Payton ✨

It started off by accident. Felix was meant to be out all night with the team from Louis Vuitton, a nice dinner and drinks after. “Don’t wait up,” he had called before walking out of the apartment earlier in the day. So taking the rare advantage it was to not have his roommate in the apartment for at least several more hours, he was spread out on the couch with you straddling his lap in just his t-shirt and tiny lace panties.

His lips were pressed hard against yours, mouth moving hungrily against each other as contradictory hands gently pulled your shirt up over your ass, causing you to shiver slightly at the cool air hitting it. You couldn't help but let out a moan into his mouth as he gripped your ass firmly, before he lifted his right hand, smacking it down roughly on your exposed cheek.

He continued to rain his hands down on you, knowing how much you loved seeing the reddening outline of his handprints on your ass. His lips trailing down your throat, sucking dark hickies into the sensitive spot under your ear, and the junction of your neck and your shoulder, making sure everyone who sees you will know you're his.

You were both too distracted, Seungmin’s spanks too loud, your moans too raw, to hear the front door of the apartment open. It wasn't until you saw a shadow move out of the corner of your eye as you ground down onto your boyfriends hard cock underneath you, his lips impatiently trying to suck yet another mark onto your neck, that you looked up to see a very tipsy Felix frozen in place in the doorway of your shared living room. He stood motionless, mouth open, willing his eyes to not wander down to where your, now very still, hips met.

You let out an involuntary squeal, ducking your head into Seungmin’s neck as you tried to get the words out that you were no longer alone. Very confused at your sudden reaction, he follows where your gaze once was, finding Felix in the same position as you had seen him in.

“Dude, what the fuck?” he all but shouts at his roommate as he scrambles to try and find a blanket to cover you up with. But Felix only holds his hands up in surrender and mutters a quick apology before making his way to his room.

As soon as he is out of sight Seungmin lets out a frustrated sigh as your forehead falls to his. Trying to chase the soft kiss before you get up, wishing otherwise but knowing the moment had been ruined.

That time he knew it was an accident, but as it started happening more and more frequently, he began to wonder if maybe it wasn't accidental anymore.

The second time it happened, you were coming back home from a date night. Your very generous boyfriend wining and dining you at a fancy restaurant in the heart of the city before taking you back to an apartment that he promised was empty, Felix was at Hyunjin and Changbin’s dorm, he triple checked his roommate’s plans before he left for your date.

He pushed open the front door, allowing you to walk in first, not being able to help but spank your ass as you walked past him. The door had barely clicked closed before he had you pushed up against the adjoining wall, his lips pressing against yours immediately. One hand holding your hip firmly as the other snaked its way up into your hair at the back of your neck, gently pulling your head to the side so he could press kisses over your collar bones. His knee knocked yours apart slightly, pressing his firm thigh against your core, a smirk making its way to his face as you let out a quiet whimper of his name, his hand pushing your hips down onto it just to tease you further.

Your heated makeout session is interrupted with an amused “Ahem.” Causing your heads to snap towards the noise, finding Felix and Hyunjin sitting on the couch, heads popping over the back with smirks on their faces.

“Why are you here?” your boyfriend asked incredulously, trying to hide your flushed body behind his, “You were meant to be at their dorm.”

“Change of plans,” Felix shrugged back at him, not offering any additional information.

“This is a much better show than the one we were planning on watching anyway,” continued a very smug Hyunjin, eyes roaming the two of you.

Sometimes there were moments that his roommate caught you both without you even realising it.

In contrast to a lot of girlfriends to gamer boys, you loved seeing Seungmin sit back and relax while he plays games with his friends. He so rarely had the time to be a normal person with all of his schedules, that you couldn't help but admire how breathtaking he was even when he was bare faced doing something as mundane as playing video games. 

You gazed at how beautiful he was so much while he was gaming that you had developed a habit of ‘helping him out’ while he was sitting in his desk chair. A habit of you being on your knees underneath his desk, his legs parted to allow you more room to take his cock into your mouth. You loved being able to suck him off while he was playing, loved hearing him try and keep his moans to himself, loved feeling him twitch in your mouth as your hand came down to play with his balls. 

You especially love it when he loses a match. You hear his groan of frustration before the clicks of trying to find another match before he pushes at the back of your head, fucking your mouth until the next match is found. Letting your head go and allowing you to suck him off the way you want again.

Which is what had happened this time. You heard his frustrated sigh of losing his game again, hearing the mumbled words of agreement at changing games for an hour or so before they try again, before hearing the click on his headset of his microphone being muted.

His hands make their way to the back of your head, pressing you down harshly until you're choking around his cock, a satisfied groan leaving his lips as he lets you up for air.

“God I love your mouth,” he moans out, pushing you down again, his hips twitching up involuntarily when he hits the back of your throat, “So good for me.” 

You knew this wasnt a quick ‘just need to feel better before my next match’ session when his hands gathered your hair up into an impromptu pony tail and he began to fuck your face with a vigor of a man who wanted nothing but to come down your throat.

However, he was so focused on your lips wrapped around him rather than the conversation that was happening in his headset, one where they were asking Seungmin if he wanted to join in with their new game, that he didn’t hear them asking Felix to go and ask in person since he wasn't answering their calls into his ears.

You both missed the short knock at your bedroom door, the call of Seungmin’s name and then your own, and finally missed the squeak of the hinges opening as the door was pushed by a hesitant hand.

Felix had never been so quick to close a door again in his life, having been greeted by gagging noises, his roommate’s low moans, and muttering that sounded a lot like, “You’re such a good slut for me, letting me use your mouth.”

Making his way back to his computer he clicks on to the new game before updating his friends, “Yeah he’s a little busy right now, maybe the next one?”

And sometimes there were moments that his members caught you without them even knowing. 

You were having a cosy date night at home, watching a movie just the two of you for the first time in a while. You had your back on the soft pillows up against the arm of the couch, your legs and a blanket thrown over Seungmin’s.

Despite the original plans for this night being just a movie and cuddles, you couldn't help but let out a moan when your boyfriend's teasing hand on your thigh moves confidently and stops over your warm cunt. And who were you to stop him when your sleep shorts got pushed away, his fingers pressing lazy circles to your clit over your panties, shushing your moans and telling you to be quiet because this was a good part of the movie that he was still pretending to watch.

And you definitely weren't going to complain as he finally presses a deep kiss to your lips to drown out your whimpers as he pushed your panties to the side and you felt two of his long fingers sinking into your soaking cunt.

It doesn't take you long at all to feel the heat in your stomach begin to climb to its peak. His very practiced fingers fucking into you at a pace he knows you love, his thumb flitting over your clit quickly, he can feel your walls clenching around his fingers, your breath getting shakier, and your legs beginning to tense up. All clear indicators of what is about to happen.

He leans down to your ear, his hot breath causing goosebumps to rise on your arms as he begins to whisper, “Come for me baby, come around daddy’s fin-” before he’s cut off with the front door opening and loud laughter coming from the open plan hallway. He barely has time to think before he’s pulling the blanket tighter around you, looking up to greet Felix and Jeongin, pretending like his fingers aren't still deep inside of you.

Being as oblivious as ever, Jeongin’s eyes met the TV in front of you, his face lighting up, “Oh! I love this movie,” and throws himself down on the matching couch opposite the one you and Seungmin were on, while Felix was pottering about in the kitchen.

When he knew Jeongin’s attention was fully engrossed in the movie, he could properly pay his attention back to you. Back to your walls fluttering around his fingers.

“Careful angel, you don't want to give it away, do you?” he smirked down at your flushed face. “Maybe you do want them to know?” he continued teasingly, his last whisper full of insolence as his fingers slid deeper into you, “Maybe you want daddy to fuck you infront of his friends?”

You had to muffle your whimper into his shoulder as you rode out your orgasm over his barely moving fingers, biting his shoulder when he says, “Such a dirty girl.”

Despite his smug words, he spent the last 20 minutes of the movie willing his rock hard cock go down even a little so that he could get up to bring you to his room to fuck you with his hand over your mouth.

And then there were the times where you didn't even know you'd been caught until it was too late to stop the teasing.

Seungmin had planned a romantic home date, homemade dinner, soft music, twirling you in the kitchen as he waited for the food to be done. You hadn't been able to spend proper time together in a few weeks, his schedules and your work not being compatible, passing like two ships in the night. Felix was out, he knew you were planning a date tonight, and he had plans to go to the gym with Minho and Jisung anyway.

So when your soft romantic date night turned into dinner being half eaten, clothes being thrown off while you tumbled into your boyfriends room, you landing ass up with your face pressed to the pillows, you didn't think twice to be as loud as you wanted because you were alone.

Seungmin hadn’t fucked you like this in weeks, and you were beginning to get a little desperate. You couldn't help but push back to meet his rolling thrusts, moaning at how deep he finally felt. Your boyfriend smirked at your actions, smacking your ass as it met his hips, loving the way it made you clamp down on his cock. Moaning out about how good you were for him, how well you were taking his cock, how your tight little hole was made for him.

His thrusts began to speed up, getting harsher, your whimpers turning into borderline pornographic moans as his hand meets your ass again.

“Come for me angel, come on my cock, baby, please,” he whined out, not realising how much he had missed you until he had you laid out in front of him.

You clenched down on him one last time, sending you both into the throws of release, his hips stuttering as he spilled himself inside your dripping cunt.

After a brief moment of coming back to your souls, you threw his shirt over your frame, him pulling sweats on, agreeing to meet back on the couch, you with water from the fridge, him with your left overs from the table.

However, when you walk into the living room to meet Seungmin, you expect to see him lounging trying to decide what to watch, instead you see him frozen near the doorway.

“Minnie?” you questioned, moving to stand beside him in the doorway, freezing beside him when you saw what was on the couch.

Three smirking boys, Jisung beginning to slow clap.

“God damn,” Felix started.

“Wow, Minnie, didn't know you had it in you,” teased Minho.

“Phenomenal finish,” laughed Jisung.

Your face flushed hard, and you ducked behind him, pressing your face into his back.

“Man fuck you guys,” your boyfriend spat out at his members, turning you both quickly to go back to his room, closing the door not before hearing Jisung call out, “Seems like youre sorted on that front already dude!”

The most recent time that it happened was when you were certain no one was meant to be home. The boys had planned a movie night at Chan and Jeongin’s apartment, you feigning slight sickness and just wanting to stay home, accompanied by your doting boyfriend.

Your ever doting boyfriend that currently had you on top of the kitchen counter, panties in his back pocket, lips wrapped around your throbbing clit. His mouth moved down to lap at your growing wetness, moaning into you at how good you tasted. 

Luckily, this time you did hear the dings of the keypad at the front door, having just enough time to pull your ravenous boyfriend off you before you were met with all seven smiling happy faces of his group.

“What happened to movie night?” you asked, subtly pulling down the edge of your skirt, looking over to see Seungmin with his back to you all, looking in the fridge. Hiding his hard cock and stealthily trying to wipe you off his face.

“We thought since you didn't want to go out, we would bring movie night to you! Also the set up here is just nicer, even if you still didn't feel up to watching anything.” Felix explained, his bright smile adorning his face.

You appreciated his thoughtfulness, but again bailed on movie night to ‘lie down in the dark’ for a while, Seungmin joining you to make sure you were okay.

Seungmin lay on his back, you straddling his waist as you kissed down his neck.

“You need to ask your managers for your own apartment, we can afford it, I can't keep doing this,” you whisper to him, not wanting the boys to hear your conversation.

“I don't know if I could convince them. It took a lot of grovelling just to get us into dorms of two,” he explained, his voice getting airier as you sucked gently on his neck, not leaving a mark, just enough for him to feel the light throb as you move away.

“But I want to be able to kiss you in the living room,” you begin, pressing a kiss to his waiting lips, “I want to be able to walk around the house in only your shirt and no panties,” you continue, grinding your bare cunt over his still clothed erection. “I want to be able to wait at the door on my knees to suck you off after you have a long day,” you added, smirking into his neck as he let out a whine at the thought.

You moved your lips up his neck, your breath hitting his ear as you continued to try to convince him, “I need you to fuck me in every room, I need you to bend me over no matter where we are or what we’re doing.” Nipping at his earlobe before letting out a squeal as he flips you around so you're under him, legs hiked up on his hips.

Your heels click against the marble floor as you step inside, the sound sharp, hollow, echoing. The kind of sound that draws eyes, the kind of sound that whispers: You belong here, don’t you? You’re one of us.

Your family moves ahead with practiced ease, their laughter carrying like fine-tuned instruments. Your mother’s pearls gleam, your father’s hand rests casually on the back of your chair as you’re led to your assigned table. They are comfortable in this world of silk gowns and perfect smiles, where deals are whispered between toasts and fortunes are displayed not through words but through the shimmer of cufflinks and the cut of a suit.

You, however, your chest tightens. The beauty of the venue doesn’t ease you; it presses down, reminding you of everything you once believed in, everything you once fought for, and everything you let slip away.

You tell yourself you can’t think of him tonight.
It’s been a year.
A year since your mother’s voice, calm and cold as glass, told you what was expected. A year since your father explained with gentle but unyielding authority how your relationship with Minho was not sustainable, not appropriate, not befitting of you. A year since you tried to argue, tried to defend him, only to be drowned out by phrases like your future, our reputation, what will people think.

A year since you left him, and in leaving, tore yourself apart.

You had justified it, back then. You told yourself love would only weigh him down, that he deserved someone who wouldn’t be pulled in two directions. That maybe, if you walked away, he would hate you less than if he had to watch you wrestle your family every day for the rest of your lives. You said these things in silence, to the ceiling of your room, to the emptiness in your chest. But in truth, the moment you turned your back on him, you knew, you hadn’t chosen his future. You’d chosen your family’s expectations over the one thing that had ever made you feel like yourself.

The weight of it still sits in you now, like glass shards you never spat out.

“Don’t frown,” your mother hisses softly beside you as you lower yourself into your chair. She dabs at her lipstick with a napkin, eyes scanning the room with precision. “You look like you’re at a funeral.”

You force your lips into a curve, brittle but passable. A smile that photographs well, a smile that could survive the scrutiny of women who measure worth with their eyes. You let the hum of conversation and clinking glasses drown your thoughts, or at least try to.

The bride and groom sweep past in a whirl of silk, faces shining like the advertisements for love your family had always approved of. You clap when expected, sip at champagne when it’s offered, nod politely to distant relatives who praise your dress. You play your part.

And yet, beneath it all, your heart feels raw. Every laugh you hear around you is too sharp, every sparkle of a diamond ring another reminder of the chains your family wrapped around you.

The music swells, violins spiraling in the background, and you let your gaze wander, restless, desperate for something to ground you. You scan over the glittering crowd, the twirling dancers, the tall vases of white lilies. And then, beyond the edge of polished perfection, you notice movement, not among the guests, but in the background.

A man in black uniform, weaving through the crowd with a silver tray balanced in one steady hand. His posture is straight despite the weight, shoulders squared, movements efficient, practiced. His face is angled slightly down as he maneuvers through the sea of satin gowns and tailored tuxedos.

And when the light catches him, your breath stops.

Minho.

Your chest lurches so violently you nearly choke on the air. For a moment, you think it’s a hallucination, some cruel trick of your guilt shaping a stranger’s features into his. But no, the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the sharp, deliberate grace of his movements, it’s him. There’s no mistaking him.

He hasn’t seen you yet. He is too focused on balancing glasses of champagne, his attention locked on the path before him. But you see him with a clarity so sharp it hurts. Every memory comes roaring back in one unrelenting rush: his laugh against your ear, the warmth of his hands when they covered yours, the nights you spent whispering promises you couldn’t keep.

And then, tangled in those memories, comes the truth. The last time you saw him, his voice broken, his eyes glassy with betrayal, the way he had asked you if this was really what you wanted. How you had nodded, because you couldn’t bring yourself to speak.

Now here he is, in a hall lined with chandeliers and gold trim, not as a guest, not as a friend, but as part of the staff. Carrying trays for people who would never see him, never recognize his worth. People like your family. People like you.

The world tilts slightly, as though the chandeliers above have shifted, threatening to fall. You grip the edge of the table to steady yourself, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

Your mother notices your distraction, follows your gaze briefly, and frowns. “Don’t stare,” she murmurs, her voice sharp enough to cut. “It’s impolite to gawk at the staff.”

But you can’t look away.

Because in the span of a heartbeat, you know tonight isn’t about a wedding anymore.
It’s about him.
It’s about everything you lost.
And everything you never had the courage to fight for.

It takes everything in you to move.
Every instinct tells you to stay in your chair, to fold your hands in your lap and keep playing the role your parents carved out for you. Your mother is laughing at something your father just whispered, pearls shaking softly against her neck. Their attention is elsewhere, their guard temporarily down, and still you hesitate.

Because standing feels like betrayal.
Because walking toward him means acknowledging what you did, what you destroyed, what you still can’t forgive yourself for.

But the sight of Minho, so close, so real has pulled something loose inside you. A thread you can’t knot back in place. And before you can stop yourself, you’re on your feet, weaving through the glitter of gowns and the thick scent of roses, your pulse a frantic drum in your throat.

He doesn’t see you until you’re right in front of him.

“Champagne?” His voice is flat, professional, offering the tray out to you with the same polite smile he’s given to strangers all night. Not warm, not familiar. Just courteous. As though the two years you spent together, the laughter, the tears, the secrets whispered in the dark, they never happened.

You look at the tray but don’t take anything. The stem of a glass gleams like an accusation.

“Minho…” you breathe, his name tumbling out, breaking the thin layer of composure you’ve tried to keep.

His eyes flicker to yours. Briefly. And in that split second, the polite mask drops. His gaze hardens, sharp and unyielding, like a knife slid quietly between ribs.

“I’m working,” he says evenly, but the bitterness beneath it is impossible to miss. He shifts slightly, adjusting the tray, already angling his body to move past you.

Panic jolts through you. “Please—just wait. Can we talk?”

But he doesn’t stop. He moves, steady and deliberate, forcing you to step aside or collide with him. You fall in line behind him instead, your heels clicking too loudly against the marble, drawing glances you pretend not to notice. He moves quickly, with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a hundred times, and you struggle to keep pace, weaving between clusters of laughing guests.

You manage to catch him near the far side of the hall, where the light is dimmer, where the music muffles beneath the weight of distance. He sets his empty tray down on a side table, straightens, and turns to face you at last.

“Don’t,” he snaps, the word cutting sharper than glass. “Minho, please,” you whisper. “Just a minute.”

That’s when he stops.
Not because he wants to, but because your voice cracks, and for a second it’s too raw to ignore. He turns, and when his eyes lock on yours, there’s no mask now. Just fury. Just pain sharpened into something unrelenting.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, low, biting. “Not with me. What would they think?” His gaze flicks deliberately toward the crowd, where your parents laugh with their friends. “Their perfect daughter chasing after the waiter?”

You flinch. The words land heavy, each syllable a blow. But you deserve it. You know you do.

“I don’t care what they think,” you say, your voice trembling with urgency. “I never cared—”

He cuts you off with a harsh laugh, one that sounds nothing like the warmth you remember. “Don’t. Don’t stand here and lie to me. You cared enough to walk away, didn’t you?” His voice rises just enough to make your stomach twist in panic, though no one seems to notice. “You cared enough to leave me the second your parents snapped their fingers.”

Your throat tightens. You open your mouth, close it again, the words tangling, sticking. Because he’s right. Every word he throws at you is a truth you can’t argue with, no matter how much it tears you apart.

“Minho—”

“You said you’d stay forever.” His voice cracks for the first time, but it’s not weakness, it’s rage wrapped around hurt, barbed and unyielding. “But I guess forever was just a word to you.”

The world stutters around you. His words hit harder than anything else could have, because they cut into the very heart of what you once had. The promises you whispered under dim streetlights, the vows you carved into the silence of his bedroom when you swore you didn’t care about money, about appearances, about the suffocating grip of your family.

You had said forever. A hundred times, maybe more. You said it when you clung to him after fights with your mother, sobbing that you didn’t want this life, that you didn’t want to be paraded like a prize. You said it when you kissed him in the dark, desperate and trembling, when you told him he was the only part of your world that felt real.

And now those words are nothing but ash between you.

Your vision blurs. You can’t tell if it’s the glitter of the chandeliers above or tears stinging your eyes. “I meant it,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I meant forever when I said it, I swear I did. I hated them, I hated the way they forced me into all of this. I hated leaving you.”

But Minho just shakes his head, his jaw tightening as if to keep something from spilling out. He looks at you like you’re both a stranger and the most familiar wound he’s ever carried.

“Don’t tell me what you hated,” he says, his voice trembling with restrained anger. “You hated it so much you chose them anyway.”

The words slice through you, and you realize your chest physically aches, like your ribs are too tight for your lungs. The distance between you feels endless, though it’s only a few feet. The kind of distance that no step could ever close.

You’re still standing there, heart splintering in your chest, when the sound of laughter bursts from the other side of the hall. A ripple of champagne glasses clinking. The music swells, strings layered over piano, a melody that feels wrong too sweet, too triumphant for the way your insides are unraveling.

Minho’s eyes flicker past you for a moment, sharp and alert. His jaw tightens. You don’t have to follow his gaze to know what he’s seen, you can feel it, heavy as a weight pressed against the back of your neck.

Your mother.

You can imagine her perfectly: seated at the table in her flawless gown, posture regal, eyes trained on you with that unrelenting, icy precision. The kind of glare that once silenced you as a child and still, even now, makes your spine straighten. You don’t need to turn your head to know she’s watching, her judgment slicing across the room like glass.

Minho exhales through his nose, sharp, as if it takes effort to hold himself together. “She’s been glaring at me since you walked over,” he says quietly, but the venom in his voice makes it feel like a shout. “You should go back before she decides to make a scene.”

“Minho, please—” Your voice cracks, desperate, raw. “Just listen to me. Just for a minute. I know I don’t deserve it, but—”

He shakes his head, already stepping back. “You don’t get it, do you?” His words are low, but they thrum with anger, each syllable like a lash. “You already had your minute. You had years. And when it mattered, you didn’t choose me. You chose them.”

The air between you is suffocating. Every word cuts deeper because they’re true. There’s no argument, no clever excuse, no soft defense that could erase the truth. You hadn’t fought. You hadn’t stayed.

“I know,” you whisper. Your throat feels shredded, but the words stumble out anyway. “I know I did. And I hate myself for it every single day.”

Something flickers in his expression pain, maybe, or longing, but it’s gone before you can grasp it, buried under the steel of his anger. He laughs, but it’s bitter, hollow.

“You think that changes anything? You think that gives me back the nights I stayed awake wondering what I did wrong? The mornings I woke up alone? You think guilt fixes that?”

You flinch, tears burning hot against your lashes. He’s right, again. Always right. And still, you reach for him not with your hands, because you don’t dare, but with your words, trembling and broken.

“No,” you admit, your voice so soft it almost disappears beneath the music. “It doesn’t fix it. Nothing will. But I still love you, Minho. I never stopped.”

For a heartbeat, silence. His eyes lock on yours, dark and unreadable, and the world seems to hold its breath. Then he shakes his head again, the movement final, slicing clean through whatever fragile hope had been clinging to you.

“You don’t get to say that,” he says, voice low and trembling with restraint. “Not anymore.”

You open your mouth, but before you can speak, his gaze flicks past you once more, to the other side of the hall. To her. Your mother. Watching, unrelenting.

“That glare,” he mutters, his lip curling. “That’s all I’ll ever be to her. To them. A mistake you were stupid enough to make. And the second you walked over here, you made me one again.”

The words crush you. You can’t even form a reply, because they’re true in ways you don’t want to admit.

He steps back, shoulders squared, composure forced back into place like armor. When he speaks again, his voice is calm, but colder than ever.

“Go back to your table. Enjoy the party. Leave me alone.”

And then he turns, slipping through the service door behind him, swallowed by the shadowed corridor that leads to the kitchen. Gone.

You stand there frozen, the laughter and music crashing back into your ears, dizzying. Around you, guests glide across the marble floor, dresses shimmering, glasses raised. To them, nothing is out of place. To them, this is just another beautiful night.

But you.. you can’t breathe.
You’re surrounded by glitter and glass and golden chandeliers, and still you’ve never felt more alone.

Because the truth is clear, undeniable, carved deep enough to bleed:
You lost him. And you were the one who let go.

You force yourself to move.
Each step back across the polished marble feels like wading through water, heavy and dragging, as if the floor itself resents your return. You keep your head high, though your insides are cracked and bleeding. You’ve learned how to wear a mask, your parents trained you well and tonight that mask might be the only thing keeping you upright.

The music swells behind you. Guests laugh, toasting to love, to forever, to all the illusions you once believed in. The sound cuts against you, jagged, until every burst of cheer feels like mockery.

When you reach your table, your mother doesn’t say a word at first. She doesn’t have to. Her gaze, sharp as a blade, slides over you as you sink back into your chair. It lingers, calculated, like she’s weighing every flaw, every imperfection.

“Your lipstick’s smudged,” she says finally, her voice low, calm. But you hear the acid beneath it. Her hand flicks toward you, a dismissal more than a gesture. “Fix it. People are watching.”

You press your lips together, tasting the bitterness of champagne you never drank. You reach for the napkin by your plate, dabbing at your mouth with mechanical precision, though your hands tremble faintly.

Your father, oblivious or pretending to be, is leaned toward another man at the table, already buried in conversation about investments, politics, the sort of things that have always mattered more than people. His laughter rumbles, deep and careless, filling the space where your voice doesn’t belong.

Your mother doesn’t break eye contact. “I told you not to wander off.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you open your mouth, you’ll either break down in sobs or scream in her face. Neither would be acceptable. Neither would survive this cage of silk and glass.

Instead, you lower your gaze to your plate. The food is artfully arranged, colors bright, textures gleaming under the chandeliers. Perfect. Beautiful. Tasteless.

Across the hall, servers move swiftly, silent shadows against the light. You search for him without meaning to. Your eyes scan over black uniforms, trays held steady, shoulders squared. For one frantic moment, you think you see him again, but when the man turns, it’s someone else. Not Minho. Not the boy you loved.

The ache in your chest deepens, sharp and relentless.

You want to scream. You want to stand, overturn the table, shout at everyone here, tell them that love is not a commodity, not a weakness to be traded away. You want to tell them that you had something real, something precious, and you destroyed it because of them. Because of their expectations, their greed, their obsession with appearances.

But your voice sticks in your throat. Because you’ve tried before. And you lost.

Your mother takes a sip of wine, eyes still on you. “Whatever it was, it’s finished. Don’t embarrass yourself or us by making it anything more.”

Her words are quiet, clinical. They should feel like commands, the way they always have. But tonight, they land differently. Not like iron chains, but like dirt on a coffin. Heavy, final.

You nod, the movement tiny, almost imperceptible. And you hate yourself for it. Hate the way you still obey, even as your heart lies broken in the kitchen of a wedding hall, carried away by the man you once promised forever.

The rest of the evening blurs. Applause rises as the couple shares their first dance. More champagne flows, laughter echoing under crystal lights. People compliment your dress, your posture, your grace. You smile, nod, respond with practiced charm. No one sees the way your nails bite into your palms under the table.

Because no one is looking close enough.
No one ever does.

The world spins on, golden and gleaming, and you sit in silence, choking on the truth that will never leave you now:

You could have fought for him. But you didn’t.
And forever was only ever a word.

-

The wedding rages on inside, but out here it’s quiet.
Too quiet, almost like the night itself has pressed its palm over the music, muffling it into something distant and hollow. You’ve slipped away from the laughter and glitter, past the painted smiles and crystal glasses, until you’re standing at the service entrance tucked behind the venue.

The air smells different here. Less of roses and perfume, more of grease and damp pavement, faint smoke curling from the metal trash bins lined against the wall. The door creaks every time it opens, letting out a flash of light, a burst of voices, before closing again and leaving you in shadow.

You wait.

Each time the door swings open, your heart leaps. You straighten, breath catching, hoping it’s him. But it’s not. It’s another server, a chef, a dishwasher, faces you don’t know, faces that glance at you with mild confusion before moving on.

The minutes crawl. Your heels scrape against the concrete as you shift, arms wrapped around yourself against the chill of the night. Your dress doesn’t belong here. It shines too brightly under the weak yellow light above the door, a reminder of the world you came from, the world that tore him from you.

Another man steps out, a younger server balancing a stack of empty trays. He pauses when he sees you, eyebrows lifting. “Uh—are you waiting for someone?”

“Yes,” you manage, your voice tight. “Lee Minho. Do you know where he is?”

The boy nods quickly, posture shifting the way people do when they realize they’re speaking to someone important. His voice takes on a kind of practiced courtesy, the kind your family has always commanded without asking.

“He’s on cleaning duty tonight,” the boy says, almost deferential. “But he should be out soon. If you’d like, I can tell him you’re here.”

“No,” you cut in quickly, too quickly. His tone made your stomach twist, the way he spoke to you like royalty, as if Minho was just another servant beneath you. You hated it. Hated how easily that distance was assumed, how it mirrored exactly what your family had said all along. “No, thank you. I’ll wait.”

The boy hesitates, then nods again before disappearing back inside.

So you wait.

The air grows colder. Your legs ache from standing, but you don’t move. The muffled music inside slips into a slower melody, another dance, another toast and time stretches until it feels endless. You check the door every few seconds, breath held, heart pounding harder with each disappointment.

And then, finally the door swings open.

Light spills out into the alley, catching on the edge of a black jacket, a backpack strap slung over one shoulder. And there he is.

Minho.

His hair is damp, like he’s washed the sweat from his face after hours of work. His uniform is gone, replaced by a simple t-shirt under the jacket, casual, worn. A cigarette rests between his lips, unlit, his lighter poised in his hand. He looks tired, heavy, weighed down in ways you don’t remember from before.

And then he sees you.

The lighter stills. His whole body freezes, the cigarette half-forgotten. For a heartbeat, shock flickers across his face quick, sharp but it’s gone in an instant, buried under something harder.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” His voice is rough, low, disbelief tangled with frustration.

Your throat tightens. You’ve rehearsed nothing. You’ve thought of nothing except waiting, waiting for him. And now, standing in front of him under the yellow glow of the service light, every word you thought you might say has fled.

You’re left with only the truth.

“I had to see you.”

The lighter clicks, and the flame flares.
For a moment, it paints his face in gold and shadow, the hollows of his cheeks sharper, his eyes darker. Then the cigarette catches, smoke curling upward, dissolving into the cold night air. He inhales, slow, deliberate, before exhaling a stream of gray mist that drifts between you, a wall of smoke you can’t see through.

“You’re still smoking?” The words leave you before you can stop them, trembling, too soft against the bite of the air. “I thought you quit.”

His laugh is bitter, a single exhale sharper than the smoke itself. “Yeah. I thought I did too.” His eyes flick to yours, unyielding. “Turns out some things stick. Especially when there’s nothing left worth quitting for.”

The words slam into you, harder than you’re ready for. You wrap your arms around yourself, the thin fabric of your dress useless against the chill, against the way his voice cuts.

“Minho…” Your throat burns, but you force the words out anyway. “Just—please. Just listen to me. I know I don’t deserve it, but I still—” Your voice cracks, fragile, breaking in your mouth. “I still love you.”

He scoffs, smoke escaping in a harsh puff. “Love?” He shakes his head, eyes narrowing. “You don’t get to use that word with me anymore. Not after what you did.”

“I know,” you whisper, desperation bleeding into every syllable. “I know I don’t have the right. But it’s the truth. I never stopped.”

His jaw clenches, the muscle twitching as he inhales again, smoke filling his lungs. When he exhales, it’s sharp, as though he’s spitting the word out with it. “You keep saying that, but where was that love when it mattered? Where was it when your family told you to choose? You had your chance. You made your choice.”

“I was scared.” Your voice is rising now, breaking under the pressure of everything you’ve held back. “Scared of losing everything I’d known, scared of the fight, scared of disappointing them. I was a coward. But I loved you—I love you—doesn’t that count for anything?”

“No.” His answer is immediate, a blade without hesitation. “Because love without action is nothing. You didn’t fight. You left. That’s what I’ll remember.”

The words tear through you. You can’t breathe, not through the ache in your chest, not through the smoke drifting between you.

And then the door creaks open.

A young woman steps out, balancing a stack of folded linens in her arms. She pauses when she sees you both, her eyes darting between you before landing on Minho. Her face softens, a quick smile flashing, and she bows slightly. “Sorry—didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She passes by, but not before her gaze lingers just a moment too long on Minho. A faint blush colors her cheeks, her eyes dropping quickly as she walks past, vanishing into the night with her bundle of linens.

You watch her go, then turn back to him, the question spilling out before you can stop it. “Is she your girlfriend?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at you. He only raises the cigarette back to his lips, inhales deep, and exhales another puff of smoke into the cold air.

The silence feels louder than words. Louder than any answer could have been.

Your chest twists, jealousy and grief tangling into something unbearable. You stare at him, at the way the shadows cling to his face, at the tired lines under his eyes. This distance feels permanent now, like no matter how close you stand, you’ll never reach him again.

And then, softly, broken you ask the only thing that comes to you. “How are the cats?”

The smoke falters in his exhale. His eyes finally flicker to yours, guarded, unreadable.

“Soonie and Doongie,” you continue, voice shaking. “And… and Dori.” The name comes out fragile, carrying a thousand memories with it. “Do you still have them?”

You remember the night Dori came into your life, clear as though it happened yesterday. Minho had stumbled into the apartment, clothes soaked through, jacket clutched tight around a trembling bundle. When he peeled it back, there was a tiny, shivering kitten, eyes wide with fear. You had both worked frantically to dry him, to feed him, to coax him into safety. That night had ended with the three cats curled together in a heap, and you and Minho sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor, laughing softly through your exhaustion.

You hadn’t seen them since the breakup. You hadn’t even allowed yourself to think of them. Until now.

The cigarette burns lower between his fingers. He doesn’t answer, not with words. But something shifts in his expression, a flicker of pain, of memory, quickly buried. He looks away, exhales one last plume of smoke, and lets it dissolve into the dark.

For a long moment, the only sound between you is the faint hiss of his cigarette burning down. The ember glows against the dark, a small, angry star. He keeps his gaze fixed somewhere past you, as if you’re nothing more than another shadow against the wall.

Your chest tightens with every second of his silence. The quiet feels deliberate, punishing. But you push through it, because silence has always been the most unbearable thing.

“Do they still sleep in the window?” Your voice comes out unsteady, fragile. “They always loved the sun there. Especially Soonie. He’d stretch out so far I thought he’d fall.”

His eyes flick to you, just for a moment, sharp and cutting before dropping again. He drags in another breath of smoke, exhales slow, deliberate. “They’re fine.”

Two words. That’s all he gives you.

But it’s enough to make your throat ache. Enough to crack open the flood you’ve been holding back.

“I miss them,” you whisper, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. “I miss all of it—coming home to them, to you. The way Doongie used to curl up against my legs, the way Dori wouldn’t sleep unless I was on the couch with him. I miss… I miss us, Minho. I miss you.”

His jaw tightens, his hand trembling slightly as he lowers the cigarette. He crushes it out against the wall with too much force, the ember flaring one last time before dying. He drops the butt to the ground, grinding it under his heel.

When he speaks, his voice is low. Dangerous.

“Don’t.”

You step forward anyway, desperate. “Why? Why can’t I say I miss you? Why can’t I tell you I never stopped loving you? That I—”

“Because it’s too fucking late!”

The explosion rips through the quiet, raw and jagged, his voice shattering against the walls of the narrow alley. Your breath catches, the world narrowing down to the fire in his eyes, the sharp tremor in his voice.

“For a year,” he spits, his chest rising and falling fast, “I’ve kept this inside. I told myself I had to move on. That I had to forget. But you—” He points at you, hand shaking. “You’re standing here, acting like you can just walk back into my life with your perfect dress and your perfect family watching from inside, and say you love me?”

Tears spill hot down your cheeks, but you don’t move, don’t breathe.

“You don’t get it,” he continues, voice breaking now, anger tangled with something heavier. “I begged you—do you remember that? I begged you to stay. I told you I didn’t care if it was hard, if we had to fight for it. I wanted you more than I wanted anything. And you looked me in the eye and walked away.”

“Minho—”

“You didn’t just leave me.” His voice drops lower, but it’s sharper, deadlier. “You left us. Everything we built. Every promise. Every forever. You threw it away the second it became inconvenient.”

Your whole body trembles. The air feels too heavy to breathe, but you force words out anyway, even as your voice cracks. “I didn’t want to—”

“But you did!” His shout cuts you off, reverberating in the night. His hands ball into fists at his sides, shoulders shaking with the force of it. “You did. And I had to live with it. I had to learn to breathe without you, sleep without you, wake up every fucking day and remind myself you weren’t coming back.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, and your tears blur the world into nothing but his outline, tall and unmovable against the wall.

You swallow hard, throat raw. Your voice comes out small, almost childlike. “I’m sorry.”

The words hang there, pathetic against the storm of his fury.

“I don’t want your sorry,” he says finally, quieter now, but no less sharp. His eyes glisten under the dim light, but he doesn’t let it show, doesn’t let it break. “Sorry doesn’t give me back what you took.”

You stand there in the cold, broken open, desperate for even the smallest piece of him to hold onto. But all he gives you is silence, heavy and final.

The silence after his outburst is suffocating.
The kind of silence that hums in your ears, where even the muffled music from inside the hall feels distant, unreal. You can still feel the sting of his words, echoing sharp in your chest, cutting deeper than any blade.

He stands a few feet away, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. His fists are still clenched, knuckles pale, but he doesn’t look at you anymore. He’s staring at the ground, at the crushed cigarette butt beneath his heel, as though it can anchor him.

You wipe at your cheeks with trembling fingers, though the tears keep falling, hot and unstoppable. Your throat aches, raw from holding back sobs. But you force yourself to speak, your voice breaking, fragile as glass.

“I know I don’t deserve it. Any of it. Not your time, not your words, not even your anger. But… I needed you to know. I needed you to hear me. Because I can’t live with just silence anymore.”

For a moment, nothing. The weight of the night presses down, heavy and final. You think he’s going to turn, walk away, leave you with nothing but your own brokenness.

But then, barely, almost unwillingly he exhales. Long, shaky. His fists loosen.

“Doongie still sleeps by the window,” he mutters, voice low, rough.

Your heart stutters. You lift your eyes, stunned, searching his face. He doesn’t meet your gaze, he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the ground, but the words are there, real, undeniable.

“And Soonie,” he continues after a beat, quieter still. “He still waits by the door when I come home. Like he’s expecting…” He cuts himself off abruptly, jaw tightening, but you know what he meant. Like he’s expecting you.

Tears burn hotter in your eyes. You bite down on a sob, clutching your arms tighter around yourself as though you can hold in the ache.

“And Dori?” you whisper, the name trembling on your lips.

His throat bobs. He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling again, rougher this time. “He’s fine. Eating too much. Still knocks things off the shelves when he wants attention.”

A tiny laugh escapes you, broken and wet. The memory of that mischievous kitten crashes into you so vividly it hurts. The night Minho had brought him home, wrapped in his soaked jacket, his eyes soft as he handed the tiny creature into your arms. The way you’d both stayed up feeding him, shivering with exhaustion but smiling through it.

Minho glances at you then, just for a second. His eyes are dark, tired, but not as hard as before. There’s something else there now, something cracked, unwilling but alive.

“I shouldn’t have told you that,” he says gruffly, breaking the moment. He straightens his jacket, adjusts the strap of his backpack. “You don’t get to have that anymore. Not after everything.”

“I know,” you breathe, your voice a sob and a prayer all at once. “I know, Minho. But thank you. For telling me anyway.”

He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath you can’t catch. His shoulders are still tense, his walls still high, but they aren’t as unbreakable as they were minutes ago. For the first time in a year, you see not just his anger, but the remnants of the boy you loved. The boy who once promised you forever. And it hurts even more. Because that glimpse, that fraction of softness, is enough to remind you what you lost.

He shifts his weight, ready to leave, but something in the way his voice faltered when he spoke of the cats gives you courage you didn’t think you had left.

You take a step closer, heart pounding so loud you’re sure he hears it.

“Minho,” you say, and his name feels like it belongs in your mouth, like it’s been waiting there for a year. “Please. Just—please, can we try again?”

He freezes, the strap of his backpack slipping slightly down his shoulder. His head tilts, just barely, as if he can’t believe what you’re asking.

“Try again?” His voice is hoarse, incredulous. “After everything? After you walked away, after you left me standing there like I was—like I was nothing to you?”

“You were never nothing,” you whisper fiercely, desperation cracking your voice. Tears blur your eyes, but you don’t care anymore. “You were everything. You still are. And I was stupid, I was weak, I let them control me—” You press a trembling hand against your chest, as though you can hold your heart in place. “But I can’t stop loving you, Minho. I’ve tried. I’ve tried. But I can’t.”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face. For a moment, he looks like he might explode again, but when he drops his hand, his expression is different worn, weary.

“You don’t get to just come back and say that.” His voice is quieter now, softer, though it still trembles with anger. “Do you know how many nights I sat awake, hating you for leaving me? Do you know how many times I wanted to pick up the phone, just to hear your voice, and then remembered you chose them over me? That doesn’t just go away because you decided you regret it.”

You nod quickly, tears spilling freely now. “I know. I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. But I’m not asking you to forget. I’m asking you for a chance. Just a chance to show you I’m not that coward anymore. That I’d fight for us this time.”

His lips part, but no words come. His eyes search yours, like he’s looking for a lie, like he’s waiting for you to falter.

“You said forever,” he mutters finally, his voice breaking just slightly. “Do you know what it did to me, realizing forever meant nothing to you?”

“It did,” you insist, your voice shaking but fierce. “It meant everything. I ruined it, but it meant everything. And I want it again, Minho. I want you again. Even if it takes years to earn back your trust, even if you hate me every day until then I’ll take it. I’ll take anything, as long as I don’t lose you for good.”

The silence that follows feels endless. He stares at you, his eyes dark, unreadable. You can hear the faint thrum of music from inside the hall, laughter spilling through the walls, but out here it’s just you and him, the weight of your words hanging heavy between you.

And then, slowly, something shifts. His shoulders sag, just slightly, as though the fight has drained out of him. The sharpness in his gaze dulls, replaced by something rawer, more vulnerable.

“You don’t make this easy,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I want to stay angry. I should stay angry.”

“Then stay angry,” you whisper, stepping closer, your voice trembling but sure. “Hate me if you need to. But don’t shut me out. Please, Minho. Don’t let this be the end of us.”

He exhales, long and unsteady. His eyes close briefly, as though it hurts him to look at you. When he opens them again, there’s still pain there, but also something else. Something softer.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says quietly, the words fragile. “Not in this alley. Not waiting for me. Not after everything.”

And yet, he doesn’t walk away.

He stands there, torn between fury and longing, his heart fighting the walls he’s built. And though he doesn’t say yes, though he doesn’t reach for you, the crack is there, undeniable. The door isn’t open all the way. But it isn’t closed anymore either.

Minho shifts, dragging a hand through his hair again, eyes flicking toward the street as though he might walk away. His backpack slips further down his shoulder, and he grips the strap like it’s the only thing tethering him.

“I shouldn’t…” His voice falters. He clears his throat, sharper this time. “I shouldn’t even be standing here. I should’ve gone home an hour ago.”

Your chest tightens. You step closer before he can slip away, your voice trembling. “Then why are you still here?”

He freezes. His jaw works, and for a long moment, he doesn’t answer. You see it, the war inside him, the pull between anger and longing, between walking away and stepping toward you.

Finally, he exhales, sharp and uneven. “Because I don’t trust you.”

The words sting, but they’re not unexpected. You bow your head, nodding. “I know. I don’t blame you. I don’t trust myself either—not the version of me that left. But I’m not her anymore.”

His laugh is low, bitter. “You say that like it changes what happened.”

“It doesn’t,” you admit softly. “But maybe it can change what happens now.”

Silence stretches. He shakes his head, like he wants to shut this down, but something holds him still. His eyes flick to yours for the briefest second raw, conflicted and then away again, as though he can’t stand to look too long.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Rougher. “The cats… they looked for you. For weeks after you left. Doongie wouldn’t sleep on the bed unless I left the door open. Soonie would sit by the door every night. Dori kept pawing at your drawer like he thought you were hiding in there.”

Your breath catches. Tears prick your eyes, spilling before you can stop them. The image of those cats waiting, searching for you, pierces deeper than any of his anger.

“I told myself it was just them,” he continues, his voice breaking despite himself. “That they didn’t understand. But the truth is—” He swallows hard, shoulders tense, as though dragging the words out costs him everything. “The truth is I did the same damn thing. I kept expecting you to come back. Every time I walked through the door, I thought maybe…”

His voice cracks. He cuts himself off, biting down on the rest. His hand trembles slightly where it grips his backpack strap, knuckles pale.

You take another step forward, tears blurring your vision. “Minho…”

He shakes his head quickly, as if to stop you, as if he regrets every word that just slipped out. “Don’t. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

But it’s too late. The softness is there, raw and unguarded. The crack in his armor is wider now, and through it, you glimpse the truth he can’t hide anymore.. he missed you. Just as much as you missed him.

And though fear still pulls at him, though he almost steps back into silence, he doesn’t. He stays.

The cold creeps into your skin, seeping through the thin fabric of your clothes, but you don’t move. You can’t, not when Minho is standing there, torn open, his words still hanging heavy in the night.

He grips his backpack strap like it’s a lifeline, his shoulders hunched, body angled away from you. Even now, when he’s cracked enough to confess, he won’t let you close the space between you.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “I missed them too. Every day. I missed you.”

He exhales sharply, his jaw tightening, and for a long moment, you think he’s going to walk away. His body shifts like he’s about to step back into the dark, into silence.

But he doesn’t.

He stays rooted, trembling, his breath uneven.

“I don’t want to hear that,” he says finally, but his voice is different now, thin, fraying at the edges. “I don’t want to believe it.”

“Then don’t believe it,” you whisper, your tears hot and unstoppable. “But it’s still true. And I’ll keep saying it until you can’t ignore it anymore.”

The muscles in his shoulders tense, his hand white-knuckled on the strap. His head drops forward, hair falling into his eyes, and for the first time tonight, you hear it, his breath hitching, a sound so small and broken it nearly undoes you.

“I tried,” he murmurs, barely audible. “I tried so fucking hard to hate you.”

Your chest aches. “I know.”

“And I almost did,” he goes on, voice shaking harder now, the words tumbling out like he can’t hold them back anymore. “I told myself you didn’t care. That you never loved me like I loved you. That you left because it was easy. But no matter how many times I said it, no matter how many times I tried to believe it…” His voice cracks, sharp and raw. “…it never felt true.”

The tears you’ve been holding back spill freely now, your whole body trembling. You want to reach for him, to close the distance, but you hold back, afraid one wrong move will send him retreating again.

He drags in a ragged breath, shoulders shaking. His other hand lifts to his face, pressing against his eyes as though he can hide the fact that he’s breaking. “I hate this,” he mutters, voice splintering. “I hate that I can’t stop wanting you. That I can’t stop…”

He doesn’t finish. He can’t.

You step forward, slow, careful, like approaching a wounded animal. Your hand hovers, shaking, before brushing lightly against his arm. He flinches, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Minho,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. Not with me.”

For a moment, he’s still, caught between recoil and surrender. And then, slowly, his grip on the backpack slackens. His shoulders sag, and his head drops further, his breath hitching again.

You move closer, gently resting your hand on his arm, then sliding it down until your fingers graze his. He doesn’t stop you. His hands remain limp, trembling, but he lets you hold them.

When his first sob breaks free, muffled and raw, you pull him into you, hesitant at first, but firm when he doesn’t resist. His body is rigid in your arms, trembling, fighting the comfort even as he leans into it.

“I shouldn’t let you,” he mutters against your shoulder, his voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t let you touch me like this.”

“Then don’t,” you whisper back, holding him tighter. “But stay anyway. Just for tonight. Please.”

He exhales shakily, his fists curling weakly into your dress. And for the first time in a year, he lets himself collapse into you not fully, not freely, but enough. Enough to feel the weight of him against you, enough to feel his walls crumble piece by piece as you hold him through the breaking.

And in that fragile moment, you know: he’s still yours, even if he doesn’t want to be.

For a long time, the only sound is his breathing against your shoulder uneven, trembling, but slowly beginning to calm. The harsh edges of his sobs fade into a hush, and the cold night air presses in around you both, smelling faintly of smoke and city rain.

You keep your arms around him, careful, not gripping too tightly, not giving him a reason to pull away. You don’t speak. You just hold him as if you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go.

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are red-rimmed, lashes wet. He swipes at his face with the back of his hand, avoiding your gaze. “You should really go back inside,” he mutters, his voice hoarse but steadier now. “Your family’s probably wondering where you are.”

You shake your head immediately. “I don’t care.”

“You should.” His gaze flicks up, brief but sharp. “You know how they are. If they see you out here with me—”

“Let them.” Your voice is quiet but firm. “I don’t want to be in there. I don’t want to sit at some table pretending I’m happy. I want to be with you.”

He lets out a small, disbelieving huff. “You can’t just say that.”

“I’m not just saying it.” You draw in a shaky breath. “I want to go with you. With the cats. To your place. I want to feel… comfortable again. Free again. Like I used to there.”

For a moment, he just stares at you. His lips part as if to speak, but no words come. His eyes search yours, like he’s waiting for the lie, like he can’t quite believe you mean it.

Then, almost without meaning to, he laughs. It’s so soft you almost don’t catch it a small, rough sound that’s over before it begins.

The sound makes your chest ache.

“I still have stuff there,” you whisper, half a plea, half a confession. “You know I do. Books, sweaters, that mug with the chipped handle you hate. It’s still there, isn’t it?”

His gaze flickers, something unreadable in his expression. “Some of it.”

You swallow, hope and fear tangling inside you. “Then… let me come back. Just for tonight. Just to see them. Just to be somewhere that feels real again.”

He looks away, jaw tightening. For a long moment, the silence stretches, heavy with everything unspoken. But his shoulders have softened, his grip on the backpack loose. The fight is still there, but it’s quieter now, dulled by exhaustion and the weight of the year between you.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “You make everything complicated.”

You almost smile through your tears. “I always did.”

Another silence. He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face again. “I can’t promise you anything,” he says finally, his tone uneven. “I can’t promise it’ll feel the same. I can’t promise I won’t regret it.”

“I’m not asking for promises.” You step closer, voice trembling. “I’m just asking for a chance.”

His eyes flick to yours, and for a moment, the walls slip entirely. You see it there, the longing, the ache, the love he’s been trying to bury. He doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no. But the softness in his gaze is an answer of its own.

And for the first time since you walked out of his life, you feel the possibility of stepping back in.

He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches, heavy, the kind that makes your stomach twist with both fear and hope. His eyes are fixed on the pavement, jaw tight, as though he’s turning the weight of your words over and over in his mind.

You can’t take it anymore. The question tumbles out, small but sharp.

“Would your girlfriend be upset if I came?”

His head jerks up, eyes flashing in surprise before narrowing slightly. “Girlfriend?”

You glance toward the service door, where the girl had walked past earlier, her blush impossible to ignore. “The one who walked by. She looked at you like…” You trail off, suddenly unsure if you want to finish the thought.

For a moment, he just stares at you. Then, with a scoff, he shakes his head. “She’s not my girlfriend.” His voice carries a touch of disdain, though not unkind. “She’s just someone who makes it… very clear she has a gigantic crush on me.”

The tension in your chest loosens, enough for you to let out a sound that’s half relief, half laugh. You clap a hand over your mouth, trying to stifle it, but it slips out anyway, soft and helpless.

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to smile too, but he shakes his head instead, looking away quickly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” you murmur, still biting back a grin.

Another pause. His hand adjusts the strap of his backpack, fingers tightening and loosening like he’s working through something invisible. Finally, he exhales, the sound heavy but resigned.

“I can’t promise my place is anything like your mansion,” he says slowly, the words deliberate, careful. “It’s small. Cramped. Old. And I can’t give you the kind of things you’re used to. I live paycheck to paycheck, and half the time, I’m behind on bills. It’s not—” His throat bobs, his eyes flicking to yours with something almost vulnerable. “It’s not the kind of life your family thinks you deserve.”

Your heart swells so hard it hurts. You force yourself to hold the excitement in, to keep your voice even, though the smile threatens to break free anyway. “I don’t care, Minho. For your information, I’ve been to your place plenty of times. And I loved every single time I was there.”

For a moment, he studies you, his eyes sharp as if he’s searching for cracks, for insincerity. But all he finds is the truth.

And then, finally, he nods.

It’s small, almost imperceptible. But it’s real.

Your breath catches, your heart stumbling over itself. He doesn’t say yes, doesn’t say come home with me, but the nod is enough. More than enough.

Because for the first time since everything shattered, he’s letting you back in.

-

The ride is quiet, the hum of his old car filling the silence. The engine rattles every time he shifts gears, the dashboard lights dim, and the passenger-side window buzzes faintly as the car bumps along uneven streets. You don’t care.

You can’t stop looking at him.

His hands on the wheel, the way his brow furrows as he watches the road, the faint smudge of exhaustion under his eyes. He pretends not to notice your gaze, keeping his focus locked forward, but the tips of his ears burn red, betraying him.

You bite back a smile, your chest aching with a familiar tenderness. It feels strange and familiar all at once, sitting here beside him again, like no time has passed and yet like everything has changed.

When the car finally pulls into the cracked parking lot of his apartment complex, he kills the engine with a rough twist of the key. For a moment, neither of you move. The night air is still around you, heavy with unsaid words.

He clears his throat, reaching for his backpack. “Don’t expect much.”

You shake your head, your smile soft. “It’s already enough.”

The hallway leading to his apartment is dim, the overhead light flickering weakly. The door creaks when he unlocks it, and the scent of home hits you immediately: faint traces of coffee, laundry detergent, and the unmistakable warmth of cats.

But when he pushes the door open, the apartment is quiet.

The cats don’t come running.

They’ve always rushed to greet him before, meowing and weaving between his legs. Tonight, the living room stays still. Minho kicks off his shoes with a sigh, muttering under his breath, “Traitors.”

You step inside, heart pounding. For a second, fear pricks at you, what if they’ve forgotten? What if a year was too long?

But then you kneel by the couch, your voice trembling as you call softly, “Soonie? Doongie? Dori?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, the sound of paws scrambling against the floor.

Soonie bursts out first, tail high, his meow loud and demanding. Doongie follows, a softer cry, and Dori is last, bounding toward you with clumsy eagerness.

They rush you all at once, circling, rubbing against your legs, purring so hard it vibrates through the floor. Your laugh breaks into a sob as you reach for them, stroking their fur, whispering their names like a prayer.

“They didn’t forget,” you choke out, tears slipping down your cheeks as Soonie presses against your hand, Doongie curls close, and Dori clambers awkwardly into your lap. “They didn’t forget me.”

Behind you, Minho huffs, crossing his arms as he watches the chaos. “Unbelievable.” His tone is sharp, but there’s no real bite to it. “You leave them for a year, and they act like I don’t even exist.”

You glance up at him through your tears, laughing softly as the cats nuzzle into you, their purrs filling the room. “Maybe they just missed me more.”

He rolls his eyes, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch, see the way his shoulders relax for the first time all night.

For a brief, fragile moment, the apartment feels alive again. Warm again. Like home.

And though neither of you says it out loud, the truth hums in the air between you, undeniable:
They missed you.
And so did he.

The cats eventually calm, sprawling across your lap and the couch cushions, their purring a steady hum in the small apartment. You run your fingers through their fur, tears drying on your cheeks, while Minho busies himself in the kitchen.

The space hasn’t changed much. The same scuffed counters, the same dent in the fridge door, the same magnet with a chipped cartoon fish you teased him about once. Being here again is dizzying, you remember where everything belongs, remember how you once fit here like it was yours too.

The faint clatter of pots and pans pulls you back. Minho moves with quiet efficiency, shoulders squared, his focus sharp on the cutting board. He doesn’t ask if you’re hungry. He just starts cooking, the hiss of oil filling the silence.

You watch him from the couch, the cats curled close, your heart swelling with something tender and heavy all at once. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he cuts in, not looking up. His voice is calm, almost flat. “But you haven’t eaten. You were too busy chasing after me at the wedding.”

A faint smile tugs at your lips, but the weight in his tone keeps it from reaching your eyes. You stand, padding into the kitchen, leaning against the counter just out of his reach.

The smell of garlic and soy drifts through the air, familiar and comforting. It feels like stepping back into a life you thought you’d lost forever.

He doesn’t glance at you as he stirs the pan. “Don’t get the wrong idea.”

Your chest tightens. “What do you mean?”

“This—” he gestures vaguely with the spatula, the sizzle punctuating his words “doesn’t mean everything’s okay. It doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you. I don’t want you thinking that just because I’m feeding you, we’re suddenly back where we were.”

The words sting, but you nod slowly, forcing yourself to accept them. “I know. I’m not asking you to forget. I’m just… grateful you’re letting me be here at all.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he plates the food, sliding the dish in front of you with a clatter that’s harsher than it needs to be. He finally meets your gaze, his eyes sharp but glimmering with something deeper.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

Your throat burns as you lower your eyes to the plate, steam rising in the small space between you. “I won’t.”

For a while, neither of you speak. You eat quietly, the flavors pulling you back into nights spent exactly like this, late shifts, exhaustion hanging heavy, and him at the stove making sure you never went to bed hungry.

It’s heavier now, though. Every bite tastes like memory and loss.

When you glance up again, you catch him watching you. Not with anger this time, not with sharp edges, but with something softer, something he tries to hide by looking away too quickly.

And in the quiet, with the warmth of the food in your stomach and the cats curled close, you realize this is what you’ve been aching for—not perfection, not forgiveness, but this: being here, with him, even if it hurts.

The meal is simple, but you eat every bite like it’s the finest thing you’ve ever had. The cats weave between your legs under the table, tails brushing against you, as though trying to remind you that you’re still part of this space, that you belong here as much as they do.

Minho doesn’t eat right away. He leans against the counter with his arms folded, watching you with an unreadable expression. You force yourself not to squirm under his gaze, even though your dress feels tighter with every passing second, its sequined fabric digging into your skin. You’d been tugging at the hem and shifting in your seat all night, the perfect picture of discomfort.

When you finally set your chopsticks down, sighing softly, Minho mutters something under his breath and disappears down the short hallway.

You blink after him, confused, until you hear the familiar creak of the closet door.

A minute later, he returns with a folded bundle in his hands: an oversized hoodie you’ve seen him wear countless times, its cuffs frayed from years of use, and a pair of sweatpants that look just as worn. He sets them down on the table with a thump, as if dropping them there distances him from the gesture.

“You look uncomfortable in that thing,” he says, gesturing at your dress. His tone is gruff, but there’s no mistaking the way his gaze flickers away from yours, the faint color rising at the tips of his ears again.

You glance from the clothes to him, then back, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I was.”

His jaw tightens, but the corner of his mouth threatens to twitch upward before he catches himself. “Then change. Bathroom’s the same as it always was.”

You reach for the clothes, your chest tightening at the simple, ordinary intimacy of it. Slipping out of the glittering armor your family insisted on and back into something soft and lived-in, it feels like shedding more than just fabric. It feels like shedding all the distance, the weight of expectation, the forced perfection.

You clutch the bundle to your chest, warmth blooming in your throat as you whisper, “Thank you.”

He just grunts, turning away to busy himself at the sink, but the tips of his ears stay red, and for the first time all night, the heaviness between you eases into something almost like peace.

-

The bathroom light flickers to life with a faint buzz, the mirror streaked with age and the faint smell of laundry soap clinging to the air. You set the folded bundle on the sink and stare at it for a moment his hoodie, his sweatpants. It’s been a year, but the sight of them is like stepping back into another life.

Your fingers brush the fabric. Soft, worn, faintly smelling of him.

Peeling yourself out of the sequined dress feels like tearing off a costume, glitter catching faintly in the light before it pools uselessly on the floor. The hoodie slips over your head with ease, the hem falling to your thighs. It swallows you whole, heavy and warm, sleeves dangling past your fingertips. The sweatpants are loose too, the drawstring cinched awkwardly at your waist, but they’re comfortable. They’re him.

When you catch your reflection in the mirror, you almost laugh. Gone is the polished stranger in glitter and heels. What looks back is someone softer, someone real. Someone who belonged here once.

You step back into the hallway, bare feet brushing the cool floor. Minho is still at the sink, sleeves rolled up as he rinses dishes, back tense with focus. He doesn’t look up at first.

But when he does, his hands stilling under the stream of water, something flickers across his face. His eyes widen just a fraction, enough to betray him before he looks away too quickly, grabbing a towel to dry his hands like the motion itself might cover the moment.

The tips of his ears are red again.

You can’t help the small smile that curves your lips. “Better?” you ask softly, tugging at the hoodie’s sleeve where it drowns your hand.

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You look ridiculous.”

But his voice doesn’t match the words. It’s too quiet, too unsteady around the edges.

You pad closer, leaning against the counter beside him. “Comfortable ridiculous,” you counter, grinning.

This time, his mouth twitches, so fast you almost miss it but it’s there. A ghost of a smile. He shakes his head again, muttering, “Unbelievable,” before reaching for another plate.

You stay there, shoulder brushing the cabinets, watching him work. The clink of dishes, the running water, the cats weaving in and out of your feet, it all feels achingly domestic. A fragile peace suspended in the small apartment kitchen, something so ordinary and yet, after everything, almost sacred.

You don’t stay on the sidelines for long. After a few moments of watching him rinse plates with sharp, precise movements, you push off the counter and roll up the sleeves of the hoodie, the fabric swallowing half your arms.

Minho notices immediately. His brow furrows, and his voice comes out dry. “What are you doing?”

“Helping,” you say simply, reaching for a clean dish towel.

He scoffs, turning back to the sink. “People like you don’t even know how to wash dishes. You’ll probably break something.”

The jab stings more than it should, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you step closer, bumping your hip against his. “Excuse you—I used to help you with dishes all the time. And laundry. And vacuuming. Don’t act like I didn’t.”

“That was different,” he mutters, though there’s a flicker in his voice, like he knows you’re right but refuses to admit it.

You snatch a dripping cup from the drying rack and flick a bit of water at his arm. He jerks back, startled, turning toward you with an incredulous glare.

“Did you just—”

You grin, unable to help it. “Oops.”

His lips part like he’s about to scold you, but instead, you catch the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, the beginnings of a smile he tries hard to suppress. He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath you can’t quite catch, and turns back to the sink.

You take the opportunity to grab a plate from him, carefully drying it before stacking it neatly on the counter. “See? Not broken. Perfectly capable.”

“Beginner’s luck,” he deadpans, though his shoulders have eased, less rigid than before.

You bump his arm with your elbow, playful. “Admit it—I was always useful.”

This time, he lets out a quiet huff of laughter, so soft you almost miss it under the running water. “Useful is a strong word.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling out of you, light in the cramped little kitchen. For a second, it’s as though nothing ever broke between you, that you never left, that his bitterness never existed. Just the two of you, the cats wandering at your feet, the sink filled with suds, and the soft rhythm of ordinary life.

And for Minho, you catch it: the faintest smile tugging at his lips, unguarded, before he quickly turns away again. It’s not forgiveness. Not yet. But it’s something.

The laughter from the kitchen lingers faintly in the air even after the dishes are stacked neatly away, drying on the counter. For a while, neither of you speak. The small flickers of warmth that had broken through, the splash of water, the rare twitch of a smile fade into a quieter space between you.

Minho leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching the cats curl up on the couch. His face has settled back into its unreadable mask, the softness hidden away again.

You dry your hands on the towel, heart thudding as the silence stretches. You want to hold onto the small moment of ease, but you can feel the weight pressing back in, heavier than before.

“You know this doesn’t mean anything,” he says suddenly, his tone clipped, like he’s trying to remind himself more than you. His gaze doesn’t meet yours. “You can’t just walk in here after a year and think a few dishes and a hoodie make it better.”

The words sting, sharp and true. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “I know. I’m not trying to erase the past. I’m just… trying to be here. With you.”

He scoffs softly, shaking his head, but before he can say anything more, the front door bursts open.

“Minho!” a voice calls, followed by the unmistakable sound of shoes clattering against the entryway tile.

Three figures tumble in, carrying a plastic bag clinking with beer bottles. Their laughter and chatter fill the apartment instantly, the familiar noise of friends who’ve walked through this door countless times before.

But as soon as they step into the living room and see you standing there, everything freezes.

Seungmin halts first, eyes narrowing behind his glasses, his usual composure cracking in surprise. Jisung nearly drops the bag, his mouth falling open, and Hyunjin lets out a small gasp, eyes going wide.

The silence is thick, their disbelief hanging in the air like smoke.

Minho pinches the bridge of his nose with a groan. “Why the hell do you guys always let yourselves in like this?” His voice is sharp, a note of exasperation covering the sudden tension.

But none of them are paying him any attention.

Jisung is the first to move, his steps quick and unsure. His eyes flick over you like he’s trying to confirm you’re real and not some cruel hallucination. “No way,” he whispers, voice cracking. “It’s—you’re—”

Before you can say a word, he drops the bag on the table and pulls you into a hug. His arms are warm, desperate, and you feel him sniffle against your shoulder. “You’re really here. You’re really here.”

Your throat tightens as you hug him back, guilt and comfort tangling painfully inside you. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m here.”

When Jisung finally pulls back, eyes glassy, Seungmin shakes his head slowly, disbelief still etched across his face. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, though his voice softens a fraction as he looks at Minho. “Guess you don’t have to keep crying over her anymore.”

The words land heavy.

Minho’s glare could cut steel. “Seungmin.”

The warning in his tone makes Seungmin raise his hands in mock surrender, though his mouth twitches like he doesn’t regret saying it.

You laugh softly, the sound shaky, trying to ease the weight. “It’s not… it’s not like that. We were just talking. That’s all.”

Seungmin’s gaze flicks between the two of you, his suspicion sharp and unrelenting. He doesn’t say anything, but the silence is loud enough.

Hyunjin, on the other hand, breaks into a grin, clasping his hands together with a theatrical gasp. “Wait, wait—does this mean we can watch a movie? Like old times? Please, it’s been forever!”

The apartment stills again, all eyes turning toward Minho. His jaw tightens, his mouth opening as if to say No. She has to go.

But before the words can form, you perk up, your smile breaking through. “I’d like that,” you say softly, hope shining in your voice.

Minho freezes.

His throat works, eyes darting between your eager expression and his friends’ expectant ones. You can see the battle written across his face, his instinct to shut this down, to protect himself, against the pull of nostalgia and the quiet crack of his defenses.

Finally, he exhales sharply through his nose, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, “Unbelievable,” before turning away.

Which, from Minho, is as close to yes as you’ll ever get.

And in that moment, with Jisung’s watery grin, Hyunjin’s bubbling excitement, Seungmin’s wary silence, and Minho’s reluctant acquiescence, you realize something you hadn’t dared hope for.

You’re not just standing in Minho’s apartment.
You’re standing in his life again.

-

The apartment is suddenly alive in a way you haven’t seen in a year. Hyunjin has already sprawled across the couch like he owns the place, his long legs taking up more than his fair share of space. Jisung sits cross-legged on the floor, bouncing with restless energy, while Seungmin perches neatly in the armchair, his sharp eyes still flicking toward you now and then like he’s trying to puzzle you out.

The questions start immediately.

“Where the hell have you been all this time?” Jisung blurts, tugging a blanket around his shoulders. His voice is incredulous, but the worry buried underneath makes your chest ache.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Hyunjin leans forward, hair falling into his face. “We thought you just—” He cuts himself off, glancing toward Minho’s rigid back before finishing carefully, “—moved on.”

Seungmin, sharper than the rest, folds his arms. “Do your parents know you’re here?”

The barrage makes you falter, words tangling on your tongue. “I… I’ve been around. Just—busy. My family kept me tied up in a million things, and—” You catch yourself, your throat tight. “It wasn’t easy. I missed you guys.”

Jisung’s expression softens instantly. He’s always been the emotional one, wearing his heart on his sleeve. He scoots closer, his hand brushing yours briefly before he drops it, eyes shining. “We missed you too. It sucked. Everything sucked without you.”

Hyunjin nods fervently, his voice gentler than usual. “You were one of us. It wasn’t the same.”

The weight of their words burrows deep, heavy with both guilt and warmth. These weren’t just Minho’s friends, you’d claimed them as your own once. And they’d claimed you back. Losing Minho meant losing them too.

You try to answer their rapid-fire questions, about what you’ve been doing, if you’ve seen anyone else, if you thought about reaching out, but your responses are shaky, fragments of truths you can’t fully voice. You keep glancing toward Minho, as if searching for an anchor.

He doesn’t join in. He moves quietly around the room, flicking through the stack of DVDs with a furrowed brow, avoiding the conversation entirely. His silence feels deliberate, a wall between your voice and his.

Finally, he selects one and slides it into the player with a snap. “Sit down,” he mutters, his tone clipped.

The others obey quickly, like this has always been the rhythm of their group.

When the opening credits roll, Hyunjin leans closer to whisper something, but Minho cuts him off with a sharp, “Shhh.”

The sound makes your lips twitch. You try to suppress the smile, but it slips free anyway. Because this, this is exactly how it used to be. You and the boys talking endlessly, laughing over inside jokes, until Minho inevitably shushed the lot of you, grumbling about wanting to actually watch the movie.

The familiarity stings and soothes all at once.

For a while, it’s quiet. The glow of the TV washes the room in flickering blues and greys. Hyunjin finally digs into the bag of snacks, tossing a bag of chips at Jisung, who nearly drops it in his lap. The hiss of a soda can cracks open, laughter murmurs low.

Your gaze keeps drifting to Minho, who sits at the far end of the couch, his posture deceptively relaxed. But you catch it, the subtle flick of his eyes toward you when he thinks you’re not looking. You hold back a smile, though your chest warms with each stolen glance.

And when your eyes catch his, even for the briefest second, it feels like a secret no one else in the room can see.

Then, without warning, Minho pushes himself up. He grabs two bottles from the table, his movements casual but deliberate. When he turns, his eyes lock on yours.

He doesn’t speak. He just lifts the bottles slightly, the barest tilt of his head, a signal. An invitation.

Your heart leaps.

“I’ll be right back,” you whisper, setting aside the snack Hyunjin had handed you.

Jisung’s head pops up immediately, eyes wide. “Wait, but the best part’s coming up—” He reaches for your wrist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.

Before his fingers can brush you, Seungmin catches his sleeve, shaking his head firmly. His eyes flicker between you and Minho, something knowing hidden in his gaze. “Let her go.”

Jisung pouts but drops his hand, muttering under his breath.

You mouth a quick thank you to Seungmin, then follow Minho out of the living room.

The air shifts instantly once you step through the sliding glass door. The fire escape is just as you remember it, narrow metal steps, the faint smell of rust and city air, the hum of traffic below. You’d spent so many nights out here with him, tucked into the quiet, sharing whispered words under the glow of streetlamps. It had been your spot.

Minho sets the bottles on the railing with a soft clink. For a moment, he just stands there, hands braced against the metal, his shoulders tense in the dim light.

And as you step out onto the fire escape, the familiarity of it all crashes into you. The air is colder here, sharper, but your chest feels warm, full of ghosts and hope all tangled together.

This was where forever used to live.

The air on the fire escape is sharper than inside, cool against your skin, carrying the faint tang of metal and city smoke. From down below comes the distant hum of traffic, a motorcycle revving, laughter from strangers passing on the street. But up here, the world feels suspended, quieter somehow.

Minho leans against the railing, his fingers drumming idly on the rusted bar. He doesn’t look at you. His profile is lit by the pale glow of the streetlamp, sharp and unreadable. The unopened bottle of beer sits beside him, condensation gathering and dripping into small, wet rings on the paint.

You don’t speak right away. Neither does he. The silence stretches, thick and weighted, almost familiar in its heaviness. Once, you used to share silences like this, comfortable, steady. Now it’s charged, every second that passes pulling at your chest.

You settle on the step across from him, tucking your legs up. Your hands fiddle with the hem of his hoodie where it covers you, sleeves swallowing your fingers.

Finally, you murmur, “I didn’t think I’d be here again.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move. “Yeah. Neither did I.”

The words sting, but you swallow past them. Your eyes drift toward the street, watching the blur of headlights below. “I used to love it out here. With you. It felt like ours.”

That makes him glance at you, quick, sharp, then away again just as fast. “Don’t romanticize it. It was just a fire escape.”

You let out a soft breath, half laugh, half ache. “It wasn’t just anything. Not to me.”

Another silence. His fingers tap once, twice more against the railing before curling into a fist.

You push through the tension, voice quieter, raw. “Why did you bring me out here, Minho?”

His gaze finally cuts to you, steady and sharp. “Because I needed space. And because they don’t need to hear this.”

Your heart stutters. “Hear what?”

He exhales slowly, the sound heavy. His free hand rubs at the back of his neck, and for the first time tonight, he looks less like the unshakable version of himself and more like the boy you remember, the one who used to hold you out here, whispering dreams into the dark.

“I don’t know why you’re here,” he says at last, his voice low, edged. “I don’t know what you want from me. You show up after a year, at the one place I least expected to see you, and suddenly you’re back in my apartment, sitting with my friends, wearing my clothes like nothing happened.” His voice breaks just slightly, and he clenches his jaw. “Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

The words hit you like a punch, every syllable vibrating with hurt. Your throat burns, but you force yourself to meet his eyes. “It feels like I’ve been holding my breath for a year, and I finally let it out the second I saw you again.”

For a moment, neither of you move. His eyes lock on yours, and you see it, the flicker of longing he doesn’t want to admit, buried under layers of anger.

You watch him, carefully, like he might vanish if you blink too long. His profile is harsh in the glow of the lamps, but you know the softness beneath it. You’ve known it since the first time you leaned against him on a night much like this one, the two of you whispering silly jokes until you were laughing so hard the neighbors yelled at you to keep it down.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Minho…”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he exhales slowly, his breath visible in the chill. Then, with a subtle shift, he looks at you.

It’s not the sharp, angry glare from before. It’s quieter. Wearier. His eyes flicker over your face like he’s searching for something he thought was gone.

Finally, his voice breaks the stillness. “It feels nice to have you back.”

The words are soft, almost tentative, like he isn’t sure he should be saying them at all.

Your chest tightens. The sting of guilt is still there, sharp and unforgiving, but it tangles with a blooming warmth you can’t suppress. You bite your lip, trying to stop the smile that threatens, but it slips free anyway, small, unsteady, but real.

“Yeah?” you whisper, your voice fragile.

He huffs, almost like a laugh but not quite, and looks away again. “Don’t get used to it. I’m still upset. That doesn’t just… disappear because you showed up wearing my hoodie and looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, your tone lighter than you feel.

His jaw ticks. “Like I matter.”

The admission guts you. Because of course he mattered, he always had, more than anything else. And you know you failed him by letting your family’s demands convince you otherwise.

You lean forward a little, your arms circling your knees. “You do matter. You always did, Minho. I just… I didn’t fight the way I should have.”

He studies you for a long moment, his eyes unreadable. Then, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders ease.

“I don’t know if I can trust you again,” he says quietly, his tone stripped of anger now, replaced by something rawer, more vulnerable. “But…” He trails off, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s about to say. “…I want to try. With you.”

The world tilts. Your breath catches, and suddenly you can’t stop smiling gentle, almost shy, your chest aching with a hope you thought you’d buried.

“Me too,” you murmur. “I want to try too. However long it takes.”

For the first time tonight, something fragile flickers across his face. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But a softness, a crack in the walls he’s built around himself.

He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t reach for you. But he doesn’t look away, either.

The silence that follows doesn’t burn like it did before, it hums, tentative but gentler, as if the city itself has softened to give you both a fragile reprieve.

Minho is still standing at the railing, his posture straighter than it needs to be, like he’s trying to hold himself together. His fingers curl loosely around the cool metal, and every now and then his thumb taps against the railing, a restless little rhythm.

You watch him for a long moment, your heart aching with all the words you’ve yet to say, all the apologies and promises tangled inside you. But you don’t push them now. Instead, you inch closer on the step, the sound of the metal creaking faintly beneath you.

He notices immediately. His eyes cut to you, sharp and wary, but he doesn’t move away.

“I just…” You hesitate, then let the words out in a breath. “Can I—”

He exhales through his nose, a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost a sigh. Then, without looking at you, he shifts just slightly, loosening his stance, creating a space beside him. “Do what you want.”

It’s not permission spoken sweetly. But it’s not rejection either.

Carefully, almost afraid he’ll change his mind, you rise from the step and close the distance between you. The railing is cool beneath your palms as you settle beside him. For a moment, you just stand there in the quiet, shoulder to shoulder but not quite touching.

And then you lean. Slowly, gently, you let your weight tip toward him until your head comes to rest against his shoulder.

Your breath catches, waiting for him to flinch, to shrug you off, to remind you of all the distance you’ve created between you.

But he doesn’t.

His body goes still at first, tense under your touch, and you hold your breath. Then, slowly, the rigid line of his shoulders loosens. He doesn’t lean into you, but he doesn’t move away either. That’s more than you expected, and the relief almost makes your eyes sting.

The smell of him wraps around you: laundry soap, faint cologne, something warm and familiar that sends your chest aching with memory. You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into it, into him.

The rhythm of his breathing is steady against your ear, grounding. You close your eyes for a moment, just soaking in the small miracle of being allowed this close again.

“This feels… normal,” you whisper, the words trembling. “Like it used to.”

Minho hums, a low sound in his chest. His tone is careful, but there’s no bite in it now. “Don’t hold on to the past too tightly. We can’t go back there.”

“I know,” you admit softly. “But maybe… we can start somewhere new.”

For a while, he says nothing. Just the faint creak of the fire escape, the hum of cars far below, and the warmth of him beside you. Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he murmurs, “Maybe.”

The single word is fragile, a thread of hope he doesn’t want to name.

You smile against his shoulder, your chest full, and let yourself lean into him just a little more.

And this time, he doesn’t tense at all.

//

masterlist.

You’d noticed him the second you boarded, his broad shoulders and silver hair in a half bun unmistakable even in the crowd. He was in a fitted black t-shirt that hugged his frame just right, the sleeves straining slightly against his biceps, and a pair of dark jeans that sat low on his hips.

You’d spent months stealing glances at him through your window, watching the way his muscles flexed when he worked out in his backyard, shirtless and glistening with sweat. He always seemed to know you were there, his movements deliberate, like he was putting on a quiet show just for you—yet whenever you tried to talk to him, he’d turn into a blushing, stuttering mess, avoiding your eyes with a shy smile that drove you wild.

Now, here he was, on the same damn train. Fate, maybe. The crowd surged as the train hit a curve, and you found yourself pushed toward the back corner of the coach, right where Chan stood. He leaned against the wall, one hand gripping a pole for balance, his eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on you. For a split second, they widened, a flicker of recognition sparking before he dropped his gaze, his cheeks tingeing pink.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, trying to sidestep as another wave of passengers shoved you closer.

There was nowhere to go. Your body collided with his, your chest pressing flush against the solid warmth of his torso. The thin fabric of your flowy summer dress did little to dull the sensation. Your breasts, barely contained by the delicate lace of your bra, brushed against his chest, and a jolt of heat shot through you. You caught the faintest hitch in his breath, his body tensing under your touch.

“Uh, no, it’s fine,” Chan murmured, his voice low and a little rough, like he was fighting to keep it steady. He didn’t move, didn’t push you away, just stood there, his dark eyes flickering down to meet yours for a heartbeat before darting away again.

Politeness kicked in, and you tried to turn, muttering an apology as you shifted to face the wall instead. But the crowd wasn’t done with you. Another jolt of the train, and your back pressed against him, your ass nestling right against his crotch. The thin, airy fabric of your dress and the barely-there thong underneath left little to the imagination—you could feel everything. The firm outline of him, warm and solid, sent a shiver up your spine. You froze, your heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Chan didn’t say a word. You glanced up, catching his reflection in the darkened window. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on you, intense and unreadable, no trace of his usual bashfulness. The air between you crackled, heavy with unspoken tension. Another sway of the train, and you stumbled slightly, your balance faltering. His hands shot out instinctively, strong fingers curling around your waist to steady you. His grip was firm, warm through the flimsy fabric of your dress, his thumbs brushing the bare skin just above your hips where the hem had ridden up slightly.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper, like it was meant just for you. His hands lingered, not pulling away, and the heat of his touch seared into your skin, making your pulse race.

“Yeah,” you breathed, your voice barely audible, your body hyper-aware of every point of contact. You could feel the slight tremble in his fingers, the way his chest rose and fell a little faster against your back. The crowd pressed tighter, locking you in this intimate corner, your bodies molded together in a way that felt anything but accidental.

You shifted, just slightly, testing the waters. Your hips rolled back, deliberate but subtle, brushing against him again. A soft, almost imperceptible groan rumbled in his chest, and his grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging in just enough to send a thrill through you. He still didn’t speak, but his silence was louder than words, heavy with want he wasn’t ready to admit.

The train hummed along, the world outside blurring into nothing. All that mattered was the heat of his body, the press of his hands, and the growing ache building inside you. You wondered how long you could keep this up, this slow, torturous dance of proximity, before one of you broke.

You stood pressed against Chan in that cramped corner of the coach, your body molded to his, the thin fabric of your summer dress a flimsy barrier between you. The crowd around you was oblivious, lost in their own worlds, but the air between you and Chan was electric, charged with a tension that felt like it could spark and burn.

You couldn’t resist anymore. That shy, bashful Chan you knew from stolen glances across the backyard was unraveling, and you wanted to see how far you could push him. Emboldened by the heat of his hands on your waist, you rolled your hips again, slower this time, deliberate. Your ass pressed harder against his crotch, the friction sending a jolt of heat straight to your core. You could feel him—hard, unmistakable, straining against his jeans—and the realization made your breath catch, a flush creeping up your neck.

Chan’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips through the flowy dress. Instead of pulling away, he tugged you closer, flush against him, so there was no mistaking the bulge pressing into you. A low curse slipped from his lips, barely audible over the hum of the train.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough, raw, like he was fighting a losing battle with himself. The sound sent a shiver through you, pooling heat low in your belly. God, that voice—usually so soft and shy—now dripping with need, was enough to make you ache.

You tilted your head back slightly, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered, “Do you mind?” Your voice was teasing, a challenge wrapped in velvet, daring him to admit what you both already knew.

Chan didn’t answer with words. His hands moved, one staying firm on your waist while the other slid lower, slipping under the hem of your dress. The fabric bunched as his fingers grazed the bare skin of your hip, finding the thin strap of your thong. His touch was hot, deliberate, and when he squeezed—hard, possessive—you bit your lip to stifle a moan. He pressed himself closer, his hips rocking subtly into you, the friction making your thighs clench. The crowd around you faded to nothing; it was just his hands, his heat, and the dangerous thrill of being so exposed.

“Chan,” you breathed, barely audible, your voice trembling with want. His fingers dipped lower, tracing the edge of your thong before slipping beneath it. The first brush of his fingertips against your bare skin made you gasp, your body arching instinctively into his touch. He was bold now, no trace of the shy neighbor left, his fingers exploring with a slow, deliberate purpose. They slid between your thighs, finding you already slick with need, and a soft groan rumbled in his chest, vibrating against your back.

“God, you’re…” he trailed off, his voice thick, like he couldn’t find the words. His fingers moved, teasing, circling, before one slipped inside you, slow and deep. Your knees buckled, but his arm around your waist held you steady, pinning you against him as he worked you with a rhythm that matched the sway of the train. Each stroke was precise, curling just right, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep quiet, the risk of being caught only heightening the fire building inside you.

The train jolted, pressing you harder against him, and his lips brushed the back of your neck, hot and unsteady. “You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, his voice a mix of desperation and awe, and his fingers didn’t stop, pushing you closer to the edge with every movement.

Chan’s fingers moved inside you with a maddening precision, curling and stroking, drawing soft, breathless whimpers from your lips that you barely managed to swallow. Your body trembled against his, slick and aching, the heat between your thighs building to an unbearable peak. But it wasn’t enough… not for you, not for him. The risk, the proximity, the way his breath hitched hot against your ear… it all screamed for more.

You ground back against him one last time, deliberate and teasing, feeling the hard length of him throb through his jeans.

“Chan,” you whispered, your voice a plea laced with demand. His fingers stilled, slipping out slowly, leaving you clenching around nothing, desperate for the fullness only he could give.

He cursed again, low and guttural, his grip on your waist bruising in the best way.

“We can’t… not here,” he murmured, but his body betrayed him, pressing closer, his arousal unmistakable. The crowd shifted around you, a wall of bodies that both hid and trapped you, and in that moment, you decided you didn’t care. You turned your head just enough to catch his eye…dark, hooded, no longer shy but feral with want.

Before he could protest, you reached back, your hand finding the zipper of his jeans. The sound was lost in the din of the train, but his sharp intake of breath wasn’t. You freed him, your fingers wrapping around his cock—thick, hot, and pulsing in your grasp. He was already leaking, the tip slick under your thumb as you stroked him slowly, firmly, from base to head. Chan groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his body tensing like a coiled spring.

“Fuck, you’re insane,” he breathed, but his hips bucked into your hand, chasing the friction. To anyone glancing over, he looked like a protective boyfriend, turning you gently to face the wall, his body shielding yours from the pressing crowd. His arms caged you in, one hand braced against the cool metal beside your head, the other sliding back to your hip. But hidden in that intimate space, your hand worked him relentlessly—stroking, twisting, feeling him grow harder, hotter, the veins throbbing under your touch.

The train lurched again, and Chan’s control snapped. His eyes flashed with something wild, possessive, as he hiked up your dress in one swift motion, the flowy fabric bunching at your waist. His fingers hooked into the thin strap of your thong, shoving it aside roughly, exposing you to the cool air for just a second before he aligned himself. You gasped, your free hand pressing against the wall for balance, your body arching back instinctively.

He buried himself inside you in one deep thrust, filling you completely, stretching you in a way that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The sensation was overwhelming… so hot, thick, and so damn perfect. You bit your lip hard to stifle a moan, your walls clenching around him as he bottomed out, his hips flush against your ass. Chan froze for a heartbeat, his breath ragged against your neck, like he was savoring the tight heat of you before he started to move.

“God, you feel…” he trailed off, his voice a wrecked whisper, as he pulled back slowly and thrust in again, deeper, harder. The angle was brutal, hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl, your hand still wrapped around the base of him, guiding him even as he took control. The crowd swayed around you, oblivious, but every subtle rock of his hips sent waves of pleasure crashing through you, the risk of exposure only making it hotter, dirtier.

He kept you pinned there, his body a shield, his thrusts shallow but relentless, building that fire until you were both trembling, lost in the reckless thrill of it all.

Chan’s thrusts were a torment of pleasure, shallow and controlled at first, each one grinding deep into you with a precision that made your vision blur. The train’s constant sway only amplified it, pushing him further inside you with every bump, like the world itself was conspiring to fuck you harder.

You were soaked, your walls clenching around his cock, the sheer size of him stretching you to your limits, so thick and unrelenting, filling you so completely that every inch felt like a delicious invasion. You bit down on your hand, teeth sinking into your skin to muffle the moans threatening to spill out, the pain a sharp counterpoint to the ecstasy building low in your belly.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” Chan growled low in your ear, his voice rough and filthy, no trace of his shy neighbor left. “Taking me like this, right here where anyone could see… you love the risk, don’t you? My dirty little secret.”

His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your body responding with a desperate clench that made him hiss. He thrust harder, deeper, his hips slamming into yours with a rhythm that bordered on feral, the sound of skin meeting skin barely masked by the chatter of the crowd.

You backed your ass up to meet him, deliberate and greedy, grinding back against every plunge. The movement was reckless, pushing the boundaries of your hidden corner—the hem of your dress riding higher, your thong shoved aside, exposing just enough that if someone turned at the wrong moment, they’d catch a glimpse of where you were joined. The thought thrilled you, adrenaline spiking with the pleasure, making your pulse thunder.

“Chan… fuck, yes,” you whispered, your voice muffled against your bitten hand, but he heard it, his cock twitching inside you at the sound.

His hand left the wall, sliding up your body to grope your tits roughly, fingers kneading through the thin fabric of your dress like he was holding on for dear life. He pinched your nipples, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger, sending jolts straight to your core.

“These are mine right now,” he murmured, his breath hot against your neck. “Gonna make you come so hard you forget where we are.” Then his mouth found your skin, teeth grazing before he bit down—hard enough to mark, a sharp sting that blurred into bliss, his tongue soothing the spot as you arched into him.

The risk hung heavy and electric, the crowd mere inches away, oblivious but so close. A sudden jolt of the train could expose you both, but that only made you wetter, your hips rolling back faster, chasing the friction. Chan’s free hand gripped your hip, pulling you onto him with bruising force, his thrusts turning erratic, deeper, like he couldn’t get enough.

“You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you? Right here, with everyone watching,” he rasped, his voice wrecked, pushing you closer to the edge with every dirty word and brutal stroke.

Sweat slicked your skin, the air in your bubble thick with the scent of sex and desire, and you felt yourself unraveling, biting harder into your hand as waves of pleasure crashed over you, threatening to drown out everything but him.

Chan’s thrusts grew frantic, his cock driving into you with a relentless rhythm that had you teetering on the brink, your body a live wire of sensation. Every slide of him inside you—thick, veined, and pulsing—stretched you wide, hitting that sweet spot over and over until your vision spotted with stars. His hand on your tit squeezed harder, his other gripping your hip like an anchor, pulling you back onto him as you met every thrust with a desperate grind of your own. The train’s hum vibrated through you, amplifying the slick, filthy sounds of your bodies connecting, barely hidden by the crowd’s murmur.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” Chan rasped, his voice a gravelly whisper against your ear, laced with dirty praise that made you clench tighter. “Gonna come for me? Let me feel you milk my cock right here, baby—show me how bad you want it.” His words were your undoing, pushing you over the edge. Pleasure crashed through you like a tidal wave, your walls spasming wildly around him, gripping and fluttering in rhythmic waves that made your legs shake. You bit down harder on your hand, teeth marking your skin, stifling the cry that bubbled up as ecstasy ripped through you. Your body arched, toes curling in your sandals, every nerve alight with the intensity of it—the sheer size of him buried deep, splitting you open while you came undone in secret.

But just as the peak hit, a voice cut through the haze. “Excuse me, mate,” a random guy nearby said, turning slightly toward Chan, oblivious to the scene unfolding inches away. “You know if the next stop’s Central? Train’s so packed, can’t see the signs.”

Your heart slammed into overdrive, adrenaline flooding your veins like ice and fire mixed. Oh god, not now. You froze mid-spasm, your pussy still clenching erratically around Chan’s cock, waves of orgasm rolling through you uncontrollably. The naughtiness of it—the risk of that stranger glancing down and seeing your flushed face, your dress hiked up, Chan’s hips subtly rocking into you—only heightened everything.

You forced your expression neutral, eyes fixed on the wall, but inside, you were a mess, thighs trembling as you fought to look like you weren’t mid-climax, impaled and pulsing around a thick cock in a crowded train. The thrill was electric, dirty, making your orgasm stretch longer, sharper, a secret explosion you had to swallow whole.

Chan didn’t miss a beat, his voice steady despite the way his cock throbbed inside you, feeling every spasm. “Yeah, Central’s next—about five minutes out,” he replied casually, his tone even, like he wasn’t balls-deep in you, fucking you through your high. The guy nodded thanks and turned away, vanishing back into the crowd.

That did it for Chan. The adrenaline rush of answering while buried in your spasming heat, the sheer audacity pushed him over.

“Fuck, that’s so hot,” he growled low, just for you, his thrusts stuttering as he slammed in one last time. He came hard, a heavy load flooding you, hot and thick, pulsing deep inside your cunt. You felt every spurt, his cock twitching as he emptied himself, filling you to the brim with warmth that made you whimper softly against your hand.

He stilled, breathing ragged against your neck, his body pressed close in a protective shield. Slowly, carefully, he slid out, the loss of him leaving you aching and full. A trickle of cum followed, warm and slick, sliding down your thigh—but you were quick, your hand dipping discreetly to catch it, wiping it away before shifting your thong back into place. The fabric clung wetly, trapping his release inside you, a naughty reminder that made your cheeks burn.

Chan zipped himself up, his arms wrapping around you from behind in a subtle hug, like any couple on a train.

“You okay?” he whispered, his voice softer now, shy edges creeping back but laced with awe. His lips brushed your ear, tender, and he nuzzled the bite mark on your neck gently, a sweet contrast to the feral heat from moments ago.

You nodded, leaning into him, the afterglow wrapping you both in a hazy warmth despite the crowd. “More than okay,” you murmured, turning your head to catch his eye. His face was flushed, eyes sparkling with that bashful smile you adored, but there was something new… deeper, like you’d unlocked a door. “That was… insane. In the best way.”

He chuckled softly, his hand stroking your waist. “Yeah, it was. But next time… a proper date first? Dinner, maybe? And then…” His voice dropped, playful and promising. “A proper bed. Where I can take my time with you. No crowds, no trains. Deal?”

Your heart flipped, the sweetness of it melting into the lingering heat. “Deal,” you whispered, grinning as the train slowed for the next stop.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note: PLEASE BEFORE YOU MURDER ME WAIT!! 😩😩😱😱 I promise I have a good reason for sending this fic late 🤭

So you know I mentioned before in other fics that i was writing my own original novel?? Yeah?? YES! That’s what took me away, as much as i hate that I’ve been off here… that book needed all the writing in me 😭😭❤️❤️

I will be uploading it soon on wattpad and other non exclusive platforms 🥰🥰🥰🥰 I cant wait!

But yeah please also note that REQUESTS ARE CLOSED FOR NOW! I have so much backlog that I don’t even know where to start lol.

To my new followers, WELCOME!!! Its always steamy up in this bitch 🌝 please find a seat… or bed 😂