Part Two: Echoes of Exhaustion - The Mend
Jeonghan waits at Yn’s apartment from 10 p.m., only to find her returning at 3 a.m., exhausted with ramen in hand. He takes over, cooking her a meal, cleaning her up, and tucking her into bed with quiet apologies, slowly mending their rift through tender care as Yn begins to let him in again.
Pairing: Idol Jeonghan x reader
Genre: Angst, Fluff
The clock ticked past 10 p.m., and Jeonghan couldn’t take it anymore. The silence from you had stretched too long, gnawing at him with every unanswered text and call. He grabbed his jacket, slipped on his shoes, and headed to your apartment, a mix of determination and dread fueling his steps. He knew your routine—home by 8 p.m., usually winding down by now. If he showed up, he could apologize in person, see your face, and fix whatever mess he’d made. That was the plan, at least.
The streets were quiet as he drove, the city lights blurring past him. His mind raced, replaying that awful moment in the practice room, your hurt expression, the way you’d left without looking back. He’d been an idiot, letting exhaustion turn him into someone he wasn’t. He just needed to see you, to make it right.
When he reached your apartment building, he took the stairs two at a time, too impatient for the elevator. He knocked on your door, sharp and insistent, but there was no answer. Frowning, he tried again, louder this time. Nothing. He pressed his ear to the wood, straining to hear any sign of movement—silence. His stomach dropped. He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text: “I’m at your place. Where are you?” No reply. He called, and it rang out to voicemail, your tired voice on the recording twisting the knife in his chest.
“She’s probably just asleep,” he muttered to himself, trying to rationalize it. He slid down to sit against the wall beside your door, legs stretched out in the dimly lit hallway. He’d wait. You’d be home soon. You had to be.
Hours crept by. 11 p.m. turned to midnight, then 1 a.m. He kept texting, kept calling, each unanswered attempt chipping away at his hope. “Yn, please, just let me know you’re okay.” “I’m still here. I’ll wait as long as it takes.” The hallway was cold, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, and his back ached from leaning against the wall, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not until he saw you.
By 2:30 a.m., exhaustion weighed heavy on him, his head dipping as he fought to stay awake. He didn’t know where you were, why you weren’t home, and the uncertainty clawed at him. Had something happened? Were you avoiding him? The guilt from his outburst mixed with worry, leaving him a mess of regret and longing.
It was nearly 3 a.m. when he heard the faint shuffle of footsteps. His head snapped up, and there you were—stumbling down the hallway, a plastic bag dangling from your hand, the faint scent of convenience store ramen wafting toward him. You looked wrecked, your hair a mess, dark circles bruising under your eyes, your shoulders slumped with fatigue. You didn’t see him at first, too focused on dragging yourself to your door. When you reached it, you fumbled with your keys, dropping them with a soft clink. A tired curse slipped from your lips, and instead of picking them up, you just… stopped. You slid down against the door, sitting on the floor, knees pulled to your chest. The bag crinkled as you set it beside you, pulling out a cup of instant noodles and a plastic spoon like it was all you had the energy for.
Jeonghan’s heart lurched. “Yn?”
Your head jerked up, eyes wide and bleary as they landed on him. For a moment, you just stared, like you couldn’t process why he was there. “Jeonghan?” Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “What… what are you doing here?”
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, scrambling to his feet. His legs ached from sitting so long, but he ignored it, crouching in front of you. “I got here at 10. You weren’t home. I’ve been texting, calling—where were you?”
You blinked at him, too tired to mask the exhaustion etched into your face. “Work,” you mumbled, looking away. “It ran late. Really late.” You rubbed a hand over your eyes, smudging what little makeup remained. “I didn’t check my phone. Too much going on.”
He studied you, taking in the way you clutched the ramen cup like it was a lifeline, the way your hands trembled slightly from either hunger or fatigue—probably both. “You didn’t tell me you’d be out this late,” he said, his voice soft but tinged with worry. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That you were mad, or avoiding me, or—”
“I’m not mad,” you cut in, though your tone was flat, distant. You stabbed the spoon into the noodles, not meeting his gaze. “I’m just tired, Jeonghan. I’ve been working nonstop. I don’t have time to be mad.”
The words stung, but he saw the truth in them—the bone-deep weariness you carried. He reached out, gently taking the ramen from your hands despite your weak protest. “You don’t need this,” he said, setting it aside. “Come on, let’s get you inside. I’ll take care of you.”
You frowned, too drained to argue as he picked up your keys and unlocked the door. He helped you up, his arm steady around your waist as you swayed slightly. The apartment was dark and quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos he knew you’d been through. He guided you to the couch, easing you down before heading to the kitchen.
“I’m not hungry,” you mumbled, but he ignored you, already pulling out ingredients—eggs, rice, a bit of seaweed he found in your pantry. He moved with quiet efficiency, the soft clatter of pans and the sizzle of food filling the silence. You watched him from the couch, too tired to protest, your eyelids drooping.
When he returned, he carried a steaming bowl of simple fried rice, the kind you loved when you were too worn out to think. “Eat,” he said gently, pressing it into your hands. “Just a little. For me.”
You sighed but took a bite, then another, the warmth of the food seeping into you. He sat beside you, watching with a small, relieved smile as color slowly returned to your face. When you finished, he took the bowl and set it aside, then pulled you closer, his fingers brushing through your tangled hair.
“You’re a mess,” he murmured, but there was no judgment in his voice—only fondness. He stood, tugging you up with him. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
In the bathroom, he sat you on the edge of the tub, grabbing a makeup wipe from the counter. With careful, gentle strokes, he wiped away the smudged eyeliner and mascara, his touch soft against your skin. “You don’t need to do this,” you muttered, but he just shushed you, his focus unwavering.
“Yes, I do,” he replied, tossing the wipe and running a warm washcloth over your face next. “I messed up, Yn. I hurt you, and I hate that. Let me take care of you now, okay?”
You didn’t have the energy to argue, and honestly, his care felt good—too good to resist. When he was done, he led you to your bedroom, pulling back the covers and helping you out of your stiff work clothes, replacing them with an oversized shirt he found in your drawer. You climbed into bed, the mattress sinking under you, and he tucked the blanket around you like you were something precious.
“Stay,” you whispered, your hand catching his wrist as he turned to leave.
He paused, then smiled—a real, soft smile that made your chest ache. “Always.” He kicked off his shoes and slid in beside you, pulling you into his arms. His warmth enveloped you, steady and grounding, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead, murmuring, “I’m sorry. I’ll do better. Sleep now, I’ve got you.”
You nestled closer, the exhaustion finally overtaking you as his fingers traced soothing patterns on your back. For the first time in days, you felt safe, and cared for, and the tension melted away as you drifted off, wrapped in hirm.
