. “How did you-”

“My name is Changbin, I’m with the fire department,” he says, his voice soft as he kneels beside you, moving you from the smoke that creeps from under the door. “I’m gonna get you out.”

But you don’t move. You don’t think you can, even if your arm attempts to reach for him. Your wild, tear-streaked eyes aren’t focused on his uniform or his words—they dart past him, back to the now broken window.

“No—no, it’s too hot—” you gasp, voice breaking. “I can’t—We can’t go out there—and I certainly can’t jump out the—the window—”

He slowly passes his arm behind your back, careful not to spook you. “Listen to me," his voice is low, a honey-like kind of soft that threatens to lull close your tired, weary eyes. "We can’t stay here. We need to move—now.”

You shake your head, panic pinning you to the spot. “I can’t—I can’t breathe—I—”

Changbin’s heart slams. If you froze up, if you refused to move—this can turn deadly very fast. Too fast, if what he wants is to get out and brag about his jump to Chan.

He crouches a little further, keeping his voice calm even though the fire is growling below them.

“I know it’s hard—" his hand reaches for his mask, unclipping a spare oxygen mask from his gear—"but you need to trust me, okay, gorgeous? Put this on.”

Your hands tremble so badly you can’t grab the mask, so he does it for you—gently but quickly pulling the straps over your head.

You suck in a sharp, filtered breath—and something cracks outside. The broken window? No—a floor beam, groaning under the weight of the fire.

The sound is like a gunshot, and Changbin’s spine stiffens as you flinch, stumbling forward—and clinging to him.

Your fingers fist the front of his turnout coat—clutching so tightly it almost knocks him off balance, and your hands don’t stop yet, surrounding his neck and hugging him tightly as you sob.

The weight of you against him—the human desperation in your grip—hits him like a blow to the chest. But there’s no time to feel it.

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Not without you.” Changbin’s voice is steady, but his mind is already calculating: the stairs might be gone. The fire is moving fast. He can feel the heat pushing up from below—this floor isn’t safe.

While his left hand keeps you steady, the other grabs his radio.

“Commander, we need a ladder rescue, stat.”

The windows. That’s your only shot now.

Your breathing is still ragged even through the mask, and you are still clinging to him like a lifeline—but he would be out of his mind to think about pushing you away. Not after what he’s gone through to get to you. 

He’s not letting you go.

“We’re getting out of here,” Changbin smiles, his hand firm on your shoulder. “Hold onto me, okay?” He takes one of his gloves off, his palm sweaty and his touch cold in contrast to your face, red from crying and dirty with soot. 

Seo coos at you as he wipes off soot and tears from your cheek. “Can you stand up?”

He watches you hold back tears and softly shake your head. “I… I tripped when I woke up… I don’t know if I can—”

Licking his lips, he doesn’t wait for you to finish your response. “Hold onto my neck, gorgeous,” he says, letting out a soft sigh before carrying you in his arms. His muscles scream—not from your weight, but from the gear, the heat, and the unrelenting pressure burning through his nerves like a second fire.

Moving now the both of you, Changbin looks out the window—no ladder in sight. He clicks his mic. “Commander, I really need a ladder at the fifth or sixth floor—somewhere I can actually reach.”

A crackle, then the Commander’s gruff voice. “We’re working on it. How about you get your asses somewhere safer, huh?”

His mind works quickly, scanning for another path—an adjoining room, a hallway that hasn’t collapsed. Anything to get you closer to a floor the ladder can reach.

And all the while, the fire creeps closer, threatening the four walls and door that protect you two.

The heat gnaws at his back, at his neck, at the seams of his suit. His ears ring—not from the fire, but from the thundering beat of his own heart. There’s a fine line between panic and focus, and Changbin knows if he slips into the wrong side of that line, you’re both done for. 

There’s so much he can risk, and he will not risk your life. Not when it’s in his hands. Quite literally, in fact.

A broken window too far to reach is the shittiest escape he can fathom, so he forces himself to think. Think, Changbin, think. He moves and, with his free hand, punches the wall in front of him, and he lets out a grin. It’s drywall—a thin drywall, already blistered from the heat. His jaw tightens, but he can’t help but let out a chortle. 

He can break it. Sure, he can. 

He must.

“Hold on tight,” he mutters, although unsure if it's more to himself or you. Shifting your weight carefully, he presses your face into his shoulder to shield you from the smoke, dust, and scraps of drywall that will come out, then grabs the halligan bar strapped to his side.

With a sharp, determined breath, he swings.

The drywall cracks, a jagged hole splitting through the center. Another hit, and the gap widens. He’s not thinking—just moving, muscle memory guiding every strike. His shoulder slams into the weakened wall, breaking through in a cloud of dust and soot.

“Almost there,” he breathes, feeling your arms clawing at him in weakened strength.

He kicks pieces of drywall, and he sighs, stroking your head with his ungloved hand as he passes to the now-open room. “It’s okay, gorgeous. I need you to breathe slowly for me, okay?” He looks at your face, and although your eyes are red and teary from the smoke and from crying, you press your lips together in a thin line, trying to control your breathing. The sight shoots hope straight to his heart. “You’re doing great.” 

The next room is just as bad—scorched walls, a half-collapsed ceiling—but through the haze, he spots it: the emergency stairwell, right through the window, barely hanging onto its hinges. Fucked up is certainly a way to describe the full view. The stairs are damaged, warped by heat, parts of the railing missing. It’s a death trap—but it’s your only shot.

“Commander,” Changbin says into his mic, voice steady despite the chaos, “we’re heading for the emergency stairs, north side. Let me know when that ladder’s ready.”

“Changbin—” It’s the Commander’s voice, sharp and urgent. “Ladder’s set at the fifth floor. You need to move.” He’s pretty sure the Commander sighs. “You’re out of your goddamn mind, Changbin.”

“Copy that.”

He tightens his grip on you. “We’re gonna take it slow, alright?” he says softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “I need you to hold onto me like your life depends on it.”

Because it does. But he’d rather not say that out loud, judging by how your eyes —wide, tense, scared— water once more. Now, taking that you’re alive, breathing next to his chest, he’d take crying over dying any day, but his mom taught him better than to make pretty girls cry.

He sits on the windowsill and rests his boots on the metal surface. It creaks below him, and you shriek, tightening your grip on him. He shushes you quickly, while he steps onto the narrow platform, his boots skimming over the metal that shudders beneath his weight. It creaks again, an awful, high-pitched sound—like the building itself is warning him. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he smiles. “At the count of three, we’re heading downstairs, okay?” He states toward you tenderly, smiling widely when he watches you nod. 

He notices you shivering, and he nibbles on his lower lip. And while a reasonable part of his head screams curses at him with a voice that resembles that of the Commander —or maybe Chans’?— he lets the other part of him win —not sure which, if his heart or his brain, but still.

“Hang on.”

He shifts his grip on you, careful not to unsteady you both as he sits on the windowsill and he sits you on his lap, unzipping his jacket with one hand. It’s a clumsy, rushed motion, but he still manages to slip it off and drape it over your shoulders. He grins sheepishly. His heart also grins, proudly so when you, too, grin as he helps you pull your arms through the sleeves, and you chuckle, tugging the zipper up as high as it’ll go.

“Better?” he grins, heart thumping louder than the creaking metal beneath his feet.

You blink at him—then smile. Small, gingerly weak, but real. 

And that’s enough for him.

He stretches his shoulders and holds you again, his arms traveling behind your nape and your knees. The moment his boots shift further onto the emergency stairs, the metal groans again—louder this time. A sickening crack splits the air, echoing up the side of the building. The platform dips an inch.

You gasp, clinging tighter to Changbin’s neck, your breathing sharp and panicked against his shoulder.

“Easy, easy,” he murmurs, though his own heart is hammering against his ribs. He just hopes you can’t hear it. He doesn’t want to make you nervous —not more than you are. “We’re okay. I’ve got you.”

But the stairs don’t feel okay. They feel like they’re hanging on by a thread. Seo knows they are.

He grips you tighter, arms firmer beneath your knees and your nape, and locks his gaze through the bars, on the surface below—the fifth floor, a safer floor, where the engine ladder will meet them. He sees the engine moving, the ladder turning towards them, just a few meters lower.

“See that, gorgeous?” He says with as much cheer as he can muster up. “We’re getting out. Just a bit more.”

Every step is a gamble, the heat from the floors below curling upward like a living thing, licking at the metal. Changbin moves slowly—one boot, then the next—testing the strength of the platform with every shift of his weight.

Another screech. Another shudder beneath his feet.

“Firefighter Seo,” the Commander calls through the headset. “Fuck that. Changbin, don’t run—” the Commander’s voice crackles in his ear.

He sighs, pondering, but his mind is back to its snow-white state. He’s aware he can’t move carefully—there’s no time for careful. 

“Okay.” He’s running out of words, and the building is running out of time. “Okay. One… Two…”

He has to make this quickly. 

“...three.”

And Changbin, taking a leap of faith, runs.

There’s a garbled response that comes from his headset right after he starts moving—static, probably a curse—but Changbin isn’t listening, not when the sounds next to him—the stairs and the loud scream you let out—overpower the Commander’s voice. He can’t care. Secretly, he doesn’t. His focus is on the next landing. The fifth floor. The place where the ladder settles is close now—so close—but the stairs beneath him tremble like a dying animal.

Each rushed step sends a pulse of movement through the brittle structure, the stairs groaning under the strain, but they stay intact—just enough to keep going. His breaths are sharp, controlled. His legs move on instinct. The world shrinks to the next step, the next landing—his grip on you and the echo of the Commander’s voice crackling in his ear. 

He’s on the fifth floor in the blink of an eye. A firefighter waits at the top rung of the ladder, hands outstretched. “Changbin!” That voice. 

It’s Chan. Chan is here. Oh, thank God.

The stairs keep letting out sickening screeches behind him. Changbin doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate.

“Hold tight,” he breathes, and then—he steps onto the ladder.

It wobbles beneath their combined weight, but Chris grabs Changbin’s arm, steadying him as he transfers you carefully into the other man’s waiting hands.

“Got it!” Chan shouts, his grip firm as he pulls you in.

And then—for the first time since entering the building’s seventh floor—Changbin stops.

He leans heavily on the fence-like structure at the top of the ladder, his mask slipping off with a rough tug. His chest heaves, each breath jagged as if the air itself is too thick to fully inhale. It’s not just the smoke or the heat—it’s the adrenaline, the sudden crash of it, roaring through him like a second fire. His muscles, once taut with instinct and urgency, now feel like they’ve turned to water. His fingers twitch against the ladder’s metal frame, and for a brief, dizzying second, his mind struggles to catch up with his body.

He blinks. Once. Twice.

And then he exhales—long, shaky, almost like he’s forcing the flames inside him to burn out.

His head turns, and he sees Chan setting you onto the ladder’s surface. 

Chan’s okay. He’s okay.

He sees you nod to Chan, but he ignores what you two are talking about, watching you as you zip up his jacket on further and you stuff your hands into its pockets.

You’re okay. 

[.]

He knows he physically couldn’t, but had he had the ability, Changbin is pretty sure his ears would have perked up at the pained gasp you let out when you try to walk off the engine’s ladder by yourself. 

Chan is already gone, because the job isn’t done yet and he’s needed elsewhere as team 3’s captain, so Changbin approaches you, his hand stopping you from moving any further as he gently settles it on your shoulder.

“Wait, I’ll get down first and help you,” he solves with a charming smile, and easily hops off the engine, his calves screaming at him for such nonsense considering what he has already put each and every of his muscles through in the past hour or so. 

He turns and looks up to face you, and in the quietness of his mind —ignoring the screams and barks from the Commander on his helmet’s headset— he giggles a bit when he sees how you look. He didn’t call you gorgeous out of the blue —for the lack of a name, sure, but it still matches the subject at hand. You do look pretty. Pretty covered in soot, and pretty tiny as you wear his gigantic turnout coat. 

Pretty, nonetheless.

In your eyes there’s still leftover fear and tension, but you let his warm ones help as his now ungloved hands hold you by your waist to get you off the engine. 

Still, Changbin doesn’t put you down. Instead, he maneuvers you without letting your feet touch the ground, holding you with his arms behind your nape and knees again as he takes you to the closest ambulance. 

“Is that her?” 

Changbin recognizes the low voice from minutes ago —even if it feels like ages— that had used Wooyoung’s microphone to warn them of your absence. He turns, and he’s met with a blond guy with freckles. His brain tells him that his low voice doesn’t match his face, but he shrugs off the thought.

“Yeah.” Changbin lets out as he puts you down, and you sit on the edge of the ambulance. Two paramedics rush closer, hand him his jacket back as they cover you with a blanket, and he just… stays there. He knows what he should do, so he isn’t really aware if he’s waiting for something to happen. 

He should go back to his team. Join whatever unit the Commander tells him after what most likely will be a heated, well-deserved worded beat-up. He kind of kicked protocol in the shin, so he gets it. 

Nevertheless, he doesn’t move. His eyes stay glued to you as the low-voice blond approaches you. 

“Hi, my name is Felix,” the blond smiles, but you don’t, coughing instead. You would smile, but you don’t have it in you just yet.

Changbin sighs as he watches the blond start protocol. He should follow it too, so he lets out a low sigh and moves to leave the ambulance as paramedics start hovering over you, voices sharp but steady, oxygen mask back and snug against your face. A blood pressure cuff wraps around your arm, the beeping of the heart monitor a steady pulse in the chaos. And he just stands outside the open doors, his boots still covered in soot, his turnout coat hanging from his arm after a paramedic returns it to him. Like his body is here, but his mind is still back in that burning building. 

His chest heaves with every breath, but now it’s not just from the smoke. It’s from the way you're looking at him.

Dazed. Scared. Still clinging to him in ways he didn’t expect nor fully understand. 

“We’re taking her to the hospital,” one of the paramedics says, voice firm but not unkind. “She inhaled a lot of smoke.”

Changbin nods, even if he isn’t sure if the paramedic is talking to him or to his team. 

He should step back. Let them do their job, at least. 

He’s done this before. This is the part where he leaves.

But then—

“Wait—”

Your voice is hoarse, barely a whisper behind the oxygen mask, but it’s enough. Your hand, still trembling, shoots out and catches his wrist.

“Don’t go,” you rasp, your fingers curling around the grimy fabric of his coat. “Please, just— stay?”

It’s a small, broken plea, but it slices through him sharper than any scream or flame he has ever encountered during his career.

He blinks, his throat working around words he can’t quite form. The paramedics exchange a glance, but neither of them tells him to move away. 

“Hey,” Changbin says softly, his free hand resting over yours, swallowing the tremor in your fingers. “You’re safe now. These guys are solid, trust,” he attempts to joke.

Your grip doesn’t loosen.

For a second, just a second, the world goes quiet. No sirens. No smoke. Just the weight of your hand on his, your trembling gaze holding his. And though he knows he can’t stay, a part of him —the part that still feels the heat on his back and the way your heartbeat pounded against his chest— doesn't want to leave either.

And that’s… new.

“Alright, alright,” he breathes, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles, while the other cleans a bit of soot on your forehead, moving your hair out of your face. “I’m right here, gorgeous.”

To say the ambulance ride passes in the blink of an eye would be true, but only to you, because you pass out the moment the vehicle starts. 

Thinking back now, the only memories that appear are the fleeting thought regarding the intense white light that doesn't favour anyone, and the distinct memory of a young man smiling at you before your eyes drifted. A paramedic, perchance. You can’t be too sure. You remember thinking he was cute. 

When you blink your eyes open, the first thing you notice is the smell, antiseptic and faintly floral, the sharp sting of alcohol wipes mixing with the artificial sweetness of whatever cleaner they use on hospital floors. It’s sterile, cold, but there’s an undercurrent of warmth in the room, maybe because of the thin blanket draped over you, you breathe in slowly, noticing the lingering scent of smoke still clings to your skin.

But what you’re sure also contributes to the warmth in the room is the second thing that you notice.

The weight on your lap.

It’s late. Well, not late late, because judging by how the sun attempts to peek through the blinds, it’s probably barely past dinner. Lunch, if you’re lucky. Still, the soft glow of the bedside lamp is the main source of light, which ends up casting some very interesting long shadows across the white walls. The muted beep of the heart monitor hums in the background, a steady rhythm, as if reminding you you’re still here. Still alive.

You blink slowly, your head heavy, but when you shift —or at least try to— there’s resistance. And that’s when you notice him.

Changbin, right? 

Guess the handsome young man in the ambulance hadn’t been a paramedic after all. 

He’s slumped over at the side of the hospital bed, head resting on his folded arms —and on you. His temple presses against your thigh, his body curled awkwardly in the small space that the hospital stool allows him, his turnout jacket draped over the chair on the corner he clearly gave up on using. He isn’t wearing his firefighter clothes anymore though, instead wearing a no-sleeves shirt and glasses, crooked on his face as he lets out shy snores.

Asleep.

For a long moment, you allow yourself to just stare. 

His brows are slightly furrowed even in sleep, like some part of him is still braced for disaster. His hand, rough and calloused—one of the hands that had saved you—, lies close to yours, as if he had fallen asleep holding it and only let go when unconsciousness took over. His hair is a mess, dark, curly strands falling into his face,  and there’s a faint streak of soot he must’ve missed when wiping himself clean.

It’s only then when the realization somehow clicks in your head: he is human. A human —a handsome human— who saved your life. Dared to almost sacrifice his own just for that. Heck, you can’t even believe he had jumped from the windowsill and then broken a wall, but now you’re forced to believe that the huge, caring guy that has carried you through a fire and two floors below is the same man whose head is curled up in your lap? 

Your chest aches, but it’s not from the smoke. You fail to hold back a smile as your heart happily prances around. 

It’s a true fear that suddenly strikes when you think that if you get too flustered, the machine you’re plugged into might speed up and wake him. Because of that, your heart can’t help but giggle, nodding at what your brain starts to ponder. 

You want to move, to touch him, to speak —all at the same time, and a sneaky part of your heart wants to add in a kiss to his cheek too—, but you’re scared the moment will shatter like glass.

Still, it isn’t a deliberate motion when your fingers move and settle his glasses right. You don’t even know when you pieced that thought out. 

“Changbin…” your voice is soft, hoarse from hours of smoke inhalation. It doesn’t seem yours, the low sound of your voice unfamiliar. 

He doesn’t stir, but you don’t mind. Your heart high-fives your brain to that, in fact. A part of you prefers it that way. You can’t be too sure you would have known what to say. “Thanks for not letting me die?” Ew, you shake your head sideways softly, smiling like an idiot. You swallow, watching the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, and something warm flickers inside you.

He… stayed.

Even after you made it out of the fire, even after the ambulance ride, he stayed. And now, he’s here, asleep at your side, like keeping watch over you was the only thing that made sense after everything.

Your fingers twitch, hesitating for a moment until then, carefully, you lift your bandaged hand and brush a strand of hair away from his face.

He shifts, murmuring something under his breath.

Your lips tremble into a soft smile.

“Thank you,” you mouth, not risking speaking just in case he wakes up, and to take care of your throat.

And for a moment, it feels like the fire or the smoke never touched you at all.

But then, the soft thud of steps sends a jolt through you.

Your heart stumbles in panic, instinct even, and before you think about it, your eyes flutter shut. You steady your breathing, slow and measured, feigning the steady rhythm of sleep, hoping the beeping machine collaborates just this once. 

The footsteps are quiet, purposeful. They’re heading here. The door creaks open. 

“Bin.”

It’s a whisper, but you recognize the voice in a pulse. Chan. The other firefighter. 

There’s a rustle of fabric, followed by a quiet sigh —maybe a groan, honestly—, and you can almost picture the way Changbin must be running a hand through his hair right now, stretching his back because of the uncomfortable position he has been resting in for a while. 

His voice drifts in from the doorway, the faint creak of the hinge a quiet reminder that the door remains half-open, as if Chan’s unsure whether to step inside or let Changbin be.

Silence. Chris sighs, leaning against the doorframe. 

“She’s stable, mate. I just talked to the doc. Said she just needs rest now.”

The words linger in the room, gentle but firm, in that classical Chan tone that at least makes Changbin chuckle out a smile. You hold back a gasp when the calloused touch of his hand holds yours, and he starts fidgeting with your fingers, almost absentmindedly. It’s not the same as how Chan’s words echo, but still similar in meaning. Chris' words remain in the room and surround Seo, like a hand meant to guide him back to reality —back to the part where his job is done. Where he can leave.

Another pause.

Changbin’s voice follows, rough with exhaustion but steady as ever. 

“I know.” 

It’s a muffled response, and you can only venture and guess why, not daring to crack your eyes open and interrupt them, in fear of what would happen and secretly hoping Changbin’s warm hand doesn’t leave yours for a bit longer, but his voice and diction make it seem like his other hand holds his face up, his palm resting on his chin. 

His words carry a weight that the silence can’t quite swallow, not a protest, but something like a quiet refusal to move.

There’s another beat of silence, and it’s somehow heavier this time. Not empty, but full, swollen with something unspoken, something clawing at the edges of the quiet.

Until Changbin finally voices what’s been eating him alive, his words slow and rough, like they hurt coming out.

“But the nurse said she doesn’t have any emergency contacts,” he mutters. “Something about her file or something—I don’t know. I don’t care.” His voice dips lower, hoarser. “But what that means is that no one’s coming for her.”

The words hang there, sharp and aching.

“No one… no one knows what happened to her. Or if anything happened at all.”

There’s a break in his voice, subtle but there, a quiet grief for someone he barely knows, for someone who asked him to stay because there was no one else.

Your heart clenches so hard it almost hurts, and you pray the machine besides you doesn’t rat out the sudden motion.

Chan’s voice drops lower, almost cautious. He’s never seen Changbin like this after an alert. Not ever, if he thinks about it hard enough. 

“So you stayed.”

It isn’t a question. It doesn’t remotely sound like one, but nevertheless, Changbin shifts. You hear the faint scrape of his shoes against the floor, the rustle of the bed sheets as he readjusts his weight. His hand doesn’t leave yours, and his voice sounds as if he was talking to you. 

He doesn’t turn to Chan to answer the no-question. “She… she asked me to.”

The words hang there, simple but heavy. And yet, there’s a quiet edge to his voice, not defensive. Like a man standing his ground over something that doesn’t need explanation. Like leaving was never even a choice. 

You can hear his shoe and his leg move restlessly.

“She didn’t want me to go,” he says softly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “And I promised I would stay.”

Chan doesn’t respond right away. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer, more careful. “Bin… you don’t have to take this all on yourself.”

A long sigh escapes Changbin. “I know.”

It’s not defensive, just tired.

Another rustle of fabric, and a few soft steps, and you feel a presence closer. Chan pats him on the shoulder, a silent gesture of support. “Alright,” Chan says at last, his voice calm but firm. “But don’t burn yourself out,” he jokes. 

Changbin chuckles softly, though it lacks humor. “Sure, mister insomnia.”

A quiet snort from Chan. “Yeah, yeah.” A pause. “Want some?”

You don’t see the exchange, but you now can hear the faint sound of someone eating. 

“Chan,” Changbin says after Chris heads back towards the door. Seo licks his lips, a hand over his mouth, food inside. “You can leave. It’s okay.” It’s like his sentence is meant to end there, but then he grimaces. “Bitch, you gave me a burger with pineapple?”

There’s a faint chuckle. 

“I’ll check in later.”

The door clicks shut, and the room is silent again.

You don’t dare open your eyes yet, not when your heart is thudding against your ribs, not when the weight of his words still hangs in the air.

He stayed. Because you asked him to.

Because you have no one else.

And even though your eyes are closed, you can feel it, the way his presence anchors the room, the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing as he eats whatever leftovers Chan gave him.

For a moment, there’s only stillness, like when it’s really late at night and the only sound in the house is made by the fridge’s engine. 

Then, a small sound, the faint scrape of a chair leg being nudged back. You hear the quiet shuffle of his shoes, and the gentle creak of the furniture as it is moved, accompanied by the soft grunts the firefighter lets out.  

You dare to open your eyes, but not fully, and it’s at the view that your heart threatens to swoon. 

Changbin’s making himself a bed on the sofa. 

You close your eyes when he turns around, and he’s close again. So close you can smell the faint traces of smoke still clinging to his clothes, the clean bite of hospital antiseptic mixing with something undeniably him, a warm, steady scent.

A rough sigh escapes him —almost a whisper—, and you feel the shift of his hand as he carefully brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead. His touch is soft, barely there, but it sends a ripple through you.

“Still asleep, huh?” he murmurs, although he can't be sure if it’s more to himself or to you. His voice is low, almost a whisper, but the tenderness in it makes your chest ache again. Your heart reels in happiness, starting to roam around your insides, looking for a ring.

His voice is low, almost careful, like he's afraid anything louder might break something fragile. Afraid the reality of sound breaks the illusion that his heart screams as his hand can't seem to leave yours. As if your touch is one of the sole things that keeps him there, hooked to your side searching for time to answer the questions in his head, because why is his chest so tense? Why does he want to stay until you wake up and help you leave the hospital in one piece? What makes you so different that he can’t bear the thought of leaving? 

There's a weight to his words, not from familiarity, but from everything you’ve both been through tonight, the smoke, the fear, the fact that for a moment, neither of you were sure you’d make it out at all.

He doesn’t move away. Not yet. His heart tells him to kiss your wrist to feel your pulse, his brain asks him if he’s looking for a mental asylum, because he’s definitely going crazy. His fingers linger at his side, and his breathing is just a bit slower now, like he's still steadying himself. 

For a fleeting second, you wonder if this quiet, this ginger ache in his voice, is how he holds onto the people he saves. 

Because even if you're just another name on a report, to him, you're still here. Still breathing. And to you, he’s still there. He’s staying. 

And somehow, that seems to matter.

Another quiet sigh threatens to make your heart feel like it might break in tears, because it’s just ridiculous how much it suddenly means to you that he’s keeping his promise. Not the silly little thing he added when he entered the ambulance, no. He’s keeping the promise he made after he had run up flame-filled halls and jumped from the windowsill to find you. The one he had cooed at you softly before he broke a wall and rushed down broken stairs to get you both to safety.

And now, even as sleep tugs at him, even as exhaustion threatens to drag him under, he’s still… protecting you. Even in sleep. Prepared to fight flames if they dare trouble you in your sleep again. 

You fight the urge to lift your hand, to brush your fingers through his hair, to soothe the lines of tension etched into his face.

No. Instead, you stay still, pretending to be asleep, even though your heart is wide awake.

And so, you stay like this —him asleep, you pretending—, the silence between you thick with things unsaid. The hospital room hums softly with the rhythm of machines, the distant murmur of voices in the corridor, but it all feels far away. Here, there’s only the quiet rise and fall of his breath, the slight furrow of his brow even in sleep, like he’s still bracing for disaster.

Your fingers twitch at your side. The urge to reach for him —to brush a hand over his hair or trace the slope of his knuckles— simmers beneath your skin. It’s foolish, really. He’s just a firefighter. You’re just a girl he saved. That’s all this is.

And yet. And yet.

The weight of his head on your lap, the way his body has angled itself as if to shield you from something unseen feels like more. Too much.

A lump rises in your throat, and you swallow it down, willing your heartbeat to settle.

But then, a sound.

The door creaks open again, its hinges groaning softly into the hush of the room. Your heart stutters, even if your eyes stay shut the entire time.

Footsteps. Quiet, but firm. Someone trying to be gentle but too used to rushing. Soft footsteps that pad into the room, and you hear the faint rustle of fabric. It can only be a nurse, moving with silent efficiency. The clipboard clicks as they check the monitors beside you, the steady beep of your heart rate betraying the erratic thrum in your chest.

There’s a pause, a slight hesitation, as if they’ve just noticed the man asleep at your side.

“Sir?” The nurse’s voice is soft, polite, but questioning.

A beat. Changbin stirs, a slow exhale leaving him as he blinks himself back to consciousness. His head lifts from your lap, and as his cheek loses the warmth of your leg, a strange, pained feeling settles in his chest.

For a moment, he just stares at you. At the soft rise and fall of your breathing, the bandage peeking out from beneath the hospital gown. Even asleep, you look fragile, too still, and something tightens behind his ribs. He wonders, not for the first time, if you have someone —anyone— coming for you.

He clears his throat, voice rough. “Sorry,” he mutters, straightening in the chair. He rubs a hand over his face, trying to shake off the haze of sleep and the lingering feel of your warmth. “I… uh… she asked me to stay,” he solves. 

The nurse is quiet for a moment, the sound of a pen scratching against the clipboard filling the silence.

Changbin shifts, his jaw tight. He shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t have made it sound like it mattered so much, even if his heart keeps screaming at him that it does.

“The doctor said there weren’t emergency contacts listed,” he adds quietly, like an explanation, though he’s not sure if it’s for the nurse or himself. “I… didn’t want her to be alone.”

It’s more than that, though, isn’t it?

Because when you grabbed his arm in the ambulance, voice hoarse but certain, something in him buckled, as if the moon had suddenly made the tides raise havoc upon the shore, salt and water raining all over the port —all over his heart. Because, even now, hours later, he’s still here. Because the thought of you waking up alone in this sterile, empty room feels… wrong.

“Well,” the nurse says softly, a faint smile in his voice, “seems like she’s not alone, then.”

You nearly flinch at that.

And to him, the words shouldn’t hit as hard as they do.

But oh, they do.

And as Changbin lets out a slow breath, settling back into the chair, his gaze drifts to your hand —inches from his own— and he wonders what it would feel like to take it again. Maybe you’d wake up. And maybe you’d squeeze his hand in reassurance, and thank him for staying. He’d say… well. He’d figure it out.

His fingers twitch once, then go still again.

The nurse moves with practiced quiet, his hands gentle as he checks the monitors, the steady beep of your heart rate, the soft hiss of oxygen flowing through the tube near your bed. He jots something down on a clipboard, his pen scratching softly against paper.

Then comes the IV check. A light touch on the line running from your arm to the bag hanging by your bedside. He adjusts the flow, tilts his head at the readout. Everything seems normal.

Changbin’s jaw tightens.

He’s watching him now, not fully awake, but not asleep either. His gaze flickers to the monitor, tracking the subtle jump in your heart rate when the nurse gently lifts your bandaged hand to inspect it.

“Has she woken up at all since she was brought in?” the nurse asks, his voice a whisper.

Changbin's throat bobs with a swallow. “No,” he mutters, his voice hoarse from sleep and something else. Something heavier. He doesn’t quite know how to describe it. “She hasn’t.”

The nurse nods softly, lowering your hand back onto the blanket. Another note scribbled onto the clipboard.

“Did she mention any pain or trouble breathing when you got here?”

He hesitates, then shakes his head. “She didn’t say much. Just…”

He stops, his thumb absentmindedly brushing over the edge of your blanket in a small, repetitive motion. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t say: she only asked me to stay.

The nurse lingers for a moment longer, adjusting the blanket over you. When he turns away, Changbin watches him with a careful intensity, as if making sure he doesn’t miss anything, as if his presence alone might be enough to keep you safe.

“I’ll be around this hallway for the rest of the evening and night,” he says softly. “My name is Minho. If there’s anything you need, or anything happens to her, I’m right here.” 

Changbin acknowledges him with a nod and a soft smile, and the door clicks shut softly behind him.

Silence again. Changbin curls up his head in his arms, and finally caves in, holding your hand.

He just hopes you wake up soon to fill it.

And you too fall asleep, feeling the warmth that radiates off of him lull you back in.

[.]

The room remains dim, bathed in the muted glow of a single white light near the doorway. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor is the only sound, a quiet metronome against the hush of the hospital night.

Changbin hasn’t moved much, only a small shift here and there, the weight of sleep keeping him grounded, his hand still wrapped loosely around yours. His head remains pillowed on his arms, his breathing deep and even, though a slight furrow still mars his brow, as if even in sleep, he’s standing guard.

And for a while, so are you. Asleep, but not fully. Your mind drifts in that fragile space between rest and remembrance, where the smoke still curls at the edges of your thoughts and the heat still nips at your skin.

It happens slowly at first. A subtle twitch of your fingers. The tiniest furrow of your brow. Your breathing —steady, smooth— starts to shift, each inhale just a bit sharper than the last.

Then the dream grips you.

A flash of fire. The suffocating weight of smoke. The roar of collapsing walls. 

Your chest tightens. The flames creep closer. You can’t move. You can’t breathe—

A ragged gasp rips through the silence as you bolt upright. The heart monitor spikes, a frantic beeping that shatters the calm.

Changbin is already awake.

“Hey, hey, gorgeous.” His voice is raspy from sleep, but his hand is steady, already reaching for your arm, until it reaches your cheek, careful not to touch anywhere bandaged. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Your wide eyes dart around the room. The sterile white walls, the IV in your arm, the dim glow of hospital lights. No fire. No smoke. Just… a hospital.

And him.

Your breathing stutters, and your hand —the one not hooked to the IV— grips his forearm before you even register the movement.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move an inch.

“You’re safe,” Changbin says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek in slow, steady circles. It’s the same motion you felt on your knuckles before falling asleep. “It was just a dream. You’re here now.”

It’s his voice that grounds you. The rough gentleness of it. The steadiness, like a hand on your back guiding you out of the smoke and helping you cough it out.

And finally —finally— the world stops burning.

Your grip on his arm loosens slightly. You close your eyes for a second, trying to steady yourself, but when you open them again, he’s still there. Still watching you with that same quiet intensity.

“Did I… wake you?” you rasp, voice hoarse from sleep, and from the lingering effects of smoke.

Changbin’s lips twitch into the faintest smile. “You could say that.”

But there’s no frustration in his voice. Only relief.

Because you’re awake now, and that's all that matters.

The heart monitor slows, the beeping settling into its steady rhythm again. The silence that follows feels… different.

Not like before.

It’s not the heavy quiet of waiting or the emptiness of unspoken fear. It’s something softer, a silence that hums with everything left unsaid. Something lighter, as you and Changbin sit there, breathing, your hearts yearning for any kind of excuse to justify the need to keep looking at each other eye to eye.

Your hand still rests on his arm. His thumb still traces small, timid circles on your face. 

Neither of you moves to pull away.

And for a long moment, you just… stare at each other.

His dark hair is a mess, strands sticking out in every direction, evidence of too many hours spent with his head pillowed on his arms. His shirt is wrinkled, the smell of smoke still faintly clings to him. His eyes, though—those sharp, intense eyes—are soft now. Warm in a way you weren’t expecting. You notice a faint shadow beneath them. A subtle tightness around his mouth, almost as if there’s exhaustion carved into his every movement, but his gaze is steady. 

And you? You’re pretty sure you're a mess too. Bandages, an IV, a raspy voice —but you’re awake. You're alive.

And so is he. With no injuries, too. 

Your breathing hitches for a beat. It’s not from panic this time, but something else entirely. Something harder to name. A raw blend of relief, disbelief, and something soft and fragile that flutters in your chest every time his thumb brushes your skin. 

And by how his eyes seem to soften, chances are it hits you both at the same time. A sudden, silent realization that you made it. That he saved you. That he’s still here. That for some reason —some quiet, unspeakable reason— it means more than it should. That the danger is behind you. That there’s no fire, no smoke. 

Just… this. This strange little pocket of quiet where you’re both here, in front of each other, still breathing, still here, and it feels... unreal.

The seconds stretch.

The weight of it presses into your chest, something fragile and unfamiliar, an ache that isn’t painful but still makes it hard to breathe. The kind of feeling that grows in the aftermath of fear—when the adrenaline fades but the person who pulled you through is still standing there.

If he’s feeling the exact same thing, you don’t know. With a sheepish lick of his lips, Changbin lets out a short sigh, as if he had just remembered that breathing is a necessity, not a choice. His arm gingerly moves from your face, afraid at the possible implications of his tender touch, but at the same time, he ends up with his hand over yours. As if the intensity of him holding your hand was a tiny bit more manageable than your face. 

And then, you…

You laugh.

Quiet at first, just a soft exhale, but it bubbles out of you before you can stop it. Breathy, almost startled by its own existence. You don’t know why. Maybe there is nothing that can describe whatever it is that you’re feeling, so you keep laughing. It’s not funny —not even close— but the feeling is too much, too big to contain. It spills out in giggles, a release of all the tension that’s been wound tight since the moment you woke up, and even before, when you faked being asleep. The fire, the rescue, the nightmare, and now this, sitting in a dim hospital room, staring at the firefighter who saved your life like he's the only person in the world.

Changbin blinks—once, twice—before his own lips twitch into a smile.

Then, he chuckles.

Not because it’s funny —although it’s starting to seem that way, because your laugh is cute—, but because what else is he supposed to do? He doesn’t have the words for what he feels —not yet, at least— so the laugh comes instead. Quiet, but real.

And just like that, you’re both giggling. Like mad teens after a stupid joke. Like children that get away with breaking mom’s favourite mug even when they were told not to play with the ball inside and they managed to blame dad successfully.

It’s not loud, rather still hushed by the weight of the night, but it’s… real. You can’t really describe it with many other words that could convey its full meaning. It’s that shaky, breathless kind of laughter that sneaks up on you when you least expect it, like you both just realized how ridiculous this all is. A fragile kind of laughter, that trembles at the edges, as if acknowledging how close everything came to breaking. How strange it feels to be alive and here, together, after everything.

For Changbin, it’s a release. A break in the tight grip of fear he hadn’t even noticed was still holding onto him. The fear that you wouldn’t wake up, that you’d slip away silently like smoke through his fingers. A smoke he couldn’t control, burning in a fire he couldn’t save you from. But now, you’re laughing, and it’s the most beautiful sound he's heard in days.

You cover your mouth to muffle the sound, but Changbin just grins wider, his shoulders shaking as his hand drags down his face.

“Sorry—” you whisper between small gasps of laughter. “I-I don’t know why—”

“I don’t either,” Changbin admits, his eyes crinkling at the corners. But his voice is different now—less rough, less burdened. Like, for the first time since the fire, he’s let himself breathe.

And for a few stolen seconds, there’s nothing. Just two people, safe and awake and alive, sharing silly giggles in the quiet.

You can’t piece together how he ends up too shy and moves away, standing up, still giggling, but now, unbeknownst to you, blushing. He curses for the new-formed distance he can only blame himself for, excusing it with not wanting to overwhelm you by being too close. 

He manages —you can’t comprehend how— to fit, broad back, huge muscles and all, into the tiny surface area of the makeshift bed he’s created with the sofa in the room. 

Then, he turns off the lights. 

And then, nothing. 

You’re too afraid to move around in your bed, now painfully aware of the IV line plugged into your arm, and afraid to damage the bandages on your hand. 

But it’s too quiet. Too still. And even though the fire is gone, the smoke long cleared, something inside you still smolders. Some kind of restlessness, a need to fill the space with something. Anything. 

“Can you sleep?” your voice comes out in a whisper, rough but soft enough not to break the delicate quiet.

Changbin huffs a breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, but close. He could kiss you right now just for speaking, and —according to a dark, hidden part of his heart he didn’t usually listen to— if he wasn’t such a damn coward, he would. “No, not really.”

You purse your lips together and shift slightly against the pillow, careful not to jostle your bandaged hand. “Me neither.”

There’s another beat of silence, but this one feels expectant, like both of you are waiting for the other to speak.

And then, you turn on the lamp on the nightstand. 

“Would you rather…” Your voice is a little stronger now, a teasing edge creeping in. “Fight one horse-sized duck… or a hundred duck-sized horses?”

For a moment, there’s nothing.

And then Changbin lets out an incredulous chuckle. Soft, and full of disbelief. 

“You’re kidding.”

You shrug. Well, the best version of a shrug you can manage with your injuries. 

“You’d be surprised to know I am deadly serious.”

He sits up on the sofa and turns to face you, sitting almost crisscrossed, with a knee raised. There’s a soft ‘hmm’ he murmured as he ponders while stretching, the tension in his shoulders easing bit by bit. 

“The duck,” he says after a moment, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Get it by the neck and hold on for dear life.”

You blink, biting back a smile. “Solid strategy.”

He tilts his head, his own smile creeping in again. “Your turn.”

“Ask ahead then,” you grin teasingly. “Or should I say fire away?”

Changbin blinks. “Oh, god no. You’ve spoken with Chan once and you already have his stupid jokes.” He teases with a sarcastic dread in his tone. 

“Sure, sure, but go on. Blaze ahead.”

“Shut up,” he whines playfully, laughing, trying to come up with another would you rather question. 

“C’mon, mister fireman. Ignite me.” You giggle, hugging your knees. “I’m burning with curiosity.” 

“Okay, okay, goddamnit,” he laughs. “Would you rather… have to wear a superhero cape every day or bunny ears for a year?” 

You smile. “That’s easy. Bunny ears for sure.” He leans against the sofa, propping his head up with his hand as he listens to you. “I mean. They can look half decent,” you solve with a shrug. “Besides, if good cinema ever taught me anything, it’s that capes are nothing but a nuisance.”

“Isn’t that from The Incredibles?” He snorts. “Like, the kids movie?”

“Oh, hell yeah it is. But that movie is solid gold, c’mon.”

And just like that, the weight of the night shifts again, the stillness breaking apart as the two of you slip into this quiet, strange game.

Two people who can’t sleep.

Two people who survived.

At some point you tease him to such an extent he moves back to the stool —to prove a point, sure, and to shorten the distance, most likely. You find out that Chan had packed clothes for Changbin to change into in the hospital, and when he goes to grab a sweater, out of the backpack falls a forgotten deck of UNO cards, loosely tied together by what Seo recognizes to be one of Hyunjin’s lost hair ties.

There’s only a chorus of playful snickers as the duel begins between the two of you and the colourful cards being settled on the edge of the nightstand. 

Two people who don’t want to sleep right now.

Two people who are alive.

And maybe —just maybe— two people who are starting to feel something more. 

At least, more than your average firefighter-victim relationship.

[.]

Eventually, the game slows. The stack of UNO cards sits forgotten on the nightstand, a few strays scattered across the blanket between you. Neither of you says it, but the thrill of competition has fizzled out, replaced by something quieter. Something neither of you wants to name just yet.

Changbin leans back in the chair, his arms crossed, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Guess we’re both too stubborn to lose,” he says. You grin. 

A beat of silence. Then…

“So…” you say, shifting slightly under the blanket. “Would you rather… go back to Would You Rather?”

He huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head, but there’s no protest, merely teasing. “Fine,” he says, his grin matching yours. “But only because you’re clearly terrible at UNO.”

You gasp in mock offense, and the banter starts again, light, easy, a comfortable rhythm.

The questions start off silly.

“Would you rather only eat spicy ramen for the rest of your life or never eat ramen again?”

“Would you rather glow in the dark or leave a trail of sparkles everywhere you go?”

But slowly, without either of you meaning to, the questions shift. Until. 

“Would you rather be anywhere else but here right now?”

It’s a quiet question —not a joke, not a tease— and it hangs between you for a moment too long.

Your smile trembles in your lips.

You think quietly. Would you? Be anywhere else? Because, if you dare to be true to yourself, this is the first time you’ve felt at home ever since you moved to the city. No fake smiles. No jokes you don’t understand. No friends with inside comments you don’t get, and that apparently you can’t because ‘you just had to be there.’ No stingy comments. Just the warmth of a foreign body next to yours. A stranger. 

The warmest stranger you’ve ever had the pleasure to encounter. And even though warmth —fire— seems quite scary right now, your answer still stands. 

You don’t look at him when you answer. “No,” you whisper. “I wouldn’t.”

The words are simple, but the weight behind them isn’t.

Because you’re still here —still breathing, still alive— and maybe you don’t want to be anywhere else because here, at least, you aren’t alone. With him, you don’t feel alone. Not as much as you felt the moment you went to bed. 

Changbin doesn’t speak right away. He just watches you, his thumb absently brushing over the edge of the blanket. A small, repetitive motion.

And then softly, like he’s choosing his words carefully —almost like it’s not a game anymore—, his tongue twisted with the weight of his next few words, almost as heavy as yours. 

“Would you rather… be alone tonight?”

Your heart skips.

The answer is already there, caught in your throat. But it still takes a moment for you to say it. To admit it. Although you’re not quite sure if it’s to you, to him, or rather the certainty that saying it out loud brings. 

“No.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, your voice, quiet but steady this time, breaks it again. 

“Will you… stay?” You swallow dry. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but—“

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’ll stay.”

And for a long moment, neither of you moves.

Until, finally, you shift. Barely, just slightly, but still making enough room on the bed. An invitation.

He hesitates again. A part of him knows it’s not because he doesn’t want to, but because there’s a line he’s not sure he’s allowed to cross.

But then, carefully —like he’s afraid to disturb the moment, the bed, the silence, and the worded weight around you two— he sits.

The bed dips under his weight, a soft shift that somehow makes the silence heavier. You don’t move away, and neither does he. There’s a space between you, but it’s small. Smaller than it was before.

His shoulder brushes yours, his hand too, and for a moment, that’s all there is. The quiet thrum of the heart monitor. The faint buzz of the nightstand light. The soft rhythm of two people breathing in the same pocket of air.

Changbin leans back against the wall, his head tilting just enough that the side of it barely grazes the top of yours. He smells like faint smoke and clean laundry. Like something steady. Something safe.

For a long while, neither of you speaks.

Until you do.

“Do you do this often?” you whisper.

He blinks. “What?”

There’s a tremor of hesitation in your voice. As if a part of you doesn’t want to know. Nevertheless, you clarify the question. 

“Stay with people like this.” You lick your lips.” After saving their lives.”

His throat bobs with a swallow, and there’s a beat before he answers. “No,” he says softly. “I don’t.”

Your fingers curl into the blanket, but you nod like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like the fact that he’s still here doesn’t send a quiet flutter through your ribs.

His voice, rough but gentle, breaks the silence again. “Would you rather… talk about what happened?”

The question hits like a spark in the dark, soft, but impossible to ignore.

Your chest tightens. The fire, the smoke, the feeling of heat licking at your heels, your arms, your hand, your face.  It’s all there, just beneath the surface.

But then there’s him. Here. Real.

“No,” you whisper. “Not right now.”

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask why. Instead, he shifts —the smallest movement— and for a brief, fleeting second, his hand brushes yours. A ghost of a touch.

And maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else.

But your fingers catch his before he can pull away.

He freezes. 

Outside the hospital, the night is cool and quiet, the air thick with the lingering scent of rain. Rain after the storm of fire that raged, and now, calm. The pavement glistens under the dim glow of streetlights, slick with leftover droplets that catch the light like tiny stars. A soft breeze rustles through the trees lining the sidewalk, their leaves whispering secrets to the dark. In the distance, the occasional hum of a passing car cuts through the stillness, but here, just through the window of your hospital room, the world feels hushed. As if it, too, is holding its breath.

“Would you rather… stay like this?” you ask softly.

His hand, rough and calloused, slowly —carefully— closes around yours. His warmth seeps into your skin like a quiet promise. His grip, steady but gentle, as if afraid you might regret it and pull away, as if anchoring himself just as much as he’s anchoring you. His thumb brushes over your knuckles in a slow, absentminded motion, a silent reassurance, a quiet reply. 

He voices it. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I would.”

And for the first time all night, the silence doesn’t feel so heavy.

It feels like a promise.

The warmth of his hand lingers, grounding you in a way you didn’t expect. You swallow, the weight in your chest shifting—not disappearing, but settling into something softer, something known. 

It triggers what, at first, you don’t mean to say out loud. But the words slip past your lips, quiet and a little broken. It’s a confession that hangs between you both, soft yet heavy, like smoke that hasn’t quite cleared.

“I’m scared to fall asleep.”

Changbin lets the silence settle, not uncomfortable, but steady, giving you the space to breathe through it. To own the fear without rushing to fix it.

Then, just as your chest tightens from the weight of your own words, his voice cuts through the quiet. Low, rough around the edges.

“You don’t have to,” he says simply. “Not alone.”

And something about the way he says it —as if it’s the easiest promise in the world— makes your throat burn. Not from smoke this time.

You inhale slowly, shakily, and exhale even slower. And before you can stop yourself, you shift —again, just a little— until your head finds the slope of his shoulder.

It’s tentative at first. A question more than a gesture.

But when Changbin leans into you and squeezes your hand, just enough to let you know it’s okay, the tension inside you unravels.

Your breathing evens out, the beep of the heart monitor blending into the steady rhythm of his pulse beneath your cheek.

And for the first time since the fire —since the fear— you start to feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re safe. At least with him by your side. 

And yet, even if his actions don’t let you see through it, your words tug at something deep in him.

Because for hours —since pulling you from the flames— he’s been fighting a battle no one can see. A war of what ifs and almosts.

What if he hadn’t found you in time?

What if the fire had moved faster?

He’s a firefighter. He’s used to running into danger, to carrying people out of the worst moments of their lives —but it’s never felt like this before.

It’s never felt so… personal.

And now, with you here —breathing, alive, safe— his chest still aches like he’s been the one pulled from the smoke.

Your head rests lightly on his shoulder, and Changbin doesn’t move.

At first, it’s because he doesn’t want to startle you —doesn’t want to make you second-guess the small, fragile moment unfolding between you. But then the reason changes.

He doesn’t move because he can’t.

Because suddenly, the weight of you against him —soft, real, alive— is the only thing holding him together. It hits him like a slow burn, the kind of feeling that creeps in quietly before it consumes everything. All the panic he’s been swallowing since the fire. All the fear he’s ignored since he carried you out of that building.

It’s never bothered him before —the risk, the running headfirst into danger —but this is different. He has no idea why, but you are different.

And now that you’re here, leaning into him, trusting him enough to admit you’re scared, he feels the ache in his chest shift into something else entirely. Something harder to name.

He lets out a slow breath, careful not to disturb the way you fit so perfectly against him, your head on his shoulder, in the crook of his neck.

It’s terrifying, in its own way. How easy this feels. How natural it is to have you this close, like you’re not a stranger he pulled from the fire, but someone he’s always known. His hand moves, fingers threading, his thumb stroking the back of your palm. Touch you like he needs it. To reassure himself you’re still there.

He watches the rise and fall of your chest, the soft flutter of your eyelashes as you fight to stay awake, and somewhere in the quiet, with the scent of antiseptic in the air and the distant hum of hospital machines, a single, unshakable thought roots itself in his mind.

He’s not just protecting you anymore. He wants to.

Not because it’s his job. Not because he’s a firefighter. 

He doesn’t move because… he likes it.

It’s quiet,  the kind of quiet that only happens in the middle of the night, when the world feels smaller, softer. And somehow, despite the distinct sterile smell of hospital all over, and the distant hum of machines, it doesn’t feel uncomfortable.

It feels safe.

And that’s what surprises him most. Not that you leaned into him, that he doesn’t mind. His heart dares to encourage it, screaming at him to put his arm around your shoulders, to try and make you more comfortable. 

What surprises him is that it feels… easy. He isn’t sure what to make of it. You’re still somewhat of a stranger —someone he pulled from the fire, someone he met hours ago— but that doesn’t change the fact that right now, the weight of your head against his shoulder and your hand in his feels more grounding than anything else has all night.

He’s not overthinking it, not really. He doesn’t have the energy to pick it apart. All he knows is that you asked him to stay, and somehow, that is all it takes.

So he stays.

It’s daring, his heart beating in his chest loudly. He’s almost afraid you can hear it, but his actions don’t falter, as he softly —tenderly— moves the two of you lower on the bed, and even softer now, he moves your head closer to the crook of his neck, letting you use his arm as a pillow below your head. 

He lets out a slow breath, careful not to disturb the moment. For the first time since the fire, since the smoke, since the chaos, the silence doesn’t feel so heavy.

He smiles as you fall asleep next to him. 

And he, too, as he watches you breathe, ends up falling asleep. 

[.]

The morning light filters through the thin hospital curtains, casting soft golden stripes across the room. The world outside has begun to stir —distant footsteps in the hall, the squeak of a wheel on a gurney— but here, in this small pocket of time, it’s still quiet.

Changbin’s eyes flutter open first.

For a moment, he doesn’t move —doesn’t even breathe too loudly—, because the weight of your head is still there, resting on his arm, that while he was asleep dared to surround your shoulders and pull you just a bit closer. The scent of antiseptic and smoke has long faded into something softer, something he can’t quite name, but it feels like you.

He should move. Move you, too. He should sit up and stretch the cramp out of his neck, maybe step outside to get a coffee.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his lashes lower again, and he lets himself go still, pretending to be asleep, even though his heart is wide awake.

He doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe it’s the way your breathing syncs with his, soft and even. Maybe it’s the fragile stillness of the moment, and how moving might break whatever delicate thread is holding it together.

Your eyelids twitch before they lift, a slow, groggy blink as the world slips back into focus. The dull ache in your limbs, the sterile scent of the hospital, the soft warmth of a body against yours —it all comes back at once.

And then you notice him.

Changbin, head tilted just slightly toward your neck, your face, breathing steady, eyes closed. 

Still here. Your heart gives a little stutter, almost like a giggle.

For a second, you just watch him. Watch the way his dark hair falls across his forehead. You miss that, contrary to the last time you watched him asleep, the faint crease between his brows even in sleep isn’t there. As if even the part of him that is always ready to wake up, always ready to move also relaxes against you. The calloused hand that rests near yours, not quite touching anymore, but close enough that a shift —a single slip of your pinky— would bridge the gap.

It’s a quiet, still moment. One you could hold onto for a little longer if you wanted. But then your body betrays you —a sight, a slight shift of your neck, a sharper inhale— and Changbin’s lashes flicker. His breathing changes.

And even though you don’t notice at first, the rise and fall of his chest is a little too controlled, his head just a little too still.

You blink at him.

He’s awake.

Your lips twitch.

He’s pretending to be asleep.

The corners of your mouth lift, your heart a strange mixture of warm and restless in your chest. You dare to wobbly move closer to him, and you almost laugh when his breathing stills. 

“You’re a terrible actor,” you murmur next to his ear, voice hoarse from sleep but carrying enough playfulness to break the quiet.

Changbin’s lips twitch —just barely— before his eyes open softly, a dark brown gaze meeting yours like he’s been caught.

“Was worth a shot,” he rasps back with a smile. His cheeks blush without him knowing. 

“I’m glad you’re a firefighter,” you tease again. “Keep in mind not to act.” 

A small laugh escapes you—hoarse, a little fragile, but real. It slips through the quiet like a spark, and you catch the way Changbin’s smile softens in response, his head still resting against yours.

“You do this often?” you tease, your voice still scratchy but playful. “Fake sleeping next to… strangers?”

His smile widens, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Only when they ask me to stay.”

The words hang in the air for a second too long.

Something shifts—like a silent inhale neither of you dare to take—and suddenly, the joke feels heavier. Not enough to crush the moment, but enough to remind you both why you’re here, why his shoulder is under your head, why neither of you really want to move just yet. He’s close. Really close. 

It’s Changbin who speaks first, his voice quieter now. “How… how do you feel?”

You swallow, licking your lips. “Well.” Your bandaged hand travels to scratch your eye. “Like I’ve been in a fire.”

That earns a chuckle from him—a little rough, but genuine—and the sound makes your chest swoon in a way that has nothing to do with smoke inhalation. The smile lingers on his face, but there’s a flicker of something else behind it. Concern, maybe, or something close enough to it. His hand shifts, fingers that move a strand of hair away from your face, and then lowering, grazing the hem of your blanket, like he’s not sure what to do with them now.

“You really stayed the whole time?” you ask softly.

Changbin’s gaze drops for a beat, then lifts back to yours. “Yeah.” A small shrug. “Didn’t really want to leave.”

Your heart does something strange—tightens and warms all at once.

Neither of you speak after that. Not immediately.

And when you shift just a little closer, as if wanting to melt in the warmth that surrounds him and that lemon-scented soap he must have used, your shoulder still pressed against his, your hand resting near his on the blanket—he doesn’t move away.

If anything, it feels like he leans in too.

The quiet between you stretches —not uncomfortable, but something else. Something that feels like a held breath.

You glance at his hand, resting just inches from yours, and for a fleeting moment, you think about closing the distance. Last time, it came out as a reflex, but now, you can’t help but think. About what it might mean. About how absurd it is that this man —this firefighter you barely know— has somehow anchored himself into this strange, raw part of your life.

But before the thought can settle, there’s a soft knock at the door. Changbin’s heart panics and he sits up, although his hand doesn’t move an inch away from yours. 

It’s the nurse. Minho. He pokes his head in, offering a small smile. “Good to see you awake,” he says warmly. “The doctor will be in soon to talk about your discharge.”

Discharge.

The word hits harder than you expect. And it shouldn’t, because this is what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it? To get out of the hospital, to go back to your life, to leave all of this behind —the fire, the smoke, the fear, the sterile smell of antiseptic.

But suddenly, it feels like a thread is about to be cut.

You nod slowly, murmuring a quiet “thank you,” and the nurse slips back out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silence again.

Changbin’s hand twitches —just a small movement, but enough to pull your attention back to him. His jaw works for a moment, like he’s chewing on words he doesn’t know how to spit out.

“So,” you say, because the quiet feels too heavy now. “Guess I’m leaving soon.”

His gaze flickers to the door, then back to you. “Yeah. Looks like it.” There’s a smile on his face, but it’s softer now —something caught between relief and hesitation. “It’s a good thing.”

Another pause.

You should say something —anything— but the words knot in your throat.

It’s Changbin who finally breaks the silence.

“Will you be… okay?” he asks, his voice quieter than before. “When you go home?”

The question is simple, but there’s something underneath it —something more than concern. Something almost like please don’t make this the last time we talk. And you feel it too.

It’s then when it hits him.

You haven’t called anyone. Not since you woke up. Not once.

He keeps his voice steady, but there’s a new edge to it now, a careful sort of concern. “Did you want to… let someone know? That you’re okay?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question. “What?”

“Family, a friend, a…,” he says, a little too quickly, like the words have been sitting on his tongue for a while now. The last one somehow doesn’t come out, as if he struggles with it. “I just… noticed you haven’t called anyone.”

Your throat tightens. He’s right, you didn’t. You hadn’t even thought about it.

The realization makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with smoke inhalation.

Your lips part, but no words come.

Because the truth settles in like a stone in your chest.

You can’t call your family, your dad long gone, your mom in another country and your grandma in a nursing home too far away. Calling would just make them worry. 

And you… don’t want to call your friends.

The realization creeps in slowly, like smoke slipping under a door. Quiet, suffocating. There’s no one waiting outside the hospital for you, no missed calls from anyone who knows what happened—because no one knows, at least not that you know too. Just silence.

Your throat tightens. You blink down at your lap, your fingers curling into the edge of the bedsheet, where Changbin had slept. “I… don’t know,” you mutter finally. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either —just something soft enough to hide behind.

Changbin watches you carefully, his gaze steady, the line between his brows deepening. “No one?”

You shake your head once, keeping your focus fixed on the folds of fabric in your lap. “Not really.”

It’s quiet for a moment, long enough for your heart to thud against your ribs, for the ache behind your sternum to press even harder.

Then Changbin clears his throat softly. “What about… a partner?”

Your head snaps up, eyes wide. “What?”

He shrugs, his voice quieter now. “Just thought… maybe you’d want to call them. Let them know you’re okay.”

A pause. Then, a small, dry chuckle slips from your lips —not bitter, but slightly amused. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Changbin blinks, his mouth parting just slightly. “Oh.” It’s not much, but the surprise in his voice is unmistakable. His brows twitch, his lips part slightly —like the answer catches him off guard more than it should.

The room feels quieter now.

You glance down at your lap, your fingers playing with the edge of the hospital blanket. “No emergency contacts… no boyfriend…” you say softly, more to yourself than him. “It’s just me.”

It’s the first time either of you really acknowledges it. The fact that when you woke up, there was no one else to call.

No one but him.

And Changbin, without thinking, starts fidgeting with his hands, scratching the small bits of dead skin around his nails —not out of anxiety, but something else entirely. Something he can’t name yet.

Another beat of silence.

Changbin doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits there, still as stone. It’s not like he expected you to have someone waiting in the wings — a boyfriend, a best friend, a sibling— but the fact that you didn’t… the fact that when you woke up, he was the only one sitting at your bedside…

It settles into him like a slow-burning flame. Like a candle that cheekily refuses to light while you battle to not burn your fingers as you hold the lit match closer to it. Because suddenly, it’s not just about the fire anymore. It’s not just about the rescue or about saving someone because it’s his job.

It’s about you.

He thinks about the way you clung to his sleeve when he tried to leave you in the ambulance. The way you asked him to stay, like he was the only steady thing in the chaos. The way you fell asleep in his arms last night, breathing slow and soft like maybe, just maybe, being close to him made you feel a little safer.

And now, the quiet way you admit like it’s just a fact, not a tragedy  that it’s “just you” makes something tug in his chest, something sharp and strange, because you don’t have anyone else right now, but his heart somehow stands with pride. 

You’re still here, his heart says. You can stay longer. 

And for reasons he can’t explain —reasons he’s too mentally drained to untangle— Changbin suddenly wants to be someone for you. Maybe not the person. Maybe not anything special. But someone.

Someone who stays.

[.]

The discharge process moves forward around you, impersonal and efficient.

A nurse removes the IV from your hand with practiced ease, placing a small piece of gauze over the spot before securing it with medical tape. “You’re all set,” she says. “Doctor will be in soon with your paperwork. Just take it easy for the next few days.”

You nod, murmuring a quiet thanks, but your attention is elsewhere, on the way Changbin hasn’t moved from his spot by the window, arms crossed over his chest, staring outside like the world beyond the hospital walls holds some kind of answer he’s not ready to face.

You crack your knuckles absentmindedly —only the ones in your healthy hand, just in case—, and also rubbing at the faint indentation the IV left behind. The room feels… different now. Lighter, maybe. Too light, like something’s being lifted away before you’re ready to let it go.

“So,” you say, just to fill the silence. “Guess I’m finally getting kicked out of here.”

Changbin exhales a short, amused breath, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess so.”

A pause. Too long. Too loaded.

You don’t know what to say to make this feel normal. You should be relieved—you are relieved—but there’s something about the way the past several hours have unfolded, about how much space he’s taken up in them, that makes leaving feel… strange.

He turns to you then, shifting his weight like he’s about to say something important, but the door swings open before he can.

The doctor steps in with a clipboard, professional and efficient, talking about medications, follow-up care, rest. You try to focus, nodding in the right places, but your thoughts are still tangled somewhere between the hospital bed and the quiet weight of Changbin’s presence beside it.

And when the doctor finally hands you the discharge papers and tells you you’ll soon be good to go, the realization settles in.

You don’t want to. Not yet.

And you’re not sure if it’s the hospital you’re reluctant to leave—or the person standing across from you, watching you like he might not be ready either.

Changbin turns around again. Changbin hasn’t moved from his spot by the window. Arms crossed, shoulders tense, he watches the city outside, bathed in the dim glow of streetlights. The world keeps moving—cars humming down rain-slick roads, neon signs flickering against the glass, people going about their lives as if nothing has changed.

But everything has changed.

He exhales, watching his breath fog faintly against the cold surface, only to realize something else reflected in the glass.

Someone else.

You.

Seated on the edge of the hospital bed, fingers grazing the fresh gauze on your hand, eyes lowered in quiet thought.

He stops looking at the view. And Seo starts looking at you.

Your expression is unreadable, lips slightly parted like there’s something on the tip of your tongue you haven’t decided whether to say. There’s something almost fragile about the moment—like if he moves too suddenly, it might break.

And he doesn’t want to break it.

So he just… watches. Takes in the way exhaustion still clings to you, the way you breathe a little slower now, steadier, but not quite at ease.

And then, as if you can feel his eyes on you, your gaze lifts—and meets his through the glass.

His breath catches.

And suddenly, the view behind the glass doesn’t seem so important anymore.

“Take a picture, mister firefighter,” you smile. “It’ll last longer.”

You shift in the bed and pat the space beside you, inviting him closer. His eyes tell some kind of story you want to read but don’t know the language. Yours blink. Your heart knows it’d make you learn it in a beat if it meant staying longer in this no-smoke bubble. 

Changbin huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head, but he doesn’t look away just yet. The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s debating saying something, but instead, he just watches you for a second longer before finally pushing away from the window.

He hesitates for only a breath before accepting the silent invitation, moving to sit beside you on the bed. The mattress dips under his weight, and for a moment, neither of you say anything.

Up close, you notice the exhaustion still clinging to his features, the way his shoulders seem a little heavier, the way his eyes flicker with something unreadable. And yet, there’s also warmth there, something steady in the way he stays.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The quiet stretches, not uncomfortable, but thick with something unsaid.

You steal a glance at him, only to find him already looking at you. His lips part slightly like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

And you… Well, you don’t want this to end.

Your fingers curl slightly into the blanket as if you could somehow hold onto this moment, but before you can find the words, he beats you to it. Except—

“You—”

“I—”

You both stop, startled into a quiet laugh. Changbin exhales through his nose, shaking his head, and then—he gives up.

“I want to…” He hesitates just long enough for your breath to catch. But then, instead of finishing the thought, he turns to the nightstand, grabbing the pen from the forgotten clipboard.

The scratch of ink on paper is soft, deliberate.

And when he’s done, he tears the corner of the page and holds it out to you.

“Just… call me when you want someone to stay.”

He presses the slip of paper into your palm and steps back. Not far, just enough. Just enough to pretend like this is normal. Like this doesn’t feel like some invisible —red, perhaps— thread pulling tight between you.

Then he turns, heading for the door.

And even after the nurse steps in, after she greets you softly and pulls out a bundle of neatly folded clothes, Changbin lingers just outside. Not leaving. Not quite staying. Just there.

Seo exhales—long and slow, like it might clear the weight pressing down on his chest. It doesn’t.

He leans against the wall, arms crossed, fingers tapping restlessly against his bicep. He should go. He should be walking out of here, leaving this behind like any other rescue. That’s what he’s supposed to do. That’s what he always does.

But he doesn’t move.

Instead, his mind latches onto the way your fingers brushed his when you took the paper, and how you held his hand even asleep. The way your lips parted, like you wanted to say something but never did. 

His chest feels too tight.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. He’s done his job. You’re safe. That should be enough.

But it’s not.

He lets his head thud lightly against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. He shouldn’t be indulging in this. Not when he knows better. Not when he’s spent years keeping distance between himself and the people he saves. Not when he’s been told what happens when one gets too close, again and again by the other firefighters he works with. 

But it’s already too late, isn’t it?

Because you’re not just another person he pulled out of a fire. You’re the one who looked at him like you weren't afraid anymore. The one who made him laugh at two in the morning with dumb would-you-rather questions and stupid UNO strategies. The one who fell asleep on his shoulder like you trusted him.

And now, as he waits—just a few feet away, just out of sight—he can feel it. That quiet, aching part of him that already wants to go back inside. Just to see if you’re still there, even if he knows you are. Just to see if you’ll look at him one last time before you leave.

The hospital lobby is quiet at this hour, save for the occasional rustle of papers and the low murmur of the receptionist confirming details on a form. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a dull glow over everything, making the world outside the glass doors seem softer, almost unreal in contrast.

Changbin stands a few feet away, hands tucked in his pockets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He tells himself he’s just waiting. Just making sure everything is settled before he goes. But really, he knows that’s not it.

You’re focused on the papers in front of you, signing where the receptionist points, nodding along to instructions about rest, about medications, about things that should concern him far less than they do.

He should leave.

Really, he should.

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

His gaze drifts to the reflection in the glass doors. He can see you there, the slight furrow of your brows as you concentrate, the way you lift a hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. It’s nothing. A simple, everyday motion. But for some reason, it tugs at something deep in his chest.

Changbin knows he shouldn’t linger.

Not just because of the hour or because his shift technically ended long ago—but because of what he is. A firefighter. His job is to step in when disaster strikes. To pull people from burning buildings, to keep them breathing, to make sure they see another day. But that’s all it should be. A duty. A moment in time. He’s not supposed to indulge in anything beyond that.

He’s not supposed to care like this.

And yet, he stands there, watching you in the reflection of the glass doors, fingers curling and uncurling in his pockets.

You don't look at him. Don’t seem to notice he’s still here. But maybe that’s how it should be. Because he shouldn’t be here still. 

You keep your eyes on the forms in front of you, pen poised but unmoving. You could look at him—just once, just for a second—but you don't. You can’t. 

Because if you do, you’ll see him watching you. You’ll see the way he lingers, the way he hesitates. And you’d know. You would know that whatever this is, it’s most likely not one-sided.

And that terrifies you, because it would be easier if it were. It would be easier if this was just gratitude, just the remnants of fear clinging to your bones. If you could shake this feeling off like soot after a fire.

But you can’t.

And you’re scared that if you reach for him, if you hold on too tight, he’ll slip through your fingers like smoke. So you keep your head down. Focus on the receptionist’s voice, on the weight of the pen in your hand, on anything but the man standing just a few feet away. If you look at him, you might do something reckless. 

Like ask him to stay.

Neither of you will know what the other one thinks, not as you scribble and nod to the receptionist in front of you, or as he exhales, slow and quiet, and turns toward the exit. Steps forward, each footfall feeling heavier than it should. Out into the night, away from whatever this was, full of a strange tightness in his chest and a sense of melancholy, driven only by his own thoughts.

Maybe it was just a moment, they both think, hoping it that way in a chance to make it easier to leave. Maybe it’s not something worth turning back for.

Still, something inside Changbin makes him look back, wondering if he should go inside again, until his phone rings. He picks it up, and quickly heads outside. 

The receptionist smiles at you, but then curses lowly, apologizing and telling you she needs to go print another document for you to sign. As she stands up and leaves, you look back. 

Changbin isn’t there anymore. 

Maybe it’s the receptionist, in that absentminded, routine way people have, that when she gets back and hands you the last document and casually says, “Sign here, and then you’re all set.”

All set.

It should be a good thing, shouldn’t it? You should want to leave. You do want to leave. But the words land too heavily in your chest, and for a split second, you forget how to move. How to write your own stupid signature. 

Because all set means it’s over. It means the space between you two is about to stretch too far, and suddenly, it feels like there’s not enough air in the room.

You grip the pen too tightly, signing. He looks inside the hospital one more time, and clenches his fists at his sides, leaving.

You don’t look at each other. Because if you do, you might not be able to let go.

You might be all set after exiting the hospital on your own.

But with the weight on your chest as you look up to the window of the room you’ve just been in, there’s a gnawing feeling in the back of your throat that makes you think—

things are far from over.

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

~kats, who’s brain did indeed rot and is now in love with firefighter binnie.

catiuskaa, april 2025 ©

ep 2 will be out in two weeks time! <3

[luvyeni]

𐙚 : SELLING MY BOYFRIEND W/ STRAYKIDS (smau) ֶָ֢ !

request: can you make the selling my bf thing but for skz? pls n thxx

authors note. no problem luv , i hope you like it <3!!!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

©️LUVYENI

[linoxpudding]

Fading Love (Pt 2)- Lee Know

summary: as the distance between you and minho grows, secrets remain unspoken, and misunderstandings spiral out of control—until one final confrontation threatens to shatter everything for good

pairing: lee know x fem!reader, bsf!changbin x reader

genre: heavy angst

word count: 4290 words

warnings: mentions of divorce, pregnancy, emotional distress

a/n: wow my longest fic yet, it's filled with angst and no comfort (I'm sorry, ily)

SERIES: PART ONE PART THREE PART FOUR

ENDGAME: Voting Poll

Masterlist

~°~

The second the door shut behind Minho, a heavy silence settled over the apartment.

It felt unreal. Like a nightmare you were waiting to wake up from.

As you sat frozen on the cold floor, arms wrapped around yourself, the weight of his words pressed against your chest, suffocating, relentless. I want a divorce.

How did it come to this? How did the love you had fought so hard to protect slip through your fingers like sand?

Your body shook with silent sobs, grief clawing at your throat as you rocked back and forth, the reality of your situation settling in. You were alone. Carrying his child, and utterly alone.

Your hands trembled as you reached for your phone. There was only one person you could call right now—someone who had been there from the very beginning. 

Your best friend, Seo Changbin. The one who had introduced you to Minho in the first place.

With shaky fingers, you tapped his name and pressed the call button. The phone rang once, twice—

"Y/N? It's late. What's up?" His voice was warm, familiar, a lifeline in your drowning despair.

The moment you heard his voice, the dam broke. A choked sob escaped your lips, and you struggled to get the words out.

“Binnie… Can you—” your breath hitched, “can you come over? Please?”

Changbin immediately tensed on the other end. “What happened?” His voice sharpened with worry.

You couldn’t answer, your throat tightening as another sob wracked through you.

“I’m on my way,” he said without hesitation. “Just hold on, okay? I’ll be there soon.”

The call ended, and you curled into yourself, pressing your palms against your face as you tried to steady your breathing.

*********************

Changbin arrived less than fifteen minutes later. The second he stepped into your apartment, his eyes darted around—taking in the dim lighting and the way you sat on the couch wrapped in a blanket, eyes red and swollen. Then his gaze shifted, taking in the carefully set dinner table, the soft glow of the candles, the unopened envelope sitting there like an abandoned secret. 

His stomach dropped.

He rushed to you, dropping to his knees beside the couch as he pulled you into his arms. “Hey, hey… I’m here. What happened?” His voice was soft, but there was an underlying urgency to it.

You clung to him, burying your face in his shoulder as fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. “He—” your voice cracked, “He asked for a divorce.”

Changbin stiffened. His whole body went rigid against yours.

“…What?” He pulled back slightly, eyes searching your face as if he didn’t believe his ears.

You let out a weak, bitter laugh. “He said… it’s not working anymore.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, his own expression darkened with anger.

“That—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That bastard.”

You shook your head. “Don’t… don’t blame him. He—”

“No, Y/N.” His voice was sharp, but not at you. “You’re sitting here, crying your heart out, and he—” Another deep inhale. He ran a hand down his face, “I’m gonna kill him.”

You sniffled, clutching the blanket tighter. “It gets worse.”

Changbin turned to you immediately, eyes filled with concern. “What do you mean?”

You hesitated. This was it.

The words you had planned to say to Minho—the words you had hoped would bring you two back together—now hung heavy in your throat.

Finally, you whispered, “I’m pregnant.”

Changbin froze.

His breath caught, eyes wide with shock. “What?”

You nodded weakly, hands shaking as you wiped at your cheeks. “Three months… I found out today.” You motioned toward the table, toward the sonogram that sat there inside the envelope unopened. 

Realization dawned in his eyes. He exhaled sharply, “Holy shit.” 

A sharp breath left Changbin’s lips as he ran a hand through his hair, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “He doesn’t know?”

Tears burned your eyes again. “I was gonna tell him tonight. I thought… I thought maybe the baby would fix things.” Your voice cracked, “But he left before I could say anything.”

Changbin didn’t speak for a moment. He just stared at the table, his expression unreadable.

Then, he reached out and took your hand, squeezing gently. “Y/N.” His voice was softer now. “What do you wanna do?”

You swallowed. “I don’t want him to know.”

He blinked. “What?”

You wiped at your eyes, composing yourself. “I think he fell out of love, Binnie. I don’t… I don’t want him to feel obligated to stay because of the baby. I don’t want our child to grow up in a marriage that was forced.”

Changbin opened his mouth, then closed it. His lips pressed into a thin line. “Y/N…”

“No, Changbin.” Your voice was firm despite the pain in your chest. “He made his decision. He wants to leave. I won’t force him to stay just because I’m pregnant.”

Changbin’s jaw tightened, “But he deserves to know.”

You swallowed hard. “And what if he doesn’t want this child? I can’t—” your voice wavered, “I can’t bear the thought of him looking at our baby with regret.”

Changbin exhaled slowly, his expression torn. He wanted to argue, to shake some sense into Minho, to drag him back here and force him to see what he was throwing away. But he also saw the pain in your eyes, the fear of being unwanted—not just for yourself, but for the life growing inside you.

"Promise me," your voice trembled. "You won’t tell him. You also won’t tell any of the guys."

For a long moment, Changbin didn’t speak. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the way he wanted to argue, but in the end—he sighed and nodded.

“…Okay.”

*********************

Minho lay on the stiff hotel bed, staring up at the ceiling, exhaustion pressing down on him like a weight he couldn't shake. The silence in the room was deafening—no sound of your soft footsteps, no warmth of your presence beside him. Just him, alone, with his own thoughts.

His chest ached, but he told himself this was for the best.

He hadn't made this decision lightly. It had been months of watching the light fade from your eyes, of feeling the distance stretch between you both like an unbridgeable gap. He saw it in the way you barely smiled anymore, in the way your laughter—once so effortless—had become rare, almost forced. And it killed him.

The guilt had been eating him alive for months. He knew he wasn’t around enough. Work had kept him late, exhaustion had drained him, and slowly, without realizing it, he had let you slip through his fingers. The more he failed to fix things, the more he convinced himself that maybe… maybe you’d be happier without him.

He wasn’t blind. He saw the way you stared at the walls when you thought he wasn’t looking. The way your voice wavered when you asked him if he was okay, as if you already knew the answer. He saw the disappointment flicker in your eyes every time he walked through the door late, too tired to do anything but collapse onto the couch. The countless missed dates. The way your excitement would slowly fade each time he called to tell you he couldn't make it. The way you'd try to mask your disappointment, saying, "It's okay, I understand," when he knew it wasn’t.

He remembered the company dinner you had invited him to—the one you had been looking forward to for weeks. You had picked out a dress, even asked him which earrings looked better, excitement shining in your eyes. Yet, when the night came, he wasn’t there.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he had promised, like he always did. But the truth was, he never really did.

You were miserable.

And he blamed himself.

Minho shut his eyes, allowing himself to drift back to that weekend. He had planned the getaway hoping that maybe, just maybe, escaping reality for a little while would fix things. That if he could just hold you close, kiss you the way he used to, you’d remember how much he loved you. Maybe you’d smile at him like before, without the weight of disappointment shadowing your gaze.  

And for a moment, it worked.  

That night, as he made love to you, he let himself believe that things could go back to how they once were. He traced every inch of you with reverence, whispering silent apologies into your skin. But even as he held you, even as you buried your face into his neck and sighed in contentment, an overwhelming sense of guilt crept into his chest, tightening like a vice.  

Because deep down, he knew love wasn’t enough.  

He knew that you deserved more than fleeting moments of happiness. More than those rare luxury vacations that only served as temporary bandages over a wound that kept growing. You deserved consistency, effort—not just grand gestures when things started to break beyond repair.  

You deserved a partner who showed up for you, not just physically but emotionally. Someone who came home on time, who listened, who asked about your day and actually heard the answer. Someone who didn’t let exhaustion or work become an excuse to neglect the person they swore to cherish.  

That night, as you slept soundly on his chest, he wept in silence, his fingers softly running through your hair. Because he knew he was failing you. He knew you deserved more, and he hated himself for not knowing how to give it to you.

So after three more months of battling his own thoughts, he did what he thought was right. He let you go. 

Minho exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand down his face. He had expected relief, a sense of closure. Instead, there was only a hollowness, a gnawing feeling in his gut that he had just made the worst mistake of his life.

Because the truth was, he still loved you. More than anything. But what good was love if it left you feeling lonely in your own home? What good was love if it wasn’t enough to stop you from hurting?  

*********************

Minho arrived home the next morning, the weight of finality pressing down on his chest. He wasn’t sure if you’d be home, but as he stepped inside, the silence told him everything—no soft humming from the kitchen, no quiet footsteps padding across the floor. Just emptiness.

He let out a slow breath, forcing himself to move. Packing was quick—too quick for something that felt like the end of an era. He grabbed his clothes, his essentials, ignoring the way his hands trembled as he zipped his suitcase. His eyes lingered on the little things—the framed photos, the sweater of his you always stole, the candle on the bedside table that smelled like vanilla because you said it made the house feel warm.

Then, as he walked to the foyer, he hesitated. His fingers brushed against the small keychain attached to his house key—the matching set you had gotten for both of you. The little silver cat charm had been a joke at first, but you had said, “Now, even our keys belong together.”

He exhaled sharply and placed the key next to yours, letting his fingers linger for a second longer before pulling away. Without another glance, he silently closed the door behind him.

*********************

Han Jisung was lounging on his couch when Minho showed up at his door, suitcase in hand.

“Hyung?” Jisung blinked in confusion, pushing his glasses up his nose. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Minho dropped his bag near the entrance, rubbing his face. “Can I crash here for a while?”

Jisung’s expression turned wary. “What happened? Where’s Y/N?”

Minho didn’t answer.

He stared at him for a long moment, confusion dawned on his face. “Hyung, you’re scaring me–” his eyes widened, “Did you guys have a fight?”

Minho sank onto the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He didn’t respond. Because what was there to say? He had done what he thought was right, and yet, the emptiness inside him only grew.

For the first day, Jisung didn’t ask questions. He let Minho stay in the guest room, barely speaking to him. But by the second day, the silence was unbearable.

Jisung finally confronted him in the kitchen, arms crossed as Minho mindlessly stirred a cup of coffee.

“Why are you really here, hyung?”

Minho remained silent.

Jisung scoffed, his frustration clear. “Did something happen with Y/N?”

Minho tensed.

Jisung’s frown deepened. “…Hyung… what did you do?”

Minho exhaled, gripping the edge of the counter. His voice was barely above a whisper, “I asked for a divorce.”

Jisung froze. His mouth parted slightly in shock before his face fell completely. “…What?”

Minho didn’t repeat himself. He couldn’t.

Jisung stared at him for a long moment before shaking his head. “No. No, that doesn’t make sense. You love her. You—”

Minho cut him off, voice flat. “It’s already done, Han.”

Jisung let out a humorless laugh, stepping back. “You’re serious?” He ran a hand through his hair. “What the fuck, hyung? Why?”

Minho didn’t answer.

Jisung scoffed, anger flickering in his eyes. “Did you even fight for her? Or did you just—give up?”

Minho clenched his jaw. “I didn’t give up.”

Jisung shook his head in disbelief. “Then what the hell do you call this?”

Minho didn’t have an answer.

*********************

Days later, Minho finally showed up at the studio.

He needed to get back to work. Needed something—anything—to distract himself.

But the second he walked into the studio, he realized just how naïve that was. The air was heavy. The usual playful energy that filled the space was gone, replaced with thick silence and cold stares.

The other members were there, but they weren’t joking around like usual. Felix and Hyunjin barely glanced at him. Seungmin kept his eyes on his laptop. Jeongin had his arms crossed, face unreadable. Even Chan—who usually tried to keep the peace—looked disappointed.

And then there was Changbin.

Changbin was standing by the mixing board, arms crossed, gaze burning into Minho like he wanted to hit him.

Minho sighed, “Just say whatever you’re going to say, Bin.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I will.” Changbin took a step forward, his voice razor-sharp, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Minho didn’t answer.

Changbin’s eyes flashed. “I mean it, Minho. What the hell were you thinking?”

Minho clenched his jaw, “You don’t understand—”

“I don’t understand?” Changbin let out a bitter laugh. “No, I get it perfectly. You’re a fucking coward.”

Minho flinched.

“You’re seriously going through with this?” Chan’s voice was low, controlled, but he was disappointed, “You’re really leaving her?”

Minho swallowed hard, “It’s for the best.”

“For who?” Hyunjin scoffed, shaking his head. “Because it sure as hell isn’t for her. Or you.”

Minho remained silent, staring at the floor.

“I introduced you to her, hyung.” Changbin’s voice cracked, his hands trembling. “I watched you fall in love with her. And now, you’re just—what? Throwing it all away? After everything?”

“It’s not that simple,” Minho muttered.

“It is that simple.” Changbin snapped. “You’re hurting her. And don’t even try to tell me you don’t love her anymore—because we both know that’s bullshit.”

Minho clenched his fists. “You don’t understand.”

Changbin let out a humorless laugh, “You’re right. I don’t. Because I could never understand how someone could destroy the best thing in their life with their own hands.”

Minho exhaled shakily, lowering his gaze. He didn’t know how to explain it. The self-hatred, the guilt, the belief that you would be better off without him.

The silence stretched, suffocating. Then, almost unconsciously, the words slipped out.

“…Is she okay?”

Minho barely had time to process his own question before Changbin’s expression twisted into something darker—something dangerous.

“You don’t deserve to know.”

The words hit him like a bullet.

Minho’s head snapped up, but Changbin wasn’t done.

“You lost that right the second you walked out on her.” His voice was harsh, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. “You don’t get to ask about her now. You don’t get to pretend you care when you’re the one who left her behind.”

Minho’s throat tightened, “I never stopped caring.”

“Then where the fuck were you when she needed you?” Changbin’s voice rose, his anger barely restrained. “Where were you when she—”

He cut himself off, exhaling sharply, like he had to physically stop himself from saying something.

Minho frowned, his chest tightening. “When she what?”

Silence.

But there was something in Changbin’s expression—something guarded, something hesitant—that made Minho’s stomach twist.

“…Changbin.” His voice was low. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Changbin’s jaw clenched. He looked away, biting the inside of his cheek.

Minho turned to the others. “Do any of you know?”

No one answered. Everyone just stared at Changbin in confusion.

Felix shifted uncomfortably. Seungmin sighed, rubbing his temples. Jisung, who had been watching the whole conversation unfold, hesitated before finally speaking.

“You should just leave, hyung.”

Minho’s heart pounded. “Not until he tells me what’s going on.”

Changbin turned back to him, his expression dark. “You don’t get to demand shit, Minho”

Minho’s breath came unevenly. His mind was racing, every nerve screaming that something wasn’t right. That you weren’t okay.

But before he could press further, Changbin took a step back, his voice dropping to a quiet edge. “If you really gave a shit, you would’ve stayed.”

And with that, he turned and walked out of the room. The conversation was over.

Minho stood there, frozen, suffocating under the weight of his own choices. He let out a slow, heavy sigh—then left the studio. He should come back later. 

*********************

Meanwhile, you were trying your best to keep moving forward as the months progressed. 

The divorce process was surprisingly simple—your lawyers handled most of it, meaning you didn’t have to see Minho face-to-face. In a way, you were relieved. You weren’t sure if you could handle it. At first, you thought he would change his mind. That maybe, at some point, he’d realize the mistake and take it back. But he didn’t.

Instead, Minho had become colder.

No messages. No calls. It felt like he completely moved on.

The one date you would have to see him, the court date for the final signatures, was looming over your head like a storm cloud. But by then, you told yourself, maybe you’d have already delivered the baby. Maybe it would make things… easier.

Or maybe it would make everything worse.

You still debated telling Minho. But why? He didn’t want you anymore—why would he want your baby?

The only thing keeping you steady through all of it was Changbin. He had been your rock through the entire process, making sure you ate, making sure you weren’t alone when you didn’t want to be. Since you had no family in the city, having him around made everything feel a little less unbearable.

Of course, he still pushed you every once in a while. “You should tell Minho,” he’d say, voice careful, knowing you wouldn’t want to hear it. But he kept his promise. He never told Minho, or any of the boys.

Now, nearing your due date, your belly was impossible to hide. 

*********************

You sighed as you opened Changbin’s fridge, only to be greeted by nearly nothing.

“Changbin, what the hell do you eat?” you muttered, your voice echoing in the mostly empty kitchen.

“Protein shakes,” he answered shamelessly from the couch.

You turned to glare at him, “That’s not food.”

He shrugged, “It gets the job done.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, if you want to live like a gym rat and die from malnutrition.” You shut the fridge and grabbed your jacket. “Come on. We’re going grocery shopping. I’m not letting you survive on just protein shakes and instant ramen.”

Changbin groaned. “Y/N, I have food. You’re being dramatic.”

“No, you don’t,” you argued, pointing at him. “And I’m not about to let my best friend starve.”

In the end, you won.

As you and Changbin walked through the grocery store, he was disguised in a hoodie, cap, and mask to avoid being recognized. You chuckled, shaking your head, as you tossed a bag of spinach into the cart.

“You look ridiculous,” you teased.

Changbin scoffed. “Excuse me, this is peak disguise fashion.”

You rolled your eyes, handing him a bag of apples. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

Despite the teasing, your mind briefly wandered. Minho used to do the same—always in disguise, always hiding. Not because he wanted to, but because you had asked him to. You wanted your privacy, wanted to protect his career. He had respected that, never once pushing you to go public.

Funny how things changed.

Your smile faltered slightly, but before you could dwell on it, Changbin nudged you with his elbow. “You okay?”

You quickly nodded. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“Do I really need this many vegetables?” Changbin said in an attempt to lighten your mood. 

“Yes,” you said firmly. “And real food too. Not just protein bars and chicken breast.”

Changbin sighed. “Fine, mom.”

You smirked. “I am about to be a mom.”

He chuckled. “Touché.”

After finishing your grocery run, you both returned to his apartment, and as soon as everything was put away, exhaustion hit you like a truck. You had been feeling extra drained lately, and sometimes, your own apartment felt too lonely to go back to. So, without thinking too much, you made your way to his guest room upstairs, curling up on the bed for a nap.

Changbin didn’t question it. He simply made sure you were comfortable before leaving you to rest.

*********************

Back at Jisung’s place, Minho sat on the couch, mindlessly scrolling through his phone when something made his breath hitch.

“BREAKING NEWS: MYSTERIOUS WOMAN SPOTTED WITH STRAY KIDS’ CHANGBIN—IS HE GOING TO BE A FATHER?!”

Minho stared at the headline in disbelief.

The accompanying picture showed Changbin walking through a grocery store, a shopping cart—and a heavily pregnant woman by his side.

A woman that looked far too familiar. It was you.

The breath punched out of his lungs. His fingers clenched around his phone. His vision blurred with rage.

You were with Changbin.

And you were pregnant.

Minho felt like the air had been sucked out of his lungs. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as a horrifying realization hit him—was the baby Changbin’s? Had you moved on that fast?

Minho’s grip tightened on his phone, his vision blurring with rage and something far more painful—betrayal.

He was speechless, you… and Changbin?

Before the divorce was even finalized?

His heart pounded. You had moved on while he was still regretting everything?

His body moved before his mind caught up. Anger surged through his veins as he grabbed his car keys and drove to Changbin’s apartment, each mile fueling his anger.

*********************

Changbin was in the living room, when loud banging echoed through the front door.

“Changbin!”

The furious voice sent ice through his veins. He could tell it was Minho.

The second he opened the door, Minho stormed inside, shoving him back.

“Dude, what the hell—”

“What the fuck is this?” Minho’s voice was sharp, holding up his phone.

Changbin frowned, glancing at the headline. “It’s not—”

“Tell me this isn’t real.”

Changbin hesitated. “Minho, calm down—”

“Don’t tell me to fucking calm down!” His voice cracked, eyes blazing. “You and her? Before the divorce was even finalized? How could you– HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!”

Changbin clenched his jaw. “It’s not what you think.”

Minho took a step closer, fists tightening, “Then tell me. Tell me it’s not yours.”

Silence. Changbin hesitated.

Your words rang in his head—“Promise me. You won’t tell him.”

He swallowed and then, against every instinct screaming at him, he forced the lie out.

“…It’s mine.”

Minho froze. 

His blood turned to ice, his breath caught in his throat. He was then filled with rage. It exploded inside him, taking over every rational thought.

Before he even realized it, his fist swung.

The punch landed square on Changbin’s jaw, sending him stumbling back.

“Minho—” Changbin hissed, touching his lip.

But Minho wasn’t listening. He saw red.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!” he yelled, grabbing Changbin by the collar. “You were my best friend!” His voice broke. “How could you—how could you—”

The pain cut too sharp.

"YOU WERE MY BROTHER!" Minho roared, his chest heaving, rage and heartbreak spilling from every syllable. "YOU ASSHOLE—AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, AFTER EVERYTHING WE’VE BEEN THROUGH—YOU WENT BEHIND MY BACK?!"

Changbin shook his head quickly. “Minho, listen—”

"NO!" Minho’s hands trembled at his sides, nails digging into his palms as his vision blurred with anger.

“STOP!” Your loud and shattered voice rang through the room.

Minho turned, still breathing hard. And there you were. Standing at the top of the stairs, eyes wide with panic.

His heart skipped a beat. For a second, neither of you moved. Then—Minho’s gaze lowered. Your hand was resting on your stomach protectively.

Then, reality slammed into him– you and Changbin. A baby.

Minho’s vision blurred as he whispered, “After all this time, this is how it ends?”

The pain in his voice made your stomach twist.

His throat tightened. “I—I quit.”

You stiffened. “What?”

“I won’t be in the band anymore. I quit.”

Changbin’s eyes widened in horror. “Minho, stop—don’t say that—”

But Minho wasn’t listening. He turned and walked out the door.

You finally snapped out of your daze. “Minho, wait!”

But he didn’t stop. He didn’t look back. And for the second time in your life—Minho walked away from you.

----------------

Taglist:

@kaiyaba @lov3rachan @pixie-felix @ellemir2404 @willowhanji @skzimagines @wavetohannie @jamroses @vietjeb @kayleefriedchicken @kokinu09 @nightmarenyxx @my-neurodivergent-world @shuuporanglinos @silly250

Part 2 Taglist:

@lovesunshinefelix @bluebellsringinghereandthere @hanniebunch @minniesverse @expired-vibes @havenwithleeknow @nikithaaaaaa @minghaosimp @zelianlop @imeverycliche @missvanjii @kissesmellow21 @butterflybananabread @skzmasterchef

[soobnny]

we'll never have sex — changbin x reader ; established relationship & hurt/comfort (1.2k words)

there is nothing more beautiful than the promise of love even if you cannot guarantee or give that certain level of intimacy just yet

for my girls with a complicated relationship w sex & yes this is based off of leith ross’ song

Facetimes with Changbin always last longer than they should. 

Had it been anyone else, the call would’ve dropped more than an hour ago. You’d have been found guilty for finding any excuse to warrant you some silence–the slightest tinge of awkwardness, the moment conversation runs out, faking plans.

Never with Changbin.

The static of phone calls stretch on, neither of you having moved much. You can’t remember how long it’d been since either of you said something, but you’ve never minded. The quiet that came with your boyfriend had always felt comfortable. Almost safe.

In your periphery, just at the top most right of your screen, you can see him sprawled across his bed, signature hoodie to match the boyfriend look, and fingers lazily scrolling through his phone. 

“Still awake, baby?” His voice breaks the silence, teasing almost, but still gentle. 

“Mhm.” You hum, shifting in your position a little. “But ‘m a little sleepy.”

“You should go to bed.”

“No.” Changbin chuckles at your refusal, deep and raspy through the phone. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, distinguishably fond even with the poor quality of the video.

For a second, you allow yourself to just watch the boy–his glazed eyes, the softness in his features accentuated by the low light of his room, the warmth of his smile. 

Almost safe. Almost reassuring. 

You wonder if it’s all a facade, wonder when he’d finally break, wonder when he’d leave you because you refuse to let him do anything beyond a kiss. Maybe no amount of love, even from the right person like Changbin, will ever be enough to change that.

You try to scold yourself. Self-destructing thoughts are too familiar, they reverberate in your head like you’d been thinking about it for a while, like they’d been practiced and practiced until permanently tattooed. 

The tears come without warning, mid-scolding. Big and heavy and warm. They pool at the edges of your version, and it makes you feel pathetic that you hurry to press the sleeve of your hoodie against your face. 

Changbin notices immediately.

“Hey.” his voice sharpens, the playful edge he’d been sporting earlier gone in a split second. “(Name)? Baby, hey, look at me. What’s wrong?”

You shake your head, and oh god, he’s going to leave you. He’s going to leave you because you’re such a crybaby, and anyone with a normal fucking mind wouldn’t do this to him. Anyone under normal—kinder—circumstances wouldn’t think like this. 

“Baby.” He tries again, softer this time. “Talk to me.” 

Your throat tightens around something akin to a lump. You try to swallow it down. 

“Why’re you crying? What’s wrong?” 

There’s a long pause before you finally speak.

“What if I… what if…” You start, voice barely above a whisper. You don’t know how to continue, words disjointed and dismembered. “If I said you could never touch me, would you still want to be with me?”

Changbin pauses for a fraction of a second, eyebrows drawn together in genuine confusion. But you go on, inundating him with the fears that have spent your entire life trying to catch up with you.

“I can’t give you what you want. It’s what you want, isn’t it? Would you still stay with me even if I told you that I never want to have sex?”

The boy’s expression softens immediately. He can hear his own heart break at how fragile you sound, at how shattering it is to look at your tear-streaked face through a screen, at the things that could’ve transpired for you to think that he’d ever leave you because of that, just because of something so menial to him in a relationship.

“Of course I’ll stay.” He says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “That doesn’t change anything.”

His words are meant to be comforting, the small but sure smile on his lips should’ve been enough to return your peace, but instead, the tears well up again. Heavier this time. 

“Wait. Wait, wait—hold on.” His face suddenly disappears off the screen as he fumbles with his phone. He sounds rushed. “I’m… I can’t just look at you cry and not do anything about it.”

Then the call ends.

It isn’t until fifteen minutes later when a sudden knock on your door shakes you from your self-pity do you see him again. And he’s standing there, slightly out of breath, the same hoodie you’d seen earlier half-zipped with his hair tousled from the cold wind outside. 

“Binnie.” Your voice cracks. “What are you doing here?”

Changbin doesn’t say anything at first, just allows himself to look at you—eyes tracing over the tear stains on your cheeks, and the way you’re hugging yourself with the sleeves of one of his jackets. 

Then, without a word, he slips a hand beneath your jaw, tilting your face to look you in the eyes. His palms on your skin feel warm, calloused but gentle as he cradles you in his hands. “I think…” He pauses. 

A heartbeat passes.

“I think you look lovely.” He murmurs, tone low and gentle, abating the tempestuous anxieties swelling in the pit of your stomach. “And I love you. Not because of what you think I’m expecting from you, but because I love you. The entirety of you.”

You press your face into the crook of his neck as an ugly sob escapes your throat. The tears spill over again, faster, and you feel so ridiculous for crying even more in front of him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I— I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He pulls back, leaning in to press a kiss to your wet cheeks. His voice is firm, but not unkind. Never unkind. And his eyes held no hesitation, no flicker of doubt in the way he’s looking at you right now. “Did I say anything to make you feel this way?”

Changbin tries to hide how he feels about his question, like he could never imagine being the reason why you’re sobbing like this.

“No, oh my god. Binnie, no. It’s not you.” 

“Okay, it’s not me.” His voice is still kind, relieved. “I’m never expecting anything from you, okay?”

And just as gentle as he’s holding you, he kisses you. Nothing desperate, nothing hurried even. Just slow and lingering, like he’s savoring the moment for exactly what it is. He isn’t kissing you to take you to bed, not to ask for anything more, not even to change your mind.

Changbin kisses you just to kiss you. 

Just to hopefully show you that he means everything he said to you. 

“I’ll take care of you.” His fingers thread through your hair. “I love you.”

Quietly, tiredly, you start to show a small smile. “Thank you.”

Loving you is so easy for Changbin. Like second nature. Like falling in love with your laughter, and the little parts of you that make up your sum. And you’re aware that it’s going to take time to heal yourself—that it won’t be so easy all the time, that there will be days like these again, but you also know enough that he is genuine and that he loves you with no expectations even if it’s hard to believe sometimes.

Seo Changbin loves you with every bit of conscience he was born with. He loves you simply. 

You stay like this for a while. Safe. Reassuring. Until you feel the sickness less and less.

[sanakimohara]

Just a quick reminder….this is what Changbin’s hands look like…

You ever just wanna hold Changbin’s hands and lock them between yours cause his fingers just look so soft and warm but at the same time you can easily imagine them just squishing you all over nd stuffing you full and-

Hold on. Putting this in my drafts before I get too carried away but you guys get the gist lol.

[quillsnink]

When SKZ finds your well-organized Korean notes

A/N : This idea randomly popped up in my head when I was learning my Spanish. Picture credit to the owner. Also this is the first time I've tried writing for all the members together.

• Where each member suddenly stumbles upon your neat and well-organized notes for learning Korean. They knew you were studying but didn't realise you went so far as to maintaining an old diary of 2013 for writing down random notes, swear words, grammar rules, slangs, idioms, vocabulary, tests where you had graded yourself with a red pen with marks like 16/20 or 19/25 and your signature like a school teacher and even some phrases learnt from the boys.

• Chris

He found your Korean diary on a random Tuesday evening while he was searching for his laptop charger. He wondered what on earth were you doing with a 2013 diary when he had gifted you the latest one on New Year's Day. Not one to read someone's diary, but his interest was piqued because of a SKZ bookmark hanging out of the diary. He opens it curiously, flipping through the pages that contained grammar rules, self-graded tests with your signature (which he can't help but giggle at), and even an entire section labelled "what Channie taught me", containing phrases and words he had previously taught you, that he himself had forgotten, which little notes on the side in pencil on how to pronounce stating that "Channie says it like this". He smiles to himself, feeling a surge of warmth as he realizes you're working so hard to understand and connect with him and the group on a deeper level. He chuckles at the part where you had stated that he says a word in a certain tone and he's a little surprised to see how observant you were to how he spoke Korean that you had noticed such little things even he didn't know. He is moved by your dedication and effort. It meant so much to him that you wanted to understand him better and also the rest of the boys.

• Minho

Minho's looking around your room when his eyes fall on a notebook open on your bed, with pages full of neat handwriting. Intrigued, he walks over and begins to look through them, noting how well-organized and thoughtful each section is. The color-coding in different color ink, the little drawings, and the way you’ve broken down each concept and it’s clear you’ve put a lot of effort into learning. He spots a few phrases he's used like "Don't be silly" written in Hangul. He feels a strange pride in knowing that you had gone through so much trouble of noting down things he has said and how observant you were to the other members' words and he feels a soft warmth on his chest. When you notice him looking, he gives you an approving nod. "Your notes are impressive," he says, with a faint smile. "You’re serious about learning, huh? I respect that." He’s not overly sentimental, but there’s a hint of admiration in his tone. "Just make sure you don’t learn any bad habits from the guys. I'll teach you the proper way to speak," he adds with a teasing glint in his eyes and you roll your eyes with a smile on your lips.

• Changbin

Changbin flips your notes open curiously and starts reading. The first thing he notices is how neatly you've written grammar concepts and phrases with example sentences using names from the K industry like "Changbin ate an apple", "Joshua cannot swim", "Jaejoong, go to the market !". As he goes through, he can’t help but feel a sense of admiration for your dedication. You’ve put in so much work, and it’s clear that you’re genuinely interested in understanding the language. He chuckles when he sees a section labeled "Cute Phrases learnt from Binnie," where you’ve written down a few things he’s said, noting them with little hearts and stars. When you return, he grins at you, holding up the notebook. "These are really impressive," he says, giving you an encouraging smile. "You’ve put in a lot of effort. If you keep it up, you’ll be fluent in no time!". There’s a hint of pride in his voice as he looks at you, feeling touched that you care so much about connecting with him and the rest of the group in their language.

• Hyunjin

Hyunjin finds your notes when you’re both sitting on the couch. He’s flipping through some things on the table when he spots them, open to a section on descriptive words. At first, he’s just curious, but as he goes through them, he realizes how detailed your notes are. You’ve even added pronunciation tips in English and marked down specific tones you’d heard him use, adding little side notes in pencil like, "Try to sound softer, like Hyunjin." Seeing his own influence in your notes makes his heart race. He’s touched to know you’re paying so much attention to the language, even noting his speaking style. There’s something endearing about how you’re working so hard to speak Korean well, not just to understand him but to match his expressions too. "Wow, you’re really serious about this, huh?" he murmurs, glancing over at you with a soft smile. He leans in closer, resting his chin on his hand as he flips through more pages, admiring your hard work. "If you ever want a study buddy, I’d be happy to help. Maybe I could teach you some new words too… you know, personal ones that only we would know or swear words, whichever you want", he winks, enjoying the thought of having something special shared between the two of you.

• Han

Han stumbles upon your notes one day while you’re hanging out. He flips through them casually, but the more he reads, the more impressed he becomes. Your notes are detailed, organized, and incredibly thorough. You’ve written down vocabulary, grammar rules, and even broken down complex sentences into parts. He’s particularly amused when he sees a section labeled "Funny Phrases" with things he’s said, complete with little notes like, "Han said this when he was being silly." He feels a warmth in his chest, touched that you’ve been paying attention to his quirks and speech patterns. When he looks up at you, there’s a playful glint in his eye. "I didn’t know you were working this hard!" he exclaims. "Your notes are so good; I think I’d actually want to borrow them myself!". Han’s admiration is genuine, and he’s a little flustered by how much he enjoys seeing your dedication. "Anytime you want to practice with me, let me know," he offers, giving you a shy smile. "We could make it fun, you know, with little games and stuff and next time I'll take a test and put my signature on there and an A+ and a smiley if you get it all correct", he said with a wink.

• Felix

When Felix flips through the pages and finds your neat handwriting in Hangul , he's charmed by how much dedication you've put into it, especially when he saw you noted expressions and idioms he used labelled as "Sunshine Lixie's expressions", complete with little stars. His heart flutters at the sight. "Your notes are amazing!" he says, his eyes lighting up. "It’s so cool that you’re learning, and it’s adorable how you even have a section just for my phrases." He pats your shoulder proudly, feeling touched and a bit shy. "I could help you practice anytime you want," he adds, his voice softening, secretly hoping to spend more time with you.

• Seungmin

Seungmin finds your notes by accident when he’s helping you clean up after a study session. He notices them lying open on the table and can’t resist taking a look. As he reads through the pages, he’s impressed by your organization and the level of detail. You’ve made vocabulary lists, highlighted grammar points, and even written down little notes to help you remember certain words. He brings it up later, saying, "Your notes are really impressive. You’re actually doing a great job, and if you keep at it, I think you’ll become fluent in no time." He looks at you thoughtfully, adding, "If you ever need help with pronunciation or understanding something or maybe adding some more to the "Seungmin's Tips" list, I’d be happy to help."

• Jeongin

When the maknae finds your neat diary that you've kept for learning Korean, he is a little surprised but also very impressed at you progress as the self graded "test scores" went higher and as he also remembers some difficult words meant for upper Intermediate learners you'd used a week ago while talking to him. He chuckles when he sees his own "Innie’s Words" section, where you’ve noted down phrases he’s said. Later, he brings it up with a smile, saying, "Your notes are really detailed. It’s so cool that you’re putting in so much effort to learn our language." There’s a sense of pride in his voice as he looks at you, genuinely impressed by your dedication. "If you ever need help, I’m here. I could even teach you some more slang, if you’re up for it Y/N ! And next time, I hope to see you score full marks on your little self tests".

A/N : Do like, comment, reblog and follow if you liked it. You can find the rest of my masterlist here.

[sunshineangel0]

you got one (1) new message...

pairing- seo changbin x reader summary- random text you and your boyfriend send each other genre- fluff, crack, romance word count- n/a warnings- lighthearted insults, soft boy changbin moments

©sunshineangel0 𖹭 if you liked this work, please consider reblogging, commenting or liking! xoxo franzi 💋

skz general: @velvetmoonlght @scarlet789 @estella-novella

(if you want to be added to my taglist, please comment under the post.)

[yxngbxkkie]

comfort (s.c)

i saw a tik tok where it looked like changbinnie was getting ignored, and it absolutely broke my heart 😭 so, to fix it, i wrote this cute fic 🩷

feedback is greatly appreciated 🥰

~

You hook a leg under your thigh as you continue to scroll through tik tok. You smile at the edits people have made of Changbin, your boyfriend of three years. You giggle at how adorable he is, double tapping the video to like it.

The door to your shared apartment opens, causing you to lift your head. Changbin walks through the door, dropping the bag in his hands. A frown instantly comes to your lips as he doesn't greet you.

He walks past you, going down the short hallway before heading into the bedroom. You lock your phone, setting it on the arm of the couch.

“Bin?” You gently call out his name, lifting yourself from the couch.

You peek into your bedroom, seeing Changbin sitting on the edge of your bed. He scrolls through his phone, aimlessly scrolling through Twitter.

“Baby?” You whisper the pet name, hoping he heard you.

He doesn't look in your direction, seeming pretty focused on the tweets. You release a quiet sigh, stepping towards him before sinking to your knees.

You rest your hands against his meaty thighs, gently rubbing the clothed muscle. “Did something happen?” You question him.

His dark eyes finally meet yours, and you can see the unshed tears in them. You whisper, “oh, honey,” before moving to wrap your arms around his shoulders.

“I don't get it,” he mumbles into your neck, feeling the tears streaming down his cheeks. You rub his back gently as Changbin circles his arm around your waist. “I do everything for them. Why don't they love me as much as I love them?”

“Stay loves you, Bin,” you reassure him while combing your fingers through his hair. “Just before you got home, I saw so many edits of you.”

Changbin lifts his head, his eyes turning red from him crying. You give him a soft smile, wiping the excess tears. “Did you really?” He asks in a tiny voice, moving his hands to your outer thighs.

You nod your head, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. “Absolutely, Binnie. I've seen a lot of Stays simp for you, baby,” you tell him truthfully, doing your best to make him feel better.

He doesn't say anything, dropping his gaze to his lap. “Tonight,” Changbin starts but instantly pauses, taking a deep breath. “We did the pre-recording for our comeback. As we were leaving, I waved and said goodbye, but as soon as Jeongin came, everyone was screaming. I just don't get why they don't scream for me. Am I that bad?”

“Baby, no,” you lift his head, making him look at you. “You're not bad at all. You're so loved by so many people, I promise you.”

Changbin sniffles and nods his head. “I love you,” he whispers, returning his gaze to you.

You give him a toothy grin, dipping your head down to capture his lips with yours. “Just remember that you're so loved. Not only by your members, but by true Stays,” you remind him after pulling away. “And me, of course.”

A smile comes to his lips, the first one you've seen tonight. You stroke his cheeks, pinching them softly. “I'm so grateful for you, baby,” he sighs, leaning forward to rest his head against your stomach.

“I love you so much, Seo Changbin,” you sigh into his hair, placing a couple of quick kisses to the top of his head. “My strong and talented baby.”

The two of you stay connected for almost ten minutes. One of your hands glides up and down his back while the other plays with his black hair.

“Did you eat?” Changbin asks, pulling back to look at you.

“I was waiting for you,” you tell him with a giggle. You shift in his arms, plopping yourself onto his lap. “I figured we could order something and cuddle on the couch.”

He wraps his arms around your waist, releasing a hum. “I like the sound of that. Can we order my favorite?” Changbin asks, squeezing your body against his.

“Of course, baby,” you giggle, slipping a hand underneath the back of his shirt. “We can get whatever you want!”

Changbin grows excited and lifts himself off of the bed, carrying you in his buff arms. “I got so lucky with you,” he almost squeals, pressing chaste kisses to your cheek while heading into the living room.

“You say that, but I think I'm the one lucky one,” you laugh, kissing his cheek.

~

tagging: @strawboorybunny @reddesert-healourblues @spacegirlstuff @moon0fthenight @foxinnie8 @like-a-diamondinthesky @prettymiye0n

[jellyleggz]

marred marriage | seo changbin

pairing: husband! seo changbin x gold digger! fem! reader

genre: marriage au, suggestive smut (18+)

synopsis: being so anal about commitments yet choosing to be stuck in a marriage is very confusing for you

warning(s): infidelity, crude language, sexual content (minors dni), mutual masturbation, pet names (darling, baby, babe), lowkey kinda toxic lmao 🫠

word count: 2k

You’ve come home late multiple nights a week without your husband questioning it and you are quite sure that he knows what you are up to.

It was quite obvious too. The engagement and wedding bands both absent from your ring finger. Cheap cologne lingering on your clothes. Wine red bruises blooming on your neck and collarbone.

The week after you got married to Changbin, you continued your lifestyle at bars and clubs as if you were still single. In your book, you were still single and still ready to mingle. After all, you only married your husband for his money and not for love.

Changbin is a workaholic working in the finance sector. He practically lives and breathes numbers. Other than the gym, nothing much happens in his personal life. But he is getting to that age when marriage is always asked in conversation. Many people ranging from his family, friends and coworkers had been urging him to finally settle. He decided that it was time. The man didn’t care for who he ends up with. Just as long as he gets settled.

The big problem is, no one seems to want to stick around for the long run. His dates would end up with the other person just not being interested in him or they have some commitment issues or they just want a quick fuck. The longer this went on, the more desperate Changbin got. He just wanted someone who was willing to stay. Fuck, love is not even the thing Changbin is looking for. Just someone who is willing to stick with him. And he is willing to provide too.

Fun is what you enjoy. Bars, clubs, casinos, speakeasies, fucking around with multiple people at the same time. You have absolutely no desire in staying in a committed relationship. Those were booooring to you. Having fun with different people in the ungodly hours of the night keeps you alive. It was fun. Relationships were not fun.

Your dates never lasted to second ones and it was only Changbin you were willing to give another date. Who wouldn’t want to bag a guy who works at finance?

It wasn’t until the fourth date where you were starting to show disinterest at him. He started bringing up marriage. YUCK. Right when you got up to leave, he grabs on to your wrist. His hold was firm yet not enough to hurt you.

You can sense the desperation from his eyes. “Please just please… I’ll provide for you. You can still live your life. I don’t care what you do. Just marry me… please.”

And here you are now. Changbin’s high rise condo is located at the heart of the city’s downtown. You are nursing a glass of wine on your hand while the other is holding your phone as you complain to your friend on the other side of the screen.

“I mean don’t get me wrong. I love him for his money but I just hate being tied to this marriage.” You take another small sip of wine.

Unbeknownst to you, your husband was eavesdropping on this conversation since it started. You haven’t noticed that his bedroom door was ever so slightly ajar, making it easier to listen in. It was also helpful you had your phone on speaker mode.

“Girl. There are lots of other women out there who would kill to be in your position. He lets you fuck around while still giving you money.”

“Actually. He doesn’t know I’ve been fucking around. Or maybe he does I don’t know. He did say he doesn’t give a fuck about what I do with my life so I’ll take it. But at the same time. You know me. I hate commitments.”

And Changbin does give no fucks if you sleep around or not. It’s what you feel about this marriage that he worries about. Well granted he did kinda coerce you into giving in with his money but he just didn’t want you to leave. He needed another way for you to stay.

Later that night, you were getting dolled up to meet a Tinder date at a hotel. You cover your dress with a trench coat. Just as you were about to head out. You spot your husband sitting on the sofa.

“Going out somewhere tonight, darling?” He gives you a smile. Had it not been for that darling you would have thought this question had no underlying intent.

“I was gonna go meet up with Stacy at this new Thai restaurant that just opened,” you lie.

“Is that so?” He knew it was bullshit.

“I uhm…I thought you would be working tonight?”

Changbin took a gulp of scotch before answering. “Took the night off.” Which was not a lie. He genuinely needed a rest. But he also had plans for you.

“O-kay. I’ll be heading out now,” you say as you opened the door.

That’s when he dropped the big gun. “I don’t care who you sleep around with because baby, at the end of the day, you come back to this home. You come back to me.” You turn around with him giving you the biggest smirk on his face.

You closed the door and took a step forward to him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Shut up.” You gulp. What is your husband on?

Changbin finished his glass of scotch, placing it on the coffee table along with his glasses. Now that you think about it, you haven’t seen him without glasses even after the wedding and well… he looks hot. Why is your husband hot?

He wanted to tease you. He wanted to fluster you and it’s working well so far. “You say that you hate his marriage but you never do anything to end it. You enjoy this life babe. You need me,” he says, as a matter of fact.

“I don’t need you…” Now your face was all tinged in pink. Changbin has always been nonchalant when it comes to your marriage but now, he definitely isn’t acting that way.

“Oh yeah? You don’t need me?” He crossed his arms making his biceps more pronounced. He is definitely teasing you now that you see through him. But what’s frustrating is you don’t understand what’s the point of this thing he is doing. Well. Two can play this game.

“Well. I definitely don’t need you for sex,” you retorted with a smug grin on your face.

“Are you saying that because you’re horny and wanna have sex right now?”

“What?! No! I’m just stating facts okay.”

“Hmm whatever floats your boat Y/N.” And he leaves to go back to his room.

What the hell just happened? Why was he teasing you all of a sudden? He doesn’t care, right? Why did he look so goddamn attractive while flustering you? All these questions swirling in your head like a tornado. Gosh! You needed a glass of water and a moment to compose yourself. You sent a text to your date that you were going to be late.

You needed time to clear your thoughts. But as soon as you were ready to go out of the door again, you heard noises coming from Changbin’s bedroom.

Per your principles, you shouldn’t be giving two shits for your husband. But your curiosity betrayed you and your principles. His door was slightly open and you can hear him moan your name like it’s all he’s ever known. Your hands didn’t hesitate to betray your principles as they push his door open. Curiosity killed the cat because why was he splayed out naked on his bed, moaning your name repeatedly while his hand was on his fat cock? His face contorts from pleasure to that akin to mischief.

Honestly, Changbin thought it wasn’t gonna work. He completely expected you were going to continue with that date. But you were here. His wife was here in his room.

He clears out his throat. “I thought you said you didn’t need me for sex?”

“You think so highly of yourself,” you scoff as you take off your trench coat. ”I’m not gonna fuck you okay.” You slide off your body fitting dress, revealing a pink, lacy lingerie meant for your date tonight. Fuck now you have to cancel out on him. Changbin lets out a whistle as he eye fucks your delicious curves. He can’t help but salivate at the way the lingerie compliments your body. He knew this show wasn’t originally intended for him but can’t he have a little fun with his wife? Technically you are his. And he is yours. The rings and documents prove it.

You slide the lacy panties on the side to give him a better view of your pussy. Softly and gently, you start stimulating your clit with your fingers. As you slide a finger in, you can feel how sopping wet your husband made you despite him not even giving you a single touch. That’s how it’s supposed to be between married couples, right? Satiating each other’s needs. But you hate it. You hate him making you feel this good. You can’t help but drown in this heavenly pleasure. What’s worse is that none of your hookups has ever made you feel this way.

Changbin starts stroking his cock once again. Beads of precum were leaking from his tip. God he was also wet. His face, all red and drenched in sweat. His pecks and torso drenched in sweat. He’s not like anyone you have slept with. He’s fucking beautiful, and you can’t help but speed the movement of your finger inside you, making you let out the most shameless, loud whines.

As if your husband wasn’t any better than you. Changbin’s moans are your new, delicious addiction. You never knew he could sound this delectable. To be fair, you didn’t want to be intimate with him whether physical or emotional in any sort of way but this… this is what you have been missing out on in the past almost nine months.

“Y/N—FUCK!” Him saying your name in such a lewd manner drives you crazy that it makes you insert another finger inside your cunt. You observe him speeding up his movement and the bliss he feels is almost palpable.

“Fuck Binnie keep moaning out my name like that!” you reciprocate as you keep hitting that one spot that drives you insane.

Your husband was not fairing any better. He spread his legs out more as if you’re not already basking in his naked beauty. His hips thrusting the air, wishing he was balls deep in your cunt and that your bodies were pressed against each other but alas this will do for now.

“Come with me?” he asks with pleading eyes.

“Y-yes Binnie!”

Grunts and whimpers float about Changbin’s room as hands work in tandem to pleasure each other despite the lack of contact. The sounds you both make got only louder as you both are reaching the precipice of euphoria.

“F-fuuuck!”

“S-shit shit SHIT!”

You squirted on his carpet and his cum landing on his bedsheet.

Both of you were panting heavily. Changbin keeps his gaze on you while you shyly looked away. What. Have. You. Done. What have you done?

Coming with your husband that’s what. But it’s not illegal or morally wrong, no? In fact, it more than heavily encouraged for married couples to come together.

Your life is a sitcom for all the choices you have made. And this is one of them. You weren’t supposed to have feelings for Changbin, which is once again in accordance to your principles. But fuck your principles when you’re starting to want him. To crave him.

“I uhm I’ll clean up your carpet. Let me get fixed up first,” you say as you pick up your dress and coat. He nods and you exit his room. Your back is immediately met on the other side of his door and you slide down to sit and contemplate your choices.

Shit well that wasn’t supposed to happen at all. You can’t possibly be having feelings for your husband even if it’s just lust. Lust is already potent enough and what more if you fall deeper for him. But it’s not even a matter of if but rather when you fall deeper for him. What. The. Fuck.

You realize that you are utterly fucked.

A/N: Hello! I finally got around to writing once again after 3 months! 😭 Honestly, I planned on immediately writing something after my summer class but it was just so hard getting back into the groove. But I’m so happy I got to post again. I hope you were able to enjoy this read as I enjoyed writing it 😊 Also, I’m considering having a part 2 for this fic so let me know if you are interested in it! Have a great day!!! :D

[writingforstraykids]

Trouble Sleeping - Soft BinChan Headcanon

Pairing: BinChan

Word Count: 811

Summary: Chan can't find any rest and Changbin is his last hope. Binnie would do everything to grant his hyung some rest.

Warnings/Tags: fluff, angst, comfort

As requested by @chrizzztopherbang I hope you like it, my love. Find the smut version here.

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

Chan has always had trouble sleeping. Nights are long, his mind a relentless whirl of responsibilities, melodies, and thoughts he can never quite shut off. He’s tried everything—warm baths, calming teas, even those sleep stories people swear by. But nothing seems to quiet the noise in his head. He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on him.

Tonight is no different. The silence of the dorm is deafening, and the emptiness of his bed feels like a reminder of everything he carries alone. His chest tightens with the familiar ache of exhaustion, the kind that doesn't just settle in your bones but seeps into your soul. He’s so tired, but sleep continues to elude him.

It’s in this state, somewhere between desperation and defeat, that Chan finds himself standing outside Changbin’s door. He hesitates, feeling a pang of guilt. He’s the leader, the one who should be strong, dependable. But right now, all he wants is to feel like he’s not alone in this. He knocks softly, almost hoping Changbin won’t hear. But of course, Changbin does.

When Changbin opens the door, sleep still clinging to his eyes, he doesn't say a word. He takes one look at Chan and understands. Without a second thought, he reaches out, gently pulling Chan into his room, into his arms. The door clicks shut behind them, sealing off the outside world, and Chan lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

The room is dimly lit, shadows softening the edges of everything. But in Changbin’s arms, everything feels sharp, real. His warmth is immediate, and Chan sinks into it, pressing his face against Changbin’s neck. He breathes in the familiar scent of him—something comforting and safe—and it soothes the frayed edges of his mind.

Changbin's hands slide up Chan’s back, his touch firm yet tender, grounding him. “You’re okay,” Changbin whispers, his voice low and intimate, meant only for Chan. “I’ve got you.”

The words unravel something deep within Chan. He wraps his arms tighter around Changbin, pulling him impossibly closer, as if by holding on like this, he can finally silence the chaos inside him. Changbin doesn’t resist. Instead, he guides them both to the bed, moving slowly, carefully, as if understanding that Chan is fragile in this moment.

They lie down, bodies pressed together in the quiet of the room. Chan feels every point of contact—the steady rise and fall of Changbin’s chest, the warmth of his skin, the way their legs tangle together naturally. Changbin’s hand comes up to cradle the back of Chan’s head, fingers threading through his hair in slow, soothing strokes.

“You don’t have to carry it all alone,” Changbin murmurs, his breath warm against Chan’s temple. “Not here. Not with me.”

The words hit Chan deeply, breaking through the barriers he’s built around himself. His breath catches, and for the first time in a long while, he feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He’s always been strong, always been the one to hold everyone else together. But here, in Changbin’s arms, he feels like it’s okay to let go. Just for a moment.

The tears come slowly, silently, and Changbin feels them before he sees them. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he holds Chan tighter, pressing soft kisses to his forehead, his cheek, anywhere he can reach. His touch is gentle, reverent, each kiss a quiet promise that Chan isn’t alone, that he’s loved.

“It’s okay,” Changbin whispers again, his voice soft and sure. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Chan nods against Changbin’s chest, his tears soaking into the fabric of Changbin’s shirt, but he doesn’t care. He’s never felt more vulnerable, but in this moment, it feels right. It feels safe. He clings to Changbin, letting himself be held, letting himself be comforted.

They lie like that for a long time, the world outside forgotten. The steady rhythm of Changbin’s heartbeat beneath his ear slowly lulls Chan into a state of calm he hasn’t felt in what seems like forever. His breathing evens out, and for the first time in weeks, his mind isn’t racing with a million thoughts. It’s just him and Changbin, tangled up together in the quiet intimacy of the night.

As sleep finally begins to claim him, Chan realizes that this is what he’s been needing all along. Not just rest, but the feeling of being cared for, of being loved without conditions or expectations. In Changbin’s arms, he doesn’t have to be the leader, the strong one. He can just be Chan. And that’s enough.

With one last contented sigh, Chan drifts off to sleep, feeling safe, cherished, and more at peace than he’s been in a long time. And as he sleeps, Changbin holds him close, never letting go, watching over him with a quiet, unwavering devotion.

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

Taglist (Please let me know if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist):

@zehina @atinyniki @galaxycatdrawz @silverstarburst @aaa-sia @lilmisssona @kthstrawberryshortcake @channieaddict @soullostinspaceandtime @rebecca-johnson-28 @lixie-phoria @kibs-and-bits @xxstrayland @ihrtlix @pheonixfire777 @mellhwang @palindrome969 @michelle4eve @harshaaaaa @rylea08 @heeyboooo @manuosorioh @gisaerlleri @andassortedkpop @lailac13 @bbokari711 @kazuuuaaa @rssamj @wolfyychan @stellasays45 @chrizzztopherbang @ionlyeverwantedtobeyourequal @silentreadersthings @myforevermelody143 @sapphirewaves @dis-trict9 @minh0scat

[catiuskaa]

𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬𝐡.

from: love bites burns.

chapters: intro / EP 1 / EP 2 /

short syn. a drunk call brings a certain Seo Changbin back into your life, and an argument follows—sharp, charged, and laced with something neither of you is ready to name—, things is, the line between comfort and something more —desire?— has already begun to blur.

wc. 17.4k

cw. fire and rescue situations (mentions of injury, trauma, and life-threatening scenarios), emotional distress, grief and loss, strong language, alcohol use, heated argument, movie slander, steamy + romantic scenes.

a/n. HAPPY B-DAY MI AMOR! @knowbites ‼️🎂 PORQUE ES UNA CHICA EXCELENTE, Y QUE CUMPLA MUCHOS MÁS! 🎀🗣️🎉🎊

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

You’re living in your mother’s apartment while she’s away. The furniture is the same as it’s always been, the walls still lined with the same pictures, but it doesn’t feel like home. Not really. Not when none of it belongs to you.

Your mother’s clothes are folded neatly in the drawers, so you wear them because your own things are packed away somewhere you don't want to go back to —if not burned and in a permanent charcoaled state. Your mother’s perfume lingers in the air, so you smell it every time you turn your head. But it’s not your scent. None of this is yours.

The emptiness inside you only grows more precarious whenever you think about him.

A week after the fire, you find yourself at a friend’s place.

You don't remember agreeing to come. Maybe you said yes automatically, maybe you didn’t say anything at all and just ended up here, sitting on the couch with a drink in your hand, surrounded by voices you aren’t really listening to. You know what they’re talking about, regardless.

They’re talking about weddings. And fiancés. And future homes with spacious kitchens, and choosing between white and off-white linens, and how stressful it is to find a good caterer.

You barely notice the words. The laughter. The way everyone is so present in their own lives.

Your fingers tighten around the cool glass in your hand, the condensation damp against your skin. Someone says something that makes the whole room break into giggles, but you don't hear it. You just watch the way their faces light up, the way they lean toward each other like gravity keeps pulling them back together. Like it always will.

No one has asked you about the bandage on your arm. No one has asked you why you look so tired. No one has noticed anything.

At all.

You let the conversation drift around you, untethered, until eventually you stand to leave. It’s only then that the host —smiling, unaware— presses a bottle of cheap wine into your hands.

“Please, take this,” she says with an easy grin. “My fiancé hates cheap wine.”

You don't argue. You can’t be bothered to listen about the expensive tastes of her soon-to-be-husband. With a fake grin, you just take the bottle and step outside.

No one notices you aren't driving. It’s because you don't need to, your mother’s place is closer than the apartment you used to call home.

So you walk. And somewhere along the way, you open the bottle.

The streets are quiet. Not empty, but quiet. The kind of quiet that settles deep in your chest, where the only real sound is the occasional passing car or the distant hum of the city still moving without you, and each step you make echoes as the sound of your heeled boots make a rhythm for your walk of shame back home —no sex included, because this shame is entirely yours. The street lights flicker in places, casting long, uneven shadows against the pavement. The air is thick with the smell of late-night rain, though the sky is dry now, leaving the asphalt damp and glistening under the orange glow of the lamps.

Your mother’s house isn’t far. You know the way well. The same streets you used to walk as a teenager, coming back late from parties you didn’t want to be at. Like this one, too. Except now, you’re not sure if you even want to be anywhere.

You grip the bottle a little tighter and take another sip.

The wine is bad. Too sugary, clinging to your throat like syrup. You wince, but drink more anyway, the burn in your stomach keeping you company as you step over a crack in the sidewalk.

The city still moves. People still live their lives. The world didn’t stop just because yours tilted.

“Doesn’t matter,” you mutter under your breath. The words slip out before you can stop them.

You take another swig and exhale hard. The weight in your chest doesn’t lift. The houses you pass all look the same, warm light behind drawn curtains, the soft glow of television screens, shadows of people moving inside. Normal people. People who are home and feel home. People who belong.

“Maybe I should’ve asked them if they wanted to stay,” you say to no one in particular, the words slurring slightly as you laugh, a short, breathy thing that barely escapes past your lips before dissolving into the stillness of the night. You shake your head and let your fingers run against the cool glass of the bottle, watching as the liquid inside sways with your movements. “Or maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked anyone anything at all, maybe I should’ve just let it be, let it end right there at the hospital instead of standing here thinking about a guy I barely even know, because seriously, what kind of person says something like call me when you want someone to stay and then—”

You stop walking.

You blink at the ground, swaying slightly on your feet.

“—and then leaves?!”

The words feel heavy in your mouth, heavier than they should, heavier than you want them to be. And you hate it —you really do—, because you’re not supposed to feel like this over someone you just met, someone who was supposed to be a name in a report, just another face you’d forget, just—just someone.

But he’s not. And it’s pissing you off.

“That’s so stupid,” you tell the sidewalk, picking up your pace again. “Like, what, was that supposed to be some profound moment? Some life-altering, deep, poetic bullshit? ‘Call me when you want someone to stay,’” you repeat in a low, mocking voice, scrunching your nose. “Oh, sure, and then what? What if I had called right then and there, huh? What was he gonna do, tell me he couldn’t stay? That it was all just some dumb thing to say in the moment, because he felt like saying it, because he felt something for a split second and then decided it wasn’t worth sticking around for?”

You stop again. Your breath stumbles out of you.

The wind feels colder now, slipping through your clothes and biting at your skin, and you suddenly feel small, standing in the middle of the street like this, drunkenly arguing with the night. Your grip tightens around the bottle.

You shouldn’t have let him leave.

The thought pushes itself forward, uninvited. And you hate that it’s true.

By the time you reach the apartment building, your steps are clumsier, your mind fogged over with cheap wine and exhausted frustration. You keep drinking anyway, as if the solution to a question you aren’t asking —a problem you created by yourself— is waiting for you at the end of the glass bottle. You drink as you step through the familiar front door, kicking off your shoes in a way that sends them skidding across the floor. Drink as you slide down onto the hardwood, phone in hand, fingers fumbling as you pull it from your pocket.

A slip of paper flutters down with it.

You stare at it. The handwriting. The torn edge.

Your eyes narrow.

Oh.

Oh, no fucking way.

It takes your dizzy brain a few seconds to catch up, to fully process who those numbers belong to, who you have been dragging around in your pocket like some kind of pathetic safety net, who—

And then it hits you. “The sexy firefighter, the cute one with the fluffy hair and glasses,” your heart giggles, smiles and swoons at the mental image your brain does.

Seo Changbin.

Something inside you snaps.

“Oh, fuck this,” you mutter, half a laugh, half a growl, as you clumsily grab for your phone again. “No, no, no, this is not happening. I am not gonna sit here and let this—this man—walk around thinking he can just drop some poetic bullshit on me and then leave like it was nothing—like it was just—” You swipe at your screen, blabbering nonsense, struggling to focus. “Like I wasn’t there, too.”

The wine sloshes dangerously, the liquid in the bottle almost as slurry as your speech as you gesture wildly to absolutely no one, your head spinning as you try to keep your balance on the floor.

“Oh, I’m calling him,” you announce to the empty apartment, the bitterness in your throat stronger than the alcohol. “I’m calling him right now.”

Your thumb hovers over the dial button.

“I’m gonna call him, and I’m gonna—gonna tell him off—I’m gonna tell him he’s a bitch for leaving, for just—just walking out like I wasn’t—like we weren’t—” You stop, your breath uneven. Your chest aches. "Like we weren't… something."

Your vision blurs slightly as you blink hard, your lip pulling into a wobbly, frustrated sneer. “I should’ve said something, shouldn’t I? I should’ve—made him stay.”

You glare at the number on your screen.

Something hot coils in your chest—frustration, maybe, or something closer to grief.

You blame him for leaving. You blame yourself for letting him leave.

“So that’s how we’re going at it, huh?” You mumble.

Fine.

If you couldn’t make him stay, then you were at least going to make sure he was fully aware.

And before you can second-guess yourself, before you can let the quiet settle in again, before you can think too hard about it, you press the number into your phone and call.

[.]

It’s a bit late, but that’s okay.

It’s a routine event. A school visit, a station tour—kids getting to play firefighter for a day. He’s done this dozens of times before. The little boy in front of him wobbles under the weight of his helmet, grinning, and his friend beside him tugs excitedly on Changbin’s sleeve.

“Can we slide down the pole?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Not today, champ. That’s just for real emergencies.”

The kids groan in unison, but it’s all in good fun. Their teacher smiles, and Changbin stands, adjusting his turnout jacket as he moves to the next part of the tour, one that is close to ending.

“Sir?”

A girl tugs on his sleeve, big brown eyes peering up at him. “How do you turn on the siren?”

He blinks. His mind is elsewhere for a second, but he smiles. Clears his throat. Focus, Seo.

“Oh, this is fun,” he says, crouching. “Want to try for yourself?”

The little girl giggles, nodding, and Changbin picks her up, guiding her little hand to the switch. The siren wails to life, high-pitched and sharp, and the kids squeal in delight. He sometimes grows annoyed at the sound, but the kid in his arms grins like she just won the lottery. As he puts the girl down, her friend beside her tugs at Changbin’s sleeve.

“Can we slide down the pole now?”

Changbin laughs, shaking his head. “Sorry kiddo, that’s just for emergencies.”

“Aw, man.” The boy huffs, crossing his arms. “What if we pretend it’s an emergency?”

“You planning on setting something on fire?”

That startles them. Their eyes widen as they hurriedly shake their heads, and Changbin grins, ruffling the kid’s hair.

“Didn’t think so.”

The other firefighters are leading other small groups through the different sections of the station, showing them the equipment, letting them climb into the trucks. It’s a routine thing, one that used to bring him nothing but amusement. But today, there’s something restless sitting in his chest, something that makes him feel like he’s only half here.

One of the teachers calls the kids back into a circle, warning them that the bus will get back shortly, and Changbin steps aside, rolling his shoulders.

His gaze drifts.

His phone screen stays dark in his pocket.

Three times now. He’s checked it three times. And for what? It’s not like he expects anything. Not… really. It’s been a week. You’re probably fine. You’re probably—

“You look serious.”

Changbin turns, finding Chan leaning against the truck, arms crossed, watching him with that annoying knowing look of his.

“It’s my face,” Changbin replies dryly, pouting in fake annoyance.

Chan snorts. “Yeah, right.” He nods toward the group. “You good, though? You seem distracted.” Which is the polite way of saying you’ve been acting weird all week.

“I’m fine,” Changbin mutters, but even as he says it, his jaw tightens.

He was going to ask what’s up your ass this morning, but instead, Chan chooses not to push. Just hums, amused, before nodding toward the group. “Wanna drive the truck in a circle for the kids?”

Changbin exhales sharply, “Nah, the teacher told me the bus driver finally answered back. They’ll be leaving too soon for that. Actually, hold on a sec.”

He glances at the group of kids, who are still buzzing with excitement, and makes a split-second decision.

“Alright,” he grins, crouching slightly. “One at a time. Who wants to slide down the pole?”

The kids freeze. Then, all at once—

“REALLY?!”

“NO WAY!”

“NO SNITCHING!”

He giggles, pressing a finger to his lips. “Only if you keep it quiet, yeah?”

They nod furiously.

And so, one by one, Changbin lifts them up slightly over his shoulder, just enough so they can grab onto the pole. He keeps a steady hold on their backs as they slide down, their laughter echoing through the station. Some shriek, others giggle, and one kid yells, “I’M A SUPERHERO!”

Chan watches from the side, shaking his head with a smirk. “Breaking protocol, huh?”

“They bribed me,” Changbin deadpans.

Chan chuckles but doesn’t stop him. The kids are having the time of their lives, and honestly, for a moment, so is Changbin.

“Alright, who’s next?” he calls out.

A girl in a pink jacket eagerly steps forward, gripping his shoulder as he lifts her just high enough for her hands to grasp the pole. Her face flickers between thrill and hesitation, but then she’s sliding down, her giggles bouncing off the walls.

Another boy, this one with a missing front tooth, hops excitedly in place. “Me! Me! Me!”

Changbin scoops him up, lets him feel the rush of sliding down, and by the time the kid’s sneakers hit the ground, he’s laughing so hard his tiny shoulders shake.

“Best field trip ever,” one of them whispers in awe.

Changbin grins. “Told you guys firefighters have the best job.”

“I wanna be a firefighter when I grow up!” another kid declares.

“Me too!”

“I wanna be a dinosaur!”

Chan snorts at that one, crossing his arms as he leans against the truck. “That’s some stiff competition, Binnie.”

Changbin plays along, rubbing his chin in mock contemplation. “Well, firefighting dinosaurs would be pretty cool.”

A few kids gasp as if he’s just revealed a universal truth. One of them immediately turns to their friend. “We could be firefighters and dinosaurs!”

Changbin ruffles the nearest kid’s hair before lifting up another and guiding them down the pole. He’s focused on their joy, on their laughter, on how easy it is to lose himself in the moment—

Until his phone vibrates.

It’s subtle. Barely a buzz in his pocket, almost lost to the noise of the station.

But he notices.

His grip falters, just for a second. He steadies the next kid on the pole and watches them slide down.

It could be anything.

But it could be you.

His chest goes still.

“Mister firefighter? There’s a light on your leg.”

Across the room, Chan catches the way he stiffens. The way his shoulders tense, the way his eyes flicker—not with alarm, not with urgency, but with something quieter. Something unsure.

And somehow, Chan just knows. He claps his hands together, pushing off the truck. “Alright, kids, the bus is here!”

The eager chorus of whiny voices that want to slied down the pole again is the perfect smoke bomb that Changbin needs to leave. Chan doesn’t say anything when they trade spots. He just claps a hand on Changbin’s shoulder as they pass, brief and solid, before seamlessly stepping into his place, and carefully instructing the children to form a line so they can all head out, helping the teacher out. Changbin turns away, phone gripped tight in his hand.

He exhales once, slow and deep.

He swipes to answer.

“…Hello?”

But when you hear his voice, you freeze.

The cheap wine, the anger, the reckless confidence—it all vanishes in an instant. You hadn’t thought this far ahead. Hadn’t expected him to actually pick up. So you just lie there, barefoot on the cold wooden floor of your mother’s living room, phone pressed to your ear, breath caught in your throat.

On the other end, Changbin waits. You can hear the faintest sound of voices in the background—kids, laughter, the echo of a large space. You wonder about his day. About what he has done the past week. As if maybe, him picking up could mean he had also missed you. At least a small bit.

“…Hello?” he says again, softer this time.

His voice. Something about it makes your fingers tighten around the phone. Your chest twists, throat closing up, because you remember—God, you remember—the last time you heard his voice this close.

The warmth of it. The way it filled the silence in a hospital room. The way he had stayed. The familiarity. Like it hasn’t been a week, like it hasn’t been days of silence stretching too far, like you haven’t spent every one of those days trying to ignore the way your chest felt too hollow.

Your breath stutters. The words you had ready—the drunken justifications, the sour anger, or even the casual hey, mister firefighter a part of you thought you’d toss in—die in your throat.

And now you’re here, empty wine bottle on the floor, too many things in your head, and for some godforsaken reason, you’re calling him.

You swallow hard. Your fingers press tighter around the phone. Your heartbeat stumbles, and you wonder if he can hear it through the line. You wet your lips, eyes darting toward the ceiling. The room feels too big. The world feels too quiet.

You exhale, slow.

“Seo Changbin,” you mumble drunkenly, your voice a little hoarse, a little uncertain. Then, after a beat, “…hi.”

And then, Changbin forgets how to breathe.

He has spent the last week convincing himself he wouldn’t hear from you. That maybe the connection he thought you two had was just the heat of the moment—figuratively and literally. That maybe you have already forgotten about him, that you were out there moving on, laughing, living.

But now, you’re here. Not in front of him, not the way his mind had desperately imagined too many times, but here. On the other end of the line. Saying his name in a way that makes his pulse trip over itself.

His grip on the phone tightens. He turns away from the noise of the fire station, the kids, the familiar chaos, and presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose.

What does he say? Does he ask if you’re okay? Does he pretend this is normal? Does he call you out for the way you just disappeared from his life like you weren’t supposed to be there? Can he even do that?

Calm down. Breathe.

He lets out a shaky exhale. Swallows down whatever mess is brewing in his chest, ��…hey,” he says back, but it comes out rougher, breathier, like he’s still trying to catch up with himself.

A couple giggles travel through the phone. Changbin hears you laugh, but it’s not light or carefree—it’s fragile, tired, almost breaking apart before it even begins. Then, your voice comes through, soft and unsteady, words tumbling over each other like you’re not quite in control of them.

“I feel so stupid,” you mumble, dragging out the words like they’re heavy. “For calling you. For… clinging. To you.”

You hiccup, sniff, then laugh again, and it’s emptier this time.

“…bet you’ve already moved on, right? Just another… rescue on a file. Some… some girl you carried out of a burning building. That’s… all I am, isn’t it?”

Changbin doesn’t know what to say. He knows that isn’t true, but he isn’t sure if you really want an answer either.

“I drank so much wine,” you continue, like you need to fill the silence. “Because my… my friends, they… are stupid. So… stupid. Talking about… weddings and fiancés and…” you groan. “They didn’t even notice. No one noticed, no one… asked. Not about the bandages, not about the way I…” you cut yourself off with another chuckle, this one sharp and bitter. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I just… I feel so… empty.”

Your voice shakes at the end. You sound so small. So lost. And something inside Changbin clenches so tight it almost hurts.

You called him. Out of everyone, him. And now you’re alone and hurting, and he’s standing in the middle of the fire station with your voice in his ear and a storm gathering in his chest. You’re sad because of him, and still, you called.

“I had no one else to call…” your voice falters, barely above a whisper. “I… I don’t…”

You don’t finish.

Changbin hears the way your breath shudders, how you trail off like you’re afraid of saying the rest out loud. Like you don’t even know how to.

And it hits him harder than it should, because maybe he already knew. Maybe he knew from the way you never called anyone at the hospital, from the way you hesitated before signing those discharge papers, from the way you wouldn’t even look at him when you parted ways.

But hearing it now, raw and unfiltered through the haze of wine and loneliness… it does something to him. His grip tightens around the phone.

“I’m here,” he says, before he even realizes he’s speaking. His voice is steady, but something in his chest isn’t. “I’m right here.”

“No, you’re not.”

You giggle drunkenly, but it’s not funny.

“You’re slurring your words, you know that?” He bites his lip.

But when you stop talking, he hears the exhaustion in how you sigh. He swallows dry.

“I think I should come get you.”

“What?” Your tone changes, and you sit up as straight as your drunk body can muster up. “You don’t even know where I am,” you giggle in drunken confusion.

“Okay. Tell me, then.”

“No, no, you can’t,” you insist, suddenly panicking. You don’t even know why you’re saying it—pride? Fear? The sheer vulnerability of the moment?

He asks the question you’re avoiding. “Why not?” His voice stays steady, but inside, he’s spiraling a little.

“Because…” But you don’t have an answer, not one that makes sense.

A beat passes.

The line goes dead.

Changbin stares at his phone, the empty silence ringing louder than anything you’d just said.

You hung up.

He runs a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. His pulse is still racing, a mix of confusion, concern, and something else, something he doesn’t know how to name yet. But before he can even begin to process it, his screen lights up again. A message.

He blinks at it, his breath catching in his throat. It’s an address.

Your address.

His fingers tighten around the phone. His mind catches up a second later, pushing him into motion before he even realizes he’s moving.

Changbin stares at his phone screen, the address glowing up at him like a challenge. His heart is still racing from the way the call ended, from the way you panicked—hung up—but still sent it.

You want him there.

The realization settles deep in his chest, tangled up with the hundred other things he’s feeling. Worry. Confusion. That stupid, stubborn pull toward you that he still doesn’t understand. Fear.

Outside, as the children head up the bus, Chan is still with the kids, crouched beside one of them who’s struggling to open the little playboards the station gifts. The kid raises his arms and hands Chan the board, and Chan ruffles his hair before helping him, opening up the plastic. Then, just as he finishes, he glances up, and sees Changbin heading out.

Chan doesn’t even have to ask. He must catch something in his face, because his mouth quirks up into an amused smirk. Like Changbin is really dull to not have left before. His eyebrows raise just slightly, his smirk widening, and he shrugs him away with a nod of his head.

Leave, he doesn’t say.

Changbin exhales through his nose, shaking his head as he shoves his phone into his pocket and turns toward his motorbike.

Chan chuckles under his breath, refocusing on the kids.

A chorus of excited goodbyes is the last thing Changbin hears, like a soundtrack he needs right then and there to keep moving.

[.]

You stay on the floor longer than you should.

The wine bottle, empty now, rolls lazily across the wooden floor when you shift, the soft clink barely registering through the fog in your mind. Your phone is somewhere near you—maybe on the floor, maybe still in your hand—but you don’t reach for it.

What did you just do?

Your body feels too heavy, your head thick with alcohol and regret. You shouldn’t have called him. Shouldn’t have said any of that. Shouldn’t have sent your address.

Stupid. So, so stupid.

You groan, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. Maybe you should text him and say it was a mistake. Tell him not to come, even when you don’t even know if he will. Maybe he saw the address and decided you weren’t worth the trouble. Maybe he’s already forgotten about you.

Maybe that’s what you deserve. You haven’t had much luck in that aspect, so it wouldn’t really come out as a surprise.

You swallow hard, blinking up at the ceiling, trying to will away the burning behind your eyes. The apartment feels too big, too empty, like a house that doesn’t belong to you. You feel like an intruder in your mother’s life, wearing her clothes, sitting on her floor, like a ghost haunting a place that was never really yours.

You exhale shakily. You should get up. Go to bed.

But your limbs don’t cooperate, and before you know it, your eyes slip shut.

It’s barely a couple minutes before Changbin gets to the apartment complex, the first thing he notices is that your door is slightly open. His heart kicks up.

He doesn’t think. He just moves.

Stepping inside, the air smells faintly of wine, and he spots the empty bottle before he spots you.

You’re on the floor.

His stomach lurches, and he’s kneeling beside you before he even has time to process. “Hey—” He touches your shoulder, shakes you lightly. “Hey, wake up.”

You stir at the contact, your brows furrowing, a soft noise leaving your lips.

He exhales, relief loosening his chest when he realizes you’re just sleeping. Still, seeing you like this does something strange to him. Something that makes his jaw tighten, something that makes him want to be mad at you and pull you close all at once.

He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face before carefully sliding his arms under you. You’re warm. Lighter than he expected.

As he lifts you, you stir again, your lashes fluttering. “Mmm…?”

“Where is your room?” he murmurs, his voice softer than he means it to be.

You blink slowly, dazed, your head lolling against his chest. “Down the hall…”

“Okay,” he says, adjusting his grip on you. “Go back to sleep, gorgeous.”

You exhale, and your body relaxes against him once more.

He holds you closer and walks, careful and quiet, guiding you through the dimly lit apartment. And though he knows he shouldn’t—knows he shouldn’t feel anything about this—he does.

You called him. You sent him your address.

You wanted him here.

And he wants to stay.

Changbin nudges the bedroom door open with his foot, stepping inside. The room is dark except for the soft glow of a streetlamp filtering in through the curtains. It’s tidy. Untouched, almost like you don’t really live here.

He gently lowers you onto the bed, careful not to jostle you too much. But as soon as your back touches the mattress, you stir, a small frown pulling at your lips.

“No…” you mumble, your fingers weakly curling into the fabric of his shirt.

His breath catches. “Hey,” he murmurs, his hand hovering over yours. “You need to sleep.”

You make a quiet, frustrated sound but don’t argue again. Instead, your grip on his shirt loosens, and your hand falls away as sleep pulls you back under.

He exhales, watching you for a moment longer than he should. The way your breathing evens out. The way your lashes flutter slightly, like you’re dreaming already.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he pulls the blankets over you. His fingers brush your wrist as he tucks you in, and he forces himself to pull away.

He runs a hand through his hair, glancing around the unfamiliar room.

His brain screams at him. You should go, it says, over and over, like something is triggering his fight or flight response, and he was a fragile little bird. But he hesitates. Just for a second.

Changbin curses under his breath. He’s being stupid, right? Why should he go? You called him. You wanted him here. And now, even in sleep, your fingers twitch faintly against the blanket, like you’d hold onto him if you could.

His jaw tightens. He runs a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. His instinct tells him to leave, to be responsible, to keep some kind of professional distance—but when has he ever done what he should when it comes to you?

He broke protocol to try and find you. He broke protocol for staying, for wanting to stay. Would breaking it again really be that bad?

He hesitates, watching you carefully, then —tentative, a little reckless— he reaches out and brushes your hair away from your face.

You sigh softly. Relax. And just like that, he knows he’s not going anywhere.

Changbin barely has time to react before your fingers curl around his, warm and loose with sleep, and you tug, pulling him closer, giggling softly as he stumbles forward.

“Hey…” he starts, but it’s useless. You’re stronger than you look, or maybe he just doesn’t have the will to resist.

The bed creaks under your combined weight on only one side as he catches himself on one hand, hovering over you for a second. His heart is pounding. This is—he shouldn’t—

But you just sigh, eyes fluttering half-open, and mumble, “Stay.”

And against all better judgment, he does.

You nuzzle into his chest without a second thought, pressing close like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like you’ve done this so many times before. Like you belong there.

Changbin stiffens. His breath catches.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t let this happen.

But then you sigh, a quiet, content sound, and your fingers curl slightly against his shirt, holding onto him even in sleep. And just like that, all his resolve unravels.

Slowly, carefully, he exhales and lets his arm settle around you, just enough to keep you close. Just enough to let himself stay.

He tries to think logically. Tries to calm down his brain. Why shouldn’t he be here?

Because he’s a firefighter, and you’re someone he rescued. Because this isn’t supposed to happen—victims move on, and so do the people who save them. Because he barely knows you, not really, not in the way that should make his chest tighten at the thought of leaving.

But you’re still holding onto him, even in sleep. And he doesn’t feel like a firefighter right now. He doesn’t feel like someone who’s supposed to move on.

He just feels like someone who wants to stay.

What would plain old Changbin do? He thinks. Not Firefighter Seo, not the guy in uniform who’s supposed to keep things professional. Just Changbin.

And plain old Changbin —stupid, stubborn, too-soft-for-his-own-good Changbin, heart-on-his-sleeve Changbin— would stay.

You sigh, pressing your forehead against his shoulder. It’s not intentional, just the natural weight of you sinking into him, warm and drowsy and tipsy enough to let every thought spill freely.

“You came all this way,” you murmur. “Why are you still acting like a part of you doesn’t want to be here?”

His breath hitches. You don’t see the way his jaw tenses, the way his fingers twitch where they rest against the sheets.

“Shouldn’t I…?” he starts, but he doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. Shouldn’t he go? Shouldn’t he be the responsible one and keep this rescuer-victim relationship as impersonal as it stands? Shouldn’t he stop himself before he starts something he can’t take back?

Your hand moves, fingertips grazing down his forearm before curling around his wrist. Your grip is loose, gentle, but he feels it like an anchor.

“I don’t get you,” you say, quieter now. “You… you held my hand. You let me fall asleep on your shoulder. You looked at me like…” but you cut yourself off with a shake of your head, laughing softly, more to yourself than to him.

He exhales sharply through his nose. You looked at me like—what? He doesn’t know the answer, but the fact that you noticed at all is enough to make his pulse hammer against his ribs.

You hum, tilting your head slightly, as if searching his face for something. And then your voice turns teasing, but only barely.

“Why did you come, Bin?”

He tenses, mouth parting slightly, but nothing comes out.

“Why did you pick up the phone?” you continue. “Why did you leave work? Why are you here?”

His throat bobs. He wants to say because you called, but that’s not the whole truth, is it?

“You could’ve ignored me.” Your fingers tighten slightly around his wrist. “You could’ve told me to call someone else, or to deal with it. But you didn’t.”

He presses his lips together, gaze dropping to where your hand rests on his.

“So don’t act like it’s just me,” you say, voice soft but certain in only a way alcohol could. “Don’t act like I’m the only one who felt something when you stayed with me that night.”

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to.

Because when he finally looks up, you see everything you need to know.

You sigh again, shaking your head with something unbearably fond.

“Christ,” you murmur, almost amused. “You’re as thick as it gets.”

And then you kiss him. Soft and fleeting, like you don’t expect anything back. Like you just need him to understand.

…

He short-circuits. May-day, we have lost him.

It’s instant, the way his brain completely shuts down, the way every rational thought fizzles out like a blown fuse.

Because you’re kissing him.

You.

Your lips are warm and soft and a little clumsy, but you don’t pull away. You linger, just for a second, like you want to make sure he really gets it, and his body locks up so tight he forgets how to breathe.

His hands hover uselessly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch you. Like if he moves at all, he’ll wake up and this will all have been some kind of fever dream.

Because what the hell is he supposed to do?

Push you away? No, no, he doesn’t want that.

Kiss you back? He—he can’t. He shouldn’t. You’re drunk, and he’s just… blank.

He’s supposed to think, but his brain isn’t working. There’s no protocol for this.

He’s stuck. Frozen. Glitching.

And then, just as fast as it happened, it’s over.

You pull back with a small, satisfied hum, eyes half-lidded, lips curved in a drowsy little smile.

“There,” you mumble, blinking up at him like you haven’t just fried every single synapse in his body. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Are you kidding me?

Changbin stares at you, wide-eyed and completely fried, and he has absolutely no idea what to do next. He can’t help but chuckle incredulously. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

You giggle, tilting your head up to look at him with lidded eyes, lazy and warm. “Whaaaaat? Me?”

Changbin exhales sharply, pressing his lips together, trying to school his expression into something neutral, something that doesn’t betray how badly you’re unraveling him. But it’s impossible when you’re looking at him like that, all mischief and softness, your fingers still loosely curled against his chest.

He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair, as if that’ll somehow fix the mess he’s in. “You’re impossible.”

You hum, completely unfazed, and nuzzle closer, sighing like you’re content—like being here, tangled up against him, is exactly where you want to be.

He should move. He should. But his body betrays him. Instead, he stays, one arm half-draped over your waist like he’s afraid to let go.

“Just to put it out there,” he mumbles. “If you weren’t drunk, I’d kiss you back.”

You pause, your breath hitching just slightly against his chest. Then, you hum again, but this time it’s different—quieter, softer, like you’re tucking his words away somewhere safe.

Changbin doesn’t dare look at you, staring stubbornly at the ceiling instead, like if he so much as meets your gaze, he’ll do something stupid. Stupider than admitting what’s already plain as day. But then, you shift, just enough to tilt your head up toward him again. Your fingers, warm and a little clumsy, trace absentmindedly over the fabric of his shirt.

“Just to put it out there,” you echo, voice lilting with amusement, “you’re so dense.”

He huffs out a laugh, part exasperation, part disbelief.

“You’re impossible,” you murmur, looking at his lips.

And then you kiss him again. Softer, slower—like you’re proving a point. Like you know that despite the fact that he won’t kiss you back, you just want to anyway. For a moment, he doesn’t move, but his hands end up cradling your face and push you away softly.

“No,” he whines. “That’s unfair. You know I shouldn’t.”

Changbin swallows hard, heart pounding so loud he’s sure you can hear it. His hands are still cradling your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, but they tremble—just barely. He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t indulge. But then you look at him like that, all soft and certain, and something inside him breaks.

“But you want to,” you murmur, voice thick with wine and something deeper, something raw. Your mouth turns dry. “Right?”

His breath catches. You’re not wrong.

Changbin’s hands tighten around you, like you might slip away if he lets go. His pulse thrums in his ears, and he can’t stop staring at your lips, the way they’re parted ever so slightly, so close he could just—

“Yeah,” he exhales. It comes out shakier than he wants it to. “I do.”

The confession hangs between you, pressing against his ribs like a secret that should’ve never left his chest. But it’s too late now, and maybe he doesn’t want to take it back.

Your lips curve into a lazy, drunken smile. “Then what’s stopping you?”

His throat tightens. God.

“Because,” he murmurs, eyes flickering down to your mouth again, “you’re drunk. And I don’t—” He shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “Not like this. Please?”

You tilt your head, blinking up at him like you’re trying to see something beyond his eyes, but then your expression softens. Like you do understand.

A sigh escapes your lips, and you lean into his palm, closing your eyes. “Fine,” you whisper. “I’ll let you be good.”

His chest aches. He can’t tell if it’s from relief or something dangerously close to longing. A chuckle slips out, quiet and breathless.

“Cheeky,” he teases.

You hum, pressing closer, not to tempt him, not to push, but just to be there, warm and steady against him. And when your breathing evens out, he stays still, letting you rest.

And letting himself have this moment.

[.]

Changbin sleeps lightly, his body still tense even as exhaustion pulls him under. And then—

Flames. Thick smoke curling through the air. The blaring wail of sirens echoing in his ears.

It’s a memory, not just a dream.

He’s twenty-two, barely a year into the job, still learning how to breathe through the heat, how to silence the fear. The picture is as clear as it was all those years ago. A collapsed building. The kind of wreckage that makes your stomach drop before you even step inside.

Changbin isn’t the one running in. This time, he’s just watching, feeling the dread of a spectator who knows something the protagonist doesn’t. Something that makes said protagonist reek of death. That’s who’s running in.

Senior Firefighter Kang Jisoo. A guy everyone liked, the kind who cracked jokes in the locker room and always had your back in the field.

Except today, something’s different.

“Jisoo—wait!” someone shouts. The building is unstable, the fire too strong. But Jisoo doesn’t stop.

Because there’s someone inside.

It’s not just any victim. A woman.

She wasn’t a stranger. She wasn’t just another person on the rescue reports. She had volunteered for training drills at the station, practicing how to be pulled from burning buildings, letting rookies carry her through simulations. She laughed with them, helped with practice rescues—until one day, it stopped being practice.

And somewhere along the way, Jisoo had let himself care too much.

They weren’t supposed to date. It wasn’t technically against the rules, but he knew it wasn’t right. That it blurred the line between duty and something dangerously personal.

And now—

Now, he watches as Jisoo vanishes into the smoke.

Minutes stretch too long. The building groans, shifts. The chief is yelling at him through the radio.

And then—

The collapse.

Changbin doesn’t remember much after that. Just the sound of sirens, the weight in his chest, the way no one could look each other in the eye.

They pulled Jisoo out hours later.

He didn’t make it.

And maybe it wasn’t just because of her. Maybe he would have run in anyway. But everyone knew. Everyone knew.

The line had blurred. And now he was gone.

The dream twists, pulling him back to the present.

Your voice, slurred and sad. Why do you think I held on to your hand in the hospital?

Changbin wakes with a sharp inhale, chest tight, the weight of memory pressing down hard.

He’s scared. He should go.

The weight of the dream lingers, pressing against his chest like the thick smoke of a fire that won’t clear. He stares at the ceiling, at the faint patterns of light that shift as the city hums outside, but his mind is somewhere else. Stuck in the past.

Kang Jisoo had cared too much. And it got him killed.

It wasn’t something they talked about—not officially, anyway. There was no rulebook warning them about it, no memo reminding them not to get too close. But he knew. He saw the way Jisoo hesitated that night, the way he went back when he didn’t have to. The way he threw his own safety away for someone he couldn’t bear to lose.

Changbin had watched it happen. Had been there when they pulled Jisoo out. Had felt the sick twist in his stomach when he realized it was too late.

And now, here he was. Lying in your bed, feeling the warmth of your body next to his, and knowing he was teetering on that same dangerous edge.

Caring too much.

He exhales shakily, pressing his palm over his face like he can physically push the thought away.

This isn’t the same. He tells himself that, over and over. You’re not the same. He didn’t break protocol. He didn’t cross a line. He didn’t let himself—

And yet, when he glances at you, curled up and peaceful in sleep, he feels it creeping in. That dangerous, reckless, all-consuming pull. The kind of pull that could get people hurt.

The kind of pull that could get people killed.

And still—God help him—he can’t bring himself to step away.

Because the weight of your fingers around his wrist is barely there, but it feels like something holding on. Because if he closes his eyes, he can still hear the way you said his name over the phone, slurred and sad and reaching for something neither of you could quite name. Because walking away is supposed to be easy—it’s what he’s supposed to do—but somehow, it feels harder.

His breath shudders out of him, and he lets his body sink back into the bed, his muscles slowly untensing. He tells himself it’s just for a moment. Just until your grip slackens. Just until he knows for sure that you’re asleep.

But you are asleep, and he’s still not moving.

The room is quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old apartment and the distant hum of cars outside. The air smells faintly of wine, but beneath that, there’s something softer, something yours, something that wraps around him the same way the warmth of your fingers does.

He forces his eyes to the ceiling. If he looks at you, if he lets himself take in the way your lips part slightly in sleep, the curve of your lashes against your cheek, the way your grip on his wrist lingers even though you don’t even realize it—he might not be able to keep pretending.

You’re just drunk. That’s all this is.

But there’s something insidious about that thought, because if it’s just the alcohol, then why is he still here? Why is it that even now, after telling himself all the reasons why this could be a bad idea, he still doesn’t want to let go?

Changbin exhales, closing his eyes.

He tells himself he’ll leave in five minutes.

But the minutes stretch, and stretch, and stretch—

And he never moves.

His feelings right now are a tangled mess of fear, longing, and self-imposed restraint.

He wants to stay. God, he wants to stay. But that want is exactly what terrifies him.

Because he’s seen what happens when a firefighter cares too much. He’s seen what happens when emotions get tangled with duty, when the lines blur between helping someone and needing them. He watched a man—someone he admired, someone who was supposed to know better—lose his life because of it.

So now, every instinct inside him is fighting.

There’s the part of him that aches to reach for you, to let himself just feel instead of thinking so damn hard. The part that still feels the ghost of your fingers in his, the warmth of you beside him, the way you unconsciously reached for him even in sleep.

And then there’s the part that screams Don’t be reckless. Don’t be selfish. Don’t be like him.

It’s guilt and fear and stupid, stubborn hope all fighting for space in his chest.

Because the truth is—if he lets himself care, if he lets himself have this, he doesn’t know if he’d be able to stop himself from risking everything.

But then you stir beside him, a soft noise escaping your lips as you shift under the covers. Your hand twitches, fingers brushing against his wrist again, as if even in sleep, some part of you is reaching for him.

And Changbin stops thinking about leaving.

Just for a second.

He exhales, pressing his lips into a thin line as he watches your face, the way your brows knit slightly before smoothing out again. He wonders if you’re dreaming. If, in that dream, he’s there too.

His chest tightens, and he looks away. He shouldn’t be thinking about this. Shouldn’t be thinking about you like this. But the weight of everything—of the past, of what he knows and what he wants—settles heavy inside him, a pressure he can’t shake.

His fingers flex slightly against the blanket. His body is still half-tensed, as if he could make himself get up, walk away, pretend this never happened.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he stays. And when the silence stretches too long, when the thoughts start pressing too heavy against his ribs, it’s his own voice that finally breaks the quiet.

“I should go,” he mutters.

It’s barely a whisper, not even meant for you, but somehow, you hear it.

Still half-asleep, your lips part, a quiet, mumbled sound escaping before the words fully form. “You don’t want to.”

Changbin stills.

Your eyes aren’t even open, but somehow, it’s like you know. Like you can feel the battle raging in his chest.

And that—more than anything—scares the hell out of him.

[.]

When you wake up slowly, blinking against the sunlight, he’s still there—staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight, looking like he’s at war with himself.

You study him for a beat before saying, “You’re thinking too hard.”

He exhales sharply, like you caught him. But he doesn’t deny it.

Outside, the sun creeps higher, spilling golden light through the thin curtains. The sheets beneath you are warm from where he sat, and yet—he’s stiff, distant, like he’s already halfway out the door.

You don’t want to push. You’re hungover on wine, your head hurts, and you’d rather bask in the warmth of the sun that seeps through the window, but something about the way he looks—about the way he’s here but somehow not here—makes you ask.

“Do you regret staying?”

He freezes for half a second, then shakes his head.

“No.”

His voice is quiet, but firm. Still, something about it doesn’t convince you.

“But you… want to leave.”

Silence. His jaw tightens.

You wait.

And finally, after a long moment, he mutters, “I… should.”

There it is. That hesitation, that pull in opposite directions. You frown, leaning a little closer, the sheets rustling beneath you.

“Why?”

Changbin exhales harshly through his nose and drags a hand down his face. His shoulders are hunched like the weight of this conversation is pressing down on him. He looks away, eyes flickering to the floor.

“You wouldn’t get it.”

“That’s not fair,” you say softly. “Make me get it. I’m not dull. Just hungover.”

His fingers twitch. He wants to argue. Wants to shut this down. But the look on your face keeps him pinned in place, and for a second, his resolve wavers.

Changbin doesn’t answer right away. He drops his hand from his face, staring at the ceiling like the answer might be carved into it.

Because it’s dangerous. Because I shouldn’t want this. Because caring too much can get people killed.

His throat bobs. He swallows hard. He stops himself before the words slip out. But you don’t look away. You’re waiting for an answer. An answer he isn’t totally sure if he can put into words.

There’s a moment—a fragile, trembling moment—where you think he might actually answer you.

And then he moves.

He swings his legs off the bed, scrubs a hand down his face, and gets up so fast it makes your head spin. You watch, stunned, as he shoves his feet into his shoes, his movements sharp, almost frantic.

Your stomach drops. He’s leaving.

“What are you doing?” Your voice comes out thinner than you mean it to.

“I told you,” he mutters, reaching for his jacket. “I should go.”

The air is heavy, thick with something unspoken. Your grip tightens on the blanket.

“So that’s it?” You hate how small your voice sounds. “You’re just gonna—what? Pretend none of this happened?”

He doesn’t answer. Just zips up his jacket.

Something inside you snaps.

“That’s real mature, Changbin.” Your voice is thick, shaking. “You get to act like you care, but the second it can get a bit hard, you run?”

He freezes again. His fingers curl around the fabric of his jacket. His shoulders jerk like the words physically hit him. His head shakes—small, sharp, like he’s trying to shake off a thought he doesn’t want to have.

You push yourself off the bed. The wooden floor is cold under your feet. “No. No, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to stay, to hold me, to make me feel like I matter, just to leave the second I ask you why.”

“You don’t understand,” he mutters, voice tight, and when he finally looks at you, his eyes are glassy, something like desperation clinging to the edges. “I can’t do this.”

You step forward, even if he avoids your eyes.

"Can’t or won’t?"

His jaw tightens. He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to physically shake the question off. "Oh, please," he mutters, but his voice isn’t sharp—it’s strained, like he’s fraying at the edges.

His hands curl into fists. He has to leave.

"What do you want?"

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. Your voice is louder this time. You’re getting angry, and he knows, and he can only blame himself. He exhales sharply, shoulders rising and falling with the weight of something he can’t quite name. His fingers twitch at his sides.

"I don’t know," he says, and it’s a lie, and you both know it.

"Yes, you do."

Silence.

The conviction in your voice is unwavering. It pins him in place, cracks through the walls he's trying so desperately to keep up. And suddenly, it’s terrifying—because you see right through him.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

"Of course, it matters." You frown, tilting your head. "Why are you fighting this so hard?"

Changbin presses his lips together. His throat feels tight. Because I know how this could end. Because he’s seen what could happen when a firefighter gets too close. He’s seen the way it can ruin people. How it can make you reckless. How it can turn a life into a name on a plaque, a funeral with too many people in uniform.

Because he’s seen what love can cost.

“You wouldn’t get it,” he says, and it’s clipped, like he’s trying to cut the conversation off before it can go any further.

You scoff. “You keep saying that, but how the fuck would you know?”

His jaw clenches. “Because it’s not that simple.”

“Then make it simple!” You sit up fully now, your frustration boiling over. “You keep looking at me like I’m some line you don’t want to cross, but I don’t get why! You stayed, Changbin. You wanted to stay, so why do you act like it’s some kind of mistake?”

His breath shudders. His hands ball into fists.

And then, suddenly, his voice cracks—

“I’m scared, okay!?”

The words rip out of him, sharp and desperate, like he didn’t mean to say them out loud. Like they’ve been clawing at his throat for years and finally broke free.

The air in the room turns unbearably thick.

Your lips part, but no words come.

“I’m fucking terrified.” He mumbles breathlessly.

Changbin squeezes his eyes shut. His breathing turns uneven. When he speaks again, his voice is rough, trembling at the edges.

“I watched a man die because he cared too much.” His hands tremble at his sides. “Because he—he tried to save someone he loved, and it killed him. And you—” His throat bobs. “You make me care in a way I don’t understand, and it scares the shit out of me.”

Your heart aches. He shakes his head, breath hitching, like he’s mad at himself for admitting it. Like he already regrets every word. His chest rises and falls sharply, and when he finally looks at you again, he’s tearing apart at the seams.

And now—now—you get it.

This isn’t just hesitation. This isn’t just reluctance.

This is fear.

And it’s eating him alive.

Your chest tightens. His words weigh heavy in the air, and suddenly, you feel like you understand him in a way you hadn’t before.

“I get it,” you whisper, as if afraid to break the silence. “More than you think.”

Changbin’s breath is shaky. He shakes his head like he doesn’t believe you.

But you don’t let him shut you out.

“I drank too much wine last night because my friends are… well. People who don’t really seem like my friends,” you say, voice quiet but steady. “Because they don’t… Because I was sitting there, watching them laugh and talk, and I realized that I could disappear, and no one would even notice.”

His eyes flicker to yours.

“I know what lonely feels like,” you continue, and now your voice wavers. “And I know what it’s like to think you’re better off that way. That it’s safer.” You swallow hard. “But you’re wrong, Changbin.”

He exhales sharply, looking away. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for something but doesn’t know what.

“Pushing people away doesn’t stop the fear,” you murmur. “It just makes you feel like shit.”

A heavy silence settles between you. The kind that stretches. The kind that means something.

And then, without thinking, you reach for him.

Your body moves like it’s on autopilot. Like a glass bottle with a small note inside that follows the sea’s current until it reaches land, the same way you approach Changbin, like a small wave crashing against the shore. You lift your hand, and grace his with your fingers. He looks at you like he’s a castaway, like he’s been waiting for this little bottled up note for decades.

He doesn’t pull away.

“Not caring won’t protect you,” you whisper. “It just makes you lonely.”

His breath stutters. You don’t miss the way his eyes drop to your lips, the way his grip tightens—like he’s fighting himself.

So you make the choice for him. You lean in, pressing the softest kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I may be asking for a lot from you,” you murmur, less than an inch away from his face. “But I want you to know… You’re not the only one who’s scared. You just… you don’t have to be alone.”

Changbin’s eyes flutter shut. A shaky exhale escapes him.

It crashes into him all at once.

God. He wants you.

He wants you in a way that terrifies him. In a way that makes his hands shake at his sides, makes his chest ache with something unbearable, something vast. It’s not just desire—it’s something deeper, something terrifyingly raw. He wants to press his forehead against yours and let his guard down for once. He wants to memorize the warmth of your skin, the way your lips feel against his. He wants to let himself have this, just for a second.

It makes him want you with an intensity that nearly buckles his knees, already wobbly from the shown fits of passion that have taken over him. He looks at you, and somehow he finds it impossible to identify who it is that stands in front of him. That has to be someone new. Someone that glowed with a kind of shimmer that fire could only aspire to achieve.

It’s almost unbearable. You’re too close, too warm, too everything. And he—he’s spent so long convincing himself that this is a bad idea, that wanting you is dangerous for his poor jaded heart, that if he gets too close, he’ll get burned.

You’re like fire. Mesmerizing, consuming. Beautiful in a way that’s almost cruel. A force of nature he shouldn’t touch but can’t look away from. He knows fire can destroy, but it also warms. It keeps people alive. It saves.

And suddenly, all his reasons, all his carefully built walls, feel like nothing but paper.

He curses under his breath, his resolve crumbling to ash.

And then, after a long, long beat—

He moves.

“You’re not drunk,” he mumbles.

You blink, momentarily confused. “Of course not. What does that have to do with—”

He kisses you.

It’s soft—so soft—but there’s something desperate beneath it, something like surrender.

When he pulls away just enough to breathe, his forehead still brushing against yours, his voice is barely more than a whisper—

“I said that if you weren’t drunk, I’d kiss you back.”

His eyes flicker to yours, searching, waiting—

And then, slowly, carefully, he kisses you again.

It’s slow, deliberate—like he wants to memorize every second. His hands move down, one slipping to the small of your back, the other resting at the curve of your jaw. His lips move against yours with a kind of reverence, like he’s drinking you in, like this isn’t just a kiss but something deeper, something sacred.

When he finally pulls away, he stays close, his breath fanning over your lips. His thumb brushes your cheek, and the way he looks at you—like you’re something fragile, something precious—makes your heart ache.

“If you happen to be some kind of magician, and you’ve made me drink some cheesy love potion, you better confess,” he mumbles with a small smile.

You chuckle in his arms. “If anything, you could’ve voodooed me while I was asleep in the hospital, for all I know.”

He wants to keep teasing you, but he can’t help but lick his lips. “Say, miss voodoo, can I kiss you again?”

“Only if you’ll keep drinking my love potion.”

Oh, he will.

His lips brush against yours like a question.

It’s barely there at first—just a press, a test, a quiet is this okay? lingering in the space between. He lingers, not pulling away but not deepening it, his hands still trembling where they frame your face.

And then you move.

The smallest shift, the gentlest push closer, and it’s like something inside him breaks. His breath shudders against your skin before he kisses you again, firmer this time, sinking into you like he’s finally stopped running.

It’s not slow, not careful. It’s rushed, almost clumsy, a collision of breath and heat and too many unsaid things. His hands are everywhere at once—one cupping your jaw, the other gripping your waist like he needs to feel you, needs proof that this is real and not just something he’s imagined too many times in the quiet of his mind.

You gasp against his mouth, startled by the sheer force of it, but then you’re kissing him back just as desperately. There’s nothing delicate about it. It’s messy and uneven, full of too many emotions to name, and Changbin doesn’t care if it’s reckless, if it’s stupid, if it’s dangerous.

You make a noise against his lips, soft but surprised, and he groans low in his throat, like the sound alone could undo him. His fingers flex against your skin before sliding up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head, deepening the kiss.

It’s fire—spreading fast, consuming everything. He’s gripping at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, like he’s spent too long pretending he didn’t want this and now he can’t stop.

And maybe he doesn’t want to.

His teeth graze your bottom lip, and you shiver—whether from the touch or the sheer intensity of him, you don’t know. But your hands are already fisting into his shirt, holding him in place like you need him just as much as he needs you.

A breath. A pause.

His forehead rests against yours, his chest heaving. His hands don’t let go. Neither do yours.

When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

“…I shouldn’t have done that.”

But he still hasn’t let go.

“Then don’t keep doing it.”

Changbin barely has a second to process your words before your lips crash against his again.

It’s all heat, all hunger—no hesitation, no second-guessing. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, and whatever restraint he had left shatters completely.

He groans into the kiss, his grip tightening at your waist, at the back of your neck, anywhere he can hold you. You’re pressed together like you could somehow mold into one, his body flush against yours, and god—he’s lost. He’s so impossibly lost in the way you taste, the way your breath hitches when he moves, the way you kiss him like you’ve been waiting for this just as long as he has.

He’s done fighting it.

You push at him, just enough to get him stumbling back a step, and he lets you, lets you take, lets you have him, because he’s too far gone to do anything else. His back hits the wall, and you follow, hands skimming up his chest, nails scratching lightly through the fabric. He shudders, his breath ragged against your lips, and then he’s kissing you harder, like he wants to drown in you.

There’s nothing careful about this. It’s messy, desperate, consuming—like the both of you have been starved for too long. Like neither of you know how to stop.

And for once, he doesn’t want to. He won’t even dare to attempt to.

Your fingers, desperate and eager, slip beneath the neckline of his shirt. You just want to feel him, the warmth of his skin, the way his heartbeat thrums beneath your touch. But then—

You freeze.

The pads of your fingers graze over something rough, uneven. Scratches. Your breath catches as you pull back just enough to look at him, your hand still resting lightly against his collarbone. Your eyes flicker to his, searching.

Changbin just smirks, breathless, his lips kiss-bruised and slightly swollen. His hands stay firm at your waist, like he doesn’t want you to move too far away.

“Oh, yeah,” he exhales, voice low, almost amused. “Those are yours.”

Your stomach flips. “Mine?”

“From the fire.” His thumb traces slow circles at your hip, grounding, steady. “You really didn’t wanna let go.”

Your heart clenches. You remember the way your hands had scrambled for anything to hold onto, how the fear had overtaken every rational thought, how his presence had been the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. Your fingers twitch against his skin. He watches you carefully, eyes darker, unreadable.

For a moment, you just stare at him, your lips parted, your breathing uneven. And then, slowly, like you’re rediscovering him, your fingers trace over the scratches again—softer this time. His jaw flexes, his breath shallow.

“I—” You swallow, unsure of what you want to say.

He leans in just enough to brush his nose against yours.

“You know, I wouldn’t mind getting more of those again.”

You meet his gaze, and something about the way he’s looking at you—like he’d let you choose, like he’d let you leave if you wanted to, even if it killed him—makes you tighten your grip on his shirt.

“Still wanna stop?” he mumbles.

“No,” you whisper.

And you kiss him again.

His lips are on yours, and you’re both breathless, both not stopping.

You know you should. Probably. Maybe.

But then his hands are on your waist, and your fingers are pulling at his shirt, and stopping seems like the least reasonable thing in the world.

Changbin groans against your lips, his fingers tightening just a little, like he’s about to pull you impossibly closer—but then he forces himself to pause. His forehead presses against yours, his breathing uneven.

"We should stop."

You nod, still catching your breath. "Yeah. We should."

Neither of you moves.

His nose brushes against yours, and his fingers splay over your lower back, not pulling you in, but not letting you go.

A few seconds stretch between you.

Then you kiss him again.

"We’re not stopping," he mumbles, laughing against your lips.

"We are," you insist, kissing him again just to prove a point. "Just... very, very slowly."

Changbin laughs—full and warm—and buries his face against your shoulder. "You’re the worst."

"And yet, here you are," you tease, tracing your fingers along the nape of his neck, your touch just barely enough to make him shudder.

He exhales sharply. "You're—" but he doesn’t finish, because his lips are back on yours, and you’re smiling too much into the kiss to care.

His hands skim up your sides, then hesitate. "We really should stop."

"You first."

His lips press into a thin line, like he’s actually considering it.

Then—he kisses you again.

"We’re doing an awful job at this," he mumbles.

You just grin against his mouth. "Eh. Maybe we should keep practicing."

Changbin huffs another laugh, his forehead knocking against yours.

"Slow," he reminds you, but he's still kissing you, still laughing when you chase after his lips.

"Very, very slow," you agree, though neither of you stops.

"You know I'm still scared shitless, right?" He mumbles.

"I know," you whisper.

Your fingers find the back of his neck again, tracing slow, aimless patterns against his skin. He exhales sharply at the touch, like it makes something in him settle, like it reminds him he’s here. With you.

His forehead rests against yours, and for a second, you just breathe together.

"I don’t know how to do this," he admits, voice rough. “I’ve actually never done this. Not when it’s—when it’s like this."

"Like what?" you ask softly.

His hands tighten around your waist. "Real."

The word hangs in the air between you, delicate and terrifying.

Your chest aches. You bring a hand up to his face, fingers skimming the curve of his jaw, feeling the way he leans into it despite himself.

"We’ll figure it out," you say, your voice steady. "Together."

Changbin swallows. His lips part like he wants to say something else, but then he just nods, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.

"Slow," he mumbles again, a reminder more for himself than for you.

"Very, very slow," you echo, smiling softly.

[.]

The sun is brighter now, spilling warmth onto the pavement as the two of you walk side by side. The morning air still carries a lingering chill, but it’s nothing compared to the heat simmering low in your chest—because he’s here. Because you’re here, together.

Changbin’s hands are in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he’s still adjusting to the ease of this. Like some part of him is waiting for reality to snap back, for this fragile, quiet thing between you to slip away. But then you nudge his arm with your elbow, grinning when he glances at you.

“You’re quiet,” you say.

He hums, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re loud.”

You gasp, clutching your chest dramatically. “Wow. I see how it is.”

And there it is—the smallest laugh, a breath of amusement that he probably doesn’t even realize slipped out. But you do. You hear it. Feel it settle somewhere deep inside you, warm and bright.

You don’t tease him for it, though. Just smile to yourself as you walk, letting the comfortable silence stretch between you.

It’s not long before you reach the café, a small, tucked-away place with fogged-up windows and the smell of fresh bread spilling out as soon as you step inside. It’s cozy, the kind of place that’s always just a little too warm, where the sound of quiet conversations blends into the soft clatter of cups and silverware.

Changbin lets you lead, following as you slide into a booth by the window. You notice, with no small amount of amusement, that he glances at the menu like it’s a life-or-death decision.

“Okay,” you say, resting your chin on your hand. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

He sighs, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “I just don’t know what to get.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re acting like we’re planning a heist.”

“This is important,” he says, dead serious. “Breakfast is important.”

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. “Okay, okay, we’ll take it seriously.”

You lean across the table a little, pretending to study the menu intently. Then, with the most solemn expression you can muster, you say, “I think you should get the pancakes.”

Changbin narrows his eyes at you. “You just want to steal my food.”

You gasp, feigning offense. “How dare you.”

He just shakes his head, but there’s something lighter in his expression now. Something warm. You can feel it in the way his shoulders have lost their tension, in the way he doesn’t immediately catch himself when he smiles.

And maybe that’s when it hits him.

Because when was the last time he felt this at ease? When was the last time he let himself just be, without second-guessing, without worrying about what comes next?

But the thought barely has time to settle before the server comes over, and you—grinning mischievously—order the pancakes for him before he can protest.

He groans, dropping his head onto the table, and you laugh, reaching out to poke his arm.

“Too late,” you say, sing-song. “You’re having pancakes.”

“You’re actually the worst,” he mutters into his arms.

When the food finally arrives, the scent of butter and syrup fills the air, making your stomach grumble. The server places the plates down—your simple breakfast and his stack of golden pancakes, soft and fluffy, drizzled with just the right amount of syrup.

Changbin sighs dramatically, shaking his head as he picks up his fork. “I still can’t believe you ordered for me.”

“You hesitated. That makes your food my decision,” you say, taking a sip of your coffee. “Those are the rules.”

He snorts. “What rules?”

“The rules of life,” you say wisely, cutting a piece of your own food. “It’s like the five-second rule. Universal.”

“Uh-huh,” he mutters, not convinced. But when he takes his first bite, his brows lift slightly, and you know—you just know—that you were right.

“Good, huh?” you tease, kicking his foot lightly under the table.

He chews, glares at you, and reluctantly nods. “Shut up.”

You grin, pleased, and reach for another piece of your food. But before your fork even touches your plate, Changbin moves—fast, precise, absolutely merciless—and steals a bite off yours instead.

“Hey!” You gawk at him. “I thought you were mad at me for stealing your food!”

He shrugs, chewing with an infuriatingly smug expression. “What’s that thing you said? The rules of life?”

You gape at him. “Oh, so now you believe in them?”

“Only when they work in my favor.” He takes another bite of his pancakes, this time smugly not looking at you.

You shake your head, laughing softly. He’s comfortable. Really comfortable. The way he leans back against the seat, the way his shoulders aren’t so rigid, the way he keeps making these quiet little comments—this isn’t the Changbin from your last moments at the hospital, nor the one that wanted to leave less than a couple hours ago, tense and unreadable.

And something about that realization settles in your chest, warm and soft.

You nudge his foot again.

“I like you like this.”

He pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “Like what?”

“Like…” You tilt your head, studying him. “Like you don’t have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

His expression shifts, subtle but unmistakable. His lips press together, like he doesn’t quite know what to say.

And maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he doesn’t know how to put it into words—the way this feels different, the way it feels light in a way he’s not used to.

But then you steal a piece of his pancake. On purpose this time.

“Wow,” he says flatly. “Unbelievable.”

You smirk, popping it into your mouth. “It’s just the rules of life, gorgeous.”

At first, you expect him to laugh. He’s called you that enough times that it can almost seem like a joke between you two. But this must be different, because this time, his ears turn red.

Changbin chokes on his bite. Your grin widens.

“No way.”

He pouts, quite literally looking like the definition of angy, stabbing at his food. He’s avoiding your eyes, but it doesn’t matter—you can see it. The way the tips of his ears turn red first, the color creeping down to his jaw, spreading over his cheeks. His lips press together, twitching at the corners like he’s fighting the urge to react, but his body betrays him—shoulders just a little stiffer, hand flexing against the table, chewing on the inside of his cheek like that’ll somehow will away the warmth blooming across his face.

You grin, eyes lighting up.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He groans, head dropping into his hand.

The warmth in his face refuses to fade. Changbin clenches his jaw, focusing intently on his plate, but the word still echoes in his head—gorgeous. It lingers, settling under his skin, unraveling him in a way he hadn’t expected. He’s called you that plenty of times now, not expecting you to do anything about it —almost like a reflex when he first met you and wanted to get you out of danger as soon as possible, not wanting to dwell on presentations. But hearing it from you —soft, certain, like you meant it— knocks the air from his lungs. His chest feels tight, and he can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment or something deeper, something more dangerous.

And then, because the universe clearly has it out for him, he looks up. You’re watching him, a teasing glint in your eyes, your lips curled in amusement like you’re enjoying this. Oh, you’re so enjoying this. Heat crawls up his neck, pooling at the tips of his ears, and he has to resist the urge to fidget. His grip on his fork tightens, his pulse stuttering as you tilt your head, waiting, expectant. Changbin swallows hard and looks back at his plate. Goddamn it.

You lean forward on your elbows, eyes shining with mischief. “Wow. So that’s what it takes to get under your skin, huh, mister firefighter?”

Changbin mutters something under his breath that you think is a string of very creative curses.

“You’re still red.”

“I’m not.”

“Again, you so are.”

He locks his eyes down at his pancakes, nodding to you, faking nonchalance. “Eat your food.”

You grin. “Sure thing, gorgeous.”

He groans, head dropping into his hand, hiding a smile.

The café hums softly around them—low chatter, the occasional clink of cutlery against ceramic, the distant hiss of an espresso machine. But at their table, there’s a different kind of quiet. A comfortable one. They eat, occasionally meeting each other’s eyes, sometimes just exchanging small, knowing smiles.

Then, just as Changbin takes another bite, you break the silence.

“I really like you.”

He nearly chokes again. It’s almost offensive to him that you don’t even blink. You just rest your chin on your hand, watching him with an amused tilt of your head. He swallows, setting his fork down carefully, but before he can gather his thoughts, you continue.

“But,” you say, drawing out the word like you’re making a serious declaration, “I’ve decided that if this is going to work, I need to get to know you. Like, the real you.”

Changbin tenses. There’s a split second where his mind jumps to something serious—his job, the things he’s seen, the weight of what he hasn’t told you yet, not fully—but then he notices the playful glint in your eyes. Still, his shoulders stay tight. His fingers twitch slightly against the table.

You tilt your head and narrow your eyes at him like you’re analyzing something incredibly important.

“So,” you say, very slowly, as if you’re about to ask the most crucial question of all. His stomach twists, but he hums as he waits for the question to hit him.

“Pineapple on pizza?”

He blinks.

“…What?”

“Well?” You squint harder, like you’re studying him.

“Eh… No?”

You nod solemnly, as if this is of great importance.

“Good choice.”

His lips twitch, amused despite himself. “Was that a test?”

You wave a hand. “It’s all a test, gorgeous” Then, before he can roll his eyes and blush even more, you continue, rapid-fire. “Dogs or cats?”

“Dogs.”

“Respectable.” You nod again. “Favorite movie?”

He shrugs. “Depends. Maybe Inception?”

“Hm. A little pretentious, but I’ll allow it.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re avoiding the questions,” you shoot back, tapping your fingers against the table. “Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee.”

“What’s your go-to order?”

“Americano.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Of course it is.”

He lets out a laugh, shaking his head. “Meanie. What’s yours?”

“Cappuccino, of course. The more sugar, the better.”

He pushes his glasses as a reflex when he smiles. “Okay, your turn again. What’s your favorite movie?”

You smirk. “Shrek 2.”

Changbin nearly drops his fork. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am.” You sip your drink with an air of absolute confidence. “It’s a cinematic masterpiece.”

He stares at you for a moment, then bursts into laughter. It’s deep and warm, and the sound of it makes your chest feel lighter.

“Why not the first one?” He chuckles, trying to calm down his laughter.

But you gasp, clutching your chest like he’s just mortally wounded you. “Excuse me? Shrek 2 is objectively superior.”

Changbin shakes his head, chuckling. “The first one is a classic, though.”

“Yeah, but the second one improves on the first in every way,” you argue, leaning forward. “Better animation. Funnier jokes. A soundtrack that goes so hard.”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “You’re really passionate about this.”

“As I should be.” You tilt your chin up, feigning indignation. “I mean, come on. ‘I Need a Hero’? The giant gingerbread man? The fairy godmother?” You shake your head in disappointment. “I can’t believe you’re even questioning this.”

Changbin lets out another laugh, shaking his head. “Okay, okay. I’ll give you the soundtrack.”

“Damn right, you will.” You take a triumphant sip of your drink.

He watches you, still smiling, and something in his chest feels a little lighter. Maybe taking it slow is just what he needs.

Changbin leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Alright, since we’re debating classics—best animated movie of all time.”

You narrow your eyes at him, pretending to consider. “Shrek 2.”

He groans. “You just said that!”

“Because, it is the best animated movie of all time.”

Changbin shakes his head, exasperated but grinning. “You have so many options, and you’re really sticking with that?”

“Yes. Final answer. Locking it in.” You mime pressing a game-show buzzer.

He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

You smirk, taking another sip of your drink. “Alright, fine. What’s your pick?”

He hums, pretending to consider. “Maybe The Lion King?”

You snort. “Basic.”

Changbin gapes at you. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a great movie, don’t get me wrong,” you say, waving a hand. “But it’s the safe choice. Everyone picks The Lion King. Bet you there isn’t one single person alive who doesn’t at least tolerate that movie.”

“Okay, chill, miss Shrek 2,” he teases, leaning back in his chair.

You gasp dramatically. “How dare you?”

He grins, eyes glinting with amusement. “Alright, what about How to Train Your Dragon?”

You purse your lips, pretending to weigh the choice. “Now that is a respectable answer.”

Changbin huffs. “Oh, so that one’s allowed?”

“It has dragons. And a banger soundtrack,” you say matter-of-factly.

“I see where your priorities lie.”

“Obviously,” you say with a playful shrug.

He watches you, something warm in his chest. The teasing, the way you light up when you argue over something ridiculous—it’s all so easy. For the first time in a long time, he’s not thinking about what comes next. He’s just here.

He’s having so much fun, he’s not looking at his phone, that lights up in several text bubbles. Neither do you… yet.

“Okay, back to the real thing, ‘cause I ask the questions here,” you giggle. “Favourite colour…” He’s about to answer, but then you finish the sentence “and why.”

Changbin pauses, caught off guard. “And why?”

You nod solemnly. “Yep. No basic one-word answers. I need reasons.”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You take this very seriously.”

“Of course,” you say, raising an eyebrow. “This is a crucial part of getting to know someone. What if you said, I don’t know, neon brown? What if you had bad taste?”

Changbin snorts. “Good thing I don’t, then.”

“Debatable,” you tease. “Now answer.”

He thinks for a second, absentmindedly tapping his fingers against the table. “I guess… blue?”

You stare at him, then blink, expectantly.

He blinks. “What?”

“I’m skipping the fact that it’s basic. But you’re missing the why, silly,” you remind him, amused.

He exhales through his nose, lips twitching. “I don’t know. It’s calming? Feels steady, I guess.”

You nod, like you’re analyzing his answer. “Alright. Safe choice. Could be worse.”

“Could be worse?” he echoes, laughing. “What’s your favorite color, then?”

“Mm,” you hum, pretending to think. “Magenta.”

His brow furrows. “Why?”

You smirk. “Because it’s fun watching people’s faces when I say it.”

Changbin groans, laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

You grin. “Took you this long to figure that out?” Your nibble on your lip, sighing softly. “No, but honestly, white is my favourite. It reflects all other colours,” you smile, a bit to yourself, like you’re suddenly sheepish about the answer.

Changbin leans back slightly in his seat, surprised by your answer. “White, huh? I thought you’d go for something bolder.”

You chuckle, tapping your finger on your chin like you’re contemplating the question seriously. “I like simplicity. But, I guess if I’m being honest, it’s more than just that.”

He watches you closely, waiting for you to elaborate. “How so?”

You meet his gaze, a small smile tugging at your lips. “It’s like… it’s not just a color, it’s everything and nothing all at once. It’s light at its highest, but it can also be anything, depending on what you choose to add to it.”

Changbin nods thoughtfully. “That feels deep for a favorite color.”

You laugh at his mock surprise. “I’m full of surprises, mister firefighter.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a warmth in his smile. “Guess I’m starting to realize that.”

You both take a moment, the conversation slowing, but only for a beat before you press on with another silly question. “Alright, next one. Worst movie you’ve ever seen?”

Changbin groans dramatically, leaning forward with a deep sigh, clearly dreading the question. “I don’t know if I can pick just one.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, come on. There has to be one that stands out.”

He thinks for a moment, then chuckles, clearly defeated. “Fine. I saw this movie once where they tried to make a romance out of a giant robot and a girl. It was… painful.”

You laugh out loud at the absurdity. “That sounds awful. What was it called?”

“Don’t even remember the name,” he grumbles, shaking his head. “But it’s probably better that way.”

You both laugh, the comfortable silence that follows feeling easy and natural, as though you’ve just found a rhythm in each other’s company.

“Yours?” He smiles.

“Ouf,” you grimace. “I can’t pick just one,” you lick your lips, counting on your fingers. “The entire Twilight saga, the entire After saga, several disney sequels, Emilia Pérez…”

Changbin chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “I knew you had taste, but… the entire Twilight saga? That’s pretty brutal.”

You shrug dramatically, as if the weight of such a decision is too much. “It’s a public service to warn people about those kinds of movies,” you say, deadpan. “It’s honestly a sacrifice for humanity. I’ll wear that badge with fucking honour.”

He snorts at that, clearly amused. “And the Disney sequels? You didn’t even give those a chance?”

“Ha,” you laugh, “no. Just no.”

Changbin nods sagely, like he fully understands the gravity of the situation. “Yeah, I get it. Some things are better left in the past.”

You both laugh, shaking your heads at the ridiculousness of the movies, and the conversation eases into a comfortable rhythm of banter, silly questions, and sharing opinions that feel like little windows into who you each are. There’s no pressure, no tension—just a growing sense of ease between the two of you.

“No, but, seriously. Say, Pocahontas 2? It defeats almost everything the first movie ever accomplished. And Mulan 2 ruined Mushu. I’ll never forgive them for that.”

Changbin raises an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued by your passion. “Wait, Mulan 2?” He chuckles, leaning forward a little. “You really have strong feelings about this.”

“Don’t get me started,” you warn, your voice mock-serious. “They turned Mushu into a bitchass joke, which is high treason. Like, in Mulan’s whole vibe he’s supposed to be that chaotic, but lovable force. Instead, they made it into this weird ‘let’s make Mushu annoying as he tries to break up Mulan and Shan, and let’s not have fight scenes’, which is all major bullshit if you ask me.”

He laughs harder now, clearly enjoying your animated rant. “I can tell this is a serious matter to you. Alright, alright, I won’t argue. What about Pocahontas 2, though?”

You nod gravely, your expression deadpan as you lean in closer. “The entire premise is just… wrong. It completely misses the mark of the first movie, which had so much depth. The CGI is a joke, breaking up Pocahontas and John Smith is just criminal, and I don’t care if that happened historically, because there was no need to use that. And the only funny guy was this gigantic dude from the tribe that almost never spoke. Imagine that.”

He laughs again, this time shaking his head in disbelief. “I’m honestly impressed by how much you care about these movies.”

“I mean, I could write an essay,” you smirk, “But I’ll spare you the dissertation for now.”

“Please don’t,” he says with a grin. “I’m already regretting asking.”

“Don’t you watch any movies?” You scoff. “You’re making me feel like a geek,” you chuckle.

Changbin shrugs with a teasing smile, leaning back in his chair. “I watch movies, but I don’t think I’ve ever cared enough to dissect the sequels like you do.” He pauses, then smirks. “Maybe I should start taking notes.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Please do, so next time I can drag you into a two-hour debate on how The Lion King 2 doesn’t make sense with the original.”

“That sounds terrifying,” he laughs, but the way he looks at you is soft, like he genuinely enjoys the banter. “Maybe you can teach me the ways of movie critique.”

You roll your eyes playfully, giving him a smirk. “Oh, it’s a tough job. You have to be deeply invested in fictional heartbreak and plot holes.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he grins. “But I’d rather listen to you talk about it.”

You blink. You feel your face turn red and your mouth turn dry.

“Oh,” he smirks. “Look who’s blushing now.”

You blink, feeling your face heat up, your heart rate picking up. “What—what do you mean?” you stutter, trying to shake off the sudden shyness that creeps up on you.

“Oh, I’m just saying,” he smirks, leaning back slightly, clearly enjoying the effect he’s having on you. “You’re looking a little… red there.”

“I— I’m not,” you protest, but your voice cracks a little, betraying you.

He chuckles, watching you try to compose yourself. “Sure, you’re not.”

You take a deep breath, trying to steer the conversation in a safer direction. “Well, maybe you’re just making me nervous.”

He raises an eyebrow, leaning in a little closer. “Am I?” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s something warm in his gaze.

You can’t help but laugh, despite the blush that still hasn’t quite faded from your cheeks. “You’re terrible.”

“Somehow, you don’t seem to dislike it,” he says with a grin.

You roll your eyes, trying to hide the smile that threatens to break through. “Maybe I don’t,” you admit, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

His expression softens, and there’s a brief silence between you two. “Good,” he says quietly, his smile genuine. “I like you too.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and for the first time, the teasing fades into something more sincere.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” You lick your lips, trying to silence the big, loud, would you like to stay forever?! your heart wants to let out. “I figured you’ll probably have to head to the station because your phone keeps getting messages you’re ignoring, so that’s probably work. But we can watch a movie, maybe? If you’d like?”

Changbin doesn’t have the heart —or the guts— to tell you that it’s actually his friends’ group chat going crazy at the fact that he left the station for a girl and didn't go back home at night after Hyunjin ratted him out like the dramatic hoe he is. All in good spirit, of course.

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head with a soft chuckle. “Yeah, uh… probably should check in at some point.”

You nod, trying to act casual, but your fingers fidget slightly against the edge of your cup. “Right. Makes sense.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he shifts, scratching the back of his neck. “But, uh… yeah, dinner sounds nice.”

Your eyes snap back to his, glowing. “Yeah?”

He huffs out a laugh, looking almost bashful. “Yeah.”

You smile, tilting your head slightly. “Even if I make you watch a movie?”

“Depends on the movie,” he teases, lifting a brow.

You squint at him in mock suspicion. “You don’t get to judge my taste after you admitted to barely watching any.”

“Fair point,” he concedes with a smirk. “I’ll take my chances.”

He still doesn’t check his phone, and you don’t ask again. Maybe you both know that the second he does, the real world will come knocking—and for now, you’d rather just stay right here.

“Any movie you’ve been waiting to watch?”

Changbin hums, pretending to think. “Dunno… What's that one? Pocahontas 2?”

Your mouth falls open in sheer offense. “You’re evil.”

He grins, leaning back. “What? You brought it up.”

“You don’t actually want to watch Pocahontas 2.”

“No, but I do kinda want to see you suffer through it.”

“You’re the worst.” You narrow your eyes at him, pointing your spoon like a weapon. “I take back my dinner invitation.”

He chuckles, raising his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’ll behave. Pick whatever you want. I promise I won’t complain.”

You squint at him for a second, like you don’t quite believe him, then relax with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. But if we’re watching something I like, you better at least pretend to enjoy it.”

Changbin smirks. “No promises.”

“Watch me put Fight Club and then see who ends up more riled up.” You cackle.

Changbin raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh, you think I’d be the one getting riled up?”

You snort. “I’d put money on it.”

He leans in slightly, resting his chin on his hand. “You do know what Fight Club is about, right?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Do you?”

His grin widens. “Enlighten me.”

“It’s about repressed masculinity, societal alienation, and���”

“Oh, so you do know,” he chuckles, tilting his head. “I was half-expecting you to say, ‘hot guys punching each other.’”

“Well, that too,” you admit, laughing. “But mostly, I just want to see you try to sit still when the chaos kicks in.”

He shakes his head, amused. “You really think that’d get to me?”

“Absolutely.” You flash him a teasing grin. “But you’ll have to say yes to dinner first.”

Changbin exhales through his nose, shaking his head like he can’t believe you. “You’re sneaky.”

You shrug, grinning. “I prefer persuasive.”

He watches you for a second, then licks his lips. “Alright,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Dinner and a movie.”

You try not to look too pleased with yourself, but you’re pretty sure you fail. “Good choice.”

His eyes narrow playfully. “Will you say that every time I agree with you?”

“Maybe,” you hum, picking at the last bits of your food. “Depends on if you keep making good choices.”

He huffs a laugh, but there’s something softer in the way he looks at you. He shakes his head, like he’s trying to figure you out, but there’s no frustration behind it—just something warm, something settled.

You glance at your watch, then back at him. “So, what do you say? You go check in at the station, I go buy groceries, and then we meet back at mine for dinner?”

Changbin taps his fingers against the table, pretending to consider it. “Only if I get a say in the menu.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. What do you want?”

He leans in slightly, lips quirking. “Do you put pineapple on pizza?”

Your jaw drops. “Don’t even joke about that.”

He laughs—full, deep, genuine. And you realize, in that moment, just how much you love hearing it.

“Actually, new question,” you smile. “Popcorn. Sweet? Salty? With toppings, like, I don’t know, butter?”

Changbin raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the sudden shift. “You’re really going all in with the hard-hitting questions, huh?”

You lean in, your tone playful. “You’d be surprised how much popcorn says about a person.”

Changbin raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Alright, hit me with your answer then.”

You grin, tapping your chin for dramatic effect. “Well, popcorn with butter, of course. None of that sweet nonsense.”

Changbin looks taken aback, mouth slightly open in surprise. “Wait, you don’t like sweet popcorn?”

“No way,” you laugh, shaking your head. “Sweet popcorn defeats the purpose of popcorn in the first place. It’s supposed to be salty, savory. The butter… the butter is key!”

He looks skeptical, leaning back in his chair. “But isn’t that too greasy? You need a balance, right?”

You cross your arms, looking at him like he’s just committed a grave sin. “Nope. Sweet popcorn’s a crime against snack time. It’s like… I don’t know, mixing fruit with pizza. It just doesn’t belong.”

Changbin chuckles, clearly entertained. “I think I’m gonna need to try it for myself just to see how bad it really is.”

You shake your head with mock seriousness. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. You’re about to taste betrayal in snack form.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. I’ll stick with the salty. For now.”

“Good choice,” you nod solemnly, smiling. “You have no idea how much you just redeemed yourself.”

You both burst into laughter, the easy rhythm of conversation making everything feel comfortable, almost effortless. Changbin leans back in the booth, still chuckling, but his gaze lingers on you a moment longer than usual, his smile softening.

“So,” he says after a beat, his tone lighter but with a hint of curiosity, “What about the toppings? You’ve gotta have a favorite, right?”

You think for a second, then grin. “It’s gotta be extra butter. Like, not just a drizzle, but a full-on soaking. You know? I’m talking enough butter to make your fingers greasy after every handful.”

Changbin chuckles again, shaking his head. “I should’ve known. You’re a butter enthusiast.”

“Guilty as charged.” You grin. “What about you?

He shrugs with a grin, clearly amused by the whole conversation. “I can do butter, I guess. But I’m not one for too much of it. I’m a simple kind of guy when it comes to snacks.”

You raise an eyebrow playfully, feigning surprise. “Wait, you’re telling me you’re a popcorn minimalist? You need to step up your game, man.”

He leans forward, his expression mischievous. “Maybe, but I’ll tell you this: I’m not about to ruin a perfectly good snack with too much of anything. Just a little butter, maybe some salt, and that’s it.”

You shake your head, laughing again. “That’s a shame. You’ll never experience true popcorn bliss.” You pause, leaning in slightly, voice dropping just a little. “But maybe I can teach you. You know… for the greater good.”

Changbin chuckles, his gaze flickering to yours. “You know, I might just take you up on that offer.” His smile deepens, and you catch the playful warmth in his eyes.

The moment stretches between you, easy and warm, and for a second, everything outside this little bubble of comfort fades into the background.

As the last bite of food is eaten, the table falls into a comfortable silence. You both sit back, stretching slightly, content after the meal. Your eyes wander briefly to the surroundings, the quiet buzz of the café becoming more evident now that the noise of chewing and talking has slowed.

But just as the last fork is put down, you see the server moving toward your table, a polite smile on their face as they prepare to clear the plates.

Without thinking, you both reach for the same plate at the same time, your hands brushing lightly against Changbin’s. For a split second, you both pause, meeting each other’s eyes. The smile that tugs at your lips is playful, teasing.

You wink at him, a small spark of amusement in your eyes. “Good choice,” you say, your voice light and teasing.

Changbin’s lips curl into a grin, his gaze holding yours a little longer than usual. He chuckles softly, the look in his eyes giving away how much he enjoys this moment. “Guess we’re on the same wavelength,” he says, his voice low, almost like a whisper.

The server arrives, and you both slide the plates together, stacking them without missing a beat. The act feels almost automatic, yet somehow intimate in its simplicity.

The server gives you a polite nod, taking the stack of plates. “I’ll be back with the check,” they say, before heading off.

You and Changbin exchange a quick glance, the silence between you comfortable, easy. “That was a good move,” you comment, leaning back in your seat.

He shrugs nonchalantly, but there’s a soft, content smile playing on his lips. “Yeah, not bad,” he murmurs, eyes glancing back at you with a hint of fondness.

You both relax into the moment, a sense of quiet connection settling between you.

You raise an eyebrow, a teasing smile curling on your lips. “Is that your go-to move to make girls swoon?” you ask, leaning in just a little, the playful tone clear in your voice. “Being nice to the server?”

Changbin’s smile widens, but there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. He leans back in his seat, arms casually crossed. “Oh, absolutely,” he says with mock seriousness. “It’s all about the service skills.”

You chuckle, shaking your head.

He raises an eyebrow, as if to challenge you. “Why? Is it working?”

“Definitely,” you reply with a smirk, your voice light and teasing. “I mean, I can see how your charm would be irresistible.”

Seo laughs, shaking his head in disbelief, but there’s a warmth in his gaze. “You’re dangerous with that sarcasm, you know that?”

You shrug playfully, a smile still lingering on your lips. “I just speak the truth,” you say, leaning back in your chair, your eyes never leaving his.

He chuckles softly, the laughter lingering in his eyes. Changbin pushes his chair back, stretching slightly. “Be right back,” he says casually before heading toward the back of the café. You barely think twice about it, stirring the last bits of your drink with your straw as you glance around.

A few moments pass, and when you catch the server’s attention to ask for the check, they shake their head with a polite smile. Confused, you blink before realization dawns on you.

You turn just in time to see Seo returning to the table, looking far too pleased with himself. He slides back into his seat like nothing happened, his expression perfectly neutral—except for the barely concealed amusement in his eyes.

He can almost sense it in your face that you’re going to complain, and once your eyes widen, he chuckles sheepishly, smiling.

“I mean, who would want to miss out on the chance to pay for a beautiful girl’s breakfast?”

He notices you still squinting at him when you both exit the café.

“Don’t be like that,” he nuzzles you with his elbow playfully. “You’ll pay for dinner, basically,” he pointed out.

You huffed, faking annoyance. “This isn’t over,” you threatened, letting out a laugh.

“I sure hope not,” he smiles softly, staring at the floor, chuckling sheepishly as you both head back to your house.

“See you for dinner,” you grin, waving your hand.

He lifts his helmet’s visor, sitting on his bike, and with a blush on his face that you can’t see, winks at you.

He can’t wait.

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

a/n: AND NEITHER CAN I 😭‼️💕

~kats, who had to change the structure of the chapters because she reached the fucking text limit in a post.

catiuskaa, april 2025 ©

ep 3 will be out next monday! <3

[luvyeni]

BUYING GAS FOR THE CAR 𖹭 스트레이키즈 ( text reaction ) !

genre crack 𖹭 warning nothing pairing — OT8 x fem reader | back to library .

— pranking skz into thinking you got scammed

request. you know the trend where the girlfriend tells there boyfriend theyre gonna get their oil changed or car touched up somehow, and the gf says something about "premium oil, or premium gas" that makes them pay an extra forty dollars? imagine that with skz

©️LUVYENI

[linoxpudding]

Kitchen Chaos - Seo Changbin

*gif credit goes to owner*

summary: cooking date doesn't go as planned, moral of the story? your boyfriend can't multitask, but he can definitely love you right

pairing: seo changbin x reader

genre: fluff, established relationship

word count: 741 words

a/n: incorporated this request and this request for this fic, enjoy ♡

Masterlist

~°~

Cooking dinner with Changbin sounded like a dream. You had imagined soft background music, playful banter, and maybe even a little flour fight like in movies.

What you hadn't considered was that Changbin had the multitasking ability of a potato.

"Are you sure you can handle chopping the onions and stirring the sauce at the same time?" you ask, watching Changbin grip the knife like he's about to fight for his life.

He scoffs, rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie. "Babe, please. I can lift weights twice your size, rap at lightning speed, and make fire beats. I think I can handle—AHHH MY EYES."

You stifle a laugh as Changbin dramatically throws the knife down and rubs his eyes with his sauce-covered fingers.

"BINNIE, NO!!" you exclaim, grabbing his hands before he rubs spicy tomato sauce all over his face.

"I’M BLIND. THIS IS THE END."

"It's literally just onion," you giggle, guiding him toward the sink. "Here, rinse your hands first, pabo."

Changbin lets you take care of him, pouting as you dab his face with a towel. "This is why I lift, not cook."

You roll your eyes affectionately. "Cooking requires multitasking, which you suck at."

"I do NOT suck at multitasking," he grumbles.

"Really?" You smirk. "Then why is the sauce burning?"

"WHAT?!" Changbin yelps, spinning around so fast he nearly knocks over the cutting board. He rushes to the stove, frantically stirring the bubbling sauce. "No, no, no—babe, why didn’t you say anything sooner??"

"I was literally about to," you laugh, leaning against the counter. "I love how you act like it’s my fault."

He sighs, defeated. "Okay, maybe I can’t multitask. But!! I make up for it in other ways."

You tilt your head. "Like?"

Without a word, Changbin steps closer and pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping tightly around you. "Like giving the best cuddles," he murmurs against your hair.

You hum contentedly, letting yourself sink into his warmth. "That’s true," you admit. "Cuddling is your one true talent."

"Hey!" he protests, but you feel his chest vibrate with laughter. His hand starts rubbing gentle circles on your back. "Cooking is overrated anyway. Let's just order takeout and cuddle instead."

You laugh. "So you're giving up?"

"Not giving up—strategically retreating."

You roll your eyes, but the way he tightens his arms around you makes your heart melt. "Okay, okay, you don’t have to cook," you said between giggles. "Just be my taste tester."

His eyes lit up immediately. "Wait, so I get to eat without doing any of the work?"

"Yep."

He grabbed a chair and sat down so fast you swore you heard a whoosh of air. "Best. Plan. Ever."

"And you have to feed me."

"Obviously."

"And you have to cuddle me all night."

Changbin smirks, squeezing you tighter. "Babe, I was already planning on it."

---

By some miracle, dinner turned out fine, despite Changbin’s… contributions.

After eating, you both collapsed onto the couch, stomachs full and laughter lingering in the air. Changbin stretched his arms with a content sigh before opening them wide. "C’mere."

You didn’t need to be told twice. Crawling into his embrace, you rested your head against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat. His arms wrapped around you snugly, like a protective cocoon, and he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

"You know," you mumbled sleepily, "for someone who’s bad at multitasking, you’re really good at cuddling."

His chest rumbled with laughter. "That’s ‘cause cuddling only requires one skill—holding you close and never letting go."

Your heart melted. "Smooth, Seo Changbin. Very smooth."

Changbin grinned, his arms tightening around you as he tucked you even closer, his body heat instantly wrapping around you like a thick, cozy blanket.

For a few moments, the world outside faded. The only thing that mattered was the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest against yours, the soft hum he let out as he pressed a gentle kiss to your temple.

You turned your head slightly, just enough for his lips to meet yours in the softest, sweetest kiss. It wasn’t rushed or demanding—just warm, like morning sunlight streaming through the window.

He pulled back barely an inch, his lips still ghosting over yours. "Mmm," he hummed, his voice all soft and lazy. "This is definitely my best skill."

You let out a breathy laugh, nudging your nose against his. "I can’t argue with that."

[dancinglikebutterflywings]

1:29pm | Seo Changbin

Pairing: Changbin x Reader

Requested: By anon.

Synopsis: Reader has a headache but still wants to spend some time with her boyfriend.

Warnings: established relationship. Using a prompt. Prompt is in bold italics. Repost from my old deactivated account.

Wordcount: 239 

Stray Kids Masterlist | Tag List Sign-Up | Requesting Guidelines

“You love me, and you know it,” was Changbin’s reply to you when you told him he needed to tone it down a little. You’ve been fighting a headache all day and as much as you love the chaotic energy that comes with your boyfriend, you needed him to be a little calmer today.  

“If you’re not up for it today, we can postpone our plans for another day,” he adds seeing the unimpressed look you give him.  

“We haven’t spent a day together in a while,” you say, not wanting to miss the chance to spend the day with him.   

“I know, but if you’re not feeling well, you should be resting,” he tells you and makes an offer, “How about I take care of you? That way you can rest and still spend time with me.”  

“It’s just a headache,” you pout, moving into his arms when he holds them out for you.  

“Let’s go take a nap,” he suggests. “See if that’ll help.”  

You nod your head and let him lead you back into your bedroom. He helps you get settled in bed before going into the kitchen to grab you a bottle of water. Bringing it back, he places it on your nightstand so you can keep hydrated.  

By the time he gets into bed with you, you're drifting off to sleep. But you don’t fall asleep until you’re wrapped tightly in your boyfriend’s arms. 

Likes, Comments & Reblogs are welcomed and appreciated. 

©️ 2024 CRAZYFORMFICS. NO ONE HAS PERMISSION TO COPY, TRANSLATE AND/OR REPOST MY WORKS ON HERE OR ANY OTHER SITE.

TAGGED: @staytiny2000 - @dancelikebutterflywings - @kpopmenace143 - @alexxavicry - @jedi-dreea - @rainydayteacups - @tinyelfperson - @laylasbunbunny - @skz1-4-3

[write-here-n-now]

you've got it all wrong

C.(S). Changbin x GN Reader | WC. 1031 | G. Fluff + Comedy + slight, like very slight angst | Prompt: You're done being a coward, no more avoiding your feelings

∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘

“Y/N?!” 

Changbin opens the door to his studio only to find you breathing hard, bent over on your knees and sweaty. Once you hear your name, you straighten up.

You push your way inside and turn to him as he turns to face you.

“..i~..” You try to get out the words through the huffing and puffing, trying to catch your breath.

“Y/N-ah are you ok?”

“...yeh, just Cough. ra-an here. Cough. Cough.

You might have overdone it by running all the way from your apartment here but who could stop your lovestruck heart?

He sits you down and hands you a water bottle. You push away the water bottle, you have other matters to handle. 

“I can’t do-” Deep breath. Cough.

“What?”

“I just can’t do it anymore Changbin.” 

“Can’t do what..?”

“I can’t, be…your friend anymore.”

NO, NO, NO. This was not happening. What did you mean you didn’t want to be his friend?

Before you could expand on your thoughts, Changbin opened his mouth, already armed with questions.

“Y/N! How can you even say this?! HUH.” 

“-wa-it, i mean-”

“YOUU RAN? ALL THE WAY HERE JUST TO SAY THISSS~!” 

The whine already evident in his voice. You didn’t mean it like he was interpreting but he was already up and animated. So much for your flawless open admission of love.

“Y/N!, we’ve been friends for ages and suddenly you want out??” He tsks, arms folded, utterly flabbgeratsed.  “And., and, what was such a hurry that you couldn’t even let me down gently huh!?? So eager to abandon our friendship, to abandon me?.” 

It was no doubt he was a rapper because his words were coming a mile a minute. 

You stare at his outburst. This was not what you planned on the way here, but in hindsight, you should’ve expected him to misunderstand just a bit at trying to “end” your friendship. 

You stand up, a bit too quickly, and grab him by the shoulders. 

“CHANGBIN!” 

That shuts his mouth but the hurt and pout are still on etched on his face.

“I can’t just be your friend, because…”

“Be-CAUSE…?”

“...i like you…” You mumble it out, shying away from expressing yourself.

“What was that?” he genuinely had not heard even a fraction of what you said, only a few mumbling sounds.

“i..li-ke…you” 

Ok that time he heard “I” clearly and maybe a faint “like”...? 

“Ok Y/N, one more time,” he was still pouting but now his heart was also beating faster because he was beginning to piece together what you might be saying. “Speak louder I can’t hear you and I’m standing right in front of you.” He wanted to hear it clearly, no mumbling, crystal clear.

“I LIKE YOU!”

There it was, out in the open. You had practiced all the different ways to tell him but you didn’t imagine it would be in the middle of his studio whilst trying to make him realize that you weren’t just randomly ending your friendship.

“Ya, you dummy…” He was grinning, ear to ear. All his anger and sadness vanished, now he just felt like melting into a puddle.

You refuse to meet his eyes, cheeks burning from embarrassment or still from your long-distance marathon to his studio? You weren’t sure. 

Before you can fully get the courage to explain, he wraps his arms around you for a nearly bone-crushing hug.

“Y/nieeeee!!!” His face pressed into your shoulder, he slightly shakes you, cuteness aggression taking over.

“Bin,..” you try pushing him away because, 

1. You’re still all hot and sweaty, and 2. You were definitely losing some capacity to breathe.

He gets the hint and moves back to allow you some space and moving his hands to your side, keeping you close.

“You ran all the way here? Just to tell me that?” There’s no teasing in his voice, just pure adoration. He can’t even begin to tell you how enraptured he feels hearing those words from you. 

“..yes…” You suddenly feel a little self-conscious because why did you do that? You could’ve asked him to meet you later but the idea of telling him any later brought you uneasiness, it had to be done that instant, you’d already chickened out one too many times. 

Your sheepish face warmed Changbin’s heart, he pulled you in again for a hug, this time a little looser but still with a firm grip around you. How he wishes he could stay like this forever, the person of his dreams standing in front of him confessing their feelings for him, he couldn’t have even wished for this in his wildest dreams.

Basking in each other’s arms, it occurs to you that Changbin hasn't even replied to your confession. You pull back facing him. “Wait…”

“Hmm”

“.do you..?”

“..do I what?”

“LIKE me??!?” 

“Y/N is the oxygen to your brain still lacking?” he gives your head a little poke, chuckling at your outburst. “If i didn’t like you back would I be grinning like an idiot and almost crushing you with my hug..”

“Nooo…but-..”

“I like you too~” Planting a peck to your forehead before you had the chance to bicker any more. 

The two of you remain enveloped in each other's arms, not a thought paid to your still sweaty body because Changbin couldn’t be happier, he didn’t plan on letting go anytime soon…

Knock, Knock, Knock

Your attention is captured by the loud knocks on the door of the studio, you give each other a confused look, until Chan’s voice sounds from outside

“Hey~ we’re like really happy for you two but could you open the door, our hands are full with food.” 

Flustered, you try to pull away, but Changbin keeps you locked in place, leaning closer to you.

“They know the code, let them wait a bit~” he whispers. 

“-bu-” before you can finish your protest, he places his lips onto yours, effectively making you forget all previous thoughts, that is, until you hear the beeps on the studio keypad.

“Are you guys serious? this is why you couldn’t open the door?!”

“Oh my gosh, get a room… –not this one though.”

[quillsnink]

"Say Please"

• You were sitting on the couch in Chan's studio, eyeing him occasionally as he was lost in editing the songs for their upcoming album, not having spoken a single word for the past hour .

• When he started lightly humming a random melody, that's when you knew he was a little bit available and probably very happy with how the editing turned out.

• He turned his chair to face you and gave you a sweet smile, flashing his dimple.

• "What's up ? You okay there baby girl ?", he asked, turning back to his laptop again while clicking something on it.

• "Can I get a hug Channie ?", you pouted, while making puppy dog eyes at him.

• He turned his chair back towards you, with one eyebrow raised, his serious demeanor now replaced with a playful smirk.

• "Say please", a teasing smile now tugging at his lips, his eyes sparkling with mischief, expecting you to clearly get shy or roll your eyes at him.

• You looked at him with both eyebrows raised slightly. Moments and words like these still made you shy and surprised at how flirty he could really be, but today you were having none of his games.

• So you sighed and decided to take matters into your own hands today, suddenly feeling a surge of boldness.

• You stood up and walked towards him, your movements confident and deliberate, your eyes never leaving his as if you were quietly challenging him.

• Chan leaned back slightly in his chair, his smirk faltering and suddenly feeling flustered, his flirty demeanor from a second ago, now completely replaced with shyness and anticipation as you came closer. "Wait, what are you".

• You came and stood in between his legs which were already parted and you leaned down, your face mere inches away from that of his now. Your thumb brushed his lower lip, gently tracing it as you tilted your head slightly, your eye contact still intact, and you whispered, your voice soft yet confident and sultry, "please".

• For a moment, the room was dead silent except for the muffled sounds of an upbeat song coming from the practice room beside his studio. His dark brown eyes bore into yours, searching for any trace of hesitation or teasing. But all he saw was your confidence, and it completely threw him off balance.

• His lips parted slightly, as if to say something, but no words came out. A faint blush spread across his cheeks, and his usual calm, composed demeanor seemed to crumble under your gaze.

• "Oh my goodness, what is she doing ? No no no I cannot with this, I think my heart just stopped" , he kept thinking, his eyes still wide open in shock and surprise.

• He cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure, but his voice came out slightly shaky. "I, uh... I guess... you really wanted that hug, huh?"

• You smirked, stepping back slightly but not breaking eye contact. "Is that a yes or a no then, Christopher?"

• The way you said his full name made his stomach do flips. Without another word, he stood up, towering over you slightly as he closed the distance. In one swift motion, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a warm, firm embrace. His hands rested securely on your lower back, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart against your chest.

• "You win, okay ? But don’t think I’m letting you tease me like that without consequences", he murmured into your ear, his voice low.

• You laughed softly. "Ooh what consequences are we talking about Chris ? What are you going to do to me huh ?", you asked, still hugging him tightly as you breathed in his manly cologne. "God, he smells so good", you thought, inhaling more of his scent.

• He smirked, leaning in close so his lips brushed against your ear as he whispered, "You’ll find out soon enough Y/Nie", his grip tightening as if trying to pull you even closer, trying to fill any possible space between you.

• You couldn’t help the shiver that ran down your spine as he pulled away, his teasing smirk firmly back in place. But as he sat back in his chair, the flush on his face betrayed just how much you had affected him.

• She’s going to be the death of me, my God, I still can't get over her touch on my lips, he thought, as he shyly turned towards the screen, now with a water bottle in hand, your gesture clearly leaving his throat dry.

A/N : Hope you liked it. Do like, comment, reblog and follow if you did. You can find the rest of my masterlist here.