kai

fics

the wrong kind of right - seungcheol x f!reader (hurt/comfort, smut)

you don’t belong to him and he doesn’t belong to you. tet through whispered conversations, soft touches, and the way he looks at you when it’s just the two of you, he’s the secret you keep tucked away.

extra credit - seungcheol x f!reader (smut)

you were just a student with curiosity but he noticed more. every glance and touch pulls you into something forbidden.

the weight of what we buried - jeonghan x f!reader (angst)

the case was closed. the door was locked. and yet... the questions remain. because something still doesn’t feel right. and it’s getting harder to pretend you don’t see the shadow. invisible, but impossible to ignore.

i remember you differently - wonwoo x f!reader (bittersweet)

a notebook appears with memories that aren’t quite yours, a name that feels both familiar and strange. he shows up in quiet moments, like a shadow from another life. and between what’s remembered and what’s forgotten, something is waiting to be found if you’re brave enough to keep looking.

team building (and other questionable choices) - mingyu x f!reader (fluff, smut)

when two overworked assistants team up to secretly play matchmaker for their clueless bosses, the plan is simple: coordinate schedules, fake a little chemistry, and absolutely not fall for each other.

still, in paris / still, in paris (2) and still in paris (final) - mingyu x f!reader (fluff)

you didn’t plan to meet mingyu in paris. and you definitely didn’t plan for a blurry photo, one conversation, and a few late-night texts to turn into the internet’s favorite theory. but maybe the truth is even stranger: quiet, funny, and almost real.

how to build a memory (when the ocean keeps taking) - mingyu x f!reader (hurt/comfort)

he keeps forgetting you and you keep remembering him. every day is a first hello, a first glance, a first story told again.

3AM DOESN'T LOVE YOU BACK - vernon x f!reader (angst, smut)

you didn’t mean to fall into this. it started the way most mistakes do, quietly. with a party you shouldn’t have been at, a boy you shouldn’t have kissed, and a text you should’ve ignored. it wasn’t supposed to matter. but somewhere between the silence and the sheets, you started hoping it did.

hand to god - vernon x f!reader (humor, smut)

all that you needed was a dumb hand size comparison. now he’s on his knees proving a point, and you’re not exactly complaining.

12b emergencies - vernon x f!reader (fluff, smut)

what should have been a simple apartment move quickly becomes anything but, thanks to the charming doorman who always knows what’s wrong before you do.

headcanons

dating vernon as his personal ragebait target

how i actually imagine a relationship with vernon would be

how i personally think sex would be when dating vernon

inexperienced vernon who keeps asking for praise with everything he does for you in bed

reader is so in love with vernon that she came from a kiss

vernon realizing he wants to spend the rest of his life with you

which flowers would SVT give to their partner?

vernon coming home after a tiring day from the studio

vernon pretending he forgot your birthday

plug!vernon x college student!reader

smaus

seventeen reacting to a 3am text that is definitely a booty call but none of them realize it right away: hyung line | maknae line

minghao as your brutally honest best friend

seventeen reacting to you in a silent hill dark nurse cosplay

boyfriend!vernon

flirty friend!mingyu x witty!reader

you were always better at ending worlds than living in one.

as a bestselling author, you had mastered the art of the 'beautiful tragedy.' you knew exactly which adjectives would make a reader’s heart ache and which metaphors would linger like a bruise. your agency called you a prodigy and your fans called you a healer. but when the doctor sat you down in that mahogany-furnished office to tell you that the persistent cough wasn't just 'writer’s exhaustion,' none of your words could save you.

it was an aggressive form of pulmonary fibrosis. a slow scarring of the lungs. a countdown.

the pity was the worst part. it started with your agent, who looked at you like a shattered vase he couldn't afford to replace. then came your parents, their voices reaching that fragile, high-pitched frequency that people reserve for the dying. they wanted you home. they wanted to surround you with organic juices and prayer circles and the suffocating scent of hope.

you couldn't breathe, literally and figuratively.

so, you chose the hospital. you traded your penthouse for room 402 of the medical center’s oncology and chronic respiratory wing. you told them it was for 'better access to experimental trials' but it was a lie. you just wanted to be somewhere where being sick was the norm, not a tragedy to be whispered about. you wanted to be invisible.

for three months, your only companion was mr. hwang, an eighty-year-old man who barely spoke and smelled like old peppermint. when he passed away on a rainy tuesday, you didn't cry. you just watched the nurses strip the bed and felt a hollow envy. he had finished his story.

you expected to be alone for a while. you preferred the silence, it was easier to write your final manuscript when the other bed was an empty void.

the new arrival happened on a sunny thursday. there was no drama, just the professional efficiency of nurses moving equipment. you watched from the corner of your eye as a young man was wheeled in. he was tall, with a frame that seemed too large for the narrow hospital bed, and skin that looked like it had once spent a lot of time under the sun.

"thank you, nurse. i can take it from here," he said. his voice was deep, steady, and surprisingly polite.

you didn't look up, keeping your focus on the paragraph you were struggling to finish. you heard him settling in. the soft thud of a bag, the click of the iv pole. it was a rhythmic, domestic sound that felt intrusive in your carefully curated solitude.

"it's a lot of words," he remarked after a while. his voice wasn't loud, just a casual observation directed at the frantic clicking of your keys.

you paused, finally looking over. he was sitting on the edge of his bed, leaning his back against the pillows. he looked tired, his dark hair a bit messy, but he offered a small, cordial nod.

"it's a book," you replied, your voice a bit raspy. "or it’s supposed to be."

he tilted his head, eyes drifting to the stack of notebooks on your nightstand. "i used to think about doing that too. writing something. but i think i lacked the discipline for a whole plot." he gave a weak, breathless laugh, his hand resting briefly on his chest. "i settled for a list instead. it's less daunting."

"a list?" you asked.

"yeah." he looked at the ceiling, as if reading something written there. "just ten things. i was supposed to do them before i ended up back here. i think i'm going to try to finish them now, while the ink is still wet."

he didn't say 'before i die.' he didn't need to, that was the unspoken subtext of every sentence.

"ten is a good number," you said, turning back to your screen. "achievable."

"that was the idea," he whispered. "but i'm only on item three and it feels like I’m running out of time.."

he didn't ask for your help. he just stared out the window at the grey skyline, leaving the thought of his list hanging in the air between your beds like a prompt you weren't sure how to answer.

-

you didn’t mean to learn his name. in room 402, names were anchors and you were trying to drift. but it’s hard to remain anonymous when the man in the bed next to you treats silence like a personal challenge.

it took two days for him to wear you down. he started small: commenting on the quality of the hospital’s lukewarm tea, narrating the dramatic lives of the pigeons on the windowsill, and eventually, introducing himself properly.

kim mingyu. he said it with a certain pride, as if he were presenting a gift.

mingyu was a natural oversharer. within forty-eight hours, you knew that he hated the texture of velvet, that he once tried to dye his hair blonde and ended up orange and that he could tell exactly which nurse was coming down the hall just by the rhythm of their footsteps. he was funny. not the forced, frantic humor of someone trying to ignore the end, but a genuine, sharp-witted levity that made you laugh until your lungs burned.

and then, there was the reading.

whenever your agent or the rare, authorized visitor came by to discuss the "legacy" of your work, mingyu would immediately fall silent. he’d pull one of your books from his nightstand (he had acquired your entire bibliography from the hospital gift shop) and bury his nose in it. he wouldn't look up, wouldn't eavesdrop. he gave you a bubble of professional dignity in a place that usually stripped it away.

one afternoon, after a particularly grueling session with your editor, you watched him close your second novel.

"you know," he said, his voice soft as he traced the cover, "i think your protagonist in this one is a bit too hard on herself. she deserves a break."

"she’s a reflection of the market, mingyu," you replied, though you knew it was a lie. "people like to see characters struggle."

"it's a good distraction," he admitted, placing the book back. "keeps me from thinking about item number five on my list."

you realized then that while you knew his favorite color and his embarrassing childhood stories, you knew nothing real. mingyu was a master of the shallow dive. he talked a lot to say very little.

you also noticed the empty chair by his bed. while your nightstand was cluttered with 'get well' cards you refused to read, his was bare. no flowers. no family photos. no frantic calls from friends.

"you don't get many visitors," you said one night, the room bathed in the blue glow of the monitors. it was a bold observation, a break in the cordiality, but he had invited it by being so loud.

mingyu didn't flinch. he just adjusted his nasal cannula and looked at the ceiling. "i... couldn't stand the way they looked at me," he said, and the humor was gone, replaced by a devastatingly relatable honesty. "like i was already a ghost. my parents... they wanted to fix things that are unfixable. it turned every conversation into a battlefield. and my friends? they stopped seeing mingyu. they just saw 'the sick guy'."

he turned his head to look at you, his eyes dark and searching.

"pity is a heavy thing to carry when you're already struggling to breathe," he whispered. "so i cut the line. it’s lonelier, sure. but it’s lighter."

you felt a sharp tug in your chest. he was the first person who didn't try to sugarcoat the isolation. he had chosen it for the same reason you had. to protect the last fragments of who he was before the illness claimed the rest.

he leaned back, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. "can i ask you something?”

“yeah,” you replied.

“after we finish here… do you think we’ll become the stories people tell, or do we’ll just become the blank pages at the end of the book?” he looked at your laptop, then back at you. “i wonder if it hurts to let go, or if it feels like… finally putting down a very heavy bag.”

and for the first time, the "bestselling author" in you had nothing to say. you just sat there in the dim light, two people who had run away from the world only to find the exact mirror of their own fears in a hospital room.

"that’s why i like your books," he said. "you don't give them easy endings. you let them be scared. it makes me feel like i’m allowed to be scared too."

"mingyu?" you said after a long silence.

"yeah?"

"what's item number four?"

he grinned, the shadow of his usual self returning. "that one’s a bit more difficult. it involves a sunset and a very specific type of ice cream that the doctors definitely wouldn't approve of."

-

attachment in a hospital is a dangerous thing. it’s not like the novels you used to write, there are no slow-motion montages or grand declarations. instead, it was built in the small, mundane thefts of time.

it was the way mingyu started "accidentally" ordering two puddings because he knew you hated the texture of the main course. it was the way you started reading your drafts aloud to him. not for critique, but because the deep, steady hum of his breathing seemed to calibrate the erratic rhythm of your own. he became your first and most vital audience, the only person allowed to see the messy, unedited skeleton of your thoughts.

for two months, you were more than patients. you were a secret society of two. you learned that he was an architecture student before his lungs decided to collapse his own blueprints. you told him about the ending of your book. the real one, where the protagonist doesn't get saved by a miracle but by a quiet moment of acceptance.

"i like it," he had whispered one night, his hand reaching across the gap between the beds, fingers barely brushing your knuckles in the dark. "it’s honest. don’t change it for the publishers. don't let them make it pretty."

but the thing about being an anchor is that when one person begins to sink, they can't help but pull the other down with them.

the news came on a sterile monday morning. the lead specialist, a man whose face you would never remember but whose tone you would never forget, didn't look at you. he looked at the new shadows on your scans, dark clouds blooming across the gray film of your life. the trial hadn't just failed, it had triggered an accelerated inflammatory response.

three months. maybe five, if the palliative care held.

the words didn't feel like a blow. they felt like a sudden loss of cabin pressure at thirty thousand feet. you didn't cry. you didn't even blink. but as soon as the door clicked shut, the world turned into a soundless, monochromatic void.

you looked over at mingyu. he was watching you, his expression uncharacteristically grave, the usual light in his eyes dimmed by the heavy silence of the room. he reached out, his hand open on the scratchy white sheets, an invitation for you to shatter against him.

you didn't take it.

instead, you turned your back. you pulled the thin, industrial-grade hospital blanket up to your chin and stared at the beige wall until the texture of the paint became a map of your own despair.

the wall you built in the following days wasn't made of bricks; it was made of a cold, impenetrable silence. for the next three weeks, you became a ghost while still inhabiting your body. you stopped typing. the laptop, once an extension of your hands, gathered dust on the nightstand. you stopped laughing at his jokes. you stopped acknowledging the small, kind things he tried to do.

it was cruel, and the writer in you knew it. you knew that for someone like mingyu, someone who had surgically removed himself from his own family and friends to avoid the suffocating weight of their pity, your silence was a different, sharper kind of abandonment. but you couldn't help it.

every time you heard him cough, every time he tried to start a conversation about a new 'item' on his list, you felt a surge of jagged resentment. how could he talk about a list when your pages were being ripped out? how could you be gentle with someone when you were already in the process of mourning yourself?

you started asking the nurses to keep the curtain drawn. the yellow fabric became your border wall. you wore noise-canceling headphones even when there was no music playing, just to signal that you were unavailable for the world. you treated him like a total stranger, a temporary roommate whose name you had forgotten. you hoped that if you made him hate you, his grief wouldn't be as heavy when your three months were up.

you were trying to protect him by being the villain in his story. you were trying to make yourself easy to leave.

but as you sat in the dark behind that thin fabric curtain, listening to the mechanical hiss of his oxygen and the slow scratch of a pen against paper from his side of the room, you realized the catastrophic flaw in your plan.

the silence didn't break because you wanted it to. it broke because the universe has a cruel way of reminding you that you aren't the only one running out of pages.

it happened at 2:14 am. the yellow curtain was still drawn, a flimsy fabric border between your grief and his existence. then, a sharp, crystalline smash. the sound of a water glass hitting the linoleum floor echoed like a gunshot in the sterile quiet.

you froze. your first instinct was to stay still, to keep the wall up. but then came the sound that dismantled you: a choked, wet gasp. it wasn't just a cough, it was the sound of someone drowning on dry land.

you threw the curtain back so hard the plastic rings shrieked.

mingyu was slumped over the side of his bed, his large frame trembling violently. his hand was outstretched toward the shattered glass, his knuckles white. his face, usually so composed in optimism, was pale, slick with cold sweat. he looked small. for the first time since he walked in, kim mingyu looked like he was losing.

"mingyu," you breathed, your voice cracking from weeks of disuse.

you scrambled out of bed, ignoring the protests of your own lungs, the familiar tug of your oxygen tubing. you reached him just as his knees gave way. you caught him, or tried to, guiding him back against the mattress. his skin was burning, yet he was shivering.

"don't," he rasped, his eyes fluttering open, dark and clouded with pain. "don't... look at me like that."

"like what?"

"like i'm already gone." he gripped your forearm, his fingers digging into your skin. "you've been doing it for three weeks. you stopped looking at me because you're scared of what you'll see. but i'm still here. i'm right here."

you felt the sob rise in your throat, a jagged thing you couldn't swallow. "they gave me three months, mingyu. three months. how am i supposed to look at you and know that i won't even be a memory for very long?"

the air in the room felt heavy, charged with the weight of everything you hadn't said. the monitors hummed, a rhythmic reminder of the time slipping through your fingers.

mingyu took a shaky breath, his gaze fixing on yours with a sudden, piercing clarity. the 'over-sharer' was gone, the joker was gone. there was only the boy who was terrified of the dark.

“i’ve been thinking about this,” mingyu said, like the words had slipped out before he could stop them. there was no bravado in his voice, just something raw and honest. “about you.”

your pulse jumped, sharp enough to hurt. you stayed perfectly still, afraid that any movement would shatter whatever fragile thing was happening between you.

he swallowed. “a month ago, i told myself it was better not to cross that line. that there would be time. later.” a small, humorless breath left him. “but later isn’t something we really have, is it?”

the machines hummed softly, but they felt distant now, like they belonged to another room, another life. all you could hear was your own heartbeat, loud and unsteady, mirroring the fear he was no longer trying to hide.

mingyu looked at you then, really looked at you. “i don’t want to leave this place still wondering,” he said quietly. “still pretending i don’t feel this.”

his fingers twitched at his side, like he was fighting the urge to reach out. “can i kiss you?”

there it was. not rushed but achingly sincere. the kind of question no one had asked you in a long time.

because the way he saw you now had nothing to do with charts or prognosis. nothing to do with pity, or obligation, or borrowed time.

he looked at you like you were still here. like you were still someone to want. and for a moment, despite everything, you felt painfully, undeniably alive.

you nodded. a small, breathy, almost timid, "yes." the word escaped your lips before you could even think twice.

he reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he gently cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. he was so much taller than you, even now, hunched over and weakened by the disease. he guided you forward, and when your lips met… it was strange. awkward, actually.

the plastic of your oxygen cannulas brushed against each other with a soft, clinical click. the taste of hospital salt and mint lingered between you. but as he deepened the kiss, pulling you closer until there was no space left for the silence, the fear started to recede.

for a few seconds, the three-month deadline didn't exist. the failed treatments didn't exist. there was only the heat of his skin and the desperate, beautiful reality of a boy who loved you enough to ask for a kiss in a room where people came to say goodbye.

he pulled away just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing the same recycled air.

"item number one," he whispered against your lips, his voice thick with emotion, a ghost of that familiar, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "it was the only rule i actually wrote down. do not fall in love."

"what?" you asked, a breathless, broken laugh escaping you as your eyes stung with tears.

"yeah," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your cheek with a tenderness that made your heart ache. "i think i failed that one the second you told me to leave you alone. i was supposed to be preparing for the end, but you... you made me want to start a whole new chapter instead. i’m a bit of a disaster, aren’t i?"

-

the aftermath of the kiss wasn't a montage of happy days. it was a countdown. for a week, you lived in a fever dream of borrowed intimacy. you spent your afternoons with your chairs pulled so close they touched, sharing a single pair of tangled earphones, listening to the demos of his favorite songs. he looked at you with a hunger that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the fact that he was memorizing the exact shade of your eyes before the lights went out.

but reality has a way of turning down the volume just when the music starts to mean something.

the glass shattering that night hadn't been an accident, it was a prophecy. mingyu’s decline was steep, a jagged line on a graph that no one could level out. the fever took hold first, turning his skin into a furnace, followed by a struggle for breath so violent that his grin finally vanished, replaced by a raw, hollow terror.

when the crash cart arrived, the noise was deafening.

"icu," the nurse had said, her voice clinical and cold as they wheeled him away. you tried to stand, to follow the rattling sound of his bed, but your own body betrayed you, a fit of coughing pinning you back against your pillows.

for twelve days, room 402 was a grave. you sat in the silence he left behind, staring at the unmade bed next to yours. the agency called, they wanted the final chapters. your parents called, they wanted to come visit. you ignored them all. you spent your energy on the only thing that mattered: his tattered notebook.

you found it in his drawer. you flipped to the last page he’d written.

the list.

you opened it with trembling hands. it wasn't organized. it was messy, filled with doodles of tigers and architecture sketches.

item 3: see the stars without the glare of city lights (failed).

item 6: tell my parents i forgive them, even if i don’t mean it yet (done).

item 8: find a reason to want to stay.

item 9: be brave enough to be missed.

below item 8, in a different ink, he had scribbled: found her in room 402

your heart fractured. he only had nine items. the tenth was a blank space, a jagged edge of 'what ifs'.

against all odds, he came back nine days later. when they finally brought him back, he wasn't mingyu anymore. he was a collection of sharp bones and translucent skin, his breathing assisted by a machine that hissed like a snake in the corner. he was too weak for the icu, or perhaps, they simply knew there was no point in keeping him there.

you didn't stay in your bed. despite the nurses' warnings, you moved to the hard, plastic chair beside him. you stayed there until your spine ached and your own breath came in ragged stutters. you held his hand. the hand that used to be so warm, now feeling like cooling wax.

on the third night, the world outside was pitch black. the only light came from the soft, rhythmic glow of his monitors.

his eyes opened slowly, unfocused, until they landed on you. his hand twitched in yours, a weak, desperate pressure. he struggled with the oxygen mask, his chest heaving with the effort of a single word.

"you're still here," he whispered, his hand twitching on the sheet.

"i'm not going anywhere, mingyu."

he gave a weak, shaky exhale that might have been a laugh. "i figured it out. the list."

"shh, mingyu. don't try to talk," you whispered, leaning in until your forehead pressed against his.

"the tenth... thing," he rasped, a tiny, ironic smile flickering for a second. the old mingyu, the one who failed the 'no falling in love' rule, coming back for one last bow. "it’s not... on the list. and i think it’s you. it was always... just you."

you felt a sob break in your throat, hot and suffocating. "mingyu, please. not yet. we still have time."

he didn't argue about the time. he knew better than anyone that time was a currency he had already spent. instead, he just closed his eyes for a moment, his breathing heavy and rattling, each inhale sounding like a fight he was slowly losing interest in winning.

"thank you," he murmured after a long silence, his voice so thin it was almost translucent. "for not... looking at me like a tragedy. for just... being in the room."

you couldn't find your voice. you just squeezed his hand, pressing your face into the side of the mattress, trying to memorize the texture of his skin.

"go to sleep," he whispered, his words slurring slightly as the exhaustion took over. "i'll be here when you wake up."

it was the last lie he ever told you.

you must have drifted off in that uncomfortable plastic chair, your head resting near his arm. you woke up at 4:47 am. the room was bathed in a pale, sickly indigo light, but something was wrong. the air felt still. too still.

you looked up, and your heart dropped into your stomach. mingyu’s head was turned toward you, his eyes partially open, but they were fixed on nothing. his chest wasn't moving.

"mingyu?" you whispered, your voice trembling. you touched his shoulder. he was still warm, but he was unresponsive. "mingyu, hey. wake up."

nothing.

panic, sharp and cold, flooded your veins. you didn't just sit there. you lunged for the call button, pressing it repeatedly, the frantic plastic clicks echoing in the quiet ward. "help!" you tried to scream, but it came out as a broken sob. "somebody, please! room 402! help him!"

within seconds, the silence was shattered. the door swung open, and two nurses rushed in, followed by the resident on duty. they pushed you aside to get to him.

"he's in respiratory arrest," one of them shouted.

you stood there, trembling, anchored to the floor by your own iv pole, watching as they started compressions. the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the doctor’s hands against mingyu’s chest was the most violent sound you had ever heard. you watched them bag him, forcing air into lungs that no longer wanted it. you watched the monitor, the jagged, artificial spikes caused by the compressions, and then the flat, agonizing line when they paused to check for a rhythm.

"again," the doctor commanded.

they tried for twenty minutes. you stayed in the corner, your hands pressed over your mouth to keep from screaming. you wanted them to stop because it looked like they were hurting him, and you wanted them to never stop because as long as they were moving, he wasn't gone.

but then, the doctor looked at the clock. he looked at the nurse, who shook her head.

"time of death: 5:12 am," he said quietly.

the chaos stopped as quickly as it had begun. the doctors stepped back. the nurses began to disconnect the tubes, their movements slow and respectful now. the room settled back into that terrifying, permanent silence.

the doctor approached you, placing a hand on your shoulder, but you didn't hear a word he said. you only saw mingyu. they had closed his eyes. he looked peaceful, but he looked like an empty house. the owner had moved out in the middle of the night without saying goodbye.

as you finally stood up, your legs numb and your chest feeling like it had been hollowed out with a knife, you saw the notebook on the nightstand. the wind from the open door caught the pages, flipping them over until it stopped at the very end.

he was gone. the bed next to yours was just metal and sheets again. but as you walked back to your side of the curtain, you picked up your pen. your hands were shaking, but your mind was clear.

you had a story to finish. and for the first time in your career, you weren't worried about the ending. he had already given it to you.

-

the doctors called it a miracle. you called it a cruel irony.

against every scan, every darkening cloud on the x-rays, and every statistic the specialists had whispered, you didn't die in three months. or five. or ten. the disease slowed its crawl just enough for you to breathe. not easily, but enough to hold a pen. enough to finish the task he had left in that empty bed.

it’s been two years since the silence of room 402.

today, you aren't sitting in a plastic hospital chair. you’re backstage at a crowded auditorium, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the low hum of an audience waiting to hear from the woman who wrote the book of the year.

the cover is simple: just a smudge of ink, like a thumbprint, on a white background. the title is just two digits: 10.

you still feel the weight in your chest. sometimes from the scars on your lungs, but mostly from the space he left behind. every time you see a sunset, you think of item four. every time you hear a bad joke, you wait for a deep, raspy laugh that never comes. but like the question he asked you that night, he remains. he isn’t a blank page, never will be. he’s the story you’ll tell, the one that keeps living in you.

you pick up a copy of the finished book. the paper is crisp, the binding tight. it’s a story about two people who ran out of time but found something better in the middle.

you flip to the very first page, the one that comes before the tragedy, before the list, and before the goodbye. your fingers trace the words of the dedication, the ink dark and permanent against the white page.

it is the final word on kim mingyu. it is your tenth item.

to k.m.,

“ugh, seriously, you’re the worst.”

you sighed, pulling your seatbelt across your chest. the late-afternoon sun was already low, casting long shadows across the parking lot of mingyu’s apartment building.

“mingyu, come on. you love the falcons! you were literally the one who stayed up until three am last week analyzing their defense strategy, complaining that you wished you could go to a game this season.”

he dramatically slumped against the passenger door, his arms crossed over his chest, looking like a giant sulky mountain of a man.

“yeah, i love the falcons. that’s not the point. the point is i don't love spending three hours crammed in a stadium with suho.”

you rolled your eyes, starting the car.

“don't be a brat,” you nudged his massive arm. it was like nudging a tree trunk. “you've seen suho plenty of times at our group dinners, it's not a big deal. this is the atlanta derby! you only managed to snag these tickets... after pulling a major favor, by the way... because you know how much i wanted to go. so can you please just, like, pretend to be a decent human being for the afternoon?”

mingyu and you were inseparable. you’d been neighbors since you were six, sharing everything from terrible fashion phases to the traumatic experience of high school math. your friendship was built on an unspoken trust: he was your safe space, your emergency contact, the one person who always knew what you were thinking just by the way you sighed. you had your own language of inside jokes and he was the one you called at 2am when you couldn’t sleep.

but lately, this comfortable dynamic had been strained by one factor: suho.

“a ‘decent human being’ wouldn’t constantly play mind games with my best friend,” mingyu muttered, his gaze fixed out the window, his jaw tight. “look, i’m not saying he’s a bad guy. he’s... fine. he’s just clearly not serious about you and i don’t want to be there for the inevitable fallout when he ghosts you after the second quarter.”

you gripped the steering wheel tighter. this was the core of your argument, the same argument you’d been having for two months.

“he’s not stringing me along, gyu! we’re just... taking things slow. he’s busy with work and i’m busy with classes. you got him those seats right next to mine, he’s excited! and you’re being a ridiculously annoying, overprotective idiot who thinks no one is good enough for me.”

you couldn’t understand why he was being so stubborn. it was true mingyu was fiercely protective, that was just part of his nature. he hated seeing you sad or disappointed. he saw his role as the guardian of your happiness and anyone who might threaten that was immediately put on his black list.

“i’m only ‘overprotective’ because i’ve known you for fourteen years and i know what you deserve,” he countered, his voice low and firm.

he paused, then let out a heavy sigh, the fight seemingly leaving him. “but i’ll go. i hate the thought of you being there alone if he acts like a jerk and i refuse to miss this game. but only for the falcons and only if you promise to buy me one of those ridiculously overpriced, burnt hot dogs.”

you finally relaxed, a smile touching your lips. this was the mingyu you knew. “deal. and i’ll even get you the giant pretzel. now put on some music and let’s go, or we'll be stuck in traffic forever.”

he finally uncrossed his arms and reached for the aux cord, a slight, almost imperceptible tension still lingering around his eyes. he didn’t like it but he was coming with you. that’s what best friends do. they go to games they don’t want to go to, just so you won’t have to face a confusing crush alone.

the atmosphere inside the stadium was electric, even before kickoff. you’d managed to find your seats, perfectly positioned, first row of the upper deck, and immediately, the passive-aggressive battle began.

suho, looking annoyingly handsome in a team jersey, was seated to your right and mingyu, still looking sulky, had claimed the seat behind you. the arrangement was a calculated attempt to keep the peace.

“wow, the view is great from up here,” suho commented, leaning slightly into your space, his smile charming and easy. “thanks again for snagging these. i owe you big time.”

“don't thank her yet,” mingyu's low voice rumbled from behind. he was already unwrapping his pretzel, which was, in fact, giant. “she only got these because of me. you should thank the person who knows a guy who knows a guy.”

you kicked backward, hitting his shin lightly. “mingyu,” you hissed under your breath. suho chuckled, a soft, dismissive sound that made your cheeks warm with embarrassment.

“it's fine. some people just like to remind everyone how important they are.” he turned to you, his eyes crinkling. “he's always like this, isn't he? the human grumpy bear.”

you forced a smile. “he's just a little stressed about the game. he's a huge fan.”

“oh, i know. i saw him yelling at the tv last time we watched at your place. very passionate,” suho said, the tone suggesting mingyu’s passion was slightly unhinged.

he reached out and brushed a piece of hair off your shoulder, his fingers lingering for a beat longer than necessary.

“you know, you look really nice today. better than any defense strategy, that's for sure.”

mingyu made a exaggerated gagging noise from behind you. “i swear to god, mingyu, if you don't shut up...” you started, twisting in your seat to glare at him.

“what? i'm choking on my pretzel,” he said, holding up the massive, salty carb as proof. his eyes, however, were narrowed at suho. “and by the way, suho, a ‘really nice’ person wouldn't wear a knock-off jersey to the derby. that font is clearly a size too large.”

suho barely flinched. he took a sip of his beer, his gaze still on you.

“a knock-off? this is vintage. some people just don't appreciate the classics.” he then leaned in closer to you. “don't mind him. he's just jealous we get to sit next to each other.”

“jealous of what?” mingyu retorted immediately, his voice rising, drawing a few sideways glances from the section. “jealous that you're going to spend the third quarter staring at your phone and ignoring the person you supposedly asked out? no thanks. i'll take the good seats and the girl who knows the offsides rule, thanks.”

you felt yourself shrinking in your seat. they were making a scene and you were caught right in the middle, feeling like a prize neither of them actually respected.

“i'm right here, you two,” you muttered, pressing your hands into your thighs. “can we please just enjoy the game? or at least, you know, talk to me?” suho squeezed your arm lightly, a gesture that was supposed to be comforting but felt possessive.

“he’s trying to be funny. can we just ignore him?” but as the game progressed, suho mostly talked about his work, occasionally glancing at the field.

mingyu, meanwhile, was actually watching the game, shouting tactical advice, his focus entirely on the field and occasionally, on suho’s lack of focus.

you sat there, feeling like a silent prop in their bizarre little power struggle and a cold dread started to settle in your stomach. maybe mingyu wasn’t being an idiot after all. maybe you were being strung along.

the score was tied and the tension in the air was thick enough to chew. the roar of the crowd was a physical entity, a vibrating wave that pulsed through the stadium seats and into your bones.

it was halftime and the colossal jumbotron above flickered to life, its bright, intrusive light washing over the stands. a collective groan and cheer rose from the crowd as the infamous kiss cam graphic appeared, a giant, cartoonish red heart floating across the screen.

you gripped the armrests, a nervous flutter starting in your stomach. you’d half-joked about this with mingyu earlier, how embarrassing it would be if it landed on you. he’d just grunted, probably envisioning suho making some cheesy, public display.

the red heart began its slow sweep across the faces in the crowd. it danced over an elderly couple who shared a tender peck, a group of college students who burst into laughter and a father kissing his young daughter’s forehead. you tried to pretend you weren’t looking, feigning interest in the ridiculously overpriced hot dog in your lap.

then, it happened. the heart, as if guided by some mischievous cosmic force, slowed its movement, hovering, then stopped.

right on you. and suho.

your breath caught in your throat. a sudden, overwhelming heat rushed to your face, making your ears burn. a ripple of excited ‘oohs’ and ‘awws’ spread through your section, quickly escalating into a chant: “kiss! kiss! kiss!” your heart hammered against your ribs, so loud you were sure suho could hear it.

this was it. this was the moment you’d secretly, desperately hoped for.

he'd finally make a move, show everyone that he was serious. you turned to him, your eyes wide and hopeful, a shy smile trembling on your lips. the entire stadium was watching. the pressure was immense, intoxicating. suho met your gaze, a smirk playing on his lips. he leaned in and your pulse quickened, anticipating the soft brush of his lips. the crowd’s chant grew louder, a thundering crescendo urging him on.

but instead of kissing you, he chuckled. a low, dismissive sound that pierced through the noise of the stadium like a cold shard of ice.

he didn’t lean in for a kiss.

he leaned back, shrugging playfully at the camera, then winked at you as if to say, can you believe this? he gestured vaguely with his hand, shaking his head, as if it were all a big joke. a joke that you were suddenly the humiliated punchline of.

the chanting died down slightly, replaced by a smattering of disappointed murmurs. your smile faltered, replaced by a searing embarrassment that made your vision blur. your cheeks were crimson, a fire igniting inside you.

he was laughing. at you. in front of thousands of people.

before you could process the crushing wave of rejection, before you could even force a shaky, mortified laugh in return, you felt a strong, firm hand on your shoulder.

it wasn’t a gentle touch. it was an anchor, pulling you back. in one swift, almost violent motion, you were yanked backward, out of your seat and away from suho. the world spun for a dizzying second. you gasped, your eyes flying open just as you felt a warm, unexpected pressure on your lips.

it was mingyu.

his lips were firm, surprising and undeniably real against yours. the scent of his cologne, a familiar mix of something fresh and subtly musky, filled your senses. he wasn't gentle; it was a desperate kiss, fueled by something raw and protective.

the crowd, which had started to deflate, erupted again. louder this time. a wave of shouts and whistles. the jumbotron, still fixed on your section, zoomed in, capturing every angle of the unexpected spectacle.

your mind screamed in a thousand different directions. shock, confusion, a strange, undeniable jolt of… something. his mouth moved against yours, a surprising tenderness beneath the initial force.

the stadium roared around you but all you could hear was the frantic thumping of your own heart and the soft, insistent pressure of his lips.

in that stolen, public moment, with the lights of the stadium blazing and the roar of the crowd deafening, the world seemed to narrow to just him, just his touch. and as the kiss deepened, a startling realization bloomed in your chest: the kiss you had hoped for all these months... it was never the one you truly needed.

mingyu finally pulled back. his forehead rested against yours, and he was breathing heavily, his chest heaving. the crowd was still pandemonium but neither of you seemed to hear it. you were trapped in the small, charged bubble of air between your faces.

his eyes, when they finally lifted to yours, were a battlefield of emotions: panic, reckless pride, and a raw, almost desperate longing that hit you harder than the kiss itself.

he didn't look like your goofy best friend, he looked like a guy who had just crossed a chasm he wasn't sure he could cross back over.

you couldn't form a word. the blood was roaring in your ears, drowning out the stadium noise. all you could do was stare at him, your hands unconsciously gripping his arms for balance.

“what the hell was that?” suho yelled, his voice tight and disbelief-laced, finally snapping out of his shock. he lunged forward, grabbing mingyu's jersey. “are you completely out of your mind?”

mingyu shoved suho's hand away, the protective fury momentarily overshadowing the fear in his eyes. “i wasn't going to sit here and watch you make fun of her, dumbass!” he growled, a low, dangerous sound.

“i was joking,” suho protested, stepping back, looking at the crowd that was now staring intently at their fight. “it’s the kiss cam, it’s not serious! you just made a massive scene!”

“it was serious to her!” mingyu spat out. he turned back to you, his eyes softening immediately, the aggressive posture dropping. “i....”

that was the breaking point. hearing them argue over your head, over your feelings, over the chaotic mess of a public kiss, was too much. you didn't want the explanation. you didn't want the fight. you didn't want the sudden, terrifying complication.

you pushed away from mingyu, hard enough to stumble him back against his seat. “stop,” you choked out, the sound barely audible over the remaining cheers. “i can't do this right now.”

you didn't look at either of them. you didn't need to see the betrayal in suho’s eyes or the desperate fear in mingyu's. you twisted past them, shoving your way into the aisle.

“hey! where are you going?” suho yelled again, sounding bewildered.

“don't go! please!” mingyu’s voice was strained, heavy with guilt and panic.

you didn't answer. you didn't look back. you just ran. you flew down the stadium steps, weaving past bewildered fans, your whole world spinning, leaving the chaos, the fight and both of them behind in the blinding spotlight of the jumbotron.

you didn't stop until you were outside, alone and miles away. they could argue all they wanted. you were giving both of them a massive, necessary, silent time-out.

after, you didn’t text either of them.

it was easier to pretend the world had swallowed the whole thing than to face it.

so you disappeared.

the next morning, your phone buzzed again and again. once, twice, a dozen times. some from mingyu, others from strangers tagging you in blurry screenshots from the game. your name, your face, that kiss. everywhere. mingyu’s name kept lighting up the screen, along with voicemails you didn’t dare open.

suho texted once. ‘hey. that was wild. hope you’re okay.’

you didn’t answer. he didn’t text again.

the next week, you saw him across the campus courtyard, standing with friends. he looked right past you, like you were a stranger. part of you was relieved, the other part wanted to scream. he hadn’t fought for you. hadn’t even apologized. he’d just let the moment rot.

and mingyu…

you muted him on instagram. you deleted a half-written apology text three times.

“sorry for running out” sounded too small.

“you didn’t have to do that” sounded too cruel.

the truth was, you didn’t even know what you wanted from him. an apology? an explanation? to pretend it never happened? everything felt too loud and too delicate at once, like one wrong word would make it real in a way you weren’t ready for.

and maybe that was the problem: it was real. his hand on your shoulder, the pull, the look in his eyes right before. yeah. real. and you didn’t know what to do with that.

you told yourself you were mad at him. because you were. he had no right to decide that moment for you, no right to turn it into a scene. but then sometimes, late at night, the anger slipped and left something rawer underneath. confusion, mostly. the kind that made your stomach twist and your brain replay every second on a loop.

you started avoiding the places where he might be. the café across from your building. the library at night. even the convenience store where you always bumped into him after class. it was easier to pretend you were busy than admit you were hiding.

and every time your phone buzzed, some part of you still hoped it was him. even if you wouldn’t answer.

but after the first week, the calls stopped. no more voicemails. no more messages. just silence.

the kind that makes you wonder if you were the one who ruined everything or if he finally took the hint.

the weirdest part was how normal things looked from the outside. you still went to class, still laughed with friends, still smiled at professors. but inside, everything was off-beat, like background noise that wouldn’t sync with the movie.

and then, one rainy night, when you were halfway through pretending your life had gone back to normal, came the knock.

three short taps, the same rhythm he always used when sneaking into your room as a kid.

you hesitated before opening the door.

the rain had been falling for hours. tired, like the sky was bored of crying but didn’t know what else to do. the hallway light flickered, buzzing softly. your reflection in the peephole looked exhausted.

three short taps again.

your stomach dropped.

when you finally opened the door, mingyu was standing there, soaked through. his hoodie clung to his shoulders, hair dripping into his eyes, the fabric of his jeans dark and heavy with rain. he looked like he hadn’t slept, maybe hadn’t eaten.

“hey,” he said. just that. his voice was hoarse, half a whisper, like it had been used too much and not enough at the same time.

you blinked. “what are you doing here?”

“i... hm...” he rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling hard. “i don’t know. i’ve been walking around for an hour trying to figure out what to say, and it turns out i still don’t have it.”

his eyes flicked to yours, searching, apologizing, begging all at once. “but i couldn’t not come.”

you leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “it’s late, mingyu.”

“i know.”

“and it’s raining.”

“i know.” he laughed quietly, almost to himself. “i was hoping it would make this more cinematic or something. turns out it’s just… wet.”

you almost smiled but the ache in your chest stopped it halfway. “you should go home before you get sick.”

“i’ve been sick,” he said softly, and for a second, the humor fell away. “since that day.”

the silence stretched. the rain filled it, steady against the pavement, like background static.

you stepped aside before you could talk yourself out of it. “come in.”

he did, awkwardly, dripping all over your entryway. he toed off his shoes, muttering an apology you didn’t answer. the air between you was heavy, warm compared to outside, but it felt colder somehow.

you tossed him a towel. he caught it, then just stood there holding it like he didn’t know what to do next.

“so,” you started, “are you here to… explain? apologize? what?”

“i don’t even know if you want either.”

“that’s not an answer.”

he ran a hand through his hair, finally using the towel, his movements restless.

“i wanted to give you space. i thought you’d need time. but then time kept passing, and you still weren’t talking to me, and every day felt like... like i’d just broken something and kept watching the pieces fall slower and slower.”

you swallowed. “you did break something.”

he flinched, nodding. “yeah. i know.”

“then why are you here now?”

“i told myself i wouldn’t come. i told myself that maybe you were mad at me and that was fair. but then...” he broke off, exhaling hard, “...then i realized i don’t even know what i’m giving you space from. because we never talked. you just left.”

“you kissed me,” you said quietly.

“yeah,” he whispered, eyes closing. “and i’ve been replaying it every damn night since. not because it was perfect but because i keep wondering if you hated it. if you hated me.”

the words landed heavy between you. the rain softened, almost gentle now, but the air inside felt sharp enough to hurt.

“you shouldn’t have done it,” you said finally. “that was my moment to decide, not yours. you turned me into some spectacle.”

“i know.” his voice cracked. “i know, and i hate that. i hate that i made you feel like that.”

“then why did you?”

his eyes darted to yours, and for a second, you saw the raw panic there. the kind that doesn’t come from guilt, but from loss.

“because i couldn’t stand seeing him laugh at you.” he took a shaky breath. “because you were sitting there, looking so small and so nervous and he thought it was funny. funny. and i just—” his voice broke completely. “i lost it.”

you said nothing. your fingers tightened around your arms. the rain outside grew louder again, pressing against the window like it wanted in.

“you think i don’t know what i did?” he asked quietly, his eyes locked on yours. “i saw your face. the way you looked at me like i was someone you didn’t recognize. i know exactly what happened. i just… couldn’t let it go.”

your throat tightened, but you forced your voice to stay even. “don’t make it sound like heroism. you didn’t kiss me to save me. you kissed me because you couldn’t help yourself.”

“maybe that’s true,” he said, voice low, tense. “but it doesn’t matter now. it’s done.”

you looked away, focusing on the rain streaking down the glass. “so what do you want from me now? acknowledgment? closure?”

“no.” he shook his head, quick. “i just wanted to see you. to know you’re okay.”

his laugh was breathless, bitter. “i tried. i tried to act normal. went to practice, hung out with the guys, even tried to post stupid stories so you’d see i wasn’t a mess. but every time i picked up my phone, it felt like being erased. like you were already moving on and i was still stuck there, under the stadium lights, kissing you while the whole world watched me ruin the only good thing i’ve ever had.”

your heart twisted, sharp and sudden. he wasn’t crying, but his voice had that edge, the kind that comes right before it breaks.

“mingyu…”

he shook his head again. “you don’t have to say anything. i just... i needed you to know i wasn’t trying to humiliate you. or make it about me. i just couldn’t let him treat you like that.”

“and you didn’t think maybe asking me what i wanted was an option?”

“i didn’t think at all,” he admitted, his eyes sharp and unflinching. “i just acted.”

he took a slow step closer. the air seemed to buzz between you, thick with everything unsaid. “but you have to believe me. i’d do anything to make sure you’re safe. even if it means you never look at me the same way again.”

“that’s not how this works,” you said quietly.

“i know.”

he hesitated, then finally dropped the towel onto your counter, his shoulders slumping. “i don’t even know what i expected. maybe just... a chance to stand in front of you and not feel like a ghost.”

you could hear the low hum of the city outside, traffic and thunder melting into one long sigh.

you looked at him then. really looked. the wet hair, the trembling hands, the exhaustion in his eyes that didn’t come from the rain.

you’d never seen mingyu look small before. but right now, he did. like the version of him you knew had been stripped away, leaving only the raw, unguarded truth.

“you’re an idiot,” you said softly.

a breathless laugh escaped him. “yeah. i know. what do we do with that?”

“i don’t know,” you admitted. “i don’t think there’s an easy fix. we can’t just...go back. we can’t pretend it didn’t happen either.”

“so we just… sit here?” he asked, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he was afraid to use it.

“yeah. maybe for now.” you glanced at him, managing a weak grin. “you’re soaking wet, by the way. you look like a drowned puppy.”

he huffed out a small laugh. “i deserve that.”

“you do.” you stood up and walked toward the hallway, motioning for him to follow. “you shouldn’t go home like that. you’ll get sick.”

he blinked, surprised. “what?”

“just… stay here tonight,” you said, arms crossed. “like before. couch’s still the same. probably smells worse, though.”

he stared at you, searching your face for something, maybe a condition, a warning, a reason to refuse. but there wasn’t one.

“okay,” he said finally, voice quiet.

you handed him an old towel and one of his shirts, the same one he used to leave behind when everything was easier.

“don’t make this weird,” you said, though your voice wasn’t steady enough to sell it.

“me? never,” he said, smiling for real this time. it was small, unsure, but it was there.

“you’re still an idiot,” you said again, softer now.

“yeah,” he replied. “but at least i’m your idiot again, right?”

you rolled your eyes, shaking your head, but you didn’t tell him no.

he set his stuff on the couch, and you hovered in the doorway for a moment, watching him. it was weird, how familiar it felt to have him there again. not like nothing had changed but like everything had and somehow that was okay.

“goodnight,” you said quietly.

“night,” he answered.

you turned off the lights and headed to your room. for a while, you just stood there in the dark, listening. there was the soft rustle of him moving around, the faint creak of the couch. and then stillness.

you should’ve gone to bed but instead you found yourself sitting on the floor beside your bed, knees pulled to your chest. your chest felt heavy in a strange way. like something had shifted but hadn’t quite settled yet.

you could still feel the warmth of his presence in the air, the echo of that same safety that used to come so easily. only now, it wasn’t simple. it was something new.

you lay down eventually, facing the door. in the faint light slipping through the hallway, you could see his shadow move once. turning over, maybe.

for a moment, you waited. for the sound of him getting up, for footsteps, for anything. but nothing came. just quiet breathing, steady and close enough to feel without touching.

and somehow, that was enough.

because you both knew now. no more guessing, no more pretending you didn’t care. whatever this was... fragile, confusing, unfinished... it was still yours. it had survived the silence, the distance, the ache.

you smiled, small and tired, into the dark.

this was it. not a beginning, not an ending. just the truth, finally sitting still between you.