Old Fashioned-Fueled Confessions

by nakaMar

Summary:

A delayed flight in Milan leaves San with hours to kill—and an unexpected conversation with a stranger who’s just a little too easy to talk to, and too hard to ignore.

Wooyoung didn’t mean to get pulled into something he’s not quite ready for.

But some encounters don’t end when you walk away.

Notes:

Hellooo dear reader, I'm happy you stumbled across my fic 🥰

Here goes: WooSan meeting for the first time at the airport. If you love shy Wooyoung, and a teasing San, this is for you 🧡

 

💜

San stops in his tracks on the way to the boarding area, staring at the notification that just popped up on his phone.

They’ve gotta be fucking joking…

A four-hour delay before an 11.5-hour flight is just… not it.

He takes a slow breath, forcing himself to stay calm. Because, really, there’s nothing anyone can do in this situation except accept it.

With a quiet sigh, he turns around and heads for the nearest lounge, buying himself a glass of whiskey—because why the hell not—and sinking into one of the sofas.

It’s only 8:30 p.m., and he has several hours to kill. He might as well try to make it relaxing after this long-ass week.

Don’t get him wrong—he loves visiting Milan, but business trips are exhausting, and he can’t wait to get home.

For the next thirty minutes, San sips his drink while replying to emails on his phone.

He’s already had enough work for the week—but starting one of his downloaded shows isn’t an option either. If he does, he’ll end up with nothing left to watch on the flight.

“Shit—shit, shit, shit…”

The words cut through his thoughts, sharp and muttered under someone’s breath—but unmistakably Korean.

San pauses, thumb hovering over his screen, and turns his head.

There’s someone sitting on the other end of the sofa. He must have arrived while San was distracted, far enough away to keep the space between them, like they’re both silently agreeing not to intrude. Still, he’s hard to miss now.

He’s hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, phone in one hand and a charger in the other, as if sheer frustration might be enough to make it work. The cable twists between his fingers, restless, while he taps at the screen with quick, impatient movements.

“Come on,” he mutters, quieter this time, like he’s bargaining with it.

A strand of dark hair falls into his face when he dips his head, and he blows it away with a soft huff—only for it to fall right back into place. It frames his features in a way that should look messy, but somehow doesn’t. His glasses slide slightly down his nose, and he pushes them back up without thinking, still focused on the unresponsive phone.

He’s—very pretty.

The thought comes out of nowhere, quiet but immediate, settling in San’s mind before he can really question it. There’s something about the way he moves, all restless energy and soft edges at the same time, that makes it hard to look away.

San watches him for a moment longer than he probably should.

Before he can think too much about it, San pushes himself up from the sofa.

It’s a slow, deliberate movement—unhurried, like he’s giving himself time to change his mind.

He doesn’t.

Crossing the short distance between them, he stops just close enough to catch the other man’s attention and holds out his charger.

“Here,” he says simply. “You can use mine.”

🖤

Wooyoung startles at the voice, blinking as he looks up—

—and promptly forgets how to function.

For a second, his brain just… stops.

Because oh.

Oh damn…

The man standing in front of him is—well. He’s a lot.

Broad shoulders stretching the fabric of a black tank top. Defined arms that make Wooyoung’s stomach flip in a way he absolutely does not have the capacity to deal with right now. A ridiculously narrow waist disappearing into light jeans, the whole picture unfairly put together like something out of a magazine—or a very specific kind of daydream Wooyoung refuses to unpack.

And then there’s his face.

Sharp, but not harsh—clean lines softened just enough to make the whole picture even more unfair. Dark hair falling naturally around his face, slightly tousled, framing eyes that are steady and intense as they settle on him. His jaw is defined, lips slightly parted like he was about to say something else before Wooyoung interrupted the moment by existing.

Wooyoung just stares.

He’s aware of it, dimly—aware that he’s staring, that his mouth might actually be slightly open—but his brain is lagging several seconds behind reality, still trying to catch up.

The guy looks like he knows. Like he’s seen this reaction before.

And then—he raises one eyebrow.

There’s the faintest hint of a smirk.

Oh my god.

Wooyoung snaps back into himself so fast it almost hurts.

“—I, uh—” he starts, voice catching awkwardly as he straightens up, nearly fumbling his phone in the process. “Thank you. I mean—thanks. My charger just—stopped working, I think, and I—”

He cuts himself off, pressing his lips together.

“Thanks,” he repeats, quieter this time, reaching out to take it—carefully, like he’s trying very hard not to brush their fingers.

“Stressful day?” the stranger asks—and, to Wooyoung’s shock, just… sits down right next to him.

Up close, it’s worse.

Wooyoung only now notices the half-empty whiskey glass in his hand, the way he rests it casually against his thigh like it belongs there, like he belongs anywhere he decides to be.

Now why exactly is that hot?

“Huh?” Wooyoung blurts, blinking at him.

The man’s mouth quirks—just slightly, but enough. There’s something undeniably amused in his expression now, like he’s already figured Wooyoung out in the span of thirty seconds and is enjoying it.

“I asked if you had a stressful day,” he repeats, voice calm, patient.

“Oh.” Wooyoung swallows, suddenly very aware of himself—how he’s sitting, how close they are, the fact that he’s still holding someone else’s charger like he forgot what hands are for. “Uh—not really. I mean—no, not… not the day itself.”

He huffs out a small, awkward breath, eyes dropping briefly to his phone before flicking back up.

“My mom just—she likes updates when I’m traveling,” he adds, a little quieter now. “And my phone died, so I couldn’t text her, and she was probably—” He cuts himself off with a soft wince. “Worried.”

The last word comes out smaller than the rest.

Wooyoung presses his lips together, already regretting everything.

Great.

He’s known this guy for all of two minutes and somehow managed to sound like the world’s biggest—

“Yeah,” the stranger says, easy and warm, cutting clean through the spiral. “My parents are the same.”

Wooyoung blinks.

“They’d probably call the airport if I didn’t answer for a few hours,” he adds, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

Oh.

That—wasn’t what Wooyoung expected.

He glances back at him, a little unsure, searching his face for any hint of teasing—but there isn’t any. If anything, he just looks… understanding.

And that might be worse, somehow.

Then—

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Wooyoung freezes.

The question lands so suddenly it takes his brain a second to catch up, his eyes widening as he stares at him.

The other seems to notice immediately. There’s the slightest hesitation, his grip on the glass shifting as he tilts his head.

“Unless I’m bothering you,” he adds, already starting to pull back a little. “I can—”

“No!”

The word comes out louder than Wooyoung intends, sharp enough that he winces immediately after.

“I mean—yes,” he rushes to correct himself, heat creeping up his neck. “I mean… you’re not bothering me. I’ll— I’ll take that drink.”

There’s a brief pause.

Then the stranger smiles.

It’s small, but unmistakably satisfied—like he got exactly the answer he was hoping for.

And—oh.

Dimples.

Wooyoung’s brain latches onto them immediately, like that’s the most important detail here, like that’s what’s going to undo him. They deepen slightly with the curve of his mouth, softening something about his expression in a way that honestly just feels rude after everything else.

Right. Of course he has dimples.

Because apparently just being devastating wasn’t enough.

“What would you like?”

Wooyoung hesitates for half a second, like he’s trying to remember how to be a normal person. “Um—an Old Fashioned?”

The guy’s eyebrows lift slightly. "Classy. I like that.”

Wooyoung’s stomach does something very inconvenient at the tone.

“Coming right up,” San adds—and then, just before he turns away, he winks.

Actually winks.

Wooyoung is left staring after him as he walks off toward the bar, brain short-circuiting all over again.

How did he get here?

One minute his phone was dead, and now some ridiculously attractive stranger is buying him a drink like this is—like this is something that just happens to him.

It doesn’t.

It really, really doesn’t.

“…okay,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair before glancing down at his phone.

Right. His mom.

His phone has restarted by now, the screen lighting up as he unlocks it. He quickly types out a message, thumbs moving a little too fast over the screen.

He hesitates for a second, then adds:

And hits send.

💜

San downs the rest of his drink on the way to the bar, the burn of the whiskey barely registering as it goes down.

Like that’s going to help.

Because, despite how composed he probably looked back there, this whole situation is affecting him a lot more than he’d like to admit.

It’s been a while since he’s approached someone like this.

Work has a way of taking up everything—time, energy, attention—leaving very little room for anything else. Dating, especially, tends to fall somewhere at the bottom of the list, somewhere between maybe later and not worth the effort right now.

And yet—

His mind drifts back almost immediately.

That dark hair falling into his face. The way he fidgeted with the charger like it personally offended him. The soft, flustered way his voice dipped when he talked about his mom.

And so, so pretty.

San exhales slowly, dragging a hand over the back of his neck as he steps up to the bar.

He doesn’t even know the stranger’s name, but he already wants to know more.

More than that. More than just passing time while they wait for a delayed flight. There’s something about him—something restless and a little unguarded—that caught San’s attention and refuses to let go.

And, if he’s right…

If he’s on the same delayed flight—

San glances back over his shoulder, just briefly, catching sight of him still sitting there on the sofa, phone in hand—

…then he has time.

A few hours, at least.

Plenty of time to figure him out.

“Two Old Fashioneds, please,” he says, turning back to the bartender, voice steady again, like nothing’s shifted at all.

But there’s a hint of anticipation settling in his chest now, quiet but unmistakable.

By the time San makes his way back, both glasses balanced carefully in his hands, the other man is no longer looking at his phone.

He’s waiting.

Sitting in the same spot as before, shoulders slightly tense, hands fidgeting in his lap like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them now that he’s not holding anything. His gaze flicks up the moment San steps closer—quick, almost hesitant—and then away again just as fast.

Cute.

San feels that same quiet pull in his chest again as he closes the distance and lowers himself back into the seat beside him, close enough this time that the space between them feels… noticeably smaller.

“Here,” he says, holding out the glass with a small smile.

The other reaches for it, careful—too careful—and still their fingers brush.

It’s brief.

Barely anything, really.

But San doesn’t miss the way he stills for half a second, the way his breath catches just slightly before he pulls his hand back, wrapping his fingers a little tighter around the glass than necessary.

Yeah.

San files that away.

“I’m San, by the way,” he adds, settling back into the sofa, turning just enough to face him. “Nice to meet you…?”

The stranger looks up again, and there’s that same flicker of something—nervous, uncertain, a little overwhelmed.

“Wooyoung,” he says, a little breathless.

San hums softly, tasting the name for a second.

Wooyoung.

Pretty name.

It suits him.

He lifts his glass slightly, tilting it toward him. Wooyoung mirrors the motion a beat later, their glasses clinking together with a soft sound before they both take a sip.

There’s a moment of quiet.

Not uncomfortable—just… new.

Wooyoung shifts beside him, fingers tightening briefly around his glass before he blurts out—

“Do you do this often?”

And then immediately looks like he wishes he could take it back.

San’s mouth curves, just a little.

“Do what?” he asks, tone light, but edged with something teasing now.

🖤

Wooyoung ducks his head slightly, already regretting that he opened his mouth at all.

“Buying strangers drinks at the airport,” he mumbles, eyes fixed very intently on his glass.

San chuckles.

It’s low and warm and does something deeply unfair to Wooyoung’s nervous system.

And then—

San leans in.

Not enough to invade his space, but enough that Wooyoung notices. Enough that he suddenly becomes hyper-aware of how close they’re sitting, of the space between them shrinking into something charged.

“Only when I like what I see.”

Wooyoung stills.

Completely.

His brain just—stops.

For a second, he can’t even look at him, staring down at his drink like it might somehow help him recover.

It doesn’t.

Slowly, he lifts his gaze.

And immediately regrets it.

San is still close. Still looking at him, calm and steady, like he knows exactly what he just did—like he’s waiting to see what Wooyoung does with it.

Wooyoung’s fingers tighten around his glass.

“Oh,” he says.

Brilliant.

Heat rushes up his neck, fast and unforgiving, and he lets out a small, breathy laugh before he can stop himself, glancing away.

“That—uh…” He clears his throat. “That’s… bold.”

San exhales quietly, something softer slipping into his expression as he studies him.

“Sorry,” he says, voice lower now. “Was that too much?”

Wooyoung blinks.

“No,” he says quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s just—” He lets out a small, awkward laugh, shaking his head. “I’m just not used to… this.”

San’s gaze lingers.

“To people buying you drinks?”

Wooyoung huffs softly. “Yes, and… to people saying things like that.”

There’s a brief pause.

Then San leans back, giving him a little space—but not enough to break the moment.

“Good,” he says.

Wooyoung frowns faintly. “Good?”

San’s mouth curves, dimples appearing again.

“Means I get to be the first.”

Wooyoung’s breath catches.

“I—” he starts, then stops, because what is he even supposed to say to that?

His grip tightens around his glass as he lets out a small, nervous laugh, eyes darting away.

“You’re… very confident,” he manages.

“And you’re gorgeous.”

San says it like it’s nothing.

No hesitation, no teasing edge this time—just calm, certain, like he’s stating an obvious fact. His voice is lower, steady, and it lands somewhere deep in Wooyoung’s chest before he can do anything about it.

Fuck.

That—hits differently.

He can feel the heat rising again—spreading, giving him away.

“…thanks,” he mumbles, quieter than before, curling slightly in on himself as he takes a quick sip, mostly to have something to do.

A beat.

“So what do you do, Wooyoung?” San asks, like nothing just happened. “And what brought you to Milan?”

Wooyoung looks up, thrown off by the sudden shift.

But also—relieved.

“Oh, uh—” He exhales softly, shoulders relaxing just a little. “I’m a dance instructor.”

He risks a glance at San, just for a second, then continues before his brain logs off again.

“A friend of mine—Seonghwa—he’s a model. He invited me to come watch a show he was in. That was, like… two days ago.”

San’s expression sharpens, interest flickering across his face.

“A model?” he repeats.

Wooyoung nods. “Yeah. He travels a lot for work, so I don’t get to see him that often. I figured I’d take the chance.”

“That’s nice,” San says, and there’s something genuine in it. “And dance instructor, huh?”

Wooyoung shrugs, a little shy again. “Yeah. I mostly teach contemporary and some hip-hop classes.”

“Mhm, I can see that,” San says after a moment, like he’s putting pieces together.

Wooyoung takes another sip of his drink and, after a second of hesitation, manages to return the question.

“What about you?”

San leans back slightly, one arm resting along the back of the sofa like he’s completely at ease.

“Nothing that interesting,” he says. “I’m just an office worker.”

Huh.

“You don’t look like an office worker,” he blurts out before he can stop himself.

Oh my god.

Now why would he say that.

San’s eyebrow lifts, that familiar hint of amusement returning.

“Oh?”

Wooyoung opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Yeah, he didn’t think this through at all. He can feel San’s gaze on him—steady, expectant—like he’s not going to let that go so easily.

“Come on,” San says after a second, voice light but edged with a teasing lilt.

Wooyoung huffs quietly, still refusing to look at him, eyes fixed stubbornly on the amber liquid in his glass.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mumbles.

“Like what, then?”

Wooyoung hesitates. Because the problem is—he did mean it like that.

He risks a glance up, just for a second, and finds San watching him, waiting.

Wooyoung grabs his own thigh for support—but when has that ever worked?

“I just meant…” he starts, then trails off again, his brain scrambling for something safe to say. “You don’t look… boring.”

Great.

Amazing recovery, Wooyoung.

San’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Office workers are boring?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.

“No—” Wooyoung cuts in quickly, wincing. “No, that’s not— I didn’t—”

He exhales, shoulders dropping a fraction as he gives up trying to sound normal.

“You just don’t look like one,” he mutters again, quieter this time.

San studies him for a moment longer, failing to not look like he’s having the time of his life.

Then he leans in—his shoulder brushing Wooyoung’s, softly, but with full intent.

“Hmm, then what do I look like?”

Wooyoung holds his breath.

Because that’s—

That’s a dangerous question.

His mind helpfully supplies an answer immediately.

A damn model. A god in human form.

Actually, no—

Worse.

Someone who knows exactly which of Wooyoung’s buttons he needs to push.

Wooyoung swallows.

“I don’t know,” he says, which is becoming a bit of a pattern at this point, voice just a little unsteady. “Just… not that.”

Then he downs all of his drink in one go—like that would do him any good.

💜

San watches him, and can’t help the quiet chuckle that slips out.

“Well,” he murmurs, amused. “That’s one way to deal with it.”

Wooyoung groans softly beside him, clearly aware of how that must have looked.

San shakes his head, still smiling.

There’s something about him—about the way he flusters, the way everything shows on his face—that feels… disarmingly genuine.

Endearing.

He shifts slightly, then lets his hand settle briefly against Wooyoung’s thigh—light, deliberate, easy enough to dismiss if needed.

“Hey,” he says, tone softer now. “I’m just teasing.”

Wooyoung stills slightly under his touch, but doesn’t pull away.

San’s thumb moves just a fraction before he stills it again, aware of the reaction, aware of his own.

“You make it very easy,” he adds, a quiet trace of amusement returning. “Your reactions are… kind of adorable.”

Wooyoung’s breath catches.

San, of course, notices.

He lets his hand fall away after a second, not lingering long enough to push too far.

“Want another?” he asks, nodding toward the empty glass. “Or we could move to the bar. Less… pressure than sitting here.”

Wooyoung hesitates for half a beat, then nods, managing a little smile.

"Yeah—okay. Another sounds good.”

His cheeks are still slightly flushed as he pushes himself to his feet—and promptly stumbles just a little.

Not enough to fall.

But enough.

San’s hand comes up instinctively, hovering near his arm—not quite touching this time, but close enough to catch him if needed.

Wooyoung straightens almost immediately, clearing his throat. “I’m fine,” he says quickly.

San hums, clearly unconvinced, but lets it go.

“For now,” he murmurs, just under his breath, before turning toward the bar.

 

The shift helps.

At the bar, the space opens up—less enclosed, less focused. The tension doesn’t disappear, but it stretches, settles into something easier to carry.

They take the stools side by side.

Close.

Not quite touching at first—but it doesn’t stay that way for long.

The conversation flows more easily here.

Wooyoung talks more once he gets going, words coming quicker, less careful. He tells him about his classes, about students who refuse to count properly, about choreography that never turns out the way he plans it.

San listens.

Asks questions when it feels right.

Finds himself paying closer attention than he usually would.

And every time Wooyoung laughs—soft at first, then more open, less restrained—it pulls something quiet and warm low in his chest.

He doesn’t comment on it.

Just lets it happen.

One drink turns into another.

Then another.

Time slips.

The steady hum of the airport fades into the background, conversations blending into noise, lights dimming slightly as the night stretches on.

At some point, Wooyoung starts leaning closer without noticing. His movements loosen, tension bleeding out of them bit by bit. His knee brushes against San’s more often now, no longer something he immediately corrects.

San notices.

And doesn’t move away.

Doesn’t move closer, either.

Just… lets it settle.

By the time they’re on their sixth drink, there’s a light warmth humming through his system—not enough to dull anything, just enough to soften the edges.

Wooyoung is different now.

Still shy, in ways that haven’t quite gone away—but easier. Quicker to smile. Less likely to look down every time their eyes meet.

More likely to hold his gaze.

San tilts his head slightly, studying him again.

Still trying to figure him out.

Still not quite there.

And, if anything—

More interested now than he was at the start.

🖤

The warmth has settled comfortably under Wooyoung’s skin by now.

Not enough to blur anything—but enough to loosen something in him. Enough that he doesn’t second-guess every word before it leaves his mouth. Enough that the space between them doesn’t feel quite as intimidating as it did before.

Still—

San is right there.

Close.

And Wooyoung finds himself looking at him again.

He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it at first, gaze drifting, settling—lingering.

And when their eyes meet this time, Wooyoung doesn’t look away.

There’s something different in San’s expression now—something quieter, but sharper. His gaze drags over Wooyoung’s face for just a second too long, steady and intent in a way that makes something in Wooyoung’s chest tighten.

Hungry.

The thought lands out of nowhere, and Wooyoung needs to remind himself that his body needs oxygen.

Fuck.

Instead of breaking the moment, he leans into it.

Just a little.

“You know,” Wooyoung says, voice softer now, a little looser around the edges, the alcohol threading through it.

He reaches out, poking San lightly in the shoulder.

Once.

Like he needs to make sure he’s real.

“You’re the most handsome office worker I’ve ever seen in my life.”

The words come out easier than they should. Bolder than they should be.

Wooyoung doesn’t pull his hand back right away.

Instead, he lets it rest there for a second before shifting, resting his head against it, elbow propped up against the bar as he keeps looking at him—still a little dazed, still a little too honest.

He shakes his head, like he’s correcting himself.

“No, wait… that’s not right.”

His gaze lingers, a little unfocused but unwavering.

“You’re just—” he exhales softly, “the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life. Period.”

The words hang there between them.

Wooyoung doesn’t take them back.

Doesn’t even look away.

San smiles.

Slow.

Amused.

Like he’s savoring something.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice lower now, but still light, still threaded with that teasing warmth. “You say things like that…”

He leans in just slightly, close enough that Wooyoung can feel it again—that shift in the air, that quiet pull between them.

“…I might start believing you.”

For a fraction of a second, something in San’s expression shifts—subtle, but there. The easy amusement doesn’t disappear, but it’s joined by something heavier, something that settles deeper.

Something that feels… a little dangerous.

His eyes drop briefly—Wooyoung feels it more than he sees it—down to his lips, then back up again, slow and deliberate.

Wooyoung’s pulse stutters.

San leans in, closer still.

Wooyoung can feel his warmth now.

“Or worse—” the hint of a smirk returns, softer now, but no less deliberate, “I might start thinking you mean it, Wooyoung-ah.”

The way he says his name—

Wooyoung swears he feels it in his core.

He swallows, suddenly very aware of how close they are again, of how warm his face feels, of the way his pulse has picked up somewhere along the line.

Because the worst part?

He does mean it.

Wooyoung’s breath still hasn’t quite settled.

San is too close.

Still looking at him like that.

Like he’s waiting.

Like he already knows the answer.

And Wooyoung—

Wooyoung does know.

His fingers tighten slightly where they’re resting against the bar, his gaze flickering down for just a second before he forces himself to speak.

“I—” he starts, voice barely a whisper, the confidence from before slipping just a little. “I did mean it like that.”

The words come out soft, honest.

And the second they’re out there, hanging between them, something in his chest tightens.

Because now it’s real.

Wooyoung’s eyes drop almost immediately after, like he can’t handle the way San is looking at him anymore—too much, too intense, too knowing.

For a second, neither of them moves.

Then—

A hand.

Warm.

Gentle.

San’s fingers curl lightly under his chin, tilting his head back up before Wooyoung can fully retreat into himself.

The touch is careful, gentle.

Not forcing—just guiding.

But it still sends a sharp, electric feeling down Wooyoung’s spine.

“Hey,” San murmurs, softer now.

Wooyoung’s breath catches as his gaze is pulled back to him, trapped there all over again.

San studies him for a moment—really takes him in—like he’s trying to read something in his expression.

And then, quieter:

“Now what are we gonna do about that?”

The words settle low in Wooyoung’s chest.

Heavy.

Dangerous.

His pulse stutters, picking up all over again, louder this time, harder to ignore.

Because the answer—

The answer feels obvious.

Wooyoung’s gaze flickers down.

To San’s lips.

Close.

Too close.

They look so soft and—

His breath hitches.

He leans in.

Just a fraction.

Just enough to close some of the distance, curiosity stronger than reason, just for a moment.

And then—

He stops.

Everything in him goes suddenly, sharply still.

Because, damn.

This is real.

Too real.

It’s been a while.

Too long since he’s been this close to someone like this, to something that feels like it could turn into something more if he lets it. And suddenly the warmth in his system doesn’t feel soft anymore—it feels unsteady, overwhelming in a completely different way.

His eyes widen slightly.

Shit.

He pulls back abruptly, the movement just a little too quick.

“I—I’m sorry,” he blurts out, breath uneven now, already shaking his head like he’s trying to undo the last few minutes entirely. “I don't—”

The words don’t land properly.

They trip over each other, incomplete and rushed.

Wooyoung doesn’t wait to fix them.

He just stands.

Too fast.

The stool scrapes slightly against the floor as he pushes away from it, already stepping back, already putting space between them.

“Sorry,” he says again, quieter this time—but no less panicked.

And then he turns—

And bolts.

💜

San doesn’t move right away.

The noise of the bar filters back in slowly, like someone turned the volume up again.

Conversations, glasses clinking, distant announcements—it all feels a little too normal compared to what just happened.

San exhales quietly, leaning back against the stool.

Well.

That… wasn’t how he expected that to go.

His gaze drops briefly to the spot where Wooyoung had been sitting, half expecting to still see him there—fidgeting, avoiding eye contact, cheeks flushed.

Instead, there’s just empty space.

San huffs out a soft breath, something between amusement and something else he can’t quite name.

He went too far.

The thought comes easily.

Not accusatory—just… factual.

Maybe.

His fingers tap lightly against the side of his glass as he replays it—Wooyoung leaning in, the shift in his expression, the way he froze at the last second.

That hadn’t been rejection.

Not exactly.

San tilts his head slightly, considering.

More like—

Overwhelmed.

The corner of his mouth lifts faintly.

Yeah.

That feels closer.

Still.

His gaze lingers for a moment longer before he finally looks away, reaching for his drink and taking a slow sip, letting the familiar burn ground him.

He doesn’t get up.

Doesn’t go after him.

If Wooyoung needed space, chasing him down the terminal isn’t going to help.

San checks the time on his phone.

Thirty minutes.

Boarding soon.

For a moment, he just looks at the screen, thumb hovering idly before he locks it again.

Then he finishes his drink, sets the glass down, and pushes himself to his feet.

Calm.

Unhurried.

Like nothing about the night has unsettled him at all.

But as he turns toward the gates, there’s the faintest trace of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

🖤

Wooyoung sits hunched forward in one of the boarding area seats, elbows braced on his knees, face buried in his hands.

He exhales hard.

Then groans.

Loudly.

A couple of people nearby glance over, but he doesn’t even bother looking up. At this point, it really doesn’t matter anymore. There is no level of embarrassment left for him to preserve.

He just—

God.

What was that?

What was he thinking?

Wooyoung drags his hands down his face, fingers catching in his hair as he leans back slightly, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer him some kind of answer.

He had it.

He had something.

And then he panicked and ran like an idiot.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a second.

This always happens.

Not—this, exactly, but close enough. The moment something starts to feel real, he overthinks, spirals, does something stupid… and then it’s gone.

Another groan escapes him, quieter this time but no less miserable.

Great.

Fantastic.

He drops his hands back into his lap and forces himself to sit up properly.

Okay.

Enough.

He needs a distraction.

His fingers move automatically, reaching for his phone to text his mom—tell her boarding’s about to start, that everything’s fine, that he didn’t just humiliate himself in front of the most attractive man he’s ever seen.

His hand pauses.

Then pats his pockets again.

He frowns.

Then reaches into his bag instead, digging around for a second before pulling his phone out—

—and the charger.

Wooyoung stares at it.

Oh no.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

For a second, he just sits there, blinking down at it like it might disappear if he looks long enough.

It doesn’t.

“Great,” he breathes, staring at the cable looped neatly in his hand. “So now I’m a coward and a thief.”

Perfect.

Really.

He lets his head fall back against the seat with a soft thunk.

There is absolutely no way he’s going back.

No way.

He’s not walking back into that bar, not looking San in the eye after that, not handing this over like ‘Hey, sorry I almost kissed you and then fled the scene, also here’s your charger.’

No.

Absolutely not.

Wooyoung huffs quietly, pushing himself upright again.

He’s just going to have to live with it.

Live with the fact that he robbed the most handsome man he’s ever met.

That’s fine.

I’m fine.

He’ll survive.

Probably.

He quickly types out a message to his mom.

He hits send just as the boarding announcement echoes through the gate.

Wooyoung stands with the rest of the passengers, movements automatic, like his body is running on autopilot while his brain is still somewhere thirty minutes ago.

He shuffles forward in line, barely paying attention, pulls up his boarding pass, shows it to the staff.

Steps through.

Walks down the jet bridge.

Boards the plane.

It all blurs together.

By the time he reaches his seat, he feels… weirdly detached. Like none of this is fully real.

He slides into his seat, buckling in without thinking, then drops his phone and—after a second of hesitation—the charger into the seatback pocket in front of him.

Out of sight.

Out of mind.

He exhales slowly, leaning back, eyes falling shut for just a moment.

Maybe if he just—

“Excuse me, would you mind if I borrowed your charger?”

Wooyoung’s head snaps up.

Fast.

Too fast.

For a second, the words don’t fully register.

And then they do.

And—

What the actual…

San.

San is sitting next to him.

Right there.

Close.

Wooyoung just stares.

Because of course he does.

Because apparently, that’s the only response his brain knows how to produce in San’s presence.

And San? San looks amused.

Not surprised. Not annoyed.

Just quietly, unmistakably amused, like he’s been waiting to see how long it would take Wooyoung to realize.

His heart kicks up immediately, panic and something else crashing together all at once as everything catches up—the bar, the almost, the running away—

The fact that he is currently in possession of San’s charger.

Oh my god.

“I—” Wooyoung starts, and immediately falters, his brain short-circuiting under the weight of the situation.

What is he even supposed to say?

Sorry I panicked and fled and also accidentally stole from you?

He makes a small, helpless sound, dragging a hand over his face before letting it fall back into his lap.

“I didn’t—” he tries again, already shaking his head. “I mean—I did, but not on purpose, I just—”

He fumbles for the seatback pocket, pulling out the charger and holding it out like evidence.

“I was going to give it back,” he rushes out. “I just—left. Which you noticed. Obviously. Because I—left.”

There’s a brief pause.

Wooyoung refuses to look at him.

He can’t.

He’ll actually combust.

San takes the charger.

Their fingers brush.

Wooyoung stills.

“Thanks,” San says, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Then, that same quiet amusement slips into his voice again.

“Running away is a new one, though.”

Wooyoung groans softly, dropping his head back against the seat.

“Please don’t,” he mutters. “I’m already aware I handled that… incredibly well.”

A soft huff of laughter from beside him.

Not mean.

Just… warm.

Wooyoung hesitates.

Then, slowly, he glances over.

San is already looking at him, calm and steady.

Still just a little amused—but softer now, easier.

“Hey,” San says after a moment, voice low, almost gentle. “You didn’t scare me off, you know.”

Wooyoung blinks, caught off guard.

San’s gaze holds his, unwavering.

“If anything,” he adds, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, “I was starting to think I imagined you.”

Wooyoung lets out a small, breathless huff at that, something in his chest loosening just a little.

San tilts his head slightly, glancing around the cabin for half a second before looking back at him.

“Didn’t expect to find you here again, though,” he says, tone light—but there’s something genuine underneath it. “Must be my lucky day.”

Wooyoung holds his breath.

Because San doesn’t sound awkward.

Or like he’s just making polite conversation.

He sounds… genuinely pleased.

Like he means it.

Like he’s glad.

And something in Wooyoung’s chest shifts—loosens, just slightly, like a knot pulling apart.

Because he had been so sure—

So sure that was it.

That whatever that moment had been back there, whatever this is now, had ended the second he walked away.

But San is still here.

Sitting next to him.

Talking to him.

And somehow looking happy that he is.

Wooyoung swallows, looking down at his hands for a second before glancing back up again.

Maybe…

Maybe he didn’t mess this up completely.

Maybe this isn’t something that slipped through his fingers the second he got scared.

Maybe this is…

He exhales softly, a smile tugging at his lips.

Another chance.

And this time—

Maybe he doesn’t run.

🖤💜

 

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! 🧡 Kudos and comments are very much appreciated—reading your thoughts really makes my day.

If you're interested in my other WooSan fics, you can check out my profile or go straight to my collection. ☔

Again, thanks everyone.

Be happy! 🧡

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Carry-On Feelings