Archive of Our Own

Seungmin met Changbin at 2:37 a.m. under the flickering lights of a convenience store. The place smelled like instant coffee, floor cleaner, and that special kind of loneliness that comes after midnight.

It wasn’t romantic, there were no rose petals, no dramatic eye contact across a crowded room, and no music playing in the background. Just Seungmin in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, his hair still damp from a shower he took because he couldn’t sleep, standing in front of the refrigerated drinks with a carton of banana milk in one hand and strawberry milk in the other. He left his apartment because it was too quiet and hoped that buying a snack might help with the restless feeling he couldn’t shake.

Then the bell above the door chimed.

Seungmin didn’t look up right away. He was busy comparing two drinks that tasted almost the same. Making a small choice felt comforting when everything inside him was too loud. Banana milk or strawberry milk. Sweet or sweeter.

Then he heard a voice near the front of the store, low and rough with exhaustion, 

“Why the fuck are there six kinds of throat lozenges? What does honey lemon even mean? They’re all honey lemon.”

Seungmin froze. He knew that voice.

He had heard it through headphones at full volume, through laptop speakers while folding laundry, through shaky concert clips uploaded by fans who screamed over half the lyrics. He had heard it layered under bass and drums and the roar of thousands of people. He had heard it polished, produced and rasping through verses that had lived in his chest for over a year. That voice had been part of his mornings, his late-night walks, his bad days, his good days, the quiet spaces in his life no one else knew how to fill.

But here, in the middle of a nearly empty convenience store, it sounded different.

Seungmin glanced over before he could talk himself out of it.

Seo Changbin stood by the medicine shelf in a black beanie and an oversized hoodie, his hood pulled low like he wanted to disappear. It didn’t work, at least not for Seungmin. He recognized the broad shoulders and compact frame right away. Changbin’s face was bare, without stage makeup or bright lights, he seemed smaller, not in size, but in the way famous people do when they’re caught doing something ordinary, like buying cough drops late at night.

Seungmin looked away before it could be labeled as staring.

He knew who Changbin was. He knew too well. His albums were on Seungmin’s shelf. His photocards were tucked into a binder that Seungmin would rather walk into traffic than admit existed. His songs were on nearly every playlist Seungmin had ever made for the gym, for cleaning, for driving with the windows down, for standing under too-hot shower water when life got weirdly heavy for no reason.

But Changbin was also clearly sick, exhausted, and alone at 2:37 in the morning.

So Seungmin decided, very firmly, to mind his business.

He made it all of forty seconds.

The first problem came when Changbin dropped one box of lozenges, crouched to pick it up, and knocked over three more with his elbow.

The second problem came when he hissed, “For fuck’s sake,” under his breath.

The third problem came when Seungmin, against his own better judgment, laughed.

Changbin’s head snapped up.

Seungmin immediately regretted every decision that had ever led him to that exact aisle. He lifted the two fruit milks slightly, as if it were proof of innocence, even though the damage was already done.

“Sorry” Seungmin shrugged slightly

Changbin blinked at him, eyes tired and careful beneath the edge of his beanie.

Seungmin could have left it there. He should have left it there. Instead, he pointed toward the shelf with his drink and said, “The honey lemon ones are usually terrible. Get the ginger ones.”

For a second, Changbin didn’t respond. His eyes narrowed a little, not suspicious exactly, but cautious in a way Seungmin imagined he had learned to be. Waiting for the recognition, for the gasp, the phone, the whisper of his name said too loudly in a place too quiet. Seungmin could see the moment pass through him, that tiny shift in his posture, the way his shoulders tightened beneath the hoodie like he was preparing himself for something.

So Seungmin looked at the shelf instead of his face and added, “Unless you like tasting sadness and fake citrus for the next three hours.”

That startled a laugh out of him. It was small and rough, barely more than air, but it was real. “Ginger tastes like punishment,” Changbin said, voice still scratchy.

“Then suffer, I guess.”

Changbin stared at him for another second, and Seungmin pretended very hard not to notice the way his own pulse had started doing something humiliating beneath his skin. Then Changbin reached for the ginger lozenges.

Seungmin turned back to the drinks, pretending that was the end of it. He acted like he hadn’t just given cold medicine advice to someone whose voice he’d listened to, laughed to, and unadmittedly cried to. He tried to convince himself he could just buy his banana milk, go home, and never mention seeing Seo Changbin struggling with throat lozenges. That would be the respectful thing. The normal thing.

He almost managed it.

Two minutes later, he passed the register and found Changbin standing at the self-checkout with a basket containing ginger lozenges, two bottles of water, a cup of ramyeon, instant coffee, and a single sad triangle kimbap.

Seungmin looked into the basket before he could stop himself.

Changbin lifted his eyebrows. “What?”

he looked at Changbin, the sight of that basket, the exhaustion in Changbin’s shoulders, the scratch in his voice, the way he was clearly sick and still trying to feed himself like an unsupervised college student, pulled the words out of him before sense could stop them. 

“You’re sick,” Seungmin said, setting his banana milk on the counter beside the machine, “and this is what you’re eating?”

Changbin looked down at the basket like he had forgotten what he put in it. “It has rice.”

“It has depression wrapped in seaweed.” For one terrifying second, Seungmin thought he had gone too far.

Then Changbin laughed again, louder this time, one hand coming up to cover his mouth as if he hadn’t meant to let the sound out. It made him look younger, less unreachable, less like the man Seungmin had watched command stages with a voice sharp enough to split a room open. Here, under fluorescent lights with a basket of bad decisions in his hand, he was just a tired man laughing at a stranger’s judgment.

The sound made Seungmin’s chest go strangely warm, it was different from hearing it in an interview through a screen.

“You always talk to strangers like this?” Changbin asked.

Seungmin looked away first. “Only the ones making bad choices in public.”

Changbin’s smile lingered, tired but amused. “And what should I be eating, then?”

Seungmin sighed as if this was a big inconvenience, even though he was the one walking back to the refrigerated section. He told himself it was just because Changbin looked like he might collapse if left alone. It wasn’t about Changbin’s fame. It wasn’t about how Seungmin recognized his smile from interviews and noticed how different it looked in person, especially when it was aimed at him without a camera in the way.

He came back with porridge, a small pack of boiled eggs, and a honey drink, placing them into Changbin’s basket without asking. “This. Also, actual water. Not… What is that? Chocolate coffee?”

Changbin glanced down at the iced coffee, then back at him. “It’s an iced mocha… I like them.”

“I’m sure your throat is thrilled.”

The self-checkout beeped softly as Changbin shifted his basket onto the counter. He didn’t look annoyed. If anything, the caution in his face had softened into something more curious. Like he didn’t know what to do with someone who cared more about his terrible grocery choices than his name.

“You work here?” Changbin asked.

“No.”

Changbin hummed, scanning the items one by one. “You’re bossy.”

“You’re welcome.”

That made him smile again.

Seungmin acted like he didn’t notice. He scanned his banana milk, paid, and picked up the carton, planning to leave before he got too nervous. The store was too quiet. There was no crowd to hide in, no stage to separate Changbin from him, and no fans to remind Seungmin of the distance between them. It was just the two of them at the self-checkout, the cashier distracted by his phone, and the hum of the refrigerators in the background.

As Seungmin turned toward the door, Changbin’s voice stopped him. “Hey.”

Seungmin looked back.

Changbin held up the honey drink. “Is this actually good?”

It was such a normal question. So painfully normal that it almost made Seungmin’s chest ache. He could have made a joke. Instead, he shrugged, “No. But it helps.”

Changbin nodded as that mattered. Like Seungmin’s opinion, offered bluntly under convenience store lights, had somehow become important. “Thanks.”

Seungmin gave him a small shrug, fingers tightening around the banana milk. “Don’t die. Your fans would be annoyed about it.”

The words slipped out before he could catch them. For the first time, Seungmin let himself look directly at Changbin’s face. Not at the beanie, not at the hoodie, not at the basket of sick-person groceries. His face. His eyes were dark and tired, but sharper now, recognition passing between them in the space of one breath. Seungmin hadn’t screamed. He hadn’t asked for a picture. He hadn’t said his name. But he had given himself away all the same.

Changbin tilted his head slightly. “So you do know who I am.”

Seungmin could have lied. “Yes.”

The answer settled between them, simple and honest. Changbin waited, maybe for the rest of it. For the excitement, a request, for Seungmin to become someone else now that the truth was out.

However, he only adjusted his grip on the banana milk and said, “You still need better groceries.”

For a moment, Changbin just stared at him.

Then he smiled, crooked. Almost shy, like Seungmin had given him something he hadn’t expected to receive. “Good to know,” he said.

Seungmin nodded once and turned toward the door, his heart beating harder than he would ever admit, even under threat of death. He made it three steps before Changbin spoke again. “Do I get your name?”

Seungmin paused with one hand on the door, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, biting down gently. There were rules for things like this, even if nobody wrote them down. 

Recognize someone famous, be polite, and leave them alone. 

Don’t ask for anything. 

Don’t make yourself memorable. 

Don’t let your own admiration become another thing they have to carry.

But there was something about the way Changbin asked it quietly, almost carefully, like someone who had been surprised into wanting something normal for himself.

So Seungmin glanced back over his shoulder. “Seungmin.”

Changbin repeated it softly, as if testing its shape. “Seungmin.”

Hearing his name in that voice was unfair in a way Seungmin didn’t have the energy to unpack at nearly three in the morning. So he only nodded again, pushed the door open, and stepped outside before his face could betray him.

The bell above the door chimed as he left.

The cool air hit his cheeks, clearing his head a little but not enough to make sense of what just happened. Seungmin walked down the block with cold banana milk in his hand and his heart racing. His stomach twisted, and he felt like he might get sick if he thought about it too much. He told himself it was nothing, just a strange meeting, a funny story he’d never tell. By morning, it would probably feel soft and unreal, the kind of thing that fades the farther away you get.

But even halfway down the street, he could still hear Changbin’s voice in his head. Not layered beneath bass or swallowed by thousands of screaming fans.

Just from the convenience store, soft and tired, saying his name like he wanted to remember it.

Seungmin told himself he wasn’t going back to that convenience store because of Changbin.

That would have been insane. Pathetic, even. The kind of thing he would have judged silently if someone else admitted it to him, mouth flat, eyes unimpressed, already preparing a comment sharp enough to make them regret speaking.

He was a grown man with a job, bills, and rent, who didn't care about his emotional state and had a reasonably healthy amount of self-respect. He didn't rearrange his life around the possibility of running into a famous rapper at 2:37 in the morning just because said rapper had smiled at him once under fluorescent lights, like Seungmin had offered him something precious instead of telling him to stop eating like a broke college student.

So when he found himself standing outside the same convenience store six nights later, hoodie pulled over his head, and hands shoved into his pockets, he decided it didn’t count.

He wanted banana milk.

That was all.

It was the closest store to his apartment, if he ignored the one two streets over and the vending machine by his building. The store was quiet at this hour. Seungmin had been awake too long again, lying in bed with his eyes open and his phone facedown, refusing to check the time because knowing how little sleep he was getting would only make him more annoyed. His apartment felt too still, so he got up, put on a hoodie, and walked until the night air helped quiet his thoughts.

The bell above the door chimed when he stepped inside.

The cashier barely glanced up from his phone. The store looked exactly the same as it had the week before, bright, quiet, and aggressively ordinary, which felt almost rude, considering Seungmin had spent six nights thinking about it as if it were a place where something had shifted without permission.

The same refrigerated drinks hummed along the back wall. The same instant ramyeon sat stacked in neat rows. The same medicine shelf stood near the register, innocent and unbothered, as if it had not witnessed Seungmin make eye contact with Seo Changbin while holding banana milk like an idiot.

Seungmin went straight to the drinks. He opened the cooler door, reached for the banana milk, and had just wrapped his fingers around the carton when a familiar voice behind him caught his attention.

“I bought the porridge this time.”

Seungmin closed his eyes and bit his lip. For one second, he considered pretending he hadn’t heard. It would have been easy. Rude, but easy. He could have taken his drink, walked to the counter, paid, and left with whatever remained of his dignity.

Instead, he took the banana milk, shut the cooler door, and turned around.

Changbin stood at the end of the aisle in another oversized hoodie, a black mask under his chin, and his beanie pulled low. He held a small container of porridge, not exactly showing it off, but enough for Seungmin to notice. The gesture seemed careful, like Changbin remembered what Seungmin said and wanted to prove it. His eyes looked brighter than last week, less shadowed and less exhausted. He was still tired, but not as worn out as before.

Seungmin looked at the porridge, then at Changbin. “You listened,” he said.

Changbin’s mouth twitched, and there it was again. That small, almost shy curve that didn't look like anything Seungmin had seen onstage. “I’m capable of growth.”

“You bought one porridge.”

“And water,” Changbin said, then glanced down into his own basket like he suddenly remembered the rest of the evidence inside it.

Seungmin followed his gaze. There were two bottles of water, ginger lozenges, porridge, boiled eggs, and, tucked in the corner like it could hide from judgment, an iced mocha.

Seungmin looked back at him.

Changbin looked at the iced mocha.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then Changbin cleared his throat and said, “That was already in there.”

Seungmin shouldn't have smiled. He tried very hard not to. “In the basket?”

“It came with it.”

“The basket came with iced mocha?”

Changbin held his expression for all of two seconds before it cracked, laughter slipping out of him, quiet and rough around the edges. The sound still did something strange to Seungmin. Not because it was unfamiliar, but because it was familiar in the wrong place. He had heard Changbin laugh, behind microphones, in clips with subtitles running across the bottom of the screen. That laugh had belonged to stages, to cameras, to people who knew him only through the distance he allowed.

This one happened right in front of Seungmin, soft and unguarded in the middle of an empty convenience store aisle.

“You’re a bad liar,” Seungmin said, because that was safer than saying anything else.

Changbin’s smile lingered. “You’re still very judgmental for someone who only buys banana milk at three in the morning.”

“I know what I like.”

“That must be nice.” Changbin’s smile was still there, but it had softened at the edges, the humor slipping into something quieter before he seemed to notice and look down at the porridge in his hand.

Something about it made him wonder, briefly and against his better judgment, how often Changbin got to want simple things without someone turning them into something else. A headline. A photo. A rumor. A demand.

He wondered if buying porridge in peace counted as a luxury when too many people knew your face.

The thought made something in his chest ache in a small, stupid way.

Seungmin turned back toward the drink section and grabbed a second banana milk just to give his hands something to do. Changbin stepped closer, but not too close. He left enough space between them that Seungmin noticed the care of it, the way he didn’t crowd him, the way he didn't behave like recognition gave him permission to take up more room than anyone else.

“So,” Changbin said, voice still rough but better than before, “do you usually come here this late?”

Seungmin looked at the drinks instead of him. “That sounds dangerously close to a pick up line” he whispered, before looking up at Changbin “Do you? Come here this late….often?” he asks, wincing at his awkwardness

“I asked first.”

Seungmin cleared his throat “And I avoided answering first.”

Changbin laughed under his breath. “You always do that?”

“Only when people ask questions that they don’t answer themselves.”

Changbin leaned his hip lightly against the end of the aisle, porridge still in hand. “Sometimes,” he said after a moment. “When schedules run late. Or when I can’t sleep. Or when I don’t want to go back yet.”

Seungmin’s fingers tightened slightly around the carton.

It was more of an answer than he expected.

He was just a man in a hoodie at three in the morning, holding porridge because Seungmin had told him to eat something better six nights ago.

Seungmin swallowed around the sudden warmth in his throat. “That sounds lonely.”

Changbin smiled, but it didn’t reach as far this time. “Sometimes.”

The cooler hummed behind them. The cashier coughed near the register. Outside, a car moved slowly down the wet street, headlights shining across the windows. Everything felt painfully ordinary, and maybe that was the problem. Maybe Seungmin would have known what to do if there had been a crowd, cameras, or fans, anything to make Changbin seem like the person he knew from stages and screens.

But here, Changbin was just standing in front of him, smiling like Seungmin’s bluntness had given him somewhere to rest.

Seungmin cleared his throat. “Your throat is better?”

Changbin nodded. “Mostly. You remembered?”

Seungmin gave him a flat look, because it was easier than admitting anything else. “You were having a personal crisis in front of cough drops. It was memorable.”

“I wasn’t having a crisis.”

“You knocked over half the shelf.”

Changbin laughed again, and this time Seungmin let himself smile. Just enough that he felt it and immediately regretted it. Changbin noticed anyway. His gaze dipped for half a second, not long enough to be rude, but long enough to make Seungmin’s pulse trip over itself before Changbin looked away, ears going faintly pink beneath the edge of his beanie.

Interesting.

Seungmin turned toward the register before his face could betray him. “Are you buying that or just carrying it around so I’ll praise you?”

Changbin glanced down at the porridge like he had forgotten it was still in his hand. “Right.”

They walked to the self-checkout together, which felt ridiculous because it was maybe twelve steps, but Seungmin was aware of every one of them. Aware of Changbin’s shoulder beside his, of the soft rustle of his hoodie, of the fact that the aisle was wide enough for them not to brush and somehow still felt too narrow. Seungmin scanned his banana milk first. Changbin stood beside him, basket hooked over one arm, quiet for once.

Then, softer, he said, “I can buy that for you.”

Seungmin didn’t look at him. “I have money.”

“I’m trying to be nice.” Changbin countered

“I know,” Seungmin said, and because that came out gentler than he meant it to, he pressed his mouth together and focused very hard on the payment screen. “But I can buy my own drink.”

Changbin was quiet for a moment.

The machine beeped too loudly between them.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Changbin said.

Seungmin knew that. He knew Changbin wasn’t trying to be arrogant, wasn’t trying to show off, wasn’t trying to turn money into a shortcut. He was trying to be kind, and Seungmin didn't know what to do with kindness from someone whose face lived in the minds of hundreds and thousands of other people.

“I know,” Seungmin said again, quieter this time. “I just…” Seungmin stopped, annoyed with himself for starting a sentence that required more honesty than he wanted to give. He picked up his receipt, folded it once, then twice, even though he didn’t need it. “I don’t want anything from you.”

The words settled between them.

Seungmin hated that. He hated that he had said it too plainly, hated that it sounded heavier than he meant it to, hated that Changbin was now looking at him like he was trying to understand something important.

Finally, Changbin said, “Nothing?”

His voice had been light, but his face wasn’t. There was something searching in his eyes, something almost careful, like he didn’t know what to do with someone who insisted on wanting nothing.

Seungmin’s chest tightened. He looked down at the banana milk in his hand. “Not like that.”

Changbin breathed out, almost a laugh but not quite. “You’re hard to figure out,” he smiled, but it faded slower this time. “Most people don’t do that.” Changbin confessed, picking at his cuticles, “Treat me like I’m just some guy buying bad food at three in the morning.”

Seungmin didn’t know what to say to that, so for once, he didn’t say anything.

Changbin slowly scanned his items, one by one. The porridge. The water. The eggs. The lozenges. The normalcy of it felt intimate in a way Seungmin didn't know how to explain. Watching Changbin pay for groceries shouldn't have made him feel like he was witnessing something private, but it did. Maybe because so much of Changbin’s life was seen, filmed, clipped, captioned, consumed. Maybe because this version of him felt like the part people were not meant to keep.

When the machine announced his total, Changbin paid without looking away from the screen.

Then, like he was trying to sound casual and failing just enough for Seungmin to hear it, he said, “Maybe I came back because I was hoping you’d be here again.”

Seungmin forgot how to breathe normally, his stomach flipping inside of him, the warm rise of anxiety filled his brain.

The self-checkout printed the receipt too loudly, and Changbin took it, folded it once, and looked at him as if he had not just said something insane.

Seungmin stood there with his banana milk in his hand, trying to decide if this was flirting or if famous people were accidentally devastating because no one had ever told them to be careful with their mouths.

Changbin’s confidence seemed to catch on the silence. “Too much?”

Seungmin swallowed, his stomach turning, and his head slightly dizzy. “No.”

Changbin’s expression softened as they stepped outside together into the cool night air. The rain had thinned into mist, silvering the pavement and clinging to the sleeves of Seungmin’s hoodie. The street was quiet, the city tucked into that strange hour where everything felt paused. Changbin pulled his mask back up, but his eyes stayed on Seungmin.

Seungmin looked at the wet sidewalk instead. “You shouldn’t tell strangers things like that.”

“Why not?”

“They might believe you.”

Changbin was quiet for a second. “Maybe I want you to.”

Seungmin’s heart did something so humiliating he had to open and take a sip of banana milk just to avoid reacting. It was cold, too sweet, and did absolutely nothing to help him. “You’re not subtle,” Seungmin said.

Changbin’s eyes curved above the mask. “I wasn’t trying that hard to be.”

A car passed at the end of the street, tires hissing against wet asphalt. Seungmin wished, briefly and violently, that the car would turn around and run him over because he was not someone who knew how to respond smoothly to flirtation from someone whose music he had once streamed for six hours straight while cleaning his apartment because he was sad and needed the noise. Unfortunately, he was himself, so he lifted the banana milk slightly and said, “Drink water.”

Changbin stared at him, and his shoulders shook with laughter.

Seungmin felt his own mouth twitch. “It’s good advice.”

“I say something honest, and you tell me to hydrate?” Changbin laughed again, but it softened quickly, his eyes lingering on Seungmin in a way that made the air feel warmer than it was. For once, Seungmin didn’t look away immediately. The space between them felt different from the way it had the first night. Less accidental. More like both of them had returned to the same place and were pretending coincidence had done all the work.

Finally, Changbin reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. His voice softened, careful in a way Seungmin felt more than heard. “Can I ask for your number?”

Seungmin looked from the phone to Changbin’s face. It would have been easier if Changbin looked confident. He looked like a man who expected to be given whatever he asked for. But he didn’t. He looked hopeful, almost nervous, beneath the mask, standing under a convenience store awning at three in the morning with a bag of porridge and water in one hand.

Seungmin took the phone before he could overthink himself into cowardice.

His fingers felt too warm as he typed in his number. Under the name, he wrote Grocery Police, because putting his actual name into Seo Changbin’s actual phone felt too intimate, despite the fact that Changbin already knew it.

When he handed it back, Changbin looked down.

His eyes crinkled immediately. “Grocery Police?” He saved the contact and slipped the phone back into his pocket with a smile. Seungmin knew, with deep irritation, that he would think about it later against his will.

“Goodnight, Seungmin.”

Hearing his name in that voice was still unfair.

Seungmin turned before his face could make a fool of him. “Goodnight, Changbin.”

He made it halfway down the block before his phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: ‘I drank water.’

Seungmin stopped under the dim glow of a streetlight and stared at the message.

For a long moment, he just stood there, banana milk cold in one hand, phone warm in the other, mist settling in his hair while something soft and ridiculous bloomed beneath his ribs. He told himself not to smile. He told himself this was dangerous. He told himself that saving Seo Changbin’s number in his phone at three in the morning was exactly the kind of thing that made normal lives complicated.

Then he saved the contact as Bad Groceries.

Seungmin: ‘Proud of you.’

The reply came almost immediately.

Bad Groceries: ‘Does this mean I get banana milk privileges next time?’

Seungmin smiled so hard he had to bite the inside of his cheek. 

Seungmin: ‘Don’t push it.’

He put his phone away after that and kept walking, but the night didn't feel as heavy as it had when he left his apartment. The street was still wet. The air was still cold. His apartment would still be too quiet when he got back.

But somewhere behind him, in the same convenience store where none of this should have happened, Changbin had his number saved under Grocery Police.

And Seungmin, against every reasonable instinct he had, hoped he would use it again.

Changbin did use it again.

Not immediately, which Seungmin told himself was good. Healthy, even. Reasonable. Normal people didn't exchange numbers with famous rappers outside convenience stores at three in the morning and then expect their phones to light up every five minutes like they were living inside something soft and embarrassing. Seungmin had a life. He had work. He had laundry sitting in the dryer for two days because he kept forgetting it existed. He had emails to answer and dishes to wash and a very real need to stop checking his phone every time it buzzed.

So when two days passed and Changbin didn't text him again, Seungmin decided that was fine.

Completely fine.

He only checked their message thread twice. Maybe three times, if opening his phone and looking without unlocking it counted, which it didn't, because technically he was only checking the time.

The problem was that his phone had his name as "Changbin" instead it was ‘Bad Groceries’, and that made everything worse because every time Seungmin saw it, he remembered the awning outside the convenience store, the rain clinging to Changbin’s sleeves, the careful way he had asked for Seungmin’s number like he was not used to wanting things he wasn’t sure he could have. He remembered the way Changbin’s eyes had crinkled when he saw Grocery Police in his contacts. He remembered the softness of his voice when he said goodnight.

By the fourth day, Seungmin had accepted, with as much dignity as possible, that maybe it had been a strange little story after all. A weird, late-night almost-something that would live nowhere except the back of his mind, pressed between songs and sleeplessness and the kind of memory that felt warmer than it had any right to.

Then his phone buzzed while he was eating lunch over his kitchen counter because sitting down felt too formal for reheated rice.

Bad Groceries: Dance practice just ended. I have two hours before interviews. Have you eaten?

Seungmin stared at the message.

Then he stared at his bowl.

Then back to the message.

His rice had gone slightly dry in the microwave, and the egg he had put on top was overcooked at the edges because he had gotten distracted halfway through making it. Technically, he was eating. Technically, the answer to Changbin’s question was yes. Technically, Seungmin could type that and preserve whatever small amount of sanity remained to him.

Instead, he stood in the middle of his kitchen with one sock on, spoon in hand, and felt his heart start doing something humiliating.

There was nothing dramatic about the message. That was the worst part. It was not a confession. It was not a grand invitation. It was not even phrased like a date. Have you eaten? Such a normal question. People asked that all the time. Friends asked that. Coworkers asked that. Mothers asked that in ways that meant both answer honestly and I know you are lying.

But this was Changbin.

Changbin, who had come back to the convenience store with porridge because Seungmin told him to eat better. Changbin, who had said maybe he had hoped Seungmin would be there again. Changbin, who had Seungmin’s number saved under Grocery Police and apparently enough nerve to text him in the middle of a schedule like asking Seungmin to eat was a normal thing he got to do.

Seungmin set his spoon down.

Then picked it back up because that felt too dramatic.

Then set it down again.

He typed, deleted, typed again, deleted again, and finally 

Seungmin: I’m eating.

The reply came a minute later.

Bad Groceries: Is it real food or are you judging me from a glass house?

Seungmin looked at the dry rice, the sad egg, and the half-empty bottle of water he had ignored all morning.

He hated that Changbin had a point.

Seungmin: Real enough

Bad Groceries: That means no.

Seungmin pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, annoyed by the smile trying to pull at his mouth.

Seungmin: It means mind your business.

Bad Groceries: Come eat with me.

Seungmin stopped breathing for a second.

Changbin was asking. Directly. Casually, maybe, but directly all the same.

‘Come eat with me.’

Seungmin read it three times until the words stopped looking real.

Then another message appeared.

Bad Groceries: Only if you want to. I know it’s sudden.

Seungmin glanced at the bowl on the counter again, then at himself in the reflection of the dark microwave door. Hoodie. One sock. Hair not terrible, but not exactly planned for seeing someone whose face lived on posters and billboards and other people’s phone screens. He thought about saying no. He thought about being reasonable. He thought about the fact that Changbin only had two hours, which meant whatever this was would be squeezed between dance practice and interviews, borrowed time inside a life that moved too fast for normal things.

Then he thought about Changbin eating alone somewhere with tired shoulders and a schedule waiting to swallow him again.

Seungmin: Where? 

Seungmin typed before he could overthink himself into cowardice.

Changbin sent an address five minutes from the company and added, 

Bad Groceries: It’s quiet. The food is good. I promise I will order water.

Seungmin stared at the message.

Then, because he apparently hated peace, he typed back

Seungmin: You better not be sweaty.

Bad Groceries: I was dancing for four hours.

Seungmin: That was not reassuring.

Bad Groceries: I’ll change.

Seungmin: And drink water.

Bad Groceries: Already doing it.

Seungmin looked at the message for too long.

Then he put his bowl in the fridge, found his other sock, and left before he could convince himself that staying home was the safer choice.

The restaurant was small, tucked below street level with steamed windows and a narrow staircase leading down from the sidewalk. It was the kind of place Seungmin would have walked past without noticing if Changbin had not sent the address. There was no sign large enough to attract a crowd, no bright display, no reason for anyone to look twice unless they already knew it was there. Seungmin understood immediately why Changbin picked it.

He stood outside for a moment with his hands in his pockets, looking down the stairs, and told himself he could still leave.

His phone buzzed.

Bad Groceries: Are you outside?

Seungmin looked up sharply, ridiculous as if Changbin could somehow see him through concrete.

Seungmin: No.

Bad Groceries: You’re a bad liar.

Seungmin: I learned from you.

Bad Groceries: Come down before my manager thinks I got stood up.

Seungmin paused.

Seungmin: Manager?

Bad Groceries: Not eating with us. He’s just in the car. Don’t panic.

Seungmin: I was not panicking.

He went down the stairs before he could stand there long enough to look suspicious. The warm smell of broth hit him the moment he opened the door, rich and comforting enough that his stomach reminded him the dry rice at home had not counted as a meal. The restaurant was quiet, only a few tables occupied, the staff moving with the calm efficiency of people used to feeding tired workers between schedules.

Changbin sat at a table near the back.

For one strange second, Seungmin’s brain did the thing again. The recognition split between the man he knew from stages and the man sitting in front of him now with damp hair tucked under a cap, fresh hoodie pulled over his shoulders, and a bottle of water already open beside his hand like proof of good behavior.

He looked tired.

Tired in a way that sat behind his eyes and in the curve of his shoulders. His face brightened when he saw Seungmin, though, and that was dangerous. Worse than the smile at the convenience store. Worse because this time Seungmin knew it had been waiting for him.

Changbin lifted one hand slightly. “You came.”

Seungmin slid into the seat across from him and took off his coat like his heart was not trying to climb out of his throat. “You sounded like you needed supervision.”

Changbin’s smile spread slowly. “I ordered actual food.”

“I’ll decide if it counts.”

“I missed this.”

Seungmin’s hands stilled around the edge of his coat.

Changbin seemed to realize what he had said at the same time Seungmin did. His smile didn't disappear, but it changed, turning smaller, more embarrassed around the edges. He looked down at the table, thumb worrying at the label on the water bottle. 

“I mean,” he said, softer, “I missed being insulted about my diet.”

Seungmin looked at him for a moment too long. Then he folded his coat beside him. “That’s a very specific thing to miss.”

“I’ve had a stressful week.”

“You need better coping mechanisms.”

“I’m trying.”

The waitress came by before Seungmin could answer, setting down bowls of noodles and small plates of side dishes Changbin had apparently already ordered. Seungmin looked at the food, then at Changbin, and felt something warm and unwelcome move through him when he realized there were two sets of everything. Not ordered as an afterthought, Changbin had ordered like he expected Seungmin to say yes.

“You ordered for me,” Seungmin said.

Changbin looked suddenly nervous. “Is that rude? I’m sorry. I didn’t know how long you had.”

“I never said I was busy.”

“You also never said you weren’t.”

“That sounds like something a person with anxiety would say.”

Changbin huffed out a laugh and picked up his chopsticks. “I had forty minutes to think after I texted you.”

“It’s been twenty.”

“It felt like forty.”

Seungmin looked down at his bowl because it was easier than meeting Changbin’s eyes when he said things like that. The broth steamed up, warm and fragrant, and eating gave them both something to do with their hands. It gave Seungmin time to get used to the strange feeling of sitting across from Changbin in the middle of a normal afternoon while the city moved on above them.

Changbin ate quickly at first, like someone who had forgotten food was not another schedule to get through. Seungmin watched for three bites before reaching across the table and pushing one of the side dishes closer to him.

Changbin paused.

Seungmin didn't look up. “Eat that too.”

“I am eating.”

“You’re inhaling, you need to chew.”

Changbin stared at him and Seungmin kept eating.

After a second, Changbin laughed under his breath and took the side dish.

The sound slipped into the space between them, soft and familiar already, and Seungmin hated how easily it made the moment feel less impossible. Changbin asked about his day after that. Not as a polite filler question, not in the distant way people asked when they were waiting for their turn to speak, but like he actually wanted to know. Seungmin told him about work, about the printer jamming three times before noon, about a coworker who sent an email marked urgent and then disappeared for two hours, about the dry rice he had abandoned in his fridge because Changbin had questioned his ability to feed himself.

Changbin listened.

That was the thing Seungmin kept noticing.

He listened like he didn't have interviews in two hours. Like his phone was not facedown beside his water bottle, occasionally lighting up with messages he ignored after a quick glance. Like Seungmin’s ordinary little complaints mattered just as much as anything waiting for him outside the restaurant.

Eventually, Seungmin’s gaze drifted to Changbin’s hands where they rested near his bowl. He could see faint redness around his knuckles, a small scrape near one finger, the kind of tiny injury that came from long practice and too many repetitions. Changbin must have noticed him looking, because he flexed his fingers self-consciously.

“Practice was rough,” he said.

Seungmin looked up. “Does it hurt?”

“A little.”

“Did you ice it?” 

Changbin’s silence was answer enough.

Seungmin set his chopsticks down. “You are very bad at having a body.”

Changbin laughed, it came out tired. “I know.”

“No, I mean it. You need sleep, water, food, medicine, and apparently someone to remind you that hands are useful.”

Changbin looked at him over the steam rising from his bowl, expression caught somewhere between amusement and something softer. “Is that what you are now?”

Seungmin felt the question land beneath his ribs.

He knew Changbin meant it lightly, but there was something underneath it anyway, something neither of them had named yet and maybe didn't know how to. 

What are you now? 

A stranger? 

A fan?

A friend? 

The person Changbin texted when practice ended and he had two hours to be normal?

Seungmin picked up his chopsticks again. “I’m someone who doesn’t want you to die because you don’t know how to take care of yourself.”

Changbin smiled, but his eyes stayed on Seungmin a beat too long. “That’s very generous of you.”

“I’m known for my charity.”

“You wouldn’t let me buy you banana milk.” Changbin said immediately 

“That was different.”

“How?”

Seungmin looked at him then, and for a second, the restaurant felt too quiet around them. “It just was.” he whispered

Changbin didn't push, which made Seungmin like him more, and that was deeply inconvenient.

They finished eating slowly after that, or as slowly as Changbin’s schedule allowed. Every so often, his phone lit up, and every time it did, Seungmin felt the reminder of the world waiting just beyond the table. Staff. Managers. Interviews. Cameras. Questions. A life that measured him in blocks of time so small that a two-hour break could become something rare enough to share.

When Changbin finally checked the time, disappointment flickered across his face before he hid it.

Seungmin saw it anyway. “You have to go,” he said.

Changbin sighed. “In ten minutes.”

“Then go in eight.”

Changbin frowned. “Why?”

“So you aren’t late.” Seungmin pointed out, shrugging his shoulders lightly

“You’re kicking me out of lunch?”

“I’m being responsible.”

“I don’t like responsible Seungmin.”

“You barely know me.”

Changbin’s mouth curved, small and warm. “I want to know more.”

Seungmin’s heart did something stupid again. He reached for his water and took a sip to give himself something to do.

Outside, through the small window near the ceiling, people passed on the sidewalk above them, shoes and shadows moving through the slice of daylight. Seungmin watched them for a moment, then looked back at Changbin and found him already looking. Not at the door. Not at his phone. At him.

“I’m glad you came,” Changbin said.

Seungmin looked down at the table. “You needed supervision.”

“I did.”

Seungmin wanted to say something normal and easy.

“Text me next time you have a break.” The words were out before he could stop them.

Changbin went still.

Seungmin kept his eyes on the table, already regretting everything. He had meant it casually. Probably. Maybe, but it didn't feel casual now. It felt like offering something, and he was not sure if he was ready to know what.

Then Changbin’s voice came softer. “Yeah?”

Seungmin shrugged, as if his pulse was not humiliating him. “If you’re going to keep eating like this, someone has to intervene.”

Changbin laughed, but it sounded different this time. Relieved, maybe. Pleased in a way he didn't know how to hide. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll text you.”

Seungmin looked up despite himself.

Changbin was smiling at him like that promise mattered.

And maybe that was the problem.

Maybe, somewhere between the convenience store, the porridge, and a bowl of noodles eaten during a stolen break, it had started to matter to Seungmin too.

The next time Changbin texted him, Seungmin was at work.

Which was inconvenient for several reasons, the first being that work was already testing the very fragile thread holding his patience together. Someone had called out. Someone else had forgotten to finish something they had very confidently promised was already done. The printer had jammed twice before noon and once after, purely out of spite, and Seungmin had spent most of his shift answering questions that could have been answered by people reading the first three lines of an email.

So when his phone buzzed in his pocket, he almost ignored it.

Almost.

Then he saw the name on the screen.

Bad Groceries: I have a break. Do you have time for food?

Seungmin stopped in the back hallway with one hand on the doorframe and stared at the message.

It was such a simple thing. Just food, a break, and time. Words that shouldn’t have been enough to distract him from a tiring day. But Changbin had a way of making ordinary things feel important. He slipped into Seungmin’s life between grocery lists, work stress, and laundry, showing up in places Seungmin hadn’t expected.

Seungmin looked at the time.

1:12 p.m.

His break had already been wasted fixing someone else’s mistake. He had at least four more hours before he could leave, maybe more if the day decided to get worse out of spite. He read Changbin’s message again, then looked toward the front where someone was calling his name like whatever they needed might collapse without him.

For a second he considered lying, something soft enough to make the disappointment smaller. Maybe he could say he already ate. Maybe he could say he was busy without explaining. Maybe he could pretend the answer was easier than it felt.

Seungmin: I’m at work. I can’t.

He watched the message send.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Then disappeared, and appeared again.

Seungmin hated that he noticed.

Bad Groceries: Ah okay. Don’t worry about it.

A second later, another message came through.

Bad Groceries: Eat when you can though. Real food. Not sad work snacks.

Seungmin’s chest did something small and unpleasant.

It was a perfectly fine response. Changbin was busy too, he probably understood better than most people that time didn't always belong to the person living inside it. He had asked. Seungmin had said no. Changbin had accepted it.

That should have been the end of it.

Seungmin put his phone away and went back to work.

For the next twenty minutes, he was insufferably aware of his own pocket.

He helped a customer. He answered an email. He found the document someone swore had vanished even though it was exactly where it was supposed to be. He drank half a bottle of water and forgot the other half on a counter somewhere. All the while, Changbin’s message sat in the back of his mind, polite and sad in a way that was probably not even sad. Seungmin was assigning feelings to text now. That was where he was in life. He was standing at work, irritated at himself because a man with terrible grocery instincts had accepted his refusal too gracefully.

By 1:47, Seungmin had read the messages six more times.

By 2:03, he had opened a map.

By 2:11, he had found the place.

It was a small Korean restaurant two towns over, the kind of place tucked into a half-empty strip mall beside a laundromat and a tax office, far enough away from the company building and the usual parts of the city that Changbin might actually be able to sit for a meal without turning his body toward every sound. Seungmin had gone there once with a coworker months ago. The food was good, the lighting was terrible, and nobody there looked twice at anyone unless they were blocking the register.

It was perfect.

Or stupid.

Maybe both.

Seungmin stared at the address until the words blurred slightly. Then he opened the chat before he could think better of it.

I can’t do now, he typed, then paused, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

That sounded too eager.

He deleted it.

Seungmin: There’s a Korean place two towns over, its a hole in the wall and the food is good…. It’s less likely to have people staring at you.

That sounded too thoughtful. He deleted the last sentence. Then added it back because it was true.

He sent the message before cowardice could get involved.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Bad Groceries: You looked for somewhere I could eat comfortably?

Seungmin felt heat climb up his neck immediately.

He glared at the screen like Changbin had done something wrong by noticing exactly what Seungmin had done.

Seungmin: Don’t make it weird.

Bad Groceries: I’m not.

Bad Groceries: It’s just nice.

That was worse.

Seungmin locked his phone, shoved it into his pocket, and made it almost thirty seconds before pulling it back out.

Seungmin: Do you have time later or not?

The reply didn't come as quickly this time. Which was fine. Obviously. Changbin had a life. A schedule. A job that involved more than standing in a back hallway overthinking text messages like a person with no survival instincts.

When the phone buzzed again, Seungmin hated how fast he looked.

Bad Groceries: I have to make content with the boys until 7.

Bad Groceries: After that I’m free.

Bad Groceries: If you still want to.

Seungmin read the last line twice.

If you still want to.

That was the thing about Changbin, Seungmin was starting to realize. He asked like he was giving Seungmin every possible exit. Even when he was the famous one. Even when he was the one who could probably have anyone rearranging their night with one message. He still asked like wanting something didn't mean he expected to receive it.

Seungmin leaned his shoulder against the hallway wall and typed,

Seungmin: I wouldn’t have sent the address if I didn’t.

There was a longer pause this time.

Then Changbin replied.

Bad Groceries: Okay.

Another pause.

Bad Groceries: I’ll see you after 7, Grocery Police.

Seungmin stared at the nickname and told himself the warmth in his chest was indigestion.

It was not.

By the time Seungmin got to the restaurant that evening, the sky had already gone dark.

The drive out had helped in the way driving sometimes did, giving his nerves somewhere to go besides his own body. Streetlights blurred across the windshield. The city thinned into quieter roads, then into the small cluster of shops where the restaurant sat with its faded sign and fogged windows. It looked exactly as he remembered it, the kind of place nobody would bother photographing unless they were reviewing soup.

Seungmin arrived first.

He told himself that was fine.

Then he told himself not to check his reflection in the dark window.

He checked anyway, then went inside before he could make himself worse.

The restaurant was quiet, only a few tables occupied, the air warm with steam and sesame oil and something spicy enough to settle immediately in the back of his throat. An older woman behind the counter looked up when he entered and nodded him toward any open table. Seungmin picked one near the back but not tucked too far into a corner. He didn't know why. Maybe because hiding felt too deliberate. Maybe because he was trying not to build a habit out of the shadows before there was anything to hide.

He had just sat down when his phone buzzed.

Bad Groceries: I’m outside.

Seungmin looked toward the door.

A few seconds later, Changbin came in wearing a black cap, a mask, and the kind of oversized hoodie that somehow made him look broader and smaller at the same time. His hair was damp at the ends like he had showered quickly after practice, and even half-covered, he looked tired. Not the same exhausted as the convenience store, not sick or hollowed out, but worn thin around the edges. The kind of tired that came from smiling for cameras and repeating jokes for content until even laughter became part of a schedule.

His eyes found Seungmin almost immediately.

Something in him softened.

Seungmin hated that he noticed every time.

Changbin walked over, careful, not hurried enough to draw attention. “You came first.”

“You were late.”

Changbin pulled out the chair across from him and sat. “It’s 7:04.”

“Late.” Seungmin pointed out, tilting his head slightly to the right and raising his eyebrows

“I was making content for people who would complain if I didn’t.”

“I’m people.”

“You would complain?”

“I complain constantly.”

Changbin’s eyes curved above the mask before he pulled it down beneath his chin. “That’s true.”

Seungmin looked away first, pretending to study the menu even though he already knew what he wanted. Changbin picked his up too, but Seungmin could feel him watching more than reading. It was different from the first lunch. Less rushed, even though Changbin still looked like he had lived three days inside one.

“You really came two towns over for this?” Changbin asked after a moment.

Seungmin kept his eyes on the menu. “The food is good.”

“And because people are less likely to stare?”

Seungmin’s fingers tightened slightly against the laminated edge.

Changbin’s voice was gentle when he said it. He was not making fun of Seungmin for thinking about it. He sounded grateful, and Seungmin was not sure what to do with gratitude when the thing he had done felt too small to deserve it.

“It seemed easier,” Seungmin said, “For both of us.”

Changbin was quiet and Seungmin looked up despite himself.

Changbin was watching him again with that expression that he was beginning to recognize and fear in equal measure.

“Thank you,” Changbin said.

Seungmin immediately looked back down. “Don’t thank me until you taste the food.”

The woman came over then, and they ordered. Seungmin got soup because it was cold outside and because he had been thinking about it since he found the restaurant on the map. Changbin ordered something with rice and meat after one stern look from Seungmin, then added dumplings to share after asking if Seungmin liked them. It was a simple question, but it made Seungmin pause.

“Do you like these?”

“I like dumplings,” Seungmin said.

Changbin nodded and ordered them.

The conversation came easier after food arrived. Maybe because there was something to do with their hands. Maybe because the place really was quiet enough to make both of them forget, for small stretches of time, that Changbin’s life existed anywhere beyond the steam rising between them. Changbin told him about the content shoot, about how he had knocked over a prop and somehow turned it into the funniest moment of the day, about Chan laughing so hard he had to walk off set, about Han trying to convince everyone it had been intentional because that sounded better.

Seungmin listened, smiling despite himself.

He knew these names, of course. He knew them in the way fans knew names, voices, faces, roles, inside jokes clipped and repeated until they felt familiar. But hearing Changbin talk about them like coworkers and brothers and deeply annoying people he loved made them feel different. Closer, but not in a way Seungmin felt entitled to.

At some point, Changbin stopped talking about himself and asked, “What about you?”

Seungmin blinked. “What about me?”

Changbin looked almost amused. “You know things about my day. I want to know about yours.”

“My day was boring.”

“I don’t care. Tell me anyway.”

Seungmin stared at him.

Changbin only looked back, patient and serious in a way that made refusing feel stranger than answering.

So Seungmin told him.

Just surface things. Work was busy. Someone had messed up a schedule. He had spent too long fixing something he didn't break. He had forgotten to eat until Changbin texted him, which made Changbin give him a look so pointed Seungmin immediately added that he had eaten eventually. Changbin didn't seem satisfied, but he let it pass.

“What about when you’re not working?” Changbin asked, “What do you do then?”

Seungmin almost said nothing.

It was his instinctive answer, the kind of answer that kept the shape of his life blurry enough that no one could touch it. But Changbin was watching him like he wanted the real answer, and Seungmin, against his own better judgment, found himself giving pieces of it.

He told him he liked walking at night when he could not sleep, even though he knew it was probably not the smartest habit. He told him he listened to music while cleaning because silence made chores worse. He told him he had a bad habit of buying drinks from convenience stores instead of groceries that made sense. He admitted, reluctantly, that he had a plant on his windowsill he kept forgetting to water but that somehow refused to die, which Changbin found far too funny.

“It’s resilient,” Changbin said.

“It’s suffering. But still cute I guess” 

Changbin smiled into his water. “Sounds like you.”

Seungmin stared at him.

Changbin’s smile faltered slightly. “Too much?”

Seungmin looked down at his bowl, stirring the broth even though there was nothing left to stir. “No.”

It was too much, but not in the way Changbin meant. It was too much because he had noticed. Because he had taken Seungmin’s small, stupid story about a plant and turned it gently in his hands until it reflected something Seungmin had not meant to show him.

Seungmin didn't like being seen.

He liked it even less that Changbin seemed good at it.

Changbin must have understood enough not to push, because he changed the shape of the conversation without fully changing the subject. “Do you have family nearby?”

Seungmin shook his head. “No, everyone is back in Seoul”

“Friends?”

“Not many” Seungmin shrugged

“Do they know you’re here? With me.”

“No,” Seungmin responded, his stomach tightening. “I don’t think I’d know how to explain it.”

Changbin nodded slowly. “Fair.”

“It’s not because I’m embarrassed.” He added quickly not knowing why he felt the need to clarify, but now that he had started, he could not stop. “It’s just hard to say out loud without sounding insane.”

Changbin leaned back slightly, expression softening. “That you’re having dinner with me?”

“That Seo Changbin keeps texting me about food like I’m responsible for his survival.”

Changbin laughed, shoulders loosening. “You kind of made yourself responsible.”

“I told you to buy porridge once.”

“And now look at us.”

Seungmin rolled his eyes, but the warmth in his chest stayed.

The conversation turned again after that, slowly, naturally. Changbin asked about the music Seungmin liked, which was dangerous territory for obvious reasons. Seungmin gave him several safe answers. 

Changbin narrowed his eyes, “You’re avoiding something.” 

“What would I be avoiding?” Seungmin asks 

“You know you can say you listen to my music, right?” Changbin admitted and Seungmin nearly choked on his water.

Changbin looked far too pleased with himself.

“I already admitted I know who you are,” Seungmin said once he could breathe.

“That’s not the same. Do you have a favorite song?”

“No.”

Changbin grinned. “Liar. I’m interested, tell me”

Seungmin looked down at the table, hands picking at his cuticles.

The restaurant had grown quieter around them. One of the other tables had left. The woman behind the counter was wiping down menus, and outside, the strip mall parking lot shone under old yellow lights. It would have been easy to leave then. Natural. They had eaten. Changbin had a long day behind him. Seungmin had work in the morning. The conversation had reached the point where staying too long would make it obvious that neither of them wanted it to end.

Changbin asked, softly breaking the silence, “Do you want to walk for a minute?”

Seungmin should have said no.

It was cold outside and Changbin was probably exhausted. Seungmin had already spent too much time pretending this was casual when it had stopped feeling casual somewhere between the address and the dumplings.

Instead, he said, “Only if you zip your jacket. Your throat only just recovered.”

Changbin’s smile came slowly, bright enough to ruin him. “Yes, sir.”

They paid separately because Seungmin insisted and Changbin looked like he wanted to argue but remembered, perhaps wisely, that Seungmin had strong opinions about being bought things too early. 

Outside, the air was sharp and clean, carrying the faint smell of rain even though the sky had cleared. The strip mall was mostly empty now, the laundromat glowing at the far end and a vending machine humming beside the closed tax office.

They walked without a real destination, just along the row of dark storefronts and back again, close enough that their sleeves brushed once, then twice.

After the third time, Changbin’s hand shifted at his side.

Seungmin noticed and wondered if Changbin would reach for him. He wondered if he wanted him to. He wondered if he had lost his mind somewhere between the first convenience store and now, because the answer was yes in a way that scared him.

Changbin glanced over at him, “Thank you for coming tonight.”

Seungmin kept his eyes ahead. “You already thanked me.”

“I know.”

“Do you thank everyone this much?”

“No.”

The answer was too immediate.

Seungmin’s steps slowed.

Changbin slowed with him.

For a moment, they stood beneath the weak glow of the laundromat sign, the parking lot empty around them, the world quiet enough that Seungmin could hear the soft buzz of electricity overhead and the distant rush of cars from the main road. Changbin had his hands in his jacket pockets, cap pulled low, mask still tucked under his chin. He looked like someone trying very hard not to ask for more than he was allowed.

Seungmin looked at him and felt that small ache again.

The one that had started in the convenience store and had only gotten worse.

Changbin’s voice was quiet, “I like spending time with you.”

Seungmin swallowed.

There were several things he could have said to ruin the moment. Several safe options. Something sarcastic about his poor taste. Something about needing supervision. Something that would put the ground back beneath his feet.

But Changbin had spent the night asking him about his life like it mattered.

So Seungmin gave him the smallest honest thing he could manage. “I don’t hate spending time with you either.”

Changbin stared at him.

Then he laughed, soft and disbelieving, head dipping forward as if the words had hit him somewhere gentle. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“What if I want to?”

Seungmin looked away, but he was smiling now. He could feel it, small and helpless and impossible to swallow down.

Changbin saw it, his own smile softened in response, and for a second Seungmin thought he might say something else.

“Text me when you get home?” He asked 

Seungmin nodded. “Drink water before you sleep?”

Changbin laughed again. “Deal.”

They parted in the parking lot with no hug, no touch, no kiss. Nothing dramatic enough to mark the moment as important. Changbin got into the dark car idling near the curb, and Seungmin walked toward his own, hands in his pockets, heart making a mess of itself beneath his ribs.

But when he looked back once, just before opening his door, Changbin was still watching him through the tinted window.

Seungmin pretended not to notice.

For almost three weeks, they existed mostly through messages.

It was not nothing, which was the problem.

Nothing would have been easier. Nothing would have meant Seungmin could put the convenience store and the late dinners and the way Changbin looked at him under weak parking lot lights into some soft little corner of his memory and let it blur there. Nothing would have meant he could move through his days normally, go to work, come home, and listen to music without thinking about the man behind the voice asking if he had eaten.

But Changbin kept texting.

Not constantly, sometimes hours passed between messages. Sometimes a whole day disappeared beneath Changbin’s schedule before his name lit up Seungmin’s phone again. Tour promo had started swallowing him whole, and Seungmin learned quickly that preparing for a tour didn't mean one thing. It meant dance practice until everyone’s bodies hurt, interviews stacked on top of interviews, content shoots, styling meetings, fittings, recordings, rehearsals, travel briefings, and whatever else the company decided could fit inside a day that already had no room left in it.

Still, Changbin texted when he could.

A picture of a water bottle with the caption, Before you yell at me.

A blurry photo of a sad convenience store sandwich, followed immediately by, I know. I’m sorry.

A message at 1:16 in the morning that said, I had real food today, and then another ten seconds later that said, You would have been proud.

Seungmin told himself he was normal about it.

He was not.

They tried to meet twice.

The first time, Changbin’s rehearsal ran late. He apologized three times in a row, each message more tired than the last, and Seungmin had told him to stop apologizing and go ice whatever part of his body hurt most. Changbin had sent a picture of his ankle wrapped in a towel and Seungmin wanted to both laugh and drive across the city to lecture him in person.

The second time, Seungmin got stuck at work because someone else’s emergency had somehow become his responsibility. He sent Changbin a picture of the office printer flashing an error message.

By the end of the third week, Changbin’s texts were still coming, but they had changed in a way Seungmin could not stop noticing. They were softer and less like a man testing whether he was allowed to reach out and more like someone who had started saving small pieces of his day for Seungmin without thinking too hard about it.

Seungmin was at home when Changbin finally called.

His phone lit up on the coffee table while he was folding laundry on the floor because the couch had become a temporary storage unit for clean clothes he had ignored for too long. For a second, he only stared at the screen, one of his own shirts half-folded in his lap, heart jolting in a way that felt embarrassing before he had even answered.

Bad Groceries.

Calling.

Seungmin let it ring twice, purely to prove something to himself, though he had no idea what. 

“If you’re calling to ask whether instant noodles count as dinner, the answer is no.”

Changbin laughed. It was quiet and tired, but real enough that Seungmin’s fingers tightened around the shirt in his lap.

“Hi to you too,” Changbin said.

Seungmin leaned back against the couch, trying to arrange himself into a position that didn't feel like he had been caught wanting the call. “Hi.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

That should have been awkward. It was not, somehow. The silence settled between them strangely, warm around the edges, filled with the faint sound of Changbin moving somewhere on the other end. A door closing. Fabric rustling. His breathing, a little heavy, like he had just walked too fast or come from another practice he should have ended hours ago.

“Are you busy?” Changbin asked.

Seungmin looked at the laundry spread around him. “Very.”

“Oh.” Changbin’s voice shifted immediately, careful. “Sorry, I can-”

“I’m folding laundry.”

Changbin went quiet for a moment. “That’s your very busy?”

“It’s important. I’ve been ignoring it for three days. It has become urgent.”

Changbin laughed again, and Seungmin let himself close his eyes for half a second because hearing it without a screen, without a restaurant table between them, felt too close in a way he was not prepared to examine.

“What are you doing?” Seungmin asked.

“Finished practice.”

“Finally?”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“You sound half dead.”

“I’m alive.” Changbin said

For a few seconds, the only sound was the call between them, that faint digital hush that made every breath feel closer than it was. Seungmin picked at a loose thread on the shirt in his lap. “Do you have to go somewhere?”

“Not for a little while.”

“Define little.”

“An hour. Maybe less.”

He shouldn't have hoped. An hour was barely anything. It was not dinner. Not a real plan. Not enough time to pretend it was normal to cross the city for someone who might have to leave before the food arrived. But there was something in Changbin’s voice. Something underneath the tiredness.

“Do you want food?” Seungmin asked.

Changbin was quiet long enough for Seungmin to regret it. “I want to see you.”

Seungmin forgot about the laundry.

His voice came out lower than he meant it to. “Where are you?”

“Near your area, I think. We had practice at a rented studio.”

“How near?”

“Ten minutes.”

Seungmin sat very still.

Changbin continued quickly, like he heard the silence and wanted to give Seungmin room to step away from it. “I don’t have to come over. I know it’s sudden. I can just-”

“Do you want to come over?” The question left Seungmin before he had fully decided to ask it.

Changbin stopped talking.

Seungmin’s pulse beat once, hard.

Then Changbin said, very softly, “Yes.”

Seungmin stood before he could overthink it. The shirt fell unfolded onto the floor. “Text me when you’re downstairs.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

Changbin laughed, breathless and surprised.

Seungmin rubbed one hand over his face, already regretting his honesty and somehow not regretting it at all. “But come anyway.”

Changbin arrived eleven minutes later.

Seungmin knew because he counted, which was humiliating and private and no one else ever needed to know. He spent those eleven minutes moving through his apartment like a person trying to look as if he had not been waiting. He threw the laundry into a basket and shoved it into the bedroom. He checked the kitchen even though Changbin had seen him eat questionable meals over text and had no right to judge. He changed out of his worn hoodie, then changed back into it because changing felt too intentional. Then he stood in the middle of his living room, deeply annoyed with himself, until his phone buzzed.

Bad Groceries: Downstairs.

Seungmin let him in and Changbin looked exhausted.

That was the first thing Seungmin noticed, before the cap, before the mask, before the oversized jacket and the duffel bag hanging from one shoulder. His face was mostly covered, but his eyes gave him away. They were heavy, shadowed at the corners.

But when he saw Seungmin, his eyes softened.

“Hi,” Changbin said, standing in the doorway like he was suddenly unsure what to do with himself now that Seungmin was real in front of him.

Seungmin stepped aside. “Come in before someone sees you loitering suspiciously in my hallway.”

Changbin slipped inside, and the apartment seemed to change shape around him.

It was ridiculous. Nothing moved. The couch was still the couch. The table still had Seungmin’s water bottle and one stray sock he had somehow missed during his frantic cleaning. The windows were still dark, the kitchen still smelled faintly like detergent and the rice he had made earlier. But Changbin was there now, in Seungmin’s space, taking off his shoes by the door, lowering his mask, looking around with quiet curiosity like the smallest details mattered.

Seungmin suddenly saw his apartment through Changbin’s eyes and hated every visible object.

“You have a lot of books,” Changbin said.

“That’s what shelves are for.”

“And the plant.”

“Don’t speak too loudly around it. It’s fragile.”

Changbin smiled, setting his bag carefully by the door. “Still alive, though.”

“Out of spite.”

“Resilient,” Changbin said again, softer this time.

Seungmin looked at him.

Changbin was watching the plant, but there was something too careful about his expression for Seungmin to believe he was only talking about the plant. He looked tired and too present in Seungmin’s apartment, like a voice that had lived in his headphones had somehow stepped out of them and started noticing the dust on his bookshelf.

Seungmin cleared his throat. “Do you want water?”

“Yes.”

“At least you’re learning.”

Changbin followed him into the kitchen, not too close, but close enough that Seungmin could feel him there while he opened a cabinet. He handed Changbin a glass of water and watched, with the satisfaction of a man doing public service, as Changbin drank half of it without complaint.

“Good,” Seungmin said.

Changbin lowered the glass. “Do I get a sticker?”

“You get basic kidney function.”

Changbin laughed, quiet and tired, and leaned back against the counter. For a moment, the kitchen settled into silence. Seungmin stood on one side of the small space, Changbin on the other, the light above the stove casting everything in a warm, soft yellow that made the rest of the apartment feel farther away.

It had been three weeks of messages.

Three weeks of missed timing.

Three weeks of small things saved and sent across distance because neither of them had been able to stand close enough to say them.

Now Changbin was here.

And Seungmin didn't know where to put his hands.

Changbin seemed to be having the same problem. He held the glass with both hands, thumb moving slowly over the rim. “Your place is nice.”

“It’s small.”

“I like it.” Changbin smiled, but his eyes stayed on Seungmin’s face. “I like it because it feels like you.”

Seungmin forgot whatever sarcastic response he had been preparing.

The apartment went quieter.

Changbin seemed to realize he had said something too honest, but he didn't take it back. He only looked at Seungmin from across the kitchen, tired and barefaced now, cap sitting low over messy hair, cheeks flushed faintly from the cold outside or from whatever nerve had made him say that out loud.

Seungmin looked at him for too long, he could feel the shift in the air, the way Changbin’s hand tightened around the glass, the way his eyes flicked briefly to Seungmin’s mouth before returning to his face. Seungmin should have looked away. He was good at looking away. He had built an entire personality around looking away before things could look back too closely.

But Changbin was in his kitchen, and Seungmin, stupidly, didn't want to look away.

Changbin’s voice came out softer than before. “You’re beautiful.”

Seungmin’s breath caught. His face heated immediately, which was horrible. “You’re tired.”

Changbin’s mouth curved, but he didn't laugh. “I know.”

“You’re probably concussed from practice.”

“I’m not.”

“You might be.”

“I’m tired,” Changbin said, setting the glass down on the counter with a soft click. “Not blind.”

That was unfair.

Deeply, violently unfair.

Seungmin looked down, but Changbin was already moving. He pushed away from the counter and crossed the small kitchen slowly, giving Seungmin every chance to step back. Seungmin didn't. His heart was beating too hard, but his feet stayed where they were, and Changbin stopped close enough that Seungmin could feel the warmth coming off him.

“Can I kiss you?” Changbin asked.

Seungmin looked up.

The question almost ruined him more than the compliment had. Maybe because Changbin’s voice was careful. Maybe because his eyes were steady despite the color rising in his cheeks. Maybe because he was standing in Seungmin’s kitchen asking for something that felt impossibly small and impossibly large at the same time.

Seungmin swallowed “Yes.”

Changbin smiled just a little. The first kiss was small.

Barely more than a press of lips, soft and warm and brief enough that Seungmin almost didn't understand it had happened until Changbin started to pull away. It was careful, so gentle it made Seungmin’s chest ache because Changbin could have kissed him like confidence, like certainty, like someone used to being wanted, but he didn’t.

He kissed him like Seungmin was something he didn't want to frighten.

Changbin pulled back only an inch. His eyes searched Seungmin’s face. “Okay?”

Seungmin should have answered. Instead, he reached for the front of Changbin’s hoodie and pulled him back in.

The second kiss was different.

Changbin made a small sound against his mouth, surprised and soft, and then his hand came up to Seungmin’s waist, fingers settling there like he had wanted to touch him for longer than he knew how to admit. This time, the kiss didn't end quickly. It slowed open between them, warm and careful at first, then deeper when Seungmin tilted his head and Changbin followed like he had been waiting for permission written in movement instead of words.

Seungmin’s hand tightened in the fabric of Changbin’s hoodie.

Changbin stepped closer, their bodies pressed against each other.

The kitchen counter pressed lightly against Seungmin’s back, and the world narrowed in a way that should have scared him.

There was only Changbin’s mouth on his, Changbin’s hand warm at his waist, Changbin’s breath catching when Seungmin kissed him back like he meant it.

And Seungmin did mean it.

That was the terrifying part.

He had thought, more than once, that kissing Changbin would feel strange because of who Changbin was. Because Seungmin had known his face before he knew his touch. Because some part of him had loved the voice first, the music first, the person projected across screens and stages before the real man ever stood in front of him holding porridge.

The kiss became breathless when Seungmin’s fingers slid from the front of his hoodie to the side of his neck, a moan slipped from his throat when he left Changbin’s tongue press against his lips. He parted them, allowing Changbin access. 

Changbin groans slightly, gripping Seungmin’s waist tighter, sliding his hands under his hoodie to touch his bare skin. Changbin smiled when he felt Seungmin’s knees give slightly when he bit his bottom lip before pulling back, a thin line of saliva following the pull.

His forehead hovered close to Seungmin’s, their breathing uneven, and lips ever so slightly swollen.

Changbin’s thumb moved once against Seungmin’s waist, small and careful. He didn't kiss him again, though Seungmin could feel that he wanted to. That made something in him soften more than if Changbin had simply taken it.

Seungmin opened his eyes.

Changbin looked at him as if the whole room had gone quiet. For a moment, it felt like the tour, the busy schedules, and the bright lights outside had faded away. For a few minutes, neither of them had to think about anything else.

“You should sit down,” Seungmin said, because he needed something normal to say before his heart crawled out of his body and embarrassed him.

Changbin blinked, then laughed, soft and disbelieving. “I kiss you and you tell me to sit down?”

“You look like you might collapse.”

“I’m having a moment.”

Seungmin smiled before he could stop himself.

Changbin’s expression softened, fond and bright in a way that made Seungmin want to hide under the kitchen table. Instead, he took Changbin’s empty glass, refilled it with water, and handed it back.

“Hydrate,” Seungmin said and led him to the couch after that, pretending the kiss had not rearranged something fundamental inside him. Changbin sat down with a tired little groan, head falling back against the cushion, water glass held obediently in both hands. Seungmin sat beside him, not too close at first, because he still needed the illusion of control.

Changbin looked over at him, the space between them lasted maybe ten seconds.

Then Changbin lifted one arm, hesitant but hopeful, and Seungmin rolled his eyes like this was a massive inconvenience before shifting closer. Changbin’s arm settled around his shoulders. Seungmin let himself lean in, just enough for his side to press against Changbin’s, just enough for the warmth of him to become something he could blame on proximity instead of want.

Neither of them said much after that.

For now, they were here and when Changbin’s fingers brushed lightly over his shoulder, when his head tipped until his temple rested against Seungmin’s hair, when the quiet apartment wrapped around them like something almost safe, Seungmin thought that maybe the kiss had not been the dangerous part after all.

Maybe the dangerous part was how easy it felt to stay.