Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The echo of his engine fades long before the heat in your chest does.

You close the door slowly, the silence of your apartment pressing in around you, soft and sudden. You exhale and lean your head back against the door, the kiss still humming on your lips, his chapstick mixed with yours.

For a while, you just stand there. The quiet wraps around you like a blanket, the kind that’s both comforting and just a little too heavy. Somewhere in the distance, a car passes. The fridge hums. Your heart slowly finds its rhythm again.

Your skin still tingles, warmth buzzing at your fingertips. His laughter echoes faintly in your mind, tugging a smile from you despite yourself. Your hand moves to your lips before you can think about it.

And yet, beneath the afterglow, something unsettles. A different kind of weight starts to rise—quieter, but no less real.

It hits gently, not like a wave, but like a shift in the air. A slow awareness that creeps in now that the adrenaline is gone. The memory of her, your friend, standing in your hallway, fire in her eyes and hurt carved into every line of her face.

Your smile fades a little.

She didn’t even ask who he was. She just looked at you like she didn’t recognize you anymore.

You rub at your chest, as if that could smooth out the ache there. You know she caught you off guard, but you also know… maybe she deserved more than that. More than you being frozen. More than you brushing it off.

Now that the noise has quieted—now that you’re not being kissed breathless in the doorway—it’s easier to see it. To sit with it.

You glance at the time. It’s way too late to call. And honestly, you wouldn’t know what to say yet, not when your head’s still a bit foggy and your heart’s still full of tangled threads.

But tomorrow… or maybe sometime this week.

You’ll reach out. You’ll figure it out.

Even if it’s just a message.

Even if it’s just, Hey. I’m sorry about earlier. Can we talk?

Your feet finally move, carrying you to the kitchen where you rinse out the glass of water you’d forgotten you were holding. The clink of the glass in the sink is sharp in the quiet.

You pad toward your bedroom slowly, flicking off the lights one by one. In the dark, the silence stretches again, longer now, heavier—but not unbearable.

You’ll fix it. Or at least… you’ll try.

And as you crawl into bed, head still spinning in a dozen directions, you realize something else.

This—whatever this is with Changbin—might be the start of something real.

And if that’s true, you don’t want to walk into it with old fires still smoldering in the background.

You owe her more than that.

You owe yourself more than that.

The next morning arrives on the same note that you left off with when you went to bed at night far too calmly for the storm brewing inside your chest. The apartment is quiet—Changbin’s laughter and warm hands are gone, leaving nothing but your own heartbeat and the faint hum of the fridge.

You haven’t stopped pacing.

Barefoot, half-dressed, hair still a mess from sleep.

The wood creaks beneath your feet.

Back to the desk.

Pause in front of your phone.

Turn on your heel again.

It’s pathetic. You know it. But your thoughts won’t sit still long enough for you to do anything else.

It’s all that you do for what feels like an eternity. Walk. From your mom’s dresser to the other side of the room. Wlak. Staring at your phone from the corner of your eye, as if it’s a burden you need to figure out how to deal with —a body you need to figure out how to bury without it meaning being the target of the whole body of police in the city.

Your arms are crossed tightly over your chest as if holding yourself together, your bottom lip pulled tight between your teeth. Every couple of minutes, you stop in front of your phone on the desk and just stare at it—like you’re waiting for it to type the message for you. Or to disappear entirely so you wouldn’t have to decide.

You want to apologize. You want to explain. You want things to go back to before everything got so tense and awkward and painful. But what do you even say?

“Hey, sorry for vanishing for two months because y’all were too busy being happy.”

Yeah, that’ll go over great.

You rub your forehead and mutter to yourself as you pace again.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

You try typing something. Then delete it. Type again. Backspace. Your thumb hovers over the call button. You lower it.

You’re almost at your wit’s end—nerves frayed, stomach tight, every breath shallower than the last. You stop, plant your hands on your hips, and glare at the phone like it personally betrayed you.

“Just do something,” you whisper, pacing one final lap across your room.

And then—buzz.

The sound nearly sends you through the ceiling. You scramble toward the desk, pick up the phone with fumbling fingers, and read the notification with wide eyes:

“Come by my place for lunch. Let’s talk.”

No emojis. No coldness, either. Just… direct.

You sink into your bed with the phone still in your hand, exhaling all the air you didn’t know you’d been holding. Relief crashes into your ribs and leaves you dizzy. You stare at the message like it might disappear if you blink too hard.

This doesn’t mean everything’s fixed. But it means something. So you text back quickly before your nerves catch up to you:

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

Your hands are still shaking when you stand to get dressed, but there’s something steady beneath it now—something like hope.

[.]

The cemetery gates groan as Changbin pushes them open, the rusted metal protesting like the day itself doesn’t want him to enter. The sky above is overcast, thick gray clouds bruising the horizon, threatening rain but holding back—as if even the weather understands this is a day of remembering.

His boots crunch against the gravel path as he walks in, each step slower than the last. Rows of headstones rise around him, uneven and silent, like quiet witnesses. Wind threads through the trees, cold and biting, stirring the brittle leaves that have already begun to fall. The stillness isn’t peaceful—it presses on his chest, heavy, hollow.

He knows the way without needing to look. His body remembers the turns even if he tells himself he’s forgotten. And when he sees the grave—Kang Jisoo, beloved son, friend, never forgotten—he stops short. His breath catches, chest tightening with a strange mix of guilt and longing that never really goes away, but rather fades with time.

He stands there for a moment, jaw tight, hands fisting in his pockets. Then he exhales—shaky, uneven—and mutters, “Hey.” He kneels down, places a small paper bag next to the stone, and doesn’t speak again for a while. Just sits.

The cemetery stretches out in gentle slopes, blanketed by grass that’s a little too long in some places and wildflowers that bloom defiantly in between cracks of stone. Tall trees line the edges like quiet sentinels, their branches swaying softly with the breeze. There’s a stillness to it all—not silence, exactly, but a calm that settles deep. Birds call out from somewhere up high, distant and occasional, and the air carries the faint scent of moss and old rain, like the earth remembers every footstep ever taken here.

Marble headstones catch the pale midday light, their inscriptions worn at the edges by time and weather. Some are freshly tended, with bouquets of bright flowers, others long forgotten, ivy creeping up from the soil to claim what’s been left behind. A narrow path of gravel cuts through it all, winding like a memory that doesn’t quite know where it’s going. The church’s steeple peeks from behind a cluster of trees in the distance, and its bell, though not yet ringing, feels like it’s always just about to—it’s that kind of place. A place where time doesn’t stop, but it slows down just enough to feel heavy.

He doesn’t immediately speak. Instead, he stays there for a moment, letting the weight of the day —not his day, because he isn’t tired when it’s barely lunchtime, but rather this day, specifically— settle over him. The anniversary. Another year without his friend. He presses his hand to the stone, a sigh escaping his lips.

His body is tired, but not from exertion—no, this kind of tiredness settles deeper. In the joints between memories. In the marrow of days like this one.

“I thought it would get easier, you know?” Changbin murmurs, his voice low, almost lost in the wind. He chuckles softly to himself. “But here we are. Another year.”

The cemetery is quiet, the only sounds being the wind rustling through the leaves and the distant chirping of birds. Changbin takes out a sandwich, unwrapping it carefully, as if the act of eating here somehow makes it feel like he’s sharing the moment with Jisoo.

“I guess you’re probably laughing at me right now,” Changbin says with a rueful smile,not quite biting into his sandwich just yet. He sighs thoughtfully, glancing at the tombstone as if waiting for a response. “Still can’t get my shit together. Still messing things up. But… I’m trying, Jisoo. I really am.”

He pulls out a can of beer from the bag, the sound of the tab cracking open breaking the silence. He tilts the can toward the tombstone, offering it as if toasting with his long-lost friend.

His hand brushes along the grass, pulling up a stray leaf. Then he laughs under his breath and pulls out the can of beer he brought, setting it next to the stone.

“Figured you’d want one.” He mumbles, then bites the inside of his cheek, holding back a sheepish smile. “I know you’d be laughing at me for talking to you like this… but it’s what I’ve got.”

He doesn’t open his right away. Instead, he shifts, sitting back, his legs stretched out in front of him, the paper bag crinkling as he opens it.

“Things are… weird,” he says after a long pause. “Work’s fine. Jeongin’s still obsessed with energy drinks, Chan keeps pretending he’s not tired. You know, the usual.” He picks at the sandwich he packed. “Hyunjin got promoted, but he still hates his boss. Can you believe that? The old woman loves him. Don’t worry, though—he still complains more than he works.”

The breeze picks up again, and his smile falters, just a little.

As the cold beer touches his lips, Changbin leans back against the tree, his eyes drifting to the sky. The clouds are heavy, and a light breeze brushes through the cemetery, making the moment feel even more still, more real.

He leans back further, taking another sip from the can, before taking a few more bites of his sandwich. For the first time in a long time, it feels like he’s not running away from anything. He’s just… here. Present. With Jisoo. And maybe, in his own way, moving forward.

He looks down at the tombstone, eyes tracing the name etched into the stone.

Kang Jisoo.

“I visit every year, but… Doesn’t feel like a year,” Changbin murmurs, voice soft, rough. “Feels like yesterday. Feels like ten years. Both.”

And just underneath Kang Jisoo, read Kim Hana.

“I miss you both.” He licks his lips. “I wonder if you’re somewhere else, but at least you two are together.”

Changbin picks at the corner of the lunchbox with a quiet sigh, eyes still on the name etched into stone. The food tastes like nothing, but he chews slowly, methodically, like it’ll help fill the silence he’s come to accept every year. But this time feels different. This time, there’s something restless beneath his ribs. He lets out a low, humorless laugh and shakes his head. “You know,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “for the first time, I think I get it. The way you used to look at her. The way you used to get so damn reckless about it.” His jaw tenses. “You nearly lost everything—hell, you did lose everything—for love. And I used to think that was the dumbest, most selfish thing you’d ever done.” He pauses, thumb tracing a line on the can of beer. “But now? Shit. Now I’m starting to think… maybe I finally understand what was worth it. And you’d probably laugh if you could see me right now.”

Seo blushes a bit. Then, he confesses.

“There’s this girl.”

It hangs there in the air.

He swallows.

“She was in our last fire. The seventh floor call. Worst one we’ve had in a while. We got everyone out, but it was… close. Chan killed me for jumping off a windowsill, but I know you would’ve dabbed me up on the spot, Hyung. But yeah… her.” His fingers tighten slightly around the sandwich. “She… I carried her out. And since then, it’s like—she’s everywhere. Not in a haunting way. Not like that. More like…” He exhales, almost amused. “Like I can’t help it.”

There’s a pause.

“I think you’d like her.”

Just then, the sound of the church bell rings out across the quiet cemetery, its deep tone echoing in the distance. Changbin smiles to himself, the sound somehow familiar and oddly comforting. It’s lunchtime, just like always.

“Happy lunch, Hyung, Noona,” he says with a small chuckle, shaking his head. The simple rhythm of the world continues, even here. Even on days like this. “You two’d have a field day knowing Chan allowed me to skip part of my shift to drive here. And on my bike, too.” He snorts. “I know you just pretended to hate it, Noona.”

The bells ring once more, and the soft clink of his beer can echoes in the quiet, as Changbin stays there, his thoughts slowly drifting away from guilt and into something a little more peaceful.

He raises the canned beer toward the stone again.

Changbin smiles. Takes another sip. The church bell in the distance begins to ring. A slow, solemn toll that echoes through the hills and slips between the trees.

Lunchtime starts.

[.]

The distant church bell rings as some kind of ominous soundtrack, but as much as each of your steps dread continuing, you walk.

You walk to your friend’s house. Slowly.

It’s not far, but each step feels like a test you didn’t study for —stomach fluttering with nerves, hands stuffed deep in your coat pockets as if you could hide the tension in your knuckles. You rehearse what to say the entire way there, quietly mouthing half-formed sentences that never make it past your lips. You still don’t know if you’re ready. You just know you can’t stay quiet anymore.

When her place comes into view, your eyes scan instinctively toward the windows. That’s when you notice it —just beyond the glass, near the entrance mat inside. A pile of shoes. Too many to belong to just her.

Your chest tightens. You recognize the scuffed sneakers with mismatched laces. The neat pair of loafers. Even the combat boots, half tucked under the bench.

They’re all here.

You freeze on the sidewalk, breath caught in your throat. This was supposed to be a quiet lunch — just the two of you. A chance to talk. Apologize. Understand.

Your hand twitches at your side. You nearly turn back.

Then the door opens.

She’s there, arms folded across her chest, framed by the soft light behind her. Her eyes meet yours and hold. Not angry. Not exactly warm. Just… tired. But open.

“Hey,” she says. “I didn’t know the others were coming when I asked you to come by. They just showed up. I figured… maybe it’s not the worst thing.”

You glance past her. Shadows move in the hallway. Someone’s voice murmurs something before going quiet again.

You try to smile, but it falters. “I can come back another time, if it’s too much—”

“Don’t,” she says quickly, gently. “You’re already here.”

She steps aside.

And despite the nerves screaming in your gut, you walk in.

The hallway is quiet, but you can feel the presence of everyone in the living room before you even see them. When you round the corner, they all look up — startled, frozen.

Except one.

The moment she sees you, she curses under her breath, eyes filling instantly. “Shit.”

And then she stands. She doesn’t hesitate.

She crosses the room in two quick steps, tears sliding down her face, and wraps her arms around you in a tight, shaking hug.

You freeze.

Then you exhale — a quiet, shaky thing — and let yourself hug her back.

No one says anything. Not yet.

But in that silence, something begins to thaw.

[.]

You’ve called him twice already.

The first time, you told yourself it was just a check-in. Nothing urgent. Just a silly excuse to hear his voice again, maybe tease him for the way he left you all breathless the night before. But the second call—left unanswered, with no reply or text—makes your chest start to tighten.

You call again. It rings and rings, then goes to voicemail.

You try again. Still nothing.

By the third time, there’s not even the ring—just an immediate “This number is unavailable.” You pull the phone away from your ear, frown at the screen.

Powered off. A strange knot forms low in your stomach. Something’s off.

You pace around your apartment, your phone untouched now on the desk. You spin on your heel for the fifth time in two minutes. What if something happened? But you end up groaning, before shaking your head and pressing your palms to your face. “No, don’t be dramatic. He’s probably just… busy.”

You wander the apartment, phone in hand, chewing on your bottom lip as you try to reason your way out of the worry. He’s fine. He’s probably just—what? At the gym? Out with the guys? Napping with his phone dead beside him?

It’s only when you sit down at one of the stools in the kitchen aisle that you see it: a bracelet —his bracelet, on the kitchen counter, next to the sink.

It sits there, half-coiled like a forgotten thought. He had taken it off while cooking last night, muttering something about not wanting it to get splattered. It gleams slightly in the light coming through the window. It feels personal. Important. Like an anchor.

You pick it up. It’s warm from the sun that lights from the window, but feels heavier than it should. Like some kind of sign.

Before you can convince yourself otherwise, or before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re slipping into your shoes, grabbing your keys, and you’re out the door, the bracelet clenched in your palm, getting into your car and heading toward the station with no real plan except to see if he’s there.

If he’s not picking up his phone, and you’ve got something of his… well, dropping by the station isn’t that unreasonable, right?

The fire station is surprisingly still when you arrive. It’s a big building, bigger than you expected—tall red doors gleaming, one of them cracked slightly open. There’s the distant hum of equipment, faint voices echoing inside, the scent of smoke and something metallic clinging to the warm afternoon air.

You step cautiously inside, the soles of your shoes tapping softly on the concrete. There’s a rush of cool air from within—shaded, quiet, and intimate in a way that startles you. You pass racks of gear, helmets stacked neatly on benches, uniforms hanging like sentinels. It’s oddly quiet for a place meant for chaos. You hesitate at the entrance, holding the bracelet tightly in your fist, until someone steps into view.

Then, just as you round a corner, you nearly walk into someone.

“Whoa,” a voice says, stepping back.

You look up—and it’s him. Captain Bang Chan.

He blinks once, then recognition sparks in his eyes. “You’re—wait. You’re the girl from the apartment fire.”

You nod, slightly breathless. “Yeah. Uh… sorry, I didn’t mean to barge in. I was just—”

“Looking for Changbin?” he finishes for you, easy smile softening the edge of your nerves. He blinks at you for a moment, surprised, and then smiles. “Anything wrong?”

You nod, a little awkward. “Yeah, I mean, no…” You smile. “He hasn’t been answering his phone, so…”

“Yeah. He left this.” You open your palm to show the bracelet. “I just—wanted to check. You know.”

He doesn’t, but he can figure it out by himself. Chan glances at the bracelet, then back at you with a quiet understanding. “He’s not here. Bet he turned his phone off too…” He smiles when you nod.

You nod slowly, clutching the bracelet again, unsure of what to say.

Chan watches you for a moment, then sighs. There’s a flicker of hesitation before he speaks, as if weighing what to say next. Finally, he offers a gentle smile. “He went to pay someone a visit. Don’t panic if his phone is turned off. He does that, but it’s…” Chan bites his lip. “You don’t need to worry, but I just… I think he’d rather tell you himself.”

You blink. “Oh. Okay.” But something about the way Chan speaks—calm, measured, warm—grounds you. Not in dismissal, but in trust. Like he knows exactly where Changbin is, and that it’s important. Like he knows you’ll understand in time.

Just then, you catch movement behind Chan—two figures peeking from around the corner like children caught mid-scheme. Jeongin and Hyunjin duck back with a poorly muffled snicker.

Chan grins. “Jeongin, Hyunjin, I can see your hair.”

Hyunjin leans out, not the least bit sorry. “We weren’t eavesdropping. Just observing.”

Jeongin peeks over his shoulder. “Scientific purposes.”

You catch Chan’s amused eye and can’t help laughing, a bit of tension slipping from your chest.

“Ignore them. They’ve been insufferable ever since they found out.” His tone shifts then, softer. “I’m glad, though.”

You blink. “Glad?”

Chan holds your gaze a moment before continuing. “Not just today. I mean—back then. The fire. It was hell. We’re trained for it, yeah, but… it doesn’t always mean we walk out feeling okay. But ever since that day, I’ve seen something in Changbin that I haven’t seen in a long time.”

Your cheeks burn. You swallow. “What?”

“Hope,” he says. Simple. Honest. “You shook him up—in a good way. He’s lighter. Still grumpy, still loud,” he adds with a small smile, “but there’s something else now. He laughs more. Talks more. Has this look in his eyes like—like there’s something to look forward to. So whatever this is between you two… thank you. You’ve done more than you probably realize.”

For a moment, all you can do is stand there in the quiet, surrounded by fire gear and too many emotions.

The bracelet in your hand suddenly feels even heavier.

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but Chan just grins again and waves it off. “Don’t worry. I won’t embarrass him too much. Just—thank you. For making him feel like himself again.”

A snort echoes somewhere to your left, and when you glance over, two heads duck immediately behind a row of lockers.

Chan doesn’t even turn around. “Guys. C’mon.” He sighs, but still chuckles.

Hyunjin pops up like it’s nothing. “We’re just being supportive!”

“Like the emotional support team we are,” Jeongin adds from behind him.

You can’t help but laugh, just a little. It bubbles out of you before you can stop it—and it feels good.

Chris’ words settle somewhere deep in your chest, curling warmly like steam from a mug on a cold morning. It’s ridiculous how fast it hits you—the flutter behind your ribs, the way your shoulders loosen without you realizing. That strange, quiet ache in your throat that feels like relief. Like maybe you haven’t imagined all of this after all.

You don’t say anything right away. Just let yourself stand there in the gentle hum of the station, surrounded by laughter behind lockers and the faint scent of smoke and detergent. Chan doesn’t push. He only smiles, like he already knows.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” you ask, biting your lip before you can stop yourself. I miss him, you don’t say.

Chan glances at you, his expression gentler now, like he hears it anyway.

“Probably soon,” he says. “He never stays gone too long.”

You nod, though it doesn’t ease the twist in your stomach. Your fingers close around the bracelet again, holding it tight like it might somehow tether you to him.

“You can leave that with me if you want,” Chan offers, gesturing to the bracelet. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”

But you shake your head slowly. “No. I’ll hold onto it a little longer.”

Chan smiles, and there’s something knowing in it. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I think he’d like that.”

Chan says, tilting his head slightly, “So, how’s your arm?”

You blink, then glance down instinctively—your cast is gone, and even though the bruises have already started to fade, the memory still lingers. You rub it lightly. “Getting better. It doesn’t hurt as much now.”

Chan’s smile softens. “You gave us all a scare that day.”

You huff a quiet laugh, eyes dropping. “Yeah. Me too.”

There’s a beat of silence, not uncomfortable, just thoughtful. Then he adds, “It’s kind of wild, isn’t it? That something so terrifying ended up bringing you two together.”

Your gaze lifts, startled by the tenderness in his voice.

He just shrugs, eyes kind. You open your mouth, trying to find something to say, but before you can, a head pops out from the hallway behind Chan.

“Well, someone’s being sappy today,” Jeongin grins, leaning casually against the doorframe. “You’re gonna make her cry, hyung.”

Chan rolls his eyes, but you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “Hi, Jeongin.”

Right behind him, Hyunjin peeks out too, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “So this is her?”

“You’re the hair tie owner. The roommate, I suppose?” You smile at him, and the way his face lights up tells you he definitely enjoyed the reference.

Hyunjin’s eyes widen for half a second before he bursts into a guilty grin. “Guilty as charged” He smiles. “We’re all very invested in your story, by the way.”

Chan shakes his head with a fond sigh. “Can you two stop interrogating her like she’s on a variety show?”

But you’re laughing now, warmth spreading in your chest like sunlight. They’re teasing you, yes—but there’s kindness under it. Openness.

And somehow, it makes you miss Changbin even more.

“Welcome to our humble home.” Jeongin teases. “Please excuse my boss, he’s a little emotionally constipated.”

Chan groans. “I literally just said one nice thing.”

“And it was beautiful,” Hyunjin says dramatically, placing a hand over his heart before winking at you. “But seriously. It’s nice to finally meet you properly.”

You smile, feeling the tension in your chest slowly ease with their lighthearted energy.

“You make our Changbin smile like an idiot,” Jeongin adds with a smirk. “We like you already.”

Your cheeks flush, but you can’t help the soft, fluttering grin that takes over your face.

“You guys always like this?” you ask, voice lighter than it’s felt in days.

Jeongin winks. “Only when we like someone.”

“That’s not true,” Hyunjin says at the same time. “We’re always like this.”

Chan chuckles, stepping in. “But we do like you. Just so that’s clear.” His tone shifts slightly, softer now, more genuine. “Especially because Changbin does.”

Your breath catches. You glance up at him, and for a moment, his teasing nature fades, replaced by something gentler, steadier.

“I haven’t seen him like this in a long time,” Chan says. “And I’ve known him for a really long time.”

The hallway quiets. Even Jeongin and Hyunjin go still. The hum of the station—the distant clatter of boots, the low murmur of voices in the back—seems far away. You blink slowly, heart full.

Chan’s voice drops a little. “He’s been carrying a lot for a while. I think… you remind him it’s okay to put it down sometimes.”

Your throat tightens, but your smile doesn’t fade. You swallow. Chan just smiles, the kind that reaches all the way to his eyes. “He’ll be happy you came by. You should tell him you missed him. He’ll like hearing it.”

You don’t answer at first. But you do glance down at the bracelet in your hands.

“Well. It was very nice to meet you, but I wouldn’t want to be a bother.” You chuckle sheepishly.

Chan grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Not a bother at all,” he says, leaning back against the counter casually. “You’re welcome here anytime. And trust me, if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” His tone holds that comforting, reassuring edge, as if he’s really trying to make sure you know it’s genuine.

Jeongin and Hyunjin exchange a quick glance, both with smirks that are way too knowing for your liking, before they quickly divert their attention back to whatever they were doing—likely plotting more harmless teasing. The tension in the air eases, and you find yourself letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

You turn back to Chan, who’s now standing upright again, his hands resting loosely in his pockets. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” you reply, the words coming easier now. You catch yourself smiling a little more than you meant to, but something about the way Chan looks at you makes the nerves slip away.

“I should go. My friends texted me while I was getting here, but they wanted to go shopping.” You smile. “It was nice meeting you all!”

The station door swings open with a soft creak not even ten minutes later, and Changbin steps inside, wiping his palms against his jeans. The familiar scent of smoke and metal greets him, grounding him after the quiet weight of the cemetery. But something else lingers in the air today—something warmer.

“You two really do make this look like a romance movie,” Jeongin calls from the corner, clearly trying to sound casual but failing miserably as he holds back a laugh. Hyunjin isn’t any better, throwing a teasing grin in Changbin’s direction.

“Yeah, perfect timing.” Hyunjin giggles into Jeongin’s neck. “You just missed it, Romeo.”

Changbin freezes mid-step. “Missed what?”

Hyunjin pokes his head over the couch, already grinning. “You know, your Juliet.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Future Seo Changbin Jr.’s other parental figure.”

Chan looks up from the table, his expression soft as he chuckles into his coffee. “Your little friend came by. Looking for you.”

A rush of warmth surges up his spine, nearly knocking the breath out of him. He clears his throat, trying to mask the way his pulse skips. “She came here?”

“She came by. Cute bracelet return trope. Little bow, sheepish smile.” Jeongin snorts. “Whole thing was very K-Drama Episode 7.”

Hyunjin nods solemnly. “I almost applauded.”

Changbin just blinks, a bit confused. Chan giggles. “You left your bracelet at her place.”

Changbin’s hand instinctively goes to his wrist, fingertips brushing the bare skin where the piece of metal used to rest. “Oh.” It feels oddly exposed now.

“She thought you’d want it back,” Chan adds, then smirks slightly. “But I said you’d probably like it better if she kept it for you.”

A huff of breath leaves Changbin’s nose, a half-laugh he can’t suppress. His ears burn red. The thought of you holding onto it—of you thinking about him at all—lights something fizzy and sweet in his chest.

The teasing fades into the background as Changbin finally unfreezes, muttering something about needing to put his things away. No one stops him. Instead, they just exchange a few knowing looks as he disappears down the hall.

The locker room is dim and still, lit only by the soft overhead light and the muted hum of afternoon sun filtering through the narrow windows. Changbin walks over to his locker, sets his bike helmet down, and leans his forehead against the cool metal door.

For a second, he just stands there. Lowers himself onto the bench slowly, like if he moves too fast the moment might break. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. But then he breaks—he grins. A full, unfiltered grin, and his hands come up to scrub at his cheeks, as if that might calm the rising pink.

Then, barely above a whisper, like he’s scared the moment might vanish if he says it too loud, he murmurs. “She came here.”

He stands. His heart is running a marathon, and he can’t sit still. He leans his back against his locker’s door, a quiet, stunned smile tugging at his lips. It’s not just giddiness —it’s something deeper, something that settles in his chest with warm certainty. Your voice, your eyes, all of it replays in his mind like a song he doesn’t want to forget.

The silence isn’t empty—it’s full of the ghost of your laughter, the faint trace of your perfume, the warmth you left behind like sunlight clinging to a room long after the door’s been shut.

And Changbin lets it wash over him, cheeks still warm, heart still racing.

His fingers brush over his wrist again, where the bracelet used to sit.

You’re keeping it.

And that only means he has another excuse to see you again.

“Knock, knock?” Chan smiles, moving his head through the locker room’s door. “Bin,” Chan softens, his gaze shifting to Changbin with quiet understanding. “How was the visit?”

Changbin sitting back on the bench, staring out at the dim hallway as the weight of the morning lingers on him. The memory of the cemetery is still fresh, vivid in his mind. The stillness of the place, the quiet of his own thoughts, and the way the church bell had rung, signaling lunchtime as he sat there, eating alone, offering the tombstone a can of beer as though Jisoo could join him. The thought of it feels almost absurd, yet somehow, it felt like the only way to keep the past alive.

He sighs deeply, his eyes slightly unfocused, as if he’s lost in the space between the present and the past.

Changbin shifts his weight, his shoulders feeling heavier than usual. He rubs the back of his neck, his fingers lingering there as if the pressure could somehow relieve the tension building in his chest. His eyes flicker toward Chan but then quickly dart away, unsure of how to put his feelings into words.

“It was… good,” Changbin finally murmurs, but it sounds hollow in the silence that stretches between them. He can feel the weight of the cemetery visit pulling at him, the memory of Jisoo’s grave too tangible, too real. He exhales, his breath shaky, his hands gripping the doorframe. “I don’t think I’ve ever really understood before. I get it now—why he was the way he was. Why he did what he did.”

He lets the words sit in the air, his gaze drifting out the window, watching the trees sway outside in the breeze. There’s a quiet heaviness to him, a weight he hasn’t been able to shake off, not even in the presence of the tombstone that used to be a symbol of guilt.

Chan doesn’t say anything right away, his gaze soft as he watches Changbin, sensing the depth of the silence. The soft click of a pen against paper in the next room fills the space, but it feels far away, like it doesn’t belong to them.

“I didn’t think I’d be standing there today,” Changbin adds quietly, more to himself than to Chan. “Talking to Jisoo like that, as if I could ask for answers. I didn’t expect it to feel like… this. Like I’m finally seeing things the way he saw them.”

Chan is quiet for a long moment, letting the words settle in the air, like dust in the afternoon light. Then he leans against the counter, arms folded loosely as he watches Changbin, his expression softening with unspoken understanding.

“It’s heavy, I know,” Chan says, his voice low. His eyes flicker toward the door, the faint sounds of the fire station bustling just beyond it, but it all feels distant, like they’re suspended in time, in this shared silence. “But you’re here now. You’re not still stuck in that place. You’re here.”

Changbin nods slowly, his gaze fixed on the ground, trying to process everything. There’s a strange weight in his chest, but there’s also something else—a quiet, almost imperceptible shift.

“Yeah. I think… I think I can start moving forward now,” he murmurs, the words tentative, fragile, but sincere.

Chan doesn’t say anything more, but his presence is comforting, steady. He just watches Changbin, giving him space without pushing, allowing the silence to fill in the gaps where words aren’t needed.

His eyes crease, and Chris winks at him.

”Don’t forget your bracelet, Romeo.”

[.]

The sound of soft giggles breaks through the quiet hum of the apartment, pulling Changbin’s attention away from where he’s fixing his hair in the mirror. He squints over his shoulder toward the couch.

“You texting Jeongin again?” he teases, arching a brow.

Hyunjin snorts, barely glancing up from his phone. “No,” he grins, “I’m not texting my boyfriend, thank you very much.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Changbin mutters with a sneaky grin, shaking his head as he smooths a hand through his hair. Yeah, looks better. He grabs his keys from the counter, sliding them into his pocket as Hyunjin hums something smug behind him.

“I’m staying at Jeongin’s tonight, by the way,” Hyunjin calls out a few minutes later, louder this time, as he slips his phone into his hoodie pocket and heads toward the door.

“Okay…” Changbin nods, distracted, only half-registering the comment as he checks the time and taps his phone screen again. There’s several missed calls from you, calls you made when he was back in the cemetery. He’s about to call you back, and maybe also ask if it’s okay for him to come by and retrieve his bracelet, when—

Ding-dong.

The doorbell rings, and he blinks, confused. “Hyunjin, did you—?” He pads toward the door, opening it with a casual, “Did you forget somethi—”

His voice catches.

Because it’s not Hyunjin.

It’s you.

Standing in front of him, cheeks pink from the cool air the night brings, eyes warm and bright. You’re in a fitted black top that hugs your figure just right, paired with a short, frayed jean skirt. The over-the-knee socks—dark gray, hugging your legs snugly—add something almost devastatingly cute to the whole look, and for a moment, he just stands there, stunned. Your hair is loosely done, like you didn’t try too hard but still somehow look like a dream, and when you smile up at him, bracelet in hand, he forgets how to breathe.

“No, actually,” you say softly. “You did.”

Changbin stares for half a second, speechless, and then laughs—a breathy, disbelieving kind of sound.

You shrug, playful. “Long story short, Hyunjin found my Instagram and told me to come by. I hope I’m not intruding…?”

Changbin just smiles, slow and wide, like the world’s caught him by surprise in the best way.

“You could never.”

You toe off your shoes and wander further inside, fingers brushing the edge of the kitchen counter as you glance around. It smells like him—clean linen and something vaguely spicy, like the cologne that clings to your sweater after a hug lasts too long.

He follows you, slower, quieter. You stop, turn around. And he’s already looking at you.

There’s a pause.

Neither of you speaks, but something’s shifted. The air feels thicker now, like the silence has weight. You fiddle with the hem of your sleeve. He takes a step closer.

“You really came,” he says again, but this time it sounds different. Lower. Closer to a confession than a statement.

You nod, heart tapping against your ribs. “You really didn’t call me back.”

He huffs a soft laugh, eyes dropping to your lips before catching himself. “Phone was off,” he says, trying to focus himself back to your eyes. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make you wait.”

“I wasn’t waiting,” you lie, barely. You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “But it’s okay,” you say, feigning nonchalance as you glance at your nails. “I downloaded Tinder anyway.”

That gets him—his eyes widen, a breath catches. “You didn’t.”

You shrug. “Didn’t I?”

There’s a beat, one suspended second before his laugh spills out, soft and disbelieving. “You’re impossible.”

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly you’re closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. Close enough to see the way his lashes flutter slightly, how his throat bobs when he swallows.

Then, like gravity gives in, your lips meet his. A small kiss. Another one, that tastes like a mix of his chapstick and your flavoured one.

The teasing smiles fade into something else the moment your eyes meet again. A beat passes. His hand flexes at his side, then lifts slightly before he drops it again, unsure.

“You really came,” he says, more quietly now.

“I did.”

“I missed you.”

And your lips find his again.

It’s soft at first—tentative, searching. Then, sighing, you shift, and so does he. His hand finds your face, your neck, your jaw. Yours tangle in his hair. You both breathe harder now, kissing like the moment could end if you stop. Like stopping isn’t an option anymore. Outside, the world is still. But inside this apartment, everything is starting to burn.

The tension uncoils fast, sparking between teeth and breath and fingertips that find the edge of a shirt. It deepens with a quiet sound you don’t remember making, with the way he presses you back against the counter like he’s waited weeks instead of days.

His hand slides to your waist. Yours tug at the neck of his jacket, failing to pull him closer, for the laws of physics don’t allow you. You’re barely breathing between kisses now, every movement deeper, bolder, and everything else fades into the background. The only sound is the rush of your own breath mingling with his, the thrum of your heartbeat pounding in your chest. You feel his hand slide down to the small of your back, settling between you and the counter as if to shield you from the edge of the surface, and pulling you in even closer, like there’s nothing that could possibly separate the two of you now.

You break away just enough to catch your breath, but your foreheads stay pressed together, both of you grinning like idiots, eyes still closed.

“Guess I can’t get away from you,” Changbin murmurs, his voice husky but laced with amusement.

You laugh softly, tracing the outline of his jaw with your finger, “Nope. You’re stuck with me now.”

He’s still smiling, but there’s a hint of seriousness in the way he looks at you, like he’s thinking about something more than just this moment. He opens his mouth to say something, but you silence him with another kiss, slow this time, almost tender.

“I think I like this version of you,” he whispers, against your lips, and he grins even wider.

“Oh yeah?” You chuckle softly, leaning in to nudge your nose against his. “The one who doesn’t let you leave without stealing a kiss?”

“Exactly,” he teases, tucking a hair strand behind your ear. “I think you should do it more often.”

”You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” You snort. “You’d run away after a couple times, though.”

“No.” His hand comes up to cup your cheek, eyes softening as he gazes down at you. “I’d let you,” he says, voice dropping, silk smooth. “Anytime.”

For a moment, there’s only the quiet rhythm of your breaths and the undeniable pull between you, the space between you two having vanished.

Your lips trail down his jaw in slow, openmouthed kisses, as his hands find the small of your back, pulling you closer until there’s nothing left between you but heat and breath. You curl your fingers onto his jacket, tugging it off, and he barely manages to laugh.

“Wait—wait,” he mumbles, smiling against the shell of your ear. “You just got here.”

“I’m making up for lost time,” you whisper, half teasing, half breathless.

He lets out a shaky exhale and moves his arms, letting you pull the jacket off his broad shoulders. Your hands splay over them, travelling across his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin even over his shirt, the quick thrum of his heartbeat underneath. You look up at him, and he’s already looking at you, deeply, with something you can’t quite piece together.

“I really did miss you,” he says again, quieter this time, more serious. Like he needs you to believe it.

You nod, swallowing around the sudden tightness in your throat. “I missed you too.”

His hands slide beneath the hem of your shirt, not rushing, just holding, grounding. He kisses you again, this time slower, deeper, like he’s memorizing the way you taste, the way you feel against him. And when you finally break apart just enough to breathe, he’s still smiling, a little dazed, a little breathless.

“Are you sure about this?” he murmurs against your lips, eyes flicking over your face, yearning to read every thought behind your eyes. “We can always have dinner first. Watch a movie. I wouldn’t wanna rush you…”

You laugh, breath hitching slightly as your fingers play with the hem of his shirt. “I mean,” you smirk, tilting your head up, “I could eat.”

“Yeah?” he grins, kissing your forehead. “What do you wanna eat?”

You lean in, lips brushing his as you whisper, “You.”

He exhales sharply, almost like a laugh, but it melts into a low groan as he pulls you back in again, his hands already finding their way to your hips.

“God,” he mumbles against your mouth. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smile into the kiss. “You’ll die happy.”

He groans under his breath, voice caught between a chuckle and something much more desperate. “Okay. That’s definitely going to ruin my self-control.”

“I’m not asking you to have any.”

He grins against your lips, voice low and teasing. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” you murmur, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, just enough to make him fail to hold back a shiver. “But you don’t seem to mind.”

“I don’t,” he admits, hands settling at your hips. “God, I really don’t.”

You nudge him playfully with your nose. “So… dinner and a movie?”

He lifts an eyebrow, lips quirking. “After all you’ve said, are you actually suggesting we don’t make out on the couch all night?”

You fake a gasp. “I’m a woman of class.”

“Oh really?” he smirks, brushing his lips against yours. “Then what do you call straddling me two minutes after showing up at my door?”

You blink. “A polite hello?”

That makes him laugh—loud and warm and a little disbelieving—and before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you into another kiss, one that promises you’re not going anywhere for a while.

You gasp a laugh into his neck, your arms wrapping around him instinctively as he carries you down the hallway. “You know this is wildly unfair, right?” you murmur, teasing, fingers threading into his hair.

He huffs a breath that’s half-laughter, half-something darker. “Unfair is you showing up at my door looking like that and saying things like you left your scent on my pillow.”

“You did!” you protest, grinning. “I had to do laundry just to stop thinking about you.”

Changbin chuckles lowly, nudging open his bedroom door with his foot. “Bold of you to assume that’s gonna help.”

The room is dimly lit, still carrying traces of the last time he was here, early in the morning, the faint smell of his cologne clinging to the air. He sets you down gently, but his hands linger, fingers splaying over your back like he doesn’t want to let go.

You lean in, catching his bottom lip between your teeth in a playful tug before you pull back just slightly, eyes meeting his. “So… movie night?”

He’s grinning like he’s never been happier. “Sure,” he says, brushing your hair back behind your ear. “But just so you know, I’m not watching a second of it.”

“Perfect,” you whisper, pulling him down to meet your mouth again.

The kiss deepens before either of you even really breathe, all soft mouths and slow-burning heat, like picking up a conversation you never quite stopped. His hands find your waist again, steady and warm, while yours slide up under the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing skin like you’re rediscovering something you didn’t know you missed.

You barely make it to the bed before falling into it, laughter and sighs tangled somewhere in the middle. Changbin settles above you but doesn’t rush, just looks at you for a moment—like he needs to memorize this, in case it’s a dream.

“God, you’re so—” he starts, then stops, because saying too much feels dangerous. Like tipping the scale too far too soon.

But you only smile, thumb brushing his jaw, and pressing a soft kiss on his cheek.

His chest rises with a quiet breath, and then he leans down again, kissing you like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. His hands move slowly, reverently—like he’s taking his time learning every curve, every sound you make, every shift beneath his touch.

He’s taken off guard when you suddenly take control, the dynamic of the situation abruptly shifting. You move him back, onto the bed, and he lets out a surprised gasp as his back hits the mattress. His eyes widen as you straddle his hips, your body pinning him down, but he doesn’t try to break free.

Changbin gazes up at you, a mixture of surprise and arousal evident in his expression. His hands instinctively go to your thighs, gripping the flesh there, as if trying to anchor himself.

“W-wait a sec…” He bites his lip to not whimper as your lips travel to his neck, peppering soft kisses that threaten to drive him crazy. “Please, gorgeous, let me… just… tell me…”

You swallow dry, settling your hands on his chest. “”I need to tell you something.”

He blinks. Once, then twice. His eyes have turned so dark they could fuck you themselves. “O-okay,” he breathes out, one of his hands playing with a strand of your hair. “What is it?”

”I just, um…” You wait until he nods, reassuring you, and then you bite your lip. “Well. Last time I did something… like this, I…” You sigh, sitting back straight, and he moves with you, holding your waist, stroking you absentmindedly with his thumbs. “It was probably years ago.”

”Oh.” He chews on his lower lip. He wants to eat you alive. “Gorgeous, if you’re having second thoughts, I…”

You’re overthinking. You have been, ever since Hyunjin sent you the apartment's address. Honestly, a part of you always is. But you want this. Want him. So, for the second time in the day, and for the second time since you’ve met him, since he burned and churned everything you thought you knew about this world, you let your mind turn off, and you act again.

You grab the hem of your shirt, and you pass it softly over your head, taking it off.

It doesn’t matter if your act of foolishness or braveness or whatever that was fades just as your shirt touches the floor. You’ve never been insecure about your body, probably because you’ve always been too busy being insecure about every other thing you do or say. But if the case were different, and you had been filled with insecurities, —if you had had any doubts regarding whether the gorgeous man before you would find you attractive or desirable—, they would burn out in this instant.

His index hooks under your chin, moving softly so that you’d look at him.

Seo’s cheeks have turned red. His eyes, still as dark as before, struggle to look at your eyes, your lips, or the way your black bra holds your curves, decorating your skin with lacy patterns. He can’t pick where to look. His other hand, the one not holding your face, fists the bedsheets, as if to help him hold himself back.

”I…” He’s speechless. He doesn’t know what to say.

But then you grab his wrist, and Changbin’s breath catches when you guide his hand and press it flat against your chest, right over your racing heart. His fingers twitch instinctively, splayed wide like he’s afraid to press too hard, afraid to break whatever fragile thing is forming between you. But then he feels it—your heartbeat, wild and thunderous beneath his palm—and it makes his own skip, makes something twist and bloom in his chest.

“You make me nervous, because you’re… you. But I’ve never been as comfortable as I feel when I’m with you.” You nod, and he stares up at you as if he’s seen an angel. “So, no. Please. I want this.”

You’re nervous. You’re saying it, but you’re also letting him feel it. And that trust, that quiet offering of vulnerability, knocks the air out of him. He’s never been good with words, not when the moment matters most, but now he doesn’t need them.

“God, I…” His voice sounds like he has just ran a marathon. No, not just one. Ten marathons. “Okay. Yeah. We’ll take it slow.”

You move your hand toward your back to take your bra off, but he grabs it, stopping you.

“Leave it on?” He blinks. “Please.”

You nod. Your skirt is almost a belt at your waist, ridden up to its limits. “How about this one?”

He gulps. “Y-yeah.” His jaw tightens. “Not the socks. Keep them.”

It all happens in blinks. Your skirt, off. His shirt, off. His belt clinks when it hits the floor, but you’re too busy being kissed crazy. Your lips are swollen, and he looks ethereal under the sole light of his desk light.

His breath is shallow as he leans back slightly, eyes searching yours, asking without words. When you nod, lips parted, skin flushed, he lets out a quiet curse under his breath—half disbelief, half hunger—and leans over the side of the bed. His hand fumbles in the drawer for a moment before he finds the foil packet, tearing it open with practiced ease. The soft rustle of the wrapper is the only sound in the room besides your breathing, and when he looks back at you—eyes dark, chest rising and falling—there’s a flicker of something softer beneath the heat, like awe. Like he can’t believe this is real.

And when he finally moves back to your lips and slides into you, —slowly, deviously even though his hands hold your body the way an evergreen tree’s branches hold onto the snow in the winter, as if there was no other way to express just how much this feels meant to be— you feel completely consumed.

You let out a strangled gasp, and he murmurs something against your neck that sounds like "fuck." You arch into him, the air escaping from your lungs as you try to get closer, chasing more of that feeling.

“I’m going to…” his teeth barely scratch against your shoulder, and he pants, moving and pressing kisses all over your face. “Okay. Okay. I’ll start moving now, yeah?”

”Please,” you cry out. And he starts, and God. You almost can’t handle it. It’s good. Really good. Can too good be a thing? It’s almost absurd. You throw your head back as you moan, and his lips find your jaw, kissing you softly.

”God. Can’t believe… no one has fucked you in years,” he gasps. “Been wanting to do it even before you called me that night.”

You nod. Letting him know that he can. Fuck you, that is. Whenever. Yes. Yes, please. It’s almost as if he can hear you, because he speeds up, whining.

“I meant what I said last time. Please.” He moves your hands, and your fingers curl against his shoulders, nails just barely digging in. He exhales sharply, lips brushing against your jaw. “Go on, gorgeous,” he murmurs, coaxing. “Make it so they won’t dare to ask me about it in the lockers.”

Your nails drag down his back as you moan, slow at first, then harder when he rolls his hips against yours and you gasp into his mouth. The sound he makes—low, broken, almost a growl—shoots straight through you, and his grip on your waist tightens like he’s barely holding on. “Fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, his body trembling from restraint. You do it again, scratching lines into his skin, and he shudders, his breath stuttering as he buries his face in your neck.

“You’re driving me insane,” he mutters against your skin, voice wrecked and raw. But his mouth doesn’t stop, trailing fire down your throat as his hands slide lower, pulling you closer like he needs you to feel just how much you’re undoing him.

His mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s all tongue and need, his hands greedy at your waist, pulling you closer like he needs to feel every inch of you just to stay grounded. You gasp into him, fingers now tangled in his hair, hips arching instinctively into his as your back meets the wall with a soft thud. The air is thick with heat and the quiet, desperate sounds you both make—like touch alone might not be enough. His name slips from your lips like a prayer, and he groans against your throat, biting softly before kissing the sting away.

His hands are everywhere—skimming up the back of your thighs, gripping at your hips, sliding up your tummy, like he’s trying to memorize you by touch alone. Your breath hitches when his fingers dig in just enough to make you whimper, and he swallows the sound with a kiss that’s nothing but heat and tongue and open-mouthed desperation. Every time he pulls back for air, it’s only for a second—just long enough to look at you, eyes dark and hungry, before diving back in like he can’t help himself. You can feel how hard he is, and the way he groans when your nails rake down his back only makes the fire burn hotter.

It’s not slow. It’s not sweet. It’s messy and breathless and overwhelming, like you’re both seconds from losing control—and neither of you wants to stop.

But his body betrays him.

“Shit—do it again,” he pants, voice rough as his forehead rests against yours.

You let out a breathy moan, dragging your nails down his back once more, and he groans, his body jerking slightly.

“God, you’re unreal,” he mutters, breathless.

Your breath hitches, fingers curling against his shoulders as your back arches beneath his touch. You can barely think—every nerve lit up, every movement sending sparks through you.

“Bin—” you gasp, your voice shaking.

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes dark, lips swollen. “You’re close, aren’t you?” he whispers, his voice rough and reverent, like he’s watching something sacred unfold.

You nod, barely, and he kisses you like he’s trying to steal the moment—slow and deep and all-consuming—as his hand finds yours, fingers tangling. “Come on,” he murmurs against your lips, “You’re the one who said ‘I could eat’,” he whispers cheekily, teeth brushing against your neck.

“Yeah, well—” you cut off with a gasp as his hips roll up into yours, “—I didn’t know the main course would be this fucking dangerous,” you let out between moans.

He chuckles, low and wicked, and your eyes flutter shut. He kisses the tip of your nose.

“Tell me to stop,” he teases, voice low against your ear.

“Don’t you dare.”

Your bodies move in sync, breaths tangled, hands everywhere—desperate to keep each other close, to feel everything, all at once. His lips trail along your jaw, your neck, your shoulder, every inch of you burning where he touches, where he breathes.

“God, you feel so good,” he groans against your skin, voice low and trembling.

You pull him closer, nails raking gently down his back as you gasp, your voice breaking. “I—Bin, I’m… I’m right there—”

“I know,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “Me too.”

Your eyes meet, wild and wide and filled with something neither of you can name, and the world blurs. Everything sharpens and fades all at once—heat building, breaking, a shuddering crash that pulls both of you under. You cling to him, to the moment, to the fire crackling through your veins, and he holds you through every breathless second, like he never plans to let go.

And then it hits—slow and sudden, overwhelming in its intensity. You arch into him with a gasp, your hands fisting in the fabric at his shoulders as your body tenses, then melts, trembling in his hold. He follows right after, burying his face in your neck with a deep, broken groan, his arms wrapped tightly around you like he’s anchoring himself to you, to this exact moment.

Everything else falls away. Just your hearts pounding in unison, your skin slick and warm against his, your breaths slowly syncing as the aftershocks ripple through you both.

He doesn’t move for a long while. Just stays there, holding you close, one hand running softly up your spine. “You okay?” he whispers, voice rough, tender.

You nod against him, a lazy smile spreading across your lips. “More than okay.”

Changbin shifts slightly beneath the sheets, careful not to jostle you too much as he reaches for the nightstand. His hand brushes over your hip on the way, lingering for a moment before he moves again. “Just give me a sec,” he murmurs, voice still husky from the heat you shared.

You hum, eyes fluttering closed as the mattress dips slightly. He moves quietly, slipping out from under the blanket, bare feet padding across the room. You peek through heavy lashes just in time to see him toss the condom into the small trash can by the bathroom door, then pause to wash his hands. The soft rush of water fills the silence, grounding and intimate in the afterglow.

When he returns, he’s quieter, slower—gaze soft as he climbs back into bed. He wraps himself around you again with a quiet sigh of contentment, pulling you into his chest like you’re something fragile and sacred. “Didn’t want to let go,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Even for a second.”

You let out a soft breath, eyes fluttering half-shut as sleep begins to tug at the edges of your mind. But when Changbin settles beside you again, warm and shirtless, you can’t help it—your gaze wanders.

Your fingers trail lazily over his chest, admiring the lines of his muscles, the way his skin still feels warm beneath your touch. You hum, the smallest, sleepiest smile curling at your lips. “You’re so hot,” you mumble, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s honestly unfair.”

Changbin freezes for a second, ears going pink. “Wh—what?” he stammers, his voice caught somewhere between flustered and amused.

You laugh softly, curling closer, your hand splayed over his stomach now. “Just saying,” you yawn, blinking slowly up at him. “You’re built like a dream and smell like safety. Not fair.”

He buries his face in the pillow for a second, groaning into it before peeking up at you with a sheepish grin. “You can’t say stuff like that while you’re half-asleep. It’s lethal.”

“Mm,” you murmur, already dozing off with a smile. “Still true.”

Changbin groans, dragging a hand over his face, his cheeks flaming as he sinks further into the pillow. “Please don’t,” he mumbles, voice muffled and boyish and utterly mortified.

“But you’re a fireman,” you say again, stretching the word like it’s a revelation. You reach out and tap his bare shoulder, grinning as he peeks at you through his fingers. “You have to know that you’re like, smoking hot, right?”

He lets out a breathy, helpless laugh, flipping onto his back to stare at the ceiling as if begging the universe for strength. “You’re seriously gonna do wordplay right now?”

You giggle, propping yourself up on one elbow to look down at him. “Don’t act like I’m wrong.”

Changbin turns to face you fully, cheeks still flushed but eyes full of warmth, his smile crooked. “You’re dangerous when you’re tired.”

“Only for you,” you tease, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth.

You shift closer, humming softly as your fingers trail up his stomach, drawing lazy patterns across his skin. Changbin sucks in a breath, already blushing again as your lips press soft, teasing kisses along his collarbone, then to his chest, then down to his ribs.

“Hey—wait—” he squirms, laughter bubbling up in his throat as your hands join in, dancing over his sides. “That tickles—!”

You giggle, refusing to stop, your kisses growing playful, scattered like confetti across his skin. “I know,” you admit in a whisper, between kisses, “I’m doing it on purpose.”

He grins, grabbing one of your wrists gently to halt your mischief, eyes sparkling. “You little—”

“But also,” you say with a sheepish smile, settling on top of him and resting your chin on his chest, “I’m actually kind of hungry now.”

Changbin blinks, still catching his breath. “Hungry? Now?”

You nod seriously. “Like… food hungry. Not, you know, metaphorically.”

He groans. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

But you just smirk. “I was going to say we can order take out, but I suddenly thought it’d be so hot seeing you in nothing but pants and an apron,” you smile wiggling your eyebrows teasingly.

Changbin lets out a startled laugh, his eyes widening as your words sink in. “Oh my god—”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, grinning wickedly. “What? I’m just saying. Fireman by day, chef by night?” You wiggle your eyebrows again, biting your lip playfully. “With those arms? That apron? Nothing else?”

He covers his face with both hands, groaning into his palms. “You’re going to kill me.”

You lean in and nuzzle against his cheek. “Death by thirst. Sounds poetic.”

“Sounds criminal,” he mumbles, cheeks burning. Then, peeking at you through his fingers, he adds, “If I burn dinner it’s because you distracted me.”

You grin. “Worth it.”

He shifts under your touch, laughing softly as you press another kiss to his jaw. “You really want me half-naked and cooking for you?”

“Seriously? Who wouldn’t?” You smile, nudging him with your nose, and then shrug innocently. “I think it’s a public service.”

Changbin groans again, but starts dragging himself out of bed. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re a dream.”