nana.

Lee Minho. Your best friend since childhood. In this story, he’s the hero.

And you are the heroine.

Sure, Minho saves his love for cats and little else- but your day will come. Minho will hear your laughter, turn to look your way as you run towards him and leap into his arms, and the realization will hit him that you’re more than just the friend that’s taken care of him for years. The day will come when he'll tell you he likes you- no, not just like but likes you.

Minho is almost always dating someone. They never last though. Nothing significant for you to worry over has ever happened. His girlfriends don't really play an important role in his life. They come and they go as the seasons pass by.

You'd seen Minho gently but firmly end each of his relationships. How could they last long when none of them were the one? Besides, he's not ready for a serious relationship yet.

But you… you’re the childhood friend who's always stayed by Minho's side. You’ll wait until the perfect moment arrives and your dreams transform from the beginnings of a sketch into a mesmerising masterpiece.

"It's fine. You have me so you won't ever be lonely," you console him after his latest breakup. "And your cats! But also me, don't forget that! You can't abandon me!"

Minho chuckles, patting your head. “You’re like a child,” Minho says fondly. “I’m not abandoning you, idiot. How can I when you said you’ll stay by my side forever?”

Your best friend was charming, handsome, funny and perfect enough to be a hero straight out of a shoujo anime. And if Minho is the hero, then the perfect person to be the heroine is none other than you.

You just have to wait. One day he'll realise you’re the one meant for him.

"You should confess."

"What? Of course not! I can't possibly-"

Jisung goes on, ignoring you. "Someone might swoop in and snatch him if you don't make a move."

Now that's ridiculous. You’re the one that the spot of the heroine belongs to. No one can take it away from you. "That's impossible," you huff. "I'm the main character."

“You are the main character, yeah. Of your story,” Seungmin says. “and that’s how it is for everyone. Minho might be the one for you, or he might not. You'll never know if you do nothing besides pining after him."

"But he's not-"

You're cut short when a chalkboard eraser goes flying across the room, smacking a student in the face. It's the bullies, and their latest target is the quiet girl in the back of the room. They shove her notes to the floor and slam their fists against her desk.

Hyunjin pushes his chair back, raising from his seat. He’d been slumped against his desk and you assumed he was snoozing, though from the vicious glare he’s directing to the culprits it looks like he’s been alert the whole time. That or he’s been aroused from his slumber. You don’t startle a sleeping ferret if you don’t want to get bitten.

"Hey!"

It's Minho, not Hyunjin, who shouts at the bullies as he strolls into the room, swinging his bag at one of them and shoving another one out of the way. The third is clearly the all bark, no bite type because he cowers and scurries away under the scathing looks he gets from Minho, as well as Hyunjin who’s right behind his friend’s shoulder.

"Come on." Minho holds a hand out to the girl and leads her out of the room. The first two bullies sneer at them, though fortunately they don't follow. Hyunjin’s eyes narrow as he watches them leave, then he goes back to his desk and resumes his afternoon nap.

For the rest of the day, you don't see Minho. Or the girl.

"They're probably bunking classes to go on a date," Jisung suggests. He tries to steal food off Hyunjin's plate who just scowls at him and swats his hand away. "Or maybe he wanted to see his cats and went home." Jisung reaches out to take food from you, and you let him. You're too worried about Minho to be hungry.

The bullies had been talking about wanting to get back at Minho. All he did was stand up for that girl. Against them, that's the issue they have with it. It’s silly really. They were in the wrong in the first place but when someone got in their way they pull out words like reputation and dignity as if they actually know the meaning of the words.

You just don't want to see your best friend get hurt.

The next morning, you walk into the classroom with Minho to see that they've trashed Minho's desk, ripped his notes and scribbled over the surface. All because he stood up for that girl. It's not fair. He shouldn't have to suffer for doing the right thing.

"I want to kick those losers," You hiss. "Those no good- ugh!"

The bullies jeer and throw taunts in your direction. You want to fight them. Knock those ugly words out of their vocabulary. But more than that, they scare you. On the outside you may be a fierce tigress yet on the inside you are but a kitty.

"No kicking allowed. You can't get in trouble." Minho puts his arm around your shoulders, and the two of you stroll out of the classroom. "It's okay. Just ignore them. I didn't leave anything that important here anyway. Let's just go."

Once the two of you are far enough down the hall that you can no longer hear the loud shouts, Minho swings around to face you. He brings his hand to your cheeks.

"Don't cry." Minho wipes away the tears that fell from your eyes without you even noticing. It's not from sadness but frustration. "You should save the water for better things than this. Idiot."

"It's just- It's not fair," you mutter.

"Life isn't fair. But it'll be alright. Don't worry." Minho pulls you into a hug. "You shouldn't waste your tears over stupid things like boys."

For Minho, you'd spend all your tears on him.

♡ next episode (coming soon!!)

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“Attention Passengers. Incheon Gonghang Cheoldo, is shortly arriving on platform number three.”

Minho awoke with a start, feeling a stiff pain in the side of his neck from where he’d laid it against the window of the ride to Gimpo he was aboard. Overhead lights flickered and dimmed, and Minho blinked a few times before sitting up and rolling his shoulder to shake away the aches that this poor, cramped sitting position had inspired in him.

Yawning, he lifted the shade above the window to look out, hearing the roar of the wheels against the track as the train neared the station. The sky was bright with early morning sunlight; although his flight had left Incheon at three that morning, with the two hour time difference, it was only a little after five here in Gimpo. Below, Minho could see the first illustrations of the world outside emerge from between the pockets of white fog, nearly everything coated in a thin layer of white.

Minho looked down at his leather motorcycle jacket and sighed. There was no way he was dressed warmly enough for late-January Gimpo weather.

Memories of events transpired began to return to him as he tossed himself from the sleep he’d managed to steal during the two-hour journey, spiking his anxiety and the tiny jolts of terror that had been running up his arms and through his heart since he’d packed his carryon late the night before in preparation to leave for Gimpo.

His mother, in a coma in the hospital, after suffering a major heart attack. His mother’s friend, Haseul, unable to tell him much about her condition, other than the fact that the doctors needed to perform what they hoped would be a life-saving procedure.

Minho thought back to his mother’s wheezy breathing on the phone the last few times they’d talked, of the way she seemed to cough and strain whenever they spoke, and he wondered if he hadn’t missed something all along, a warning sign that had been right there in his face.

And just what the fuck would he have been able to do about it ? He found himself angrily asking himself. He had only been home maybe two or three times in the last six years since he’d been deployed and now living in Incheon. He’d been so goddamn eager to get out of military that he’d let years go by where they didn’t see each other or do much more besides communicating via phone.

And now, here he was, finally showing up when it was far too little, far too late.

As the train began to taxi along the platform, the lights of the railway station twinkling in the distance beyond the window beside him, Minho rubbed his temples, the anxiety thick around him. None of his present troubles were helped by things that were happening back in Incheon. Just when he’d thought he’d made progress in his relationship with you, that you’d finally come to reconcile your mutual feelings and that you’d somehow figured out a way forward together, he’d been railroaded not only by his mother’s sudden illness, but also by that piece of fucking garbage, Kim Sanghoon.

Minho still couldn’t clear the image of Sanghoon standing at the foot of your steps in front of your brownstone out of his head, watching him lean casually against the banister while you stood shadowed in the doorway of your apartment, your hands on your hips. And he couldn’t shake the sound of Sanghoon’s laughter ringing out into the night air once you’d slammed the door and he turned away, a rich, deeply amused sound that seemed to suggest everything was just a game to him.

And then there was the matter of your father and the entire Kim company, a situation that didn’t seem like it was improving and was certainly only helping to create further challenges and barriers between your relationship. As much as he and you seemed to be finding your way to one another, there was no denying that you were stuck behind a line that you seemed far terrified to cross because of all of the stresses in your life that were placed there primarily by your father and his allegiance to a corporation full of bloodsuckers.

What kind of father put his only daughter through this kind of hell, anyway?

Minho didn’t understand why things had to be so intolerably complicated. He liked you. You liked him too, or so you said, it certainly seemed that way anytime he had his hands or his mouth on you. Why couldn’t they just be together? Why did they have to tiptoe across these lines to placate everyone around them?

Why couldn’t they just be happy?

Grabbing his carryon from the overhead bin, Minho realized that maybe things would never be as simple or straightforward as he would like them to be. He also realized that, right now, he couldn’t worry about any of those things anymore, not while his mother was probably on her deathbed.

Once he got off the train and made it outside the station to find a rideshare to, Minho realized how truly cold it was here, gentle flurries of snow drifting at odd intervals in the gusts of wind around him. It had been cold in Incheon at this time of year, for sure, but this was a different sort of frostiness. The winter here was enveloping and bright, surrounded by the sunlight that was high in the sky above and contrasted by cerulean and silver mountaintops and wide stretches of white snowfalls, rather than the dark concrete and harsh wind and smog of the city.

Minho found a rideshare to his hometown, a ride that was just a little under three hours from the station. Staring silently out of the backseat of the vehicle, watching the landscape pass by with the hills towering above in the distance, Minho remembered how truly different Gimpo was from Incheon. In Incheon, everything and everyone had been cramped and stacked on top of each other. Just about anything Minho needed in the city was within walking distance. But here, it could be an hour’s drive just to find a grocery store.

Still wading in depressive exhaustion, Minho closed his eyes and tried to recapture some of the sleep that his early morning train had interrupted, but found it was impossible to fall into. Instead, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his contacts, opening yours and staring at your name for a long moment and his last message to you.

He had finally texted you to let you know he was leaving that morning just before he’d boarded his train. He was too angry at the sight of Sanghoon outside of your apartment to text you last night and too worked up in his feelings over his mother, and that morning he had been in too much of a rush to get to the station to catch his ride on time. But now, he stared at his screen, a new wave of guilt and longing rushing over him as he stared at the last message sitting there alone.

Minho: Hey. I have to go to Gimpo for a few days. I’ll call you later.

You still hadn’t responded, and Minho tucked his phone away, turning back to the window and watching the fading hues of the eastern landscape pass by, a lump in his throat and a weight square on the centre of his chest. As his rideshare driver carefully rounded an exit, the looming green sign above warning their arrival at his neighbourhood in less than a dozen miles, Minho dug into his messenger bag and pulled out his dark blue journal, staring at its cover for a brief moment before running his fingers across its worn leather case and then thumbing through its pages to where he’d last bookmarked it.

His journal was almost full, he realized, just a few scant remaining pages for him to fill before he would have to purchase a new one. He opened the page and stared down at the last poem he’d written to you, the one that he had felt somewhat satisfied with and hadn’t felt the need to strikethrough a thousand times with his pen. He narrowed his eyes, reading and rereading his own words back up at him, wondering if his thoughts and feelings and sentiments that were scrawled across the page made any sense and if he could ever express them to you the way he wanted to, especially with everything in his life falling apart around him the way that it was right now.

He sighed, pulling the page out and folding it, stuffing it into his wallet for safekeeping until he could hopefully one day find the strength to give it to you. He closed the journal and shoved it back into his bag just as his ride pulled up in front of his childhood home. Minho stared up at the cottage, having not seen in it since before his last tour overseas, just over two years ago.

Gimpo was such a contrast to Incheon. Even the air smelled differently, fresh and sharp, full of the scents of the trees and the mountains that bordered everything. In the distance, the Han River loomed over the village, blue and calm, the distant peaks capped with snowy white. Minho felt a sense of tranquillity fall over him that he had not experienced in many weeks as his boots greeted the snow that rimmed the sidewalk in front of his house.

The sun painfully bright in his eyes, Minho looked to his right to see your old home, the driveway filled with unrecognizable cars. Just the sight of your house, where so many years ago you had lived right beside him, sometimes waving to him from your backyard or your window, filled him with a miserable ache at the distance that now lived between them. You still hadn’t responded to his text, and all it did was build his anxiety to new levels, leaving him longing for the comfort of contact with you.

He found the key to his house stashed beneath a potted plant, entering and rummaging through his mother’s kitchen for her car keys. Everything in the house was peaceful and still, left in the same places they had been since his mother had last been here. Thinking again about her heart giving out and sending her into collapse, Minho winced and swiped her car keys from the counter, leaving the house with his head shaking and his own heart hurting.

Minho took his mother’s blue sedan and drove it through Gimpo's quiet roads, reacquainting himself with the sleepy streets that cut through the picturesque mountain town. He passed the park in the centre of town, the one where he and you used to stargaze, the one where you had made your promise before you had left his life for a big, loud city just a little away from here.

Do you promise?

But you’re the one who’s leaving.

Promise me!

He pushed you out of his brain and drove to the centre of town, finding the general hospital that loomed in its downtown centre. After paying for parking, Minho made his way inside and approached the front desk, giving the nurse his mother’s name.

Frustratingly, he was forced to wait in a small lobby on the cardiac wing once he was given his mother’s room assignment, promised that a doctor would come to speak with him shortly. Lim Haseul had already left, not being permitted to linger as she was not family. The minutes stretched by like hours as he sat and waited, watching nurses pass by, wheeling patients to and fro. He checked his phone often, frowning when he realized that his service was poor in this part of the city, and shook his head with a severe grumble, his nerves so grated he almost couldn’t sit still.

“Mr. Lee?”

Minho looked up to find a pleasant-faced doctor with salt and peppered ash-brown hair and moustache, tall and staring down at him through wire-framed glasses.

Minho got to his feet. “Yeah.”

“I’m Dr. Richard Jones,” the doctor explained, offering a hand for Minho to shake. “I am in charge of your mother, Jieun’s, care. I’d like to give you some information on her condition before I permit you to see her.”

Minho nodded slowly, feeling his heart begin to race, and Dr. Jones gestured back to the chairs where Minho had been sitting, finding one of his own to sit in.

“Mr. Lee,” Jones began, but Minho shook his head, finding that incredibly annoying.

“Minho is fine,” he interjected.

“Okay, Minho,” Jones conceded. “Were you aware that your mother was suffering from congestive heart failure?”

“No,” Minho admitted slowly, horrified by the sound of that.

The doctor nodded. “According to her primary care physician, she had been diagnosed a year ago. She shared with me some concerns that your mother had been irregular with her check-ups and her medication. This is a very serious disease, Minho.”

Minho said nothing, only staring, his own heart about to give out.

“Congestive heart failure occurs when the heart cannot adequately pump blood throughout the system. This may occur for a number of reasons, but typical symptoms are shortness of breath and a reduced ability for physical expenditure. According to your mother’s physician, your mother had a relatively severe case that could have benefited from a pacemaker. However, your mother declined that procedure.”

“Why?” Minho asked, hating himself for not being present for any of this, for not even being aware his mother had been dealing with this for the past year. He was a shitty son.

“I can’t be too sure,” Jones offered, “But I do know that your mother seemed to be a bit stubborn about the routine associated with this disease. At any rate, she suffered from a heart attack and was transported here for treatment. I found a significant blockage in her arteries, so we made the decision to induce a coma. Last night, I performed the procedure to alleviate the blockage, implanting stents. After another day or so of healing, we will install the pacemaker. If all goes well, she should only need to remain here another week or so. But she must be vigilant about her condition moving forward.”

Minho dropped his head in his hands.

“I realize that she is relatively young,” Jones continued, “But women over forty carry certain risk factors for heart disease. It is imperative that she maintains a certain regimen and lifestyle change following this.”

Minho thought about his mother’s rich cooking, shaking his head.

“Would you like to see her, now?” Jones asked.

Minho nodded, feeling his heart race against his chest as he followed Jones through the halls of the cardiac wing, eventually coming to a stop at his mother’s room. The doctor opened the door and allowed Minho to step in, finding the room dim with the exception of the sunlight that streamed in from the window above.

His mother lay in the hospital bed, the sheets pulled up to her chest, an IV in her arm and a heart monitor beeping quietly at her side. Her black hair was loose around her shoulders, spilling into her forehead and making her appear angelic.

“We will keep her sedated for at least the next couple of days,” Jones said quietly at Minho’s side. “But you may visit her. Although she is not awake, your presence will certainly be soothing for her, I believe.”

With that, the doctor offered Minho a conciliatory nod and pat, before he left him alone in the room with his mother. Minho pulled one of the errant chairs up next to the gurney, at once reaching for his mother’s hand and enveloping it in his.

Her skin was so warm and soft, it sent an instant throb into the centre of his chest. He rubbed her flesh and bowed his head, choking as he felt tears begin to burn the corners of his eyes. He lowered his head into her lap, shaking it with pure, absolute misery.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered to her faintly. “I’m so sorry that I let you down.”

He squeezed his mother’s hand, wishing that she would squeeze back, wishing that she would wake up and look him in the eyes and tell him that everything would be okay.

But that wasn’t going to happen, and Minho cursed himself for not being there for her, for letting months stretch by where they didn’t even talk, completely unaware of how bad things had become.

He hated this, but most of all, he hated himself.

***

It was dawn when you awoke from a miserable, restlessly torn sleep, one where you had spent most of the night tossing and turning with frustration, your thoughts mired between the stress of your job and your father and Sanghoon, who had shown up at your apartment unannounced the evening before with two tickets to a late night show in hand, waving them about and expecting you to drop everything and join him.

You had been furious; his arrogance was unbelievable. How dare he just show up and assume that you would entertain his courtship? He had been so haughty, standing at the bottom of your steps with twin, white roses in hand, the tickets slipped between his fingers in a dare, his blue eyes dazzling under the moonlight like twin beacons of oppressive firelight, shining up at you with malicious intent. If you'd had anything available in hand to throw at him, you would have pelted him from where you stood in the threshold.

Instead, you told him in the simplest terms that you were not interested in going anywhere with him, and even as he continued to plead, levelling his smirk dangerously at you, you refused, eventually slamming the door in his face.

Your night had been awful from that point forward, and now you were rising for work, having slept terribly and feeling the waves of anxiety build as you thought about Kim and your father and seeing Sanghoon in the office again. Miserable, you reached for your phone and opened Minho’s contact, your eyes widening when you found the missed text from early that morning.

Minho: Hey. I have to go to Gimpo for a few days. I’ll call you later.

Frowning, you instantly texted him back.

Y/n: What happened? Call me

You stared at the phone, and when he didn’t immediately text back, you impulsively called him. But his phone rang once and then went straight to voicemail, and you wondered if he might be sleeping.

Minho suddenly having to ride back home did not sit well with you at all, and new stabs of panic were infiltrating you. Your breathing becoming laboured, you kicked out of bed and left your room, pushing your way into the hallway just as Jihoo was leaving the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her head.

“Jihoo,” you stopped her. “Can you call Jisung?”

Jihoo paused, holding the towel that covered her nakedness a little tighter around her, frowning slightly. “Um, what for, Y/n? It’s early in the morning.”

“I need to find Minho,” you responded immediately. “He texted me to say he was going to Gimpo, but I don’t know why and now he’s not answering his phone.”

Jihoo’s features relaxed, and she nodded slightly, heading down the hall toward her room. “Okay, let me just get dressed.”

You made your way into the living room, finding a seat on the couch, running your hands across the tops of your thighs. It was at that moment that you resolved that you were not going to work today. Your nerves were so badly flared, and the thought of having to face Sanghoon or Jaeseok or even your father was too much to handle.

Eventually, Jihoo emerged, wearing a pink dress for work, her hair still slightly damp and uncombed. Her phone was in her hand, but before she did anything, she sat beside you on the couch and instantly wrapped her arms around you.

“Y/n, please calm down,” she whispered quietly in your hair. “You are so upset, it’s radiating off of you. Everything is going to be okay. Please.”

You were now crying, though, tears escaping as the drama of the last few weeks exploded out of you.

“I’m calling Jisung right now,” Jihoo said, her own voice taking on a slight edge of terror.

You nodded, wiping your cheeks as Jihoo placed her phone on speaker and dialled Jisung. He answered on the third ring.

“Hey, babe,” Jisung’s voice sounded groggy and thick. “Not expecting to hear from you this early.”

“Jisung,” Jihoo cut in. “I’m here with Y/n. What is going on with Minho? Y/n said he had to leave for Gimpo.”

Jisung groaned, rustling sounds on the other end. “Yeah,” he responded. “His mother had a heart attack. His train left a little while ago.”

“Oh, my god,” you cried at Jihoo’s side.

Jisung was silent.

“Okay, Jisung. Thanks. I’ll call you later.” She disconnected the call, opening her mouth to say something, but already you were at your feet with the intention of going to your room to get ready for the day.

“Y/n?” Jihoo called, rising to stand.

“I’m going to Gimpo,” you resolved, your voice shaking as the words spilled from your lips.

“What about work?” Jihoo cautiously asked.

“I don’t care about Kim or my father. I need to make sure that Minho is okay. He’s the only thing that matters, Jihoo.” Suddenly, you were becoming hysterical, your emotions now running wild and careless, everything pent up inside of you finally bursting fully free. “I have been letting everyone run my life and I am miserable, and now the man that I love more than my own heart needs me to be there for him like he’s always there for me.”

Jihoo stared, for once at a loss for words, and as you began to shake your head, she ran up to you and wrapped her arms around you again.

“I understand, Y/n,” she assured you softly. “Anything you need from me, just let me know. Jisung and I have your back.”

“I’m not telling my father,” you insisted. “If he shows up here - I know that he will - please do not tell him where I went. Just tell him that you don’t know where I am. I can’t have him coming after me.”

“I promise,” Jihoo vowed.

You gave your friend another hug and then retreated to your room, opening your laptop to scour for trains at a reasonable time and found one that was departing at three that afternoon, giving you enough time to shower and pack and make your way through the chaos of the station.

The entire time you prepared, catching a taxi to the railway station, your heart was cantered in your throat, beating wickedly. You were certain that you would not survive the panic attack that was curling through your system, igniting every nerve ending and filling you with nausea. As you made your way through the crowds at the station, your carryon rolling behind you, you thought over and over again about Minho leaving for Gimpo, probably terrified and feeling all alone.

Already, your father had rung you half a dozen times, and you’d ignored every last one of his calls. You hadn’t even bothered to call out sick for work, and he was probably furious that you hadn’t shown up, likely embarrassed by your behaviour and probably more worried about himself than about you.

But you didn’t care, not even a little bit. You were done with the puppeteering he was doing over your life, finished completely with his machinations and his control. Maybe you would never have the relationship with your father that you wanted, but you could no longer pretend that obeying his every wish was going to make things better between them, that things would ever be the way that they had been before your mother died.

Hours passed, and you found yourself unable to even sleep on the two-hour ride to Gimpo, your nerves so worked up and your feelings so raw. As soon as your train touched the platform, you turned your phone back on to find that you had four more missed calls from your father, and that Minho had not responded yet to your texts.

Thinking of him, your anxiety just increased, leaving you feeling like you were too late or had done something wrong.

You had not been back to Gimpo since you’d moved ten years ago, and instantly you were awestruck by the fresh, clean scent of the air, so different from the blends of odours that permeated the air in Incheon. The air in the plains up here was thin, leaving you to inhale deeply as you looked around, waiting for a rideshare to pick you up. The sky was rimmed by the mountains, a pale lavender that was snow-capped and bright against the blue sky. All of it brought back memories that were buried so far in the past, memories of your family when it was still whole, of your mother teaching you to play the piano and of your father coming home from work with a smile on his face, of your friends and your school and of the brown-haired boy who lived next door and always seemed to be there for you when you needed him.

You watched the scenery pass by on the ride to your neighbourhood, the sky only just beginning to darken with the winter’s evening hours approaching. You thought of Minho and his mother, a wonderfully sweet woman who did not deserve to be in any sort of pain like she was now. You despaired at the thought that she could die, never wanting Minho to experience that feeling, still feeling the gaping black hole in the centre of your heart at your own mother’s death a decade ago.

You realized as your ride neared the familiar streets that you had so impulsively made the decision to come here that you had not even bothered to consider accommodations for the night. When the driver asked you where you were headed in town, you turned away from the window and thought for a moment.

“The city hospital, please,” you decided. You would figure things out once you found Minho.

Your driver dropped you off at the hospital, and you pulled at your peacoat, realizing that somehow, it was even colder here than it had been in Incheon. Pulling your carryon behind you, you made your way toward the hospital, your dread increasing with every step you took.

You hated hospitals. They reminded you of the day you’d woken suddenly inside of one, tubes threaded into your arms as you blinked and looked around, finding your father sitting at your side with his head in his hands. When you had opened your eyes, he looked up at you, shaking his head at once, his eyes, red and tear-rimmed. The feeling of panic and confusion that had risen inside of you was one that you would never, ever forget, the horrified look in your father’s eyes when he reached for your hand, moments away from unloading the ugliest and most devastating news you would ever receive.

At that miserable thought, your phone rang again in your pocket. You retrieved it, your lips pulling into a frown when you saw the word Dad scroll across the screen.

You knew that you would not be able to avoid him forever. Eventually, he would lose his wits and likely send the police after you if you did not offer him some sort of explanation.

It was time to stop being a coward and to stand up for yourself. You were a grown woman.

Standing outside of the hospital’s sliding glass doors, you brought your phone to your ear.

“Dad,” you answered carefully.

“Y/n!” your father’s voice spilled into the receiver in a black rage, roughed over with frustration and anger. “Where are you? I have been trying to reach you all day. Why didn’t you show up to work today?”

He didn’t even bother to ask me if I am alright, you realized sadly.

“I had to take care of something personal,” you answered, not wanting to let him know that you’d followed Minho to Gimpo, fearful that he might come after you or try to track you down. “But I have decided not to return to Kim Capitol.”

“Excuse me?” Brandon demanded nastily into your ear.

“I am quitting,” you responded, keeping your tone measured but firm and resolute. “I cannot work for that company any longer. I will email my resignation to Human Resources tomorrow.”

“This is absurd,” Brandon huffed. “Y/n, I do not know what has gotten into you, but you will not embarrass me this way. I forbid it.”

“I don’t care,” you shot back, your throat now choked by oncoming tears, your voice growing shrill as the despair built inside of you, months and years in the making. “I won’t let you control my life any longer, Dad. I never wanted to work for Kim Capitol. I hate it. And I hate Sanghoon. He is awful, and I can’t believe you would try to push me to date him. He makes me feel sick.”

“Y/n,” your father growled. “Surely, you cannot be serious. This is an opportunity that so many young people with your education and background would kill for. And Sanghoon is a good man who can take care of you, who is worthy of you. Maybe he is a bit of an ego, any successful man is likely to be, but you need to look beyond such superficial flaws to see the real value here. Honestly, I think you are still a child. You cannot be counted on to make decisions by yourself.”

“I hate you,” you cried into the phone, unable to stop yourself. “Ever since mom died, you have been terrible to me. You were never around, and now you are trying to control my life, trying to make me do things I don’t want, forcing me into a career with a company with shady business practices and into a relationship with a man who treats me like an object. I am over it!”

Your words were thunderclaps, and the sobs that followed were broken and ragged, your cheeks instantly stained by tears. Your father was silent for a long moment, and then you heard him draw in a breath and sigh.

“Y/n,” he began carefully. “Listen, I -“

“Don’t call me again,” you warned, disconnecting the call and dropping your phone angrily into your pocket, furiously wiping the tears from your face as you gasped and tried desperately to calm your breathing.

You steadied yourself along the side of the building for a long moment, trying to gather yourself into some level of coherency. Your father’s audacity had been chilling, but your own words in response to him had blistered out of you in a way that left you stunned, and you knew that there was no way to take the words back. You did not hate your Dad. You suddenly felt very, very alone, terrified at the prospect that maybe you had actually lost two parents ten years back that night.

Despaired, you thought about Minho, likely sitting at his own mother’s side as fresh tragedies unfolded around them. You shook your head, wondering how things could possibly get any worse and if either of them would ever catch a break.

You made your way inside the hospital just as the sky had grown full dark. Of course, Jieun was not permitted any visitors other than family, currently being held in sedation and under strict monitoring. But a nurse soon confirmed that her son was there, and obliged when you asked if you would find him and tell him you were waiting for him.

Minho hadn’t answered any of your texts since you left Incheon, and it left you with a new feeling of anxiety and hopelessness, unsure why he might not be responding, scared that he was not on the same page as you.

You sat in the waiting room on the main floor of the hospital for a long time, leaned over your knees with your head in your hands as you poured over the last few hours, your conversation with your father the explosion that peaked it all. You were biting back the urge to vomit when you heard a familiar voice above you.

“Y/n?”

You looked up, finding Minho standing above you. He was dressed in a hoodie and jeans, his jacket slung over his arm. His eyes were red as if he had been crying, and his face seemed tired and shorn. But otherwise, he was as beautiful as you remembered, his feline-like eyes bright and vivid as he stared down at you.

“Minho,” you responded, pushing instantly to your feet. “Jisung told me what happened. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. I was so worried about you.”

You saw something flicker in his gaze, his eyes instantly growing soft as he stepped closer to you, taking your hands in his. “My service is shit here. I’m sorry I missed your calls. I can’t believe you came for me, Y/n.”

“I couldn’t leave you alone, Minho,” you answered, gently squeezing his hands back. “I was so scared. Is your mom okay? What happened?”

Minho shook his head, stepping closer to you until your foreheads were touching. The gesture was so needful that you found yourself dropping his hands and wrapping your arms around him, pulling him in close for an embrace, rubbing his back as you felt him shudder, and he returned it, hugging you tight.

“Y/n, my mom has heart failure,” Minho responded into your hair, squeezing your body as if you were his lifeline. “And she never told me, and she hasn’t been taking care of herself. That’s why she had a heart attack.” Minho squeezed you again, and you rubbed his back even more, trying to coax his misery away.

“Oh, Minho, I’m so sorry,” you whispered against his chest. “Is she going to be okay?”

Minho shook his head, sighing against your hair before he backed up a little. “I don’t know. Y/n, she’s so young. I haven’t been there for her much at all lately. I had no idea any of this was happening, I’ve been so caught up in my own shit.”

“Don’t say that, Minho,” you whispered, running your fingers along the side of his cheek and brushing a wisp of his bronze hair out of his eyes. “You couldn’t have done anything to stop this.”

“I don’t know,” he repeated, looking down, his black lashes so beautifully long around the rim of those brown eyes that it made your heart ache with longing.

“Can I see her?”

Minho shook his head. “She can’t really have visitors for a while. They have to perform a couple more procedures before they wake her up. I was actually getting ready to head home. There’s not much I can do sitting here until her next surgery.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, and you just watched him, your heart picking up speed again.

“Uh, you staying at a hotel or something?” Minho asked you after a beat.

“I hadn’t booked anything yet,” you replied quietly.

“You can stay with me,” he offered, and you looked down to find that he had taken your hands in his again. “Please, Y/n. Stay with me.”

Breathlessly, you nodded. “Okay.”

Wordlessly, you left the hospital together, Minho pulling on his jacket and leading you to his mother’s blue car in the lot. There were no words spoken between you as he drove through the darkness, only the misery of his mother’s illness and the sad reality of the state of your relationship with your father looming in the air above. But all you could think about was how his arms had felt wrapped around you moments ago, settling the violence that thrived inside of you, and all you wanted was to live in his embrace.

Minho had stopped at a traffic light when you turned to your right, spotting a small expanse of snowy fields bordered by bright yellow aspens. Something pulling at your memory, you turned to Minho and tapped his arm gently to get his attention.

“Minho,” you said him softly. “Look, it’s the park.”

Minho followed your line of sight. The park was in the centre of town, the one where you and Minho had spent so many nights stargazing, him listening to you as you shared your hopes and dreams with him. It was the one where he had promised to save you from a city that had left you feeling like you had lost a part of yourself.

“Can we stop?” you asked him, and he nodded, pulling over.

He parked on the street, and you quickly got out of the car, threading your arm through Minho’s when he caught up to you. The night air was even colder than when you’d first arrived in town, but Minho was warm and firm by your side, and suddenly all you could think about was being pressed beneath him under a hill of blankets, nothing but your skin between them.

You walked through the cobblestone paths, eventually emerging into a clearing that was bordered by trees. You found a bench, and you looked up when you sat, finding the sky above littered with bright white stars. It was a sight that you had not seen the likes of in ten years, the sky above Incheon so filtered with artificial light.

“It’s beautiful, Minho,” you whispered to him, and he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you in close and holding you tight as he nodded in agreement. He pressed a kiss to your hair, sending a shiver through your entire body.

“Y/n,” he began softly. “I’m so glad that you came all the way out here for me, but I can’t believe it. What about your job?”

You found yourself scoffing. “Minho, I am quitting my job. I can’t go back there. My father… I had a big blowout with him. And Sanghoon - he scares me. I don’t know what is going to happen when I get back to Incheon, but I know that I can’t go on like this.”

“I saw him outside of your apartment last night,” Minho admitted quietly.

You turned in his arms, looking up at him. “You did?”

“Yeah,” Minho responded with a toss of his head. “I was coming by to tell you what happened, but I saw him outside, standing on your steps. I got so angry, I almost went after him. I had to turn away before I lost it.”

“I’m so sorry, Minho,” you told him. “I made it clear to him a thousand times that I’m not interested.”

“I know, Y/n,” Minho answered. “If you need me to tell him to back off, I will.”

You smiled a little at that, somewhat thrilled at the notion of Minho defending you so valiantly. But you shook your head. “No, it’s okay. I think now, after everything, he’ll get the message.”

Minho offered you another squeeze, and you found yourself blushing at his affection.

“Y/n,” he started softly. “I have something I want to give you.”

You watched as he reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and then a folded piece of paper, offering it to you. “You asked me to write you a poem a while ago. I worked on a few, but this is the one that I wanted to give you. I was... I was just waiting for the right moment.”

“Minho,” you breathed in response, accepting the slip of paper from him as your heart stuttered in your chest. You unfolded it slowly, seeing his tiny scrawl across the page in dark blue ink, a few short succession of lines in the page that had you unravelling as soon as you began to read them.

Every time I look and you

I feel you heal me.

Your love is the cure to the brokenness in my soul

The remedy to everything that aches and throbs.

Your love heals my hidden wounds

And so please, love me deeply and love me forever.

You skimmed over the brief succession of words over and over, tears welling in your eyes as your heart raced so fast you were sure it would leave your body. Captivated, you looked up at Minho, your lips falling open.

“Minho,” you whispered. “This is so beautiful. I can’t believe that you wrote this for me.”

He brushed your fringe out of your face, letting his fingers drift on your skin. “Y/n, I’ve had a rough few months. Ever since I got out of the army, my head has been so fogged up. I saw a lot of bad shit overseas. And it’s hard to get out of my head sometimes. But…whenever I’m with you, I feel like it clears up. So I mean the words that I wrote. I know you said that I fulfilled our promise, but you’ve done so much more for me.”

“Minho,” you whispered, but in response, Minho dropped his lips to yours, kissing you deeply and pulling you in close.

You could never tire of kissing Minho, but this moment was unlike any you’d shared previously. His lips burned you, sending your entire body alight as his tongue gently tapped at the seam of your mouth, passion raging through your blood in a way that was suddenly feeling desperate. You held him tight, suddenly wanting his lips on every part of you.

He pulled away for air after a moment, and you found yourself clawing at his jacket, offering a pleading look to him as he took your hand in his.

“Come on, Y/n,” he said gently. “Let’s go home.”

You drove through Gimpo’s quiet streets, your heart still thundering as you watched the scenery pass by, recognizing familiar sights and noticing new ones. Eventually, you came to Minho’s house, and you looked next door to see your own old home, feeling a stab of regret and sadness at the years that had passed by, an image of your mother a brief apparition in your mind’s eye.

You followed Minho silently inside the house, pulling your carryon behind you, finding it quiet and dark. He dropped his keys on the table, looking around as he cut the lights on.

“You hungry?” he asked you. “I think my mom has some leftover spaghetti in the fridge.”

“Sure,” you answered, realizing that you hadn’t eaten all day.

You ate together quietly, the moment in the park still heavy between you, bringing with it the implications of the direction the rest of the night was heading. You helped Minho clear the kitchen when you finished, and he offered to let you use the shower first.

You washed in his bathroom and dressed in a pair of navy blue yoga pants and a white tank top. You decided to go braless; already it was late and you wanted to be comfortable. Instead, you pulled the matching hooding over your arms for a little bit of modesty, and you came out to find Minho waiting patiently in the living room.

“Hey, he greeted you, his eyes instantly sweeping greedily over your entire body, drinking you in. You blushed as he got to his feet. “Um, you want to wait in my room while I shower?”

“Okay,” you answered, following him down the hall.

He left you in his childhood bedroom, still unchanged from his youth. His full-sized bed was covered with a blue and white chequered quilt, and several old band posters lined the walls. Old sneakers were against the wall, a soccer ball in one corner, and an ancient desktop computer claiming half of his desk. Feeling filled with nostalgia, you sat on his bed, smiling as you waited.

You found yourself growing even more anxious as the minutes stretched by, wanting so badly to give everything that you could to Minho. The knowledge that you were moments away from spending your first night fully together, no interruptions or intrusions to impede on your intimacy, had the insides of your thighs burning and your heart rapid in your chest. So long you had skirted around the depths of your feelings for each other, had skimmed around the desire and avoided taking it as full and far as it wanted to go.

But no more.

Minho eventually joined you, quietly closing the door behind him, dressed in a simple white t-shirt and grey sweats. You couldn’t stop yourself from admiring him, your eyes sweeping a trail over him, starting with his fluffy hair that was still slightly damp, across his too-beautiful face and down his broad and well-sculpted torso. You found yourself growing warm at the sight of his firmly defined arms, wanting them wrapped strong around you forever.

“Minho,” you whispered when your eyes met.

Minho didn’t hesitate, crossing the room quickly to join you on the bed. As soon as he was at your side, you leaned into him, catching his clean scent, those arms coming to wrap around you. You smiled, hugging him back, and Minho inhaled as he gently rubbed your back.

“Y/n” he said to you gently. “I’m glad that you’re here. I don’t know if I could get through this without you.”

“I’m glad I’m here too,” you responded. “I needed you, too, Minho.”

He turned to look down at you, gently taking your face in his hand. A moment passed as he breathed, and he gently stroked your cheek.

“Y/n,” he began quietly. “I love you.”

You found yourself whimpering, the words soothing the ache that lived inside of you.

“I love you too, Minho,” you replied, and instantly he was kissing you, pulling you into his lap as he held you tight.

“Fuck” he suddenly cursed, turning away from you, and you frowned, searching his face.

“What’s wrong?” you asked him, but Minho was chuckling darkly, shaking his head.

“Jisung would kill me,” he admitted. “But I don’t have any condoms.”

“Oh,” you said softly, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “It’s okay, Minho. I… I’ve been on birth control for a while now.”

“Really?” he responded. “Are you sure, Y/n?”

You nodded, smiling up at him, your eyes sparkling. “Yeah… I guess, deep down inside, I’ve wanted this to happen for a while now.”

Minho was smirking pridefully at you again, and the next thing you knew, he was kissing you again.

You returned his kisses, the exchange growing hot between you as your tongues danced together again, lips prodding and melding. Minho was unzipping your hoodie, and you dropped your hands from his shoulders to let him slide it over your arms and toss it away. He pulled away from your mouth to look down at the curves and peaks of your body, and next, he was pulling your tank top, edging it over your head, dragging it away from your hair so he could toss it aside.

You watched as his eyes darkened to a lustful shade of midnight black, scanning the front of your body and over your breasts. After a long moment, he brought his hands to the dip in your waist right above your hips, giving you a gentle squeeze, his palms rough but firm and warm on your skin.

“Y/n,” he asked you in a calm breath, “What do you want from me first?”

You reached out for him, wanting to please him. You grabbed the hem of his t-shirt, tugging on it until he obliged and let you pull it over his head. You found your eyes wandering the lines and planes of his torso, his chest well-defined and toned, his arms shredded in a way that was starting to drive you crazy. You found your hand drifting next to the waistband of his sweats, eager to touch him.

“Let me take care of you first, Minho,” you pleaded, but he was smirking at you, batting your hand gently away.

“No,” he denied, bringing his hands back to your waist, running them up your sides and over your ribcage, his hands splaying wide when they reached your breasts so that his fingers could brush over your hard nipples, causing you to gasp out. “You came all the way here for me, so let me take care of you first this time.”

You started to breathe heavily, but Minho was crowding you close to him, his lips now right against your hair by your ear, his breath warm as it drifted past your threads and into your skin, causing you to tremble. His hands were still thumbing your nipples.

“You want me to suck your pussy like I did on New Year’s, angel?” he asked you, and you moaned in response, your hips rolling over his.

He laughed lightly at your reaction, then laid you down on the bed, crawling over you and pressing another kiss to your lips, directing the same attention to your cheeks and your nose. Eventually, he began to direct his descent downward, kissing you along your jaw and your neck, nipping at your flesh and soothing it with slow laves and laps of his tongue. You purred and writhed, feeling your centre grow damp where it was still frustratingly trapped by layers of clothing. But Minho was taking his time, moving slowly down your body, worshipping your collarbone with kisses before he reached your breasts.

He shifted slightly to better position himself on you, taking one peak into his mouth and rolling his tongue over it in a gentle exploration. You spread your knees wider under him, and he settled himself comfortably between them, his body firm over your warmth. He continued to suck and lick at your nipples, alternating between each peak and leaving them drenched, blowing his breath across the sensitive skin and running his teeth across them in tender scrapes.

He went on for so long like this with this part of your body that you were rolling your hips and moaning, pulling at his hair and arching your back off of the bed as your body became flooded with fire and your nipples grew sore. You whined, begging him unintelligibly, but Minho only laughed and kept going, until you felt a gentle wave of pleasure roll over you, causing you to slam your palms down as everything inside of you grew tight and you were leaking and desperate for his mouth on a different part of you.

Your breathing had grown heavy, and Minho pulled his mouth away from your skin to glance up at you, smirking at the way that you panted.

“Did you just come, Y/n?” he asked you in a husky whisper, and you found yourself nodding and blushing, in a cross between being stunned and embarrassed. But Minho smiled so smugly at you that you found yourself giggling.

“I told you I could make you do that,” he responded. “Good girl, Y/n.”

You dropped your head back to the pillow, feeling your soul burning up inside of you. But now Minho was working your pants and your underwear down over your hips, not wasting another second with the flirtations of his mouth.

When the fabric was gone, he palmed your thighs open wide and stared down at your centre, and you could feel yourself grow wetter, your arousal leaking out of you the longer that he stared, licking his lips with anticipation. After a long moment he looked back up at your face, his eyes dark and hungry.

“You’re so beautiful,” he professed.

You could only stare, watching as he lowered himself between your legs and settled in, lifting your legs over his shoulders and holding your thighs down and open. His arms were so tight and strong around you, and you marvelled at how easily he was able to pin you down, taking all of your control away so that could do nothing but slowly rotate your hips.

You mewled when he lowered his lips to your skin, running his tongue hot over your folds, discovering your entrance and dipping into all your liquids there before running a long line up to your clit. Once there, he stopped and lifted his eyes to yours, licking its sides a few times until you were panting, before he closed his mouth over your nub, suckling it first slowly and then with building pressure.

You arched your back, your keens turning loud and wild. Without the fog of alcohol, the sensations he was producing in your were mind-blowing, causing you to toss your head back and forth as you quickly became overwhelmed by the pleasure. Your thighs began to tremble and strain, but there was nowhere to go, not with him holding you like this. All you could do was accept it, feeling the build deep in your belly, your heart stammering in your chest.

“Minho,” you found yourself crying out, unable to shut your mouth. “Minho, baby, that’s so good. Oh, god, Minho. Why are you so good to me?”

You dropped your head back onto the pillow, unable to watch him tease and suck your most intimate parts any longer, focusing only on the pleasure stacking deep inside of you and threatening to throw you over the edge. You felt him dip a finger inside of you, toying at your opening and then sliding in deep to finger you gently while he began to hum over your clit, his tongue tapping at it while he continued to suck.

You were losing your wits, seeing your vision brighten with pure white as your climax threatened. He kept up his assault, and soon you were breaking, tears bursting from the corners of your eyes as your orgasm broke free and left you shaking and whining his name desperately.

“Minho, fu-ck, Min-ho… Please…”

He didn’t stop, just slowed and lowered his pressure as you rode it out, holding you firm as the starburst inside of your belly filtered electric sparks over your entire body. Eventually, he pulled away from you, looking up to find you panting and whimpering, a line of sweat across your forehead. He began to rub your thighs gently, soothing you and comforting you as you returned to earth.

“You good?” he asked you softly, stopping to wipe his mouth.

You nodded, sitting up slightly, trying to calm your breathing. You let your eyes scan over his body, drinking in his perfection, stopping when you saw that he was still wearing his sweats. Wanting to see him fully, you exhaled carefully, willing your body to relax as you reached forward.

“My turn,” you told him when you were finally able to speak again, and you watched him grin a little as he sat back, letting you bring your hands to his waist.

He watched you, lifting his hips as you pulled the last remaining layers of fabric between them away, down over his hips and legs. He leaned forward to take them away from you once you had dispatched them, tossing them with abandon behind him. You sat up on your knees on the bed, staring down at his erection, thick and long in his lap, straining pink and leaking at the tip, pointing eagerly right at you. Minho leaned back on his hands as he waited, and you admired the entire front of his body, all perfectly hard lines trapped by smooth, pale skin that seemed to shimmer in the moonlight outside of his window.

“You’re beautiful too,” you whispered, and Minho smiled again, bringing a hand up to your cheek, cupping it gently and wiping a few of the tears that were still under your eyelids away.

You crawled over him and carefully took him into your hand, and Minho instantly winced at the feeling of your soft skin firmly gripping him. You gave him a squeeze, hearing him growl low in his throat as you started to pump, slowly at first before building a steady rhythm, pulling at his hot flesh.

“Fuck, Y/n,” he swore at you as you began to go faster.

“You like that, Minho?” you asked him, squeezing again, rolling your hand over him.

“Y-yeah,” he answered, squirming on the bed. “Goddamn, fuck.”

“You’re so sweary,” you chided him with a laugh, stroking him even more firmly, his precum leaking all over your knuckles. “You want my mouth, baby?”

“Please,” Minho begged, wincing again, his features contorting as he leaned his head back in pleasure.

Delighted by the way that you were working him up, you lowered yourself so that you could drop your lips to the head of his cock. Instantly, you licked up all of the wetness that had already accumulated there, tasting him salty and hot as you trailed your tongue along his rim and through the split in his tip. Instantly, Minho was hissing, his hand dropped how to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair as he held you gently.

“Jesus, Y/n,” he cursed again. “What the fuck, angel.”

You smiled across his skin, lowering your lips even further, taking more of him into your mouth as he began to stretch your jaw. You let the saliva pool in your mouth so that you could wet him and make your deep strokes and sucks even more fluid. You soon found yourself forcing him deep, and he was tapping at the back of your throat, his dick twitching inside you until you felt tears at the corners of your eyes. Minho was moaning something ridiculous above you, squirming on the bed, pulling on your head.

“Y/n...” He groaned, lifting his hips off of the bed and thrusting himself deeper down your throat.

“Shhh,” you whispered across his skin. You smirked, increasing the tightness of your lips and the pressure of your sucks, and you were now slobbering all over him. Your hand was wrapped around the base of his shaft, holding him firm and warm where your lips could not reach. Soon, Minho was squeezing your shoulder, his eyes dark when you looked up at him.

“Goddamnit, angel, I’m gonna -“

You braced yourself, watching him close his eyes as his back arched, and soon you felt him spurt inside of your mouth, steady and hot and thick, filling your cheeks and lining the back of your throat with his spend. You coughed a little, sliding your mouth off of him, then swallowed carefully, Minho staring down at you completely mystified, the rims of his eyes wet.

“Y/n…” he was at a loss for words, and you found yourself grinning triumphantly at him.

Minho was crawling over you now, a dangerous look in his eyes, his hand wrapped around his cock and encouraging it to stiffness again. But you were feeling emboldened by that last act, eager to keep pleasing him. Before he could spread your legs apart, you found a sudden surge of strength and pushed him until he fell over in the centre of the bed, and you were crawling over him, your core dripping wet in anticipation.

“What are you doing?” he breathed as you centred yourself in his lap, pushing him down to lie flat on the bed. You reached between the two of you, shoving his hand away, taking his dick in your fist, and pumping it gently.

“Shhh,” you warned him, angling him up with your entrance, and Minho’s eyebrow went up as he watched you in fascination, his breathing still ragged.

“You like shushing me?” he asked, offering you a playful smirk, but you sank down on him then, and feeling yourself wrapped tight and hot around him, his smirk transformed into a wince, and he was dropping his head to the pillow, expelling a rough and rumbly growl.

You felt him instantly fill you with a deep stretch, and you found herself offering a wince of your own, hissing at the sudden pull of your insides. You had never been with anyone like this before, had never taken things quite this far, and you realized belatedly that you had been so overeager that you rushed right past the need to move carefully beyond the border of your virginity. You pinched your eyes shut, feeling the sharp pain inside of you, clutching your hands against Minho’s belly as you tried to breathe your way through it.

“Y/n?” he was calling to you, instantly concerned. He sat up a little, hands now at your hips and running circles over them. You just stared back at him, opening your mouth slightly, and unable to stop the single tear that slipped from your eye.

Minho’s eyes softened, and he sat up fully now, gathering you into his arms and whispering into your ear. You could barely decipher his words, immersed in the feeling of him being inside of you and his arms firm and tight around you, soothing and comforting you.

“It’s okay, Y/n,” he told you, rubbing your back. “You can do this. Just don’t move until you’re ready. I’m right here.”

You nodded, wanting to cry fully, but bit your lip to hold it back. Instead, you gave him a gentle shove until he was lying back again, and you folded yourself over his body, pressing your breasts to his chest. You breathed by his ear for a moment, feeling your body adapt to his size, your walls settling around him, your arousal aiding you in sliding carefully over him. The pain soon dissipated, replaced by the heat and a sudden deep, throbbing feeling of pleasure, and suddenly you wanted him inside of you like this forever, pulling you apart.

You began to grind over him, rotating your hips and sliding him in and out of you until you learned a rhythm that had him groaning and shutting his eyes, his head flailing from side to side on the pillow. You could feel him so deep that it ignited something inside of you, and you found yourself looking down at his beautiful face as it contorted in pleasure, and you were dropping your fingers to the side of his face, stroking his cheek tenderly as you began to rotate even faster.

Minho’s hands began to wander, trailing your bottom and your hips and your waist, squeezing your flesh lovingly as they glided over your sides and your ribs, up to your shoulders, where he held you to him close. At these explorations, you found yourself being spurred on, and you kissed his chin lightly as you began to grind deeper and faster.

“Y/n, holy shit-“

“Shhh,” you scolded him again, pressing your fingers to his lips and meeting his eyes, which widened slightly before falling closed again. The intimacy between you was sending you skyward, your belly coiling tight as you felt Minho repeatedly tap a spot deep inside of you that filled you with thrills and electric feelings of pleasure that were so intricately woven with your nerves and that you had never experienced before. Eager now for his own release, Minho brought one hand to the back of your neck, pinning you against him as his hips began to rise off of the bed in beat with your own, bringing him somehow even deeper inside of you. You whined and mewled at this, finding him taking control of the situation.

“That’s right, Y/n,” he growled at you. “You’re so fucking good at this. I love the way you feel on my cock, so tight and wet and fucking me crazy like this.”

You cried out his name, feeling like she might unravel completely. You were growing desperate now for even more of this feeling of fulfilment and deep, allaying contentment, wishing he would grow rougher with you. This slow grind was sweet and penetrating, but you were aching for him to destroy you completely, to tear your insides apart and make you fully his forever.

“Minho,” you whined through your moans, and he slowed down a little, his eyes meeting yours. “This is so good, baby, but… I want you to take me from behind. I want you to fuck me, and hard.”

“Fuck,” Minho swore again, and you almost laughed at the way that he dramatically dropped his head to his pillow.

He let a beat pass before he flipped you over, and you got on all fours in front of him, balancing on your hands in front of you, arching your back, and folding your legs under you. Minho was cursing behind you again, soon holding your hips as he lined himself up behind you, stroking along your folds. You felt yourself tremble with anticipation, but soon Minho was sliding inside of you, burying himself to the hilt.

He grabbed your shoulders with both hands, holding you upright as he began to rock into you, starting with a swift but measured pace that had him plunging deep inside of you, finding that searing spot again and setting you alight. You arched your back as Minho pulled on your shoulders, driving himself deep, and soon you were crying out his name and he was wrapping his hand around your throat, squeezing gently until you saw stars.

“Oh, Minho,” you shouted, “Yes, please, that’s so good, baby. Harder, please. Yes…”

Everything that had built up inside of you over the last few weeks and months was now unravelling inside of you, forming into an explosion, and he was setting it off inside of you, winding it away with every thrust of his hips against your bottom. His hands were roaming all over your skin, gripping your shoulders and running across your back, pushing you down and then lifting you back up again, gripping the base of your throat and pulling your hair, eventually trailing down to your hips and squeezing them, smacking your ass with the flat of his palm.

“Fucking Christ, Y/n,” he swore, moving faster now, and you soon felt the peak building inside of you. “You. Feel. So. Good.”

You cried out again, dropping your face to the bed as he continued to pour himself into you and harshly pulling on your hair till it hurt, and soon you felt yourself break apart, tumbling over into your climax as a rainbow of colours burst bright against your vision. Minho had lifted one leg as he pounded his way to his own release inside of you, and you could do nothing but lay there and accept him, screaming his name as he slammed into you mercilessly, his fingers wrapped around your throat, blocking your airways.

Soon, he too was splintering apart, and you felt him suddenly begin to slow down, halting his hips and pausing, rubbing your hips and your waist tenderly as he breathed heavy and loud above you. You were only vaguely aware of the sound of your own breathing against your pillow, and you could barely see straight, your vision was so clouded with tears. You felt your body shiver as he slid out of you, everything on fire.

He collapsed beside you, breathing heavily, staring into your eyes as you started to gasp and hiccup. His were bright and misted over from his orgasm.

“Y/n,” he whispered to you, but you could barely move your lips, finding yourself unable to find words.

Minho was suddenly arranging the covers around you, pulling them up over your shoulders despite the wet puddles you left scattered behind, and you closed your eyes, falling contentedly into his embrace. But you were stunned when you suddenly felt his hand flirting between your legs, skimming through your folds and brushing over your clit.

You opened your eyes, yours widening as they met his, finding the devilish look on his face.

“Minho?” you whispered, your breath growing ragged again.

Minho had looped one arm under and around you, holding you close, the other still dancing dangerously between your thighs. “I’m not done yet, baby,” he whispered to you, and then he was lifting your left leg up over his hips, lining his erection with your passage and sliding seamlessly inside of you, still gently rubbing at your clit.

Feeling him inside at a new angle, you raised your arms and held his neck, feeling him once again reach deep inside of you. He began to rock into you gently, his pace languorous and slow.

This feeling was different from the other time he had been inside of you, sending new sensual sensations of pleasure to your brain and emotions through your heart. It was sweet and tender, and he was whispering gently to you, kissing your face, your eyelids and your cheeks, your lips, and even your hair.

“I love you, Y/n,” his voice was deep and gentle, soothing the aches in your soul and repairing the cracks in your heart. “I love you so, so much. You’re so sweet and beautiful and I can’t live without you, angel.”

“I love you too, Minho,” you found yourself confessing, unable to stop the fresh well of tears that were pooling in your eyes. “You are everything to me.”

He nudged your nose, holding you close as he continued to rock deep inside of you. You remained that way for a long time into the night, still whispering sweet nothings to each other, Minho filling you with a low-burning ache that took forever to build, before finally he was increasing his pace and rubbing your clit with more pressure, until you were both breaking apart around each other, both sighing each other’s names back and forth.

When he finally slipped out of you, wrapping his arms around you and kissing your forehead, and showering you with praise, you just cuddled up in his embrace and let him hold you, unable to think or respond. All you could do was drift slowly into sleep, his body caged tight around you protectively, nothing but your heat and a line of sweat in between, and you knew that somehow, no matter what happened, as long as you had him, things would be alright.

***

Minho woke to his phone buzzing on the side of his bed, sunlight streaking into his room from the window above and burning his eyelids. He frowned, turning away from you, and you were still naked and snuggled up tight against him, your hair spilling in a thousand directions and filled with tangles. He admired your sleeping form before reaching for his phone, seeing that it was a little after nine that morning and that the hospital was calling.

“Hello?”

“Lee Minho? This is Dr. Jones at Gimpo Mountainside General,” the doctor greeted him. “I hope you are doing well today. I wanted to provide you with an update on your mother.”

“Yeah?” Minho breathed carefully.

“We will be performing the surgery to install the pacemaker tomorrow at seven in the morning. In the meantime, she will remain sedated. I ask that she not be disturbed at this time, however. You are welcome to wait while she is in surgery.”

“Okay,” Minho found himself answering, running his hand over his face. “What’s the risk of this surgery?”

“It’s hard to say,” the doctor informed him. “But I have reasonably high hopes for its success. However, rest will be key from here on out.”

“Got it,” Minho answered.

Moments later, he was ending the call, tossing his phone to the side. He looked down at you, finding that you had stretched out on your belly now, arms folded around the pillow and holding it tight. He brushed your hair out of your face, admiring your features as you slept, thinking back on their intimacy of the night before, of the wild, soul-shredding passions that you’d shared, finding himself growing insatiable for you once again.

He laid down beside you, slipping a hand under the covers to slide down your shoulder and your back, finally to your ass, which he palmed and rubbed and squeezed, awestruck by your soft, perky round flesh. Soon, though, his hand was dropping and gently nudging your thighs apart, his fingers slipping between your split of wet flesh, eagerly stroking and rubbing you, working up your fluids and warming your clit.

You moaned suddenly, pushing your way out of sleep as you slowly blinked your eyes open, turning your gaze up at him where he levelled a smirk at you. You slid your legs apart, feeling the pleasure surge through you fresh and new, and soon you were rolling your hips up at him.

“Minho,” you whimpered, a question in your voice.

“Morning, angel,” he greeted you mischievously. “You like that?”

“Mmmm,” you whined, nodding and dropping your face into the pillow again.

“Yeah,” he whispered back, working faster circles over your nub, “I know you do.”

He kept at it for a while until you were wet and writhing, and then he was climbing over you, cantering himself behind you and gently prodding your legs apart. He gathered his stiff erection in his hand, guiding it between your legs, letting out a hot puff of air when he slid inside of you again.

"Fuck, Y/n," he grunted out, "Look at you, so wet and needy for me."

God, he could never get over the feel of you around him, so hot and tight and wet, it was burning him alive. Lying his body flat atop yours, he held you close as he rocked into you, dropping kisses to your shoulders. The closeness and angles of your bodies permitted him in deep, and you were soon moaning his name loudly, leaking a hot puddle onto his cock and all over the sheets.

“Oh, Minho,” you purred, arching your back slightly. “Oh, baby, you feel so good inside of me. I wish I could have you living inside of me forever.”

Minho swore again, shaking his head against your shoulder. He would never have suspected that you would be so chatty in bed, but last night had proved that you could really run your mouth. It did crazy things to him to hear you curse and talk back to him like this, and he found himself moving faster inside of you, pulling himself up to his palms above you so that he could fall into you with a deep stroke.

“Fuck, yeah,” he growled back at you. “Me too, Y/n. I would fuck you always till you can't even remember your name.”

He continued to punish your walls with long drags, pulling himself fully out of you before falling back inside of you in a ruthless thrust, and soon you were moaning your way through your climax, crying out his name. Feeling you break apart again, he picked up his speed until he was spilling inside of you.

He rolled off of you, laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling and trying to catch his breath as you sighed in elation at his side. Eventually, you quieted, and you rolled over to face him, sitting up on your elbow.

“That was amazing, Minho.”

“You’re amazing, Y/n,” he shot right back, and you were smiling bright and warm at him.

After a few long minutes, Minho was sitting up, intent to get up for the day finally. You rose as well, unable to stop yourself from admiring his body.

“You wanna take a shower?” he asked you.

And so, soon he found himself pressed up against you under the hot spray, first running his fingers through your hair to work the knots of the night before out of your tangled tresses. Your hair was so heavy and silky and full in his hands, and you offered him some of your shampoo, and he worked his fingers over your scalp, deep into that cascade of your hair, the water running over you and rinsing your hair clean and leaving the winding curves and hills of your body drenched. You returned the favour, curling soap through his hair, smiling at him when he closed his eyes to the softness of your touch. Soon, you were washing each other’s bodies, laving the sweat and the fluids of the night and morning before away, along with all the sadness and turmoil you had both been mired in.

When you were both finally clean, Minho surrounded by the sugary scents of your soap, he found himself overcome with lust again, your body too alluring under the hot waterfall. He was turning you toward the wall, crowding behind you, you mewling as you felt his erection press into the curve of your rear. His hands were traveling along the front of your body, trailing the water against your skin, one finding your breasts and twirling over your nipples, pinching them gently while his other hand slid between your legs to skim over your clit, rubbing it until you were spreading your legs and keening in that sweet, sing-song way again.

“F-fuck,” you breathed, arching your back. “Minho, please.”

God, he loved it when you begged him like that. He decided to tease you, sliding the tips of his fingers away from your clit and instead over your slick opening, now just as wet as the rest of your body. His tip was still prodding you, and you lifted one leg to balance it on the side of the tub, Minho smirking at you as he continued to stroke your folds calmly and gently.

“Please, baby,” you whispered greedily.

Minho smiled, leaning forward to kiss your neck, raising his fingers to circle your clit, rubbing, tapping, flicking gently. He began to press inside of you, and you were moaning in earnest as he gently worked you from behind, sliding his length all the way inside of you. Still keeping his fingers on your clit, he lowered his hand from your breast to hold your hip against him, gently rocking into you and stroking you deep as you cried his name.

It didn’t take long for you to come on him with the dual assaults on your body, and as you trembled, Minho moved himself to his own completion, filling you hot and deep before wrapping his arms around you and holding onto his body close, realizing once again that you fit him perfectly in so many ways.

Both coming down from your highs, you eventually got out of the water, drying and dressing in comfortable clothing for the day, Minho in sweats again and you in another yoga ensemble, this time one that was a deep red. He watched you longingly as you combed your hair, running his fingers through his own hair to muss it into style. Eventually, he heard his stomach rumble, and you turned to him, offering him a smile from where you were standing looking in his bedroom mirror.

“Are you hungry?” you asked him. “I can fix us breakfast.”

He smiled back at you, feeling flooded with affection at this sudden domestic situation you found yourselves in. “Sure. I’m sure my mom has stuff in the fridge.”

You went back downstairs, and Minho let you rummage through his fridge, watching you as you found eggs and bread and bacon, quickly locating everything that you needed to cook with careful efficiency. Folding his arms across his chest, Minho found himself slightly impressed, not knowing his own way around the kitchen at all.

You worked quickly, and in no time you were finishing your meals at the kitchen table, Minho rubbing his belly as he sipped on the coffee that you made. He was still feeling warm by all of their shared affections and passions of the last few hours, unsure how he could ever wind up such a lucky person in the first place. The fact that you could cook almost as good as his mother could was only icing on the cake at this point.

“You’re a good cook, Y/n,” he told you, and you blushed, looking down into your mug as you smiled.

“My mom’s surgery is tomorrow morning,” he told you after another moment. “I think we should just take it easy here until then. I’m gonna pack up some stuff for her.”

“I’ll help you,” you promised right away.

After a while, Minho picked up the remote to the television that was on the kitchen counter and began to flip through some channels, content to just sit here with you at his side. Between your shared confessions and acknowledgment of what you had come to mean to each other, he felt that at least one burden in his life had been alleviated.

Eventually, a familiar building caught his eye when he stopped on a news channel, and Minho frowned when he realized that a reporter was standing outside of the Kim Capitol building in Incheon. Slowly, he turned to you, finding your eyes widening slightly as you watched.

“We have breaking news in Incheon,” the reporter was saying. “We have been informed of a major development concerning the scandal erupting inside of investment firm Kim Capitol. At this time, additional arrests are being made, apparent allegations of insider trading, securities fraud, embezzlement, conspiracy, and violations of the RICO Act.”

Your mouth was hanging open as you watched, and Minho felt his heart begin to race.

You watched the screen as the camera zoomed and panned to the front door of the Kim Building, and soon the glass front doors were flying open, federal agents in dark blue jackets emerging. The group was led by a man with long dark hair, red eyes piercing and his gaze severe as he looked around at the flurry of reporters and photographers and concerned, nosy citizens on the street.

“Please step away and make space for us to pass,” the man ordered, holding up his badge.

Minho heard you gasp a moment later, watching as your father emerged next. He was handcuffed behind his back, another agent leading him along, Brandon wearing a black three-piece suit with a dark teal-coloured vest underneath. His head was lowered in shame, but his face was pulled into a severe glower, anger twisting his moustachioed features as he was led away.

Behind him, also restrained, was Kim Sanghoon, dressed fully in white, his head held high and a dark simper on his face as he was led away to a police cruiser. At his right, also appearing viciously angry and offended, was his father, President of the Kim Capitol Company.

Seeing Sanghoon in handcuffs, Minho couldn’t help the way the corners of his lips tugged in a smirk.

He turned to you, trying to think of something to say to you, but you were staring at the screen, your eyes wide and misted over, and everything he tried to think of seemed woefully unhelpful.

A man in a smart black suit with slick dark hair and a goatee had approached the galley of reporters, the name Korean Attorney for the SDNY – Jung Haneul scrolling on the bottom of the screen. “My office will be announcing the significance and complete nature of these charges in the days to come,” he shared ominously. “But just know that today, we have made significant progress in taking action against white-collar crime in this city. Incheon residents and all Koreans should feel a little bit better about the state of our financial institutions.”

Reporters called after him, but Haneul held up a hand, pushing past them to enter a large black jeep that was parked nearby. The scene was chaotic, reporters screaming and demanding their questions.

Soon, another man appeared on the steps, relatively young and dressed in a dark suit, his hair a perfect cascade of blonde over his shoulders. The words Kim General Counsel – Hwang Hyunjin scrolled across the marquee.

“We will not be taking questions or making any statements at this time," he warned the crowd. “Just know that President Kim and his executive leadership are innocent of all charges. These are trumped-up allegations pushed by an overzealous prosecutor, fabrications with deep political motivations.”

Minho watched as the man named Hyunjin pushed away, also climbing into a nearby vehicle, and the camera panned back to the reporter.

“Well, there you have it. We will access the full list of charges, but it looks the main arrests have been against the company’s President, its Vice President, Sanghoon, and its Chief Financial Officer, Brandon. This is following last week’s arrests of the company’s Strategy and Risk Officers, Scarlet, and Joohyuk. Back to you, Jake.”

The camera switched back to an in-studio anchor, a man with salt and peppered hair. He was sitting beside a young, female pundit, whose dark hair was trimmed in a short bob around her head, wearing a smart dark green blazer, her hands wrapped around a mug of water.

“Well,” the anchor named Jake began. “Thank you for staying with us. If you’re just joining, I am Jake Tapper and I am bringing you breaking news this morning concerning arrests at one of the largest investment banks in the world, Kim Capitol. I have with me here this morning Shin Yuqi, political correspondent to CNN who is known for her investigative journalism into corporate and white-collar crime. Ms. Shin, what is your take on things that happened here today?

The woman smiled at the camera. “My take is that it was a long time in the making. Anyone familiar with Hanging Street knows the prevalence of these crimes, but there have been allegations of fraud and abuse within Kim for years. They have done an excellent job of covering it up, though. I even had a hard time digging there.”

“It seems that DA Jung was finally able to make this happen.”

Yuqi nodded, grinning now. “Mr. Jung is a very smart man. I believe he is running for governor next year. I’m sure he will do a lot for Hanging Street reforms while in office.”

“Turn it off,” you suddenly snapped.

Minho did so, heaving a sigh. He glanced over at you, finding you shaking your head before dropping your head in your hands.

“Hey, Y/n,” he called to you softly. “I… I’m really sorry.”

You just sighed in response, looking back up at him.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “It’s just… I’m so disappointed. I really thought… I really thought he would be better than this.” Minho pushed up to his feet and crossed over to you, dropping to his knees in front of your chair, instantly taking your hands in his.

“Listen, Y/n,” he began. “I know this hurts, but… it’s gonna be okay. I promise.”

You softened your features gently, and then you were dropping into his arms, Minho instantly holding you tight on the floor as you began to cry.

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

“Y/n? Minho?”

Minho could just barely distinguish the high-pitched, sunny voice that pierced through his fog of sleep, greeting him with the same bright burst of awareness that the sunlight streaming through the window above was burning his eyelids with. Groaning, he shifted, feeling a stiffness in his left arm, hearing a light wrapping at the door.

“Y/n, Minho. We have to check out soon!”

Minho groaned, opening his eyes with several long, slow blinks, craning his neck to get a glimpse of his surroundings. Immediately, he awakened to the fact that he was inside of a plush hotel room that was decorated in shades of creams and light teals, but more importantly was the warmth that was crushed against his body, responsible for the numbing sensations in his arm.

He looked down to find you splayed across him, your arm still wrapped around his waist, a leg flung over his hips, your hair a tangled, fanned out sprawl across your back and shoulders. Your face was concealed, buried into his chest. He felt his cheeks warm when he realized that he too had his arm wrapped around you, but that his palm was splayed over your bare ass, your dress bunched all the way up to your waist, your thigh-highs torn and sliding down your legs.

Awareness of this sight crashed into him at the exact same moment that the first spark of a blinding white pain hit his temples, alerting him to the quickly developing hangover that was working its way through his every nerve ending. Wincing and trying to wade through his muddled thoughts, Minho carefully shifted you away from him so that he could sit up.

Instantly, the flood of memories from the night before began to return to him, each with a new pulsing beat of pain against his skull. You, taking his hand and leading him into the bedroom. You, turning to him in the moonlight and pressing your lips against his in desperation. You, pushing him down onto the bed and pulling his pants open. You, looking up at him with tears and need in your eyes, his cock in your mouth and tapping the back of your throat. You, swallowing it all at once.

Him, flipping you over and sucking the flesh of your neck between his teeth. Him, ripping apart the neckline of your dress. Him, pushing your dress up and your panties down and drowning in the sight of your slick, shaved pussy, throbbing and wet and swollen just for him. Him, licking and sucking and flicking your most intimate parts, his finger curling inside of you until you cried.

You, looking down at him with your fingers tangled in his hair, calling him baby throughout it all.

What the fuck.

“Minho, Y/n!”

Jihoo. It was Jihoo’s fucking voice that was screeching on the other side of the door, flaring the headache that was becoming an entire band of pain across his forehead.

“You guys have to get up! We have to leave, it’s almost eleven!”

God.

Minho glanced down at you; and you had rolled onto your belly with your arms over your head on the pillow when he’d sat up. With this change in position, your round bottom was entirely on display, and you had bent one knee upward, offering a magnificent shot of your pretty pussy, leaving him disbelieving that he’d had his face pressed between there just a few hours ago.

Minho couldn’t help but stare at the sight for long moments before he remembered himself and blushed even more furiously, panicking slightly at the state of affairs as Jihoo continued to knock on the door. Glancing at your rumpled dress, he wondered if he should try to fix it before you woke up. Would it be weird or perverted to fix a girl’s clothes while you were still passed out? Wouldn’t you be embarrassed if you woke up in this condition?

“Y/n!” Jihoo demanded.

Goddamnit.

Impulsively, Minho reached for your waist, ambling to find the hem of your dress. Instantly, his knuckles brushed against your warm skin, and you made a kitten-like sound, leaning toward him and spreading your legs even further, and Minho’s brain began to fizzle and smoke.

I can’t do this.

Somehow, though, he managed, snagging the soft material and pulling it down over your hips and the curve of your rear end until you were somewhat decent. He stared at you for a moment longer, watching you sleep, cocking his head to one side as he studied the way that your chest rose and fell with your calm breathing.

Hearing Jihoo’s disgruntled huffs and puffs on the other side of the door, Minho gently began to nudge your shoulder.

“Hey, Y/n,” he called to you softly. “Y/n, wake up. Time to go home.”

It took several more tries before you roused, groggily pulling yourself from the throes of a deep, drunken sleep. You rolled to your back and looked up at him, blinking slowly in complete disorientation, before he saw you wince, knowing that your hangover was likely setting in.

Your hair was tangled and frizzed around your shoulders, and your dark makeup was smudged around your eyes, leaving you looking as if you had been through a three-round knockout. To make matters worse, you brought a fist up, rubbing the sleep out of one eye, smearing the kohl even further.

“Minho?” you trilled up at him, blinking as if in utter confusion.

Minho felt his heart begin to pick up speed, sending all of the blood in his body straight to his cheeks. “H-hey, bean,” he spluttered before he could stop himself from calling you one. “Uh, we gotta go. Check-out time.”

“Y/n!” Jihoo called with another bang to the door as if to emphasize this point.

You were looking down at the state of your dress, noting the torn cowl-neck and your dishevelled bra and the way your skirt was ridden up nearly to your hips. A beat passed before your eyes widened slightly and you were slowly turning to look back up at him again.

“Minho…?”

Oh, fuck, he thought. Please don’t tell me she doesn’t remember.

But it seemed that you did, because suddenly you started coughing up, and you were sitting up even straighter, swinging your legs off of the bed and fixing your dress.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Minho,” you blubbered in one sloppy rush. “I didn’t mean to…” you trailed off, lowering your face to your hands in humiliation, clearly overcome with memories of their shared passions the nights before.

Why the fuck were you apologizing?

Panicking, Minho’s mind raced through a thousand possible reactions, before his body acted on its own accord, and he had his arms around you, pulling you toward him as he offered you a tight embrace, similar to the way you had pulled him toward yourself so many weeks ago in the hallway outside of his apartment. He felt you grow stiff for just a moment.

“Don’t apologize, Y/n,” he coaxed softly into your hair, his hands flat against your upper back.

You shivered, then leaned in, wrapping your arms around him and accepting his hug.

“Thank you,” you whispered almost inaudibly against his sweater.

You dipped your forehead against his shoulder, and for a brief, fleeting moment, Minho thought that maybe, they were going to be alright.

“I am going to break this door down,” Jihoo’s muffled voice threatened.

You pulled away from him at that, harshly breaking the connection, shaking your head out. Minho let his arms fall limply to his sides as he watched you rake your fingers through your hair and tug on your clothing in an attempt to right everything into place.

“I really have to pee,” you finally said, bending down to pick up your boots where he had tossed them the night before. “I’ll see you downstairs in a few.”

He noticed that you were avoiding his looks, but you were moving quickly, turning away from him without another word and making for the door. He caught a glimpse of Jihoo in the doorway as it opened, her auburn hair almost as wild as your had been, her green eyes almost black and her face just as haggard from lack of sleep.

When the door closed, Minho shook his head, dropping it into his hands. Somehow, despite the incredible high of the night before, their relationship had just fallen into even more precarious waters. There was no doubting the thick tension that surrounded you after you realized what had happened, the fog of alcohol now dispelled. What he wasn’t sure of was what was laced behind that tension, whether it was simply confusion or uncertainty, or far worse, regret.

A gleam of gold in the sunlight that streamed from above caught his eye, and Minho pushed a pillow aside to find that you had lost one of your crescent moon earrings at some point during the night. He gingerly picked it up, turning it over between his fingers, catching its glint in the sun and remembering vaguely how it had sparkled under the moonlight the night before.

Without thinking about it, he slid it into his pocket.

After long moments of trying to clear the smog from his head, Minho finally got up to pull his boots on, straightening and brushing off his clothes and running his fingers through his hair to placate it somewhat. Just as he was about to leave the room, he spotted a small strip of black lace fabric strewn to the floor in one corner.

Your panties.

His neck hot, Minho stared at them for a long, uncomfortable moment before he bent forward and swiped them up, stuffing them into his pocket as he left the room.

The ride across Incheon was arduous, and Minho had almost wished that they had taken separate cabs home. The backseat of the taxi smelled like a brewery, and all four of them looked like they had been run over by trucks. Jisung sat with his head tipped against one window, his eyes squeezed shut tight in pain, while Jihoo talked. She talked the entire ride, complaining about her hangover, about how a little bit of weed would cure all of them, about how she couldn’t wait to juice some vegetables and get some antioxidants into her system. Blessedly, she said nothing about what had obviously occurred between him and you that night, and Jisung was too hungover and tired to care about teasing anyone.

And of course, Minho was squished next to you again, as you sat with your coat wrapped tightly around you, your knees pressed together. Apparently, your thigh-highs had been unsalvageable after last night, because you were no longer wearing them, your legs bare and clearly feeling the chill of the January air.

And Minho couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that you were sitting next to him panty-less, wondering if you had bothered to look for them, wondering if you would flip out if you knew he had them in his pocket, wondering if he was some kind of pervert for taking them in the first place.

Eventually, the taxi dropped them off at your and Jihoo’s brownstone, and they climbed out of the vehicle, all in varying states of unease and exhaustion. As the cab pulled away, Jisung and Jihoo shared a lazy, tired kiss goodbye, while you looked up at Minho with uncertainty, one toe crossed behind the heel of the other.

“Um,” you whispered, and Minho hated the way that he stood like a statue in front of you, unable to move, waiting. “I’ll text you later.”

He could only nod like a moron, watching you turn and walk with Jihoo up the steps, your crescent moon and your underwear burning holes in his pocket.

***

You didn’t text him later.

The rest of that entire day and the next, Minho checked his phone relentlessly, waiting for you to reach out, for your inevitable “Heya” and your little blue heart. But they didn’t come, and the more that the hours stretched away from New Year’s Eve and the bewildered intoxication of that night, the more that clarity seeped in and the more that their behaviour and its implications came to light, the more Minho began to panic, terrified that something had been irrevocably damaged and that he had no idea how to climb his way out of it.

It certainly didn’t help that that coming Monday, you were scheduled to start your new job at Kim Capitol. That thought plagued Minho’s mind with a whole new set of anxieties that were only stacked on top of his distress over the messy state of his relationship with you. For one, it meant that you would no longer be working nights at Seventh Heaven, long hours of your days and evenings likely tied up with your new corporate responsibilities, chasing investors and managing stocks.

Which meant no more taking the train home together, his favourite part of his day and the only thing that made going to his boring-ass job even remotely tolerable, him walking you from Seventh Heaven and to your brownstone, when they would chat quietly side by side and he would listen to you share your hopes and dreams, none of which involved Kim Capitol.

Yet most infuriating about all of it was the fact that you would be working for that asshole Kim Sanghoon.

Minho didn’t want to think about it, especially after what had happened between them on New Year’s Eve. It was too fucking depressing, being caught between the threads of their friendship that were slowly slipping away and the huge draining question of what they actually meant to each other. That thought alone had the idea of a sleaze-bag like Kim Sanghoon spending any time around you leaving him feeling hot and possessive and caged, as if you belonged to him but knowing full well that you didn’t.

And he didn’t know what the fuck to do about it, the hours ticking by and his phone still silent and everything in anxious, desperate stasis.

None of this was helped by the fact that he had slept terribly every single night since, tossing and turning and descending once again into war-torn nightmares whenever he finally did fall under.

It was Sunday evening again when Minho was laying back on his bed again, staring up at his ceiling, his television dully droning another show that he couldn’t pay any attention to. He had been lying there for hours, his phone on his chest, waiting for it to buzz and light up and greet him with a glowing blue heart that would soothe his own.

Sundays had always been his day with you, but they hadn’t spoken at all today. They still hadn’t spoken since they’d parted ways outside of your brownstone two days ago.

“Hey, Minho,” there was a knock at the door, and Jisung’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. He hadn’t spoken to his best friend much over the course of the last two days; both of them had taken longer than usual to climb their way out of their hangovers, and Minho had kept himself confined to his room to brood over his own racing and miserable thoughts, not really in the mood to entertain any of Jisung’s prodding. But at his tone, he sat up on his bed, rolling his shoulders and finally relenting.

The truth was, he needed someone to talk to, and Jisung was the only person that he could trust other than you, but that was beside the point.

“Yeah,” he called back, drawing his knees to his chest.

Jisung opened the door, crossing into the room, his hair still looking as if he hadn’t run a comb through it in the last two days, which he probably hadn’t. He took a seat on the foot of Minho’s bed, falling back with a loud sigh, crossing his arms behind his head as he looked up at the ceiling.

“Man… what a way to bring in the New Year, huh?”

Minho only grunted, looking down at his hands, already knowing where this was headed.

“I think today is the first day my head isn’t actually still pounding,” Jisung muttered, turning to glance at him. “I’ve been letting you off the hook, but I’ve finally got enough strength to deal with your nonsense.”

Minho sighed, refusing to meet Jisung’s stare. “What are you talking about, Jisung?”

Jisung huffed, rolling over to his side and leaning up on his elbow, looking at Minho even more intently. “Oh, come on. Y/n and you. Don’t be ridiculous, Minho. Everyone could hear her that night.”

Minho buried his face between his knees, shaking it vehemently in mortification.

If only he had not gone to the party.

“Oh, I would be pretty proud of myself if I were you, honestly,” Jisung continued with a laugh. “For what it’s worth, I think Sana was so drunk that she forgot all about it, and Suho would never say anything. Pretty sure Chul sleeps like the dead. Jihoo sure hasn’t forgotten, though.”

Great, Minho thought miserably, wondering with dread if you were also sitting on the end of a similar conversation across the street at the moment.

When he said nothing in response, Jisung let the silence pass on for another beat before he sat up a little further and narrowed his eyes at Minho.

“Listen, Minho,” he began softly, “I’m sensing some issues here. Shouldn’t you do something?”

At that, Minho finally picked his head up, his brown eyes connecting with Jisung’s worried ones. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice a little sharper than he intended. “I haven’t spoken to her since that morning.”

Jisung only frowned, now sitting all the way back up again. “You’re kidding me, right?” His jaw was hanging open in complete incredulity. “You mean to tell me you’ve let two whole fucking days pass since that without having a conversation with her about it?”

Minho was suddenly regretting letting Jisung into his room.

“Alright, listen, I get it,” Jisung went on. “You’re shitty at this kind of stuff. But come on, Minho. Aren’t you going a little too crazy?”

“Y/n was supposed to text me,” he admitted lamely. “I’ve been waiting, but radio silence.”

Jisung let out a sharp guffaw that had Minho narrowing his eyes, wondering what the fuck could possibly be so amusing about this situation.

“You can’t be serious,” Jisung bellowed, still laughing. “No girl wants to be the one to have to initiate a conversation after something like that, Minho. Jesus, she probably thinks you’re rejecting her.”

As if this was somehow funny, Jisung lifted his arm to his face and broke out into even brighter peals of laughter.

“But she said..” Minho realized he sounded like he was thirteen years old again when he spoke.

Jisung held up his hand, trying desperately to stop his chortling. “I blame myself,” he finally choked out around a laugh, “I thought I had taught you better. But then, you’ve always been stubborn. Never did want to listen.”

“None of this is funny,” Minho finally snapped.

Jisung shook his head, scooting to the edge of the bed and pushing up to his feet with his hands on his knees. “You’re right. Listen… you need to fix this, and fast. Just talk to her,” he said this as if it were the most obvious, simplest thing in the world. “Tell her how you feel. And do it quickly… it may already be too late.”

He tipped his head at Minho, shaking his head, laughing as he made his way out of his room, closing the door behind him and leaving Minho sitting surrounded by silence, the walls suddenly feeling like they were caving in around him.

On his bedside table was your crescent moon earring, right next to his alarm clock, and inside its drawer were your lacy black panties.

He glanced down at his phone, still blank, no incoming calls or texts over the course of the last few days.

***

“Name, please?”

“Y/F/N.”

The woman at the receptionist’s desk offered you a tight-lipped smile, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a lanyard with a plastic badge attached to it.

“I’ll phone Elena right away. This is your temporary badge,” the receptionist leaned over her desk, handing it to you. “You can have a seat right on those chairs. And welcome to Kim Capitol.”

You accepted the badge, nodding slowly before slipping it over your head and turning away, finding the row of plush, white leather chairs and sinking into one of them.

You pulled on the hem of your skirt, brushing off the collar of your blazer as you looked around, your coat looped around your arm. You were in the main lobby of the first floor of Kim Capitol’s flagship building on West Street in Lower Incheon, a sixty-eight story, glass and steel encased building that housed all of the firm’s primary operations. The structure was lined with almost nothing but windows, letting the pale January sunlight filter in with blinding bursts.

Your nerves were on a dangerous knife’s edge as you sat and waited, clutching the leather briefcase your father had gifted you for Christmas at your side. It was your first day at Kim Capitol, your first time inside of this massive, pearlescent building that your father had worked in for years and where some of the world’s most lucrative investments and financial dealings were conducted. You felt vividly out of place, watching as Kim employees, all dressed in stiff dark business suits, briefcases at their sides and lanyards around their necks, passed through security and traversed the lobby, making their way to the elevators at the farthest end of the space.

You felt your knee begin to sway, a tell-tale sign that your anxiety was spiking and that your blood was flooding with fear. The holidays had passed far too quickly, a complete blur that left your feeling as if you had been spun into some sort of a whirlwind. You realized that you had been relying on them too heavily as the interlude before your new reality, and now that the New Year had set in, there was no avoiding the fact that you were stuck suddenly in a hell that was completely not of your own design.

Your feelings were a scattering of puzzle pieces that had no reasonable solution in sight. It had only been a few days ago that you’d finally had the difficult conversation with Chul, letting him know that you were going to have quit bartending at Seventh Heaven in the evenings and that you’d likely have to scale back your volunteer work with AVALANCHE. He had been furious, especially since you had given him such short notice, but he had also been deeply concerned by the turn of events.

“This don’t sound like you at all, Y/n,” he’d grumbled, whipping his sunglasses off to place them on the bar’s countertop, crossing his arms over his massive chest. You had instantly been disarmed by the inviting warmth in his gentle, hazel-brown eyes. “Working on the Hanging Street? I thought you hated your dad’s business.”

You could only sigh in response, knowing when you entered the conversation that Chul would be able to read you with transparency like perhaps no other. It had been one of the reasons you had put off having the conversation with him for so long in the first place.

As soon as the New Year arrived, your father began to cling and hover in an uncharacteristic way that quickly had you feeling as if you might be suffocating. He was calling you daily, inquiring about your preparations ahead of your first day at work, asking you if you needed anything, offering you titbits of advice that he’d somehow deemed useful. For years, you had learned to live with weeks stretching between them where they didn’t talk outside of much more than a swift, occasional text message. A hopeful part of you was spurred and brightened by his sudden attention, eager and willing for his praise and his affection. But a darker, far more cynical part of you reigned supreme, utterly despising him for his blatant inauthenticity.

Then, there was the matter of Minho. As much as you were distressed and anxious about your new job and your father and the complete disruption in your life and your routine, nothing plagued you more than your relationship with Minho. You thought about him day and night, his presence wrapped like sticky taffy through the ridges of your brain and around the ventricles of your heart. The space between your thighs still burned with the sensation of his mouth against your skin, the feeling of his lips pressed across your most sensitive, intimate parts while his eyes glowed up at you dangerously beneath the cover of darkness. No matter how wasted you had been that night, you could not shake the imprint that his tongue against your flesh had left, the way he had burned you alive, his hands splayed across your thighs as he held you open, removing all of your control and completely unravelling you, thread by delicate thread.

Every time you thought about it, you felt your blood pressure spike, felt yourself grow warm and wet again between your knees. You almost would give up a limb to share that feeling with him again.

But their intimacy had thrown a brick wall between their relationship, horribly timed with the advent of your new job at Kim and so many other life changes that were shuffling in with the new year. In the days that followed, they hadn’t spoken until very late the night before, when Minho had finally sent you a text message, an exchange that you had read and reread over probably a thousand times by now.

Minho: Hey.

Y/n: Heya

Minho: You okay?

Minho: You start your new job tomorrow, right?

Y/n: Yeah. I’m ok. Just a little nervous

Minho: You’ll do great.

Y/n: Thanks

Brief, to the point, and completely glossing over the fact that only two nights prior, they’d had their mouths all over each other’s most intimate parts.

You didn’t know how to continue the discussion after that, nor did you have the slightest clue how to initiate a conversation that you knew they badly needed to have. You didn’t have the courage or the words for what you were feeling, and even if you did, you were clumsily unable to assemble them into anything coherent. You wished that Minho would just ask you out, solidifying what had happened between them into something concrete and real.

But you knew that things were far more complicated than that. You knew that Minho was distant and troubled and not completely invested in this life in Incheon, knew that you wanted to avoid the knotty intricacies and distractions of a relationship, knew that they both treasured their decades-long friendship above all.

You had been staring down at your last text messages with Minho when a pair of patent leather, block-heeled pumps stopped in front of you, and you sat back, adjusting your skirt-suit as you looked up.

“Ms. L/N?”

You were facing an attractive young woman, not much older than yourself, whose blonde hair was styled in a flawless bob, her brown eyes wide and oval-shaped, her skin pale and smooth as if she lived in mud baths.

“Yes,” you replied, rising to your feet and offering your hand.

“Nice to meet you!” The woman accepted your hand, shaking it vigorously, and you realized that she was far more chipper than you had been expecting. “My name is Elena. I’m a junior financial analyst in the Vice President’s office. VP Sanghoon asked me to get you settled in this morning and introduce you to the rest of the team.”

“Nice to meet you,” you replied, swallowing back the lump that had formed in your throat. Although your nerves were still utterly on fire, Elena’s warm and bubbly nature was somewhat infectious and left you feeling a little bit at ease.

You followed Elena through the building and to the elevators, listening as the woman talked incessantly the entire time, explaining first a drab bit of history about the building itself, before expanding into her own career and background with the company. You learned that Elena had an older sister who worked in the President’s office, but had since transferred to another firm. Elena was a junior analyst who had only been with the company for about ten months.

Sanghoon’s office was on the sixty-fourth floor, and when they arrived, you immediately noticed the marked differences compared to the ground level and some of the other levels that you’d spotted during their ascent. This floor was carpeted completely in vermillion, again encased by a seemingly endless cascade of shimmering floor-to-ceiling windows that invited so much sunlight into the halls that you had to squint as they looped around towering, Vermont slate columns. The lighting was dim, eerily shadowed by the undertones of luminescent violet skylights.

“You have your own office, of course, right next to the Vice President,” Elena was saying, “But before we go there, I’ll take you to our main conference room, which Sanghoon calls our war room. The rest of the crew is there, and it’s where we do most of our work and strategize as a team.”

You could only nod in silence, feeling uncertainty blend with the tension that pulled at your nerves, and you straightened your spine as they approached the conference room, summoning every last ounce of will and strength that you possessed.

Elena shouldered the door open, and you followed your inside, your heels immediately sinking into the even plusher slate-grey carpeting that lined the French limestone flooring. It was a vast, long conference room, a large, polished graphite table taking up most of its space, a sparkling view of the city's skyline greeting them from beyond the windows.

Sanghoon was nowhere in sight, but there were three other individuals seated at the table, Hyunjin one of them. He sat at the centre of the conference table, his hair an impeccable waterfall of ink across his shoulders, his left hand scribbling something carefully into the margins of a report. As they entered, he looked up, letting his eyes descend on you, narrowing slightly as they focused.

A few chairs down from him was a man with a messy shock of bright red hair, wearing the most dishevelled suit that you had seen in all of Lower Bucheon, let alone inside of this pristine building. Not only that, but he had his feet kicked up on the table, an unopened laptop and an assortment of untouched folders sprawled in front of him.

And two seats down from him, bald-headed and bronze-skinned, was your ex-boyfriend, Rude.

You had dated Rude just a little over a year ago, after meeting him at Master Zangan’s dojo, initiating a fling that had only lasted a couple of months, commencing with a brief physical attraction that never materialized into anything more significant than that. The most they had shared were a few make out sessions that were very uninspiring, and they had both ended the affair amicably. You knew that at the time, Rude worked in finance, but he had never revealed that he worked for your father’s company, and at that moment, you realized how superficial and shallow their fleeting courtship had really been.

“Guys, this is Y/F/N,” Elena announced brightly, waving a hand in the air.

“Wow,” the redhead whispered, and you narrowed your eyes, glancing at him sharply.

“She’s Sanghoon’ new financial strategist and performance coach,” Elena explained.

“I’d like to let her coach my performance, alright,” the redhead commented as if you were not standing right there.

“Hello, Y/n,” Rude greeted with a nod of his head, and you realized that he was not experiencing the same surprise that you were, obviously expecting your arrival.

“Wait, you know this chick?” the redhead kicked his feet off of the table, finally sitting up straight. “Oh man, how’s Sanghoon gonna like having your sloppy seconds?”

You were about to launch yourself across the table and grab him by the throat, but mercifully, Hyunjin was at his feet.

“That’s enough, Jaeseok,” he warned in a severe tone, pulling on his tie. He gestured to a chair across from where he sat. “Have a seat, Ms. Y/n. The Vice President will join us shortly.

The man named Jaeseok shut up at last, but you did not miss the haranguing grin that was plastered across his face, his aquamarine eyes following you as you pulled back a chair to sit. At his side, Rude shifted uncomfortably in his seat, a distasteful frown pulling at his lips.

“Don’t mind him,” Elena murmured as she slid into a seat beside you. “He’s utterly filthy.”

Jaeseok only laughed at that, but you decided that you were going to have to learn to ignore him if you were going to survive this experience. Pushing the hot waves of anger down for the sake of you and your father’s reputations, you carefully dropped your work bag onto the table and folded your hands in your lap.

Hyunjin was staring at you again, his eyes piercing beads of onyx that seemed to be holding something almost like contempt in their depths. Otherwise, his face was an unreadable mask, one of the most faultless poker-faces and beautiful face you had ever seen.

“We are reviewing last quarter’s financial reports,” Hyunjin informed you, his voice smooth and steady, a tuft of silk blowing beneath a breeze. “The Vice President is interested in adjusting our investment strategy for the remainder of this fiscal year, with the aim of doubling our profits.”

You nodded, sitting up a little straighter. As much as you hated everything about this, and as much you didn’t want to be here, you couldn’t resist the impulse to do your absolute best, to overachieve, even at things you did not care for.

You nodded at the spreadsheet in front of him. “Can I take a look?” you asked.

Hyunjin’s eyebrow crested slightly, the first time his face had broken its shield at all. Wordlessly, he slid the papers across the desk to you.

You turned them to you, studying the account names and the sales figures and dates that ran across the pages. You felt your heart rate rise a little, recognizing the names of several of the most prominent multinational corporations in the world, spotting the names of celebrities and wealthy international businesspeople and even a few senators.

“Kim is one of the most sought after investment firms in the entire world, Ms. Y/n,” Hyunjin stated, as if he had been reading your mind. “I’m sure your father has shared that, no?”

You sat back, tearing your eyes from the spreadsheet. “Of course.”

Hyunjin looked away from you, instead turning to the other analysts in the room. “Be prepared to share your recommendations with the Vice President upon his arrival,” he warned them.

As if on cue, the door opened, and Kim Sanghoon entered with a long stride. This morning, he was dressed in an impeccable sky-grey, three piece suit, finished with a contrasting lead-coloured vest and necktie. He was holding a leather portfolio in hand, and he dropped it to the table as he came to a stop at the head of it.

“Good morning,” he greeted the group, flipping his sandy hair out of his eyes, which seemed brighter and bluer than you remembered them, especially as they swept the room and landed ultimately on you. His lips spread into his characteristically wicked smirk.

“Ah, greetings, Y/n,” he said, and you felt a shudder pass through you at the way he carelessly tossed your first name again from his lips. “I am so glad that you are finally here. I have been waiting quite impatiently for you to join our team.”

“Tell me about it,” Jaeseok quipped, earning a harsh glare from Hyunjin.

You said nothing, only nodding your head in response to Sanghoon, who chuckled darkly at Jaeseok’s remark. He let his frosty blue stare linger on you for a moment, sending knives sliding up your skin before he finally turned away, pulling out his chair and falling into his seat, resting his chin casually on his fist.

“Hyunjin, bring up last quarter’s earnings.”

You watched as Hyunjin booted his laptop, projecting it onto the large screen that was hung on the opposite wall across the room. Instantly, a digital version of the spreadsheet you had just analyzed appeared. The room fell silent as Sanghoon stared up at the screen, a bored expression on his face.

Long moments of silence passed before he sat up a little straighter, his eyes narrowing. The smug, jocular simper that you were so accustomed to him wearing was now gone, replaced instead by an imperceptible veil of seriousness.

“Coral Corp is expected to fold within days,” he divulged carefully. “We’ll need to move quickly on those assets.”

“How do you know that?” Hyunjin asked calmly, and even Jaeseok’s interest had been piqued.

You watched Sanghoon carefully, almost seeing the wheels turn and grind inside of his head. Now confronted with the realities of this financial world, he seemed to have become a completely different person; even his interest in you had waned.

“I’ve been provided with certain information,” he responded simply. “In addition, Rocket Industries is in negotiations with Icicle Energy for a massive acquisition. I expect all of those shares dumped by noon tomorrow.”

Hyunjin narrowed his eyes, picking up his pen and clicking it several times before scribbling into the margins of his papers again.

“Any suggestions on how to handle Coral Corp?” Sanghoon asked, leaning back in his chair, once again appearing utterly bored.

The group was quiet, thinking. At your side, Elena opened the folder in front of her, nervously shifting through its papers. Hyunjin and Rude seemed to be making an honest effort to study the papers in front of them, searching for a solution. Jaeseok was picking under his fingernails, completely disinterested.

You turned back to the spreadsheet projected on the screen, surveying the figures and accounts that filled the columns and rows. After long moments of silence passed, you turned to Sanghoon.

“Coral Corp is owned by Warren Smith,” you began quietly, your voice quivering in the back of your throat. “He also owns more than twenty percent stake of Icicle Energy. Did you see the block trade last Thursday that came out of Icicle?”

“Yes,” Sanghoon responded, suddenly intrigued, leaning forward over the table, his pale, sky blue eyes connecting with yours. “That was Rocket cashing out their shorts before the merger.”

“Not exactly,” you continued, straightening your spine a little. “The trade happened at noon, when everyone was at lunch, which tells me that they wanted it to be missed. Rocket Industries’ offer was just a ploy to temporarily prop up Icicle Energy. The block trade was Smith getting out of Icicle, thus getting out of Coral Corp, which means we need to be out of Coral Corp before the word gets out, because the shares are going to plummet before the workday is over.”

Sanghoon just stared at you, long moments of steely intensity that nailed you into your chair. But after a moment passed, he began to smile, a broader expression than his usual smirks.

“Well,” he finally breathed. “That is brilliant. You are going to do very well here, Y/n.”

For the first time you found yourself genuinely smiling at him. You managed to get through the rest of that first work day without further incident. After Sanghoon had delegated several tasks to the group concerning Coral Corp and other accounts, he departed, and you mercifully did not see him for the remainder of the day. Instead, you spent the rest of your time working with Sanghoon’s small personal group of analysts and strategists, miffed by Hyunjin’s coldness toward you, annoyed by Jaeseok’s lacksidasical nature, and anxious by the awkwardness between you and Rude. Only your interactions with Elena seemed to have any normalcy and authenticity, and you were grateful when you were given the opportunity to shadow you for the remainder of the afternoon, the blond offering you a tour of the building and showing you your new office and walking you through rest of the firm’s financial software database.

Still, you were drained when you caught the train back to Incheon at five-thirty that evening, your feet pinched with pain from wearing heels all day, the cold January air biting your cheeks. You were unaccustomed to riding the subways during rush hour, and couldn’t shake your irritation at the fact that there was standing-room only on your ride home, or at the fact that other passengers seemed blissfully unaware of your presence and held no qualms about bumping into you ruthlessly.

When you arrived home that evening, you found Jihoo sitting in the living room, surrounded by papers that were covered in bright pink ink.

Kicking out of your shoes, you dropped your briefcase by the door and sank into the armchair across from where Jihoo was seated on the couch.

“Y/n,” your best friend stretched her arms over her head, dropping her pen and leaning back against the couch. “I thought about you all day! How was your first day?”

You sighed, shaking your head. “It wasn’t terrible,” you admitted. “I mean, the work is doable. Sanghoon didn’t bother me too much today.”

Jihoo hummed, nodding her head. “He is very handsome, but he certainly doesn’t seem like your type. Is he, Y/n?”

“Absolutely not,” you rebuffed immediately.

Jihoo laughed, tossing her head so that her wavy brown hair tumbled across her shoulders. “I didn’t think so. But that reminds me, Y/n. Have you talked to Minho, yet?”

Here we go, you thought, rolling your eyes.

“I mean,” Jihoo was leaning forward, clasping her hands in front of her. “I know the last couple of days have been kinda crazy, and we haven’t had a chance to talk. But I know what happened on New Year’s Eve, Y/n. I think everyone who was in a five block radius does.”

You shook your head, covering your face with one hand as you felt it brighten with mortified heat.

“Oh, don’t be so embarrassed, Y/n!” Jihoo chided. “Though, I didn’t expect Minho to be such a generous lover. It’s always the quiet ones.”

“Jihoo!”

“Okay, okay. I'll stop. I’m just concerned about you, that’s all. You haven’t said anything about it to me since it happened, and you know we talk about everything.” She tipped her head at you, raising a scolding finger in the air. “I know you like to lock away your feelings, but it’s not healthy, especially not in a situation like this. So at least tell me what is going on.”

You continued to shake your head, disbelieving at the way that Jihoo was able to so seamlessly read you like an open book. You knew, like always, that there was no getting out of this conversation.

“We haven’t really talked about it,” You sighed, realizing how pathetic it sounded once the words were spoken out loud. “We’ve texted a few times, but… nothing about what we did, or… what it means.”

Unsurprisingly, Jihoo chuckled. “Of course you didn’t,” she marveled with a toss of her head. “Y/n, I know that Minho is shy, more dense than shy, that you both are, really. But eventually, one of you is going to have to break the ice and talk about it. You cannot expect to go on pretending like it never happened.”

You pressed your temples, shaking your head again.

“It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that you both clearly care about each other,” Jihoo went on relentlessly. “I mean, Y/n, have you seen the way that he looks at you? Like he would jump in front of a truck for you, like you’re the most magnificent creature he’s ever laid eyes on.”

“Jisung looks at you the same way,” you argued.

“Ha,” Jihoo cackled, “Y/n, I like Jisung, I truly do. But I am convinced that Minho is already in love with you.”

You covered your face again, shaking your head in despair, unable to handle any of this.

“I really don’t think a relationship is a good idea right now, Jihoo,” you complained, feeling your heart tear.

“All I’m saying, Y/n, “ Jihoo skipped past your last comment, “Is what I’ve always said - just follow your heart.”

You sighed, pushing up to your feet, knowing that Jihoo was right and you were absolutely despising her for it.

“I’m gonna shower,” you said finally. “Have fun grading your papers.”

Jihoo smiled, lifting up one of the pages that was slashed with red ink. “Third grade book reports,” she laughed. “No better way to spend a Monday night.”

You emitted a tired chuckle before you drifted into your bedroom to disrobe and then shower, pulling on your pajamas for the night. Not having much of an appetite, you noshed on a few fruits and toast in the kitchen before climbing into bed for the night by the ripe hour of nine o’clock.

You were flipping through a few channels, looking for something to watch that would ultimately lull her to sleep, when your phone buzzed and lit up on her bedside table. Yawning, you reached for it and held it over your face.

Minho: Hey.

You blinked, staring at his message, your heart beginning to tremble in your chest, the heat returning to bloom over your body the way that it always did whenever you thought about him.

Y/n: Heya

Minho: How was your day?

You felt yourself blushing, enamoured by his simple, thoughtful question. You rolled over to your side, pulling the covers up over your shoulders.

Y/n: It was okay. Could have been worse

Minho: That’s good.

You stared at the display, listening to the thrum of your heart drown out the soft sounds emitting from the television across the room. Biting your bottom lip, you began to type, staring at the words before you hit send.

Y/n: Can we talk about the other night?

Shaking your head wildly, you slammed the backspace on your screen, wiping the words instantly away. Nope. You couldn’t do this. Especially not over text messages.

Y/n: How was yours?

Minho: I’m still at work. It’s boring. I wish I could walk you home

Minho: I miss you

You almost gasped out loud, instantly feeling a tingle between your thighs. You buried your face into your pillow, dropping a tiny scream into its fabric.

You: Me too

He didn’t respond after that, and you couldn’t figure out a way to prolong the conversation. Instead, you dropped the phone somewhere in the sheets, burrowing under the covers, your entire body electrified from their brief exchange.

You couldn’t stop the way that your hand slipped beyond the band of your yoga pants, your fingers sliding through your damp heat and finding your clit, gently rubbing its sides as you breathed his name into your pillows.

***

Two weeks quickly passed, and you gradually learned the ropes of Kim Capitol, becoming acquainted with its employees and its systems. You learned that Kim’s scope in the financial world was far deeper and broader than you originally had imagined, the company owning stakes that extended far beyond the country’s domestic shores and held investments that waded into staggering billions. The amount of money that this firm sat on top of was truly breath-taking.

You were soon given your own set of accounts to manage, somewhat surprised when Sanghoon handed you his most prioritized clients, ones that Hyunjin had previously supervised. You realized quickly that this did not improve Hyunjin’s attitude toward you, and he had taken to practically throwing daggers at you with his dark brown eyes whenever they happened to be in the same room.

You were completely in the dark and unsure about what his problem with you was. Your interactions with him had been limited, and you could think of no reason that you could have given him to be so distrustful and disapproving of you. It was so bizarre that you ended up simply accepting it, trying not to think too hard about it, even though his glares seemed to flay the flesh right off of your face every time he turned to look at you, his full lips thinning out into a curt smile.

You managed to work past your initial awkward embarrassment of your past relationship with Rude to work with him, finding him to be competent and a rather useful resource. He wasn’t very talkative, as you were already quite aware, but he seemed to know everyone in the office and had a robust network of external contacts in the trading arena that he was happy to share with you, connections that made a lot of your work much easier and far more effective.

Jaeseok was easily the laziest person on the team, yet somehow always managing to close out an account or move on a particular trade or pull in a prized investor with last-minute efficiency that earned him high praises, despite that fact that it was common knowledge that he spent most of his time doing absolutely nothing besides driving everyone in the office completely crazy. You could honestly say you were a little awe-inspired by his abilities, regardless that you absolutely could not stand him and thought he was complete trash.

Elena was a small blessing in the office. Like Rude, she was helpful and offered you all sorts of advice and insider knowledge on various supports both inside of Kim as well as within Korea’s broader financial world. She had taken to having lunch with you on most days and always greeted you first thing in the morning with a bright smile.

And she was also a gossip store, you quickly discovered. By the end of your first week, you had learned that Sanghoon’ father had already cycled through four wives, that Scarlet had slept with half of the executives and board members in the company, and that there were lots and lots of rumours circulating around Sanghoon’s sexuality.

You couldn’t even entertain that last one, especially with the way that Sanghoon was coming on to you, stronger and stronger as the days went on, asking you to lunch occasionally and soon, sending single white roses to your office, where they had begun to accumulate into a threatening pile on your desk.

“Don’t turn down his flowers,” Elena had warned. “You may not have seen it yet, but Sanghoon has a nasty temper.”

After your first couple of days with the company, he began to take seriously the performance coach aspect of your role, frequently calling you to his office in the mid-afternoons to share his ideas with you and pepper you with questions about his strategies. Every time you padded down the hall to his office, you felt the anxiety rise again and course through your blood, sending your heart to its new found favourite location in the centre of your throat.

This particular mid-morning, though, Sanghoon had asked you to his office so that he could insist you finally take lunch with him.

“I’m not taking no for an answer, Y/n,” Sanghoon warned you as soon you opened your mouth to protest. Already, he was pulling on his wool coat, rolling his shoulders as he buttoned it, the sunlight shining crystalline waves into his flaxen hair through the wall of windows behind his desk. “I’d like to take you to La Yeon. There’s a wonderful French Continental Boutique on the twenty-third floor of a building in Shilla with stunning views of the city. We can take my helicopter there.”

You just stared at him.

He hadn’t been joking, though. After retrieving your coat and your purse, you were escorted to the helipad on the roof of Kim Capitol’s tower, just outside of President Kim’s office on the seventieth floor. Speechless, you followed Sanghoon into its cabin, your hair billowing in the wind that was kicked up by the chopper’s rotors.

The ride in the helicopter was less than ten minutes, and you stared out of the window the entire time, awestruck by the view of Korea’s endless sea of tall buildings, a curious blend of sleek, modern skyscrapers and nineteenth-century architecture. From this vantage point, above the smog and pollution below, the sky was a bright, crisp, deep blue, pretty wisps of cirrus and stratus floating in its ether.

And for some reason, just the thought of the colour brown near the horizon had you thinking suddenly about Minho.

The chopper arrived at the building that housed La Yeon, and Sanghoon descended first, offering you his arm as you carefully climbed out of the helicopter and on to the tarp. You wondered exactly how much hair gel was holding down Sanghoon’s locks that only the golden wisps that fell across his forehead were wind-whipped by the chopper’s blades.

Sanghoon had a sure grip on your arm as you entered the restaurant, and you were once again enveloped by the overpowering fragrance of his cologne, hating it. It was too strong, and you wondered why he used so much of it. You much preferred the way that Minho smelled, clean and masculine with just a hint of spice.

Thinking about Minho, with Sanghoon’s arm laced through yours and his body too unnervingly close to your own, you couldn’t stop yourself from blushing and feeling the familiar warmth bubble in your core.

Sanghoon finally separated from you when they were shown a table, a window seat that offered a spectacular view of Seoul and the world below. Sanghoon ordered them a bottle of white wine, while you let your eyes drift out of the window, admiring the skyline and desperately avoiding looking back at Sanghoon and his icy blue stare.

“So, Y/n,” he began, pulling your attention back to him, causing the nervous energy to burst back up in the centre of your gut again. “I want you to be completely honest with me.”

You stared at him, your fingers rolling over each other under the table.

“How are you enjoying your new role with the company?”

You shrugged, trying to push away the thick formation that was in the centre of your throat so that you could speak properly. “The team has been helpful in getting me acclimated,” you admitted, that part true. “I would say I am enjoying it just fine.”

Sanghoon sat back in his chair, that gratuitous smirk stretching his lips again. There was almost something teasing in the way that he was regarding you.

“Hm,” he acknowledged as a waiter came around and poured wine into each of their chalices before departing. “I wanted you to be honest, Ms. Y/n.”

With the way that he was staring at you and the playful undertones laced in his voice, you had to admit that he was really getting under your skin. At that moment, you were not sure if you would survive working for him for another hour, certainly not for years.

“What do you mean?” you asked carefully.

Sanghoon picked up his glass, sipping with a daintiness that was almost feminine. “I’ve done some digging on you, Y/n,” he informed you. “I know that you spent most of the last several years working for that non-profit - AVALANCHE, is it? Even heard some rumours that your name was being tossed around for club President.”

“Nonsense,” you rejoined, hating the way your voice trembled as you spoke.

Sanghoon regarded you with a shrug. “Rumours are rumours, I suppose,” he recognized. “But you did work for AVALANCHE, did you not?”

“I did,” you conceded, wondering how much digging Sanghoon had actually done into your life, and wondering if your father had contributed anything at all to it.

His eyebrows jumped slightly before he nodded and sipped his drink again. “And whatever possessed you to take on such charity work?” he asked.

The condescension underpinning his tone grated against your nerves, and you found your hands clenching into fists under the table, your fingernails digging divots into your palms. It took everything in your power to remain calm as you stared back at him, unwilling to fall into the trap of his patronage.

“It isn’t charity work,” you informed him calmly.

“Oh?” he leaned back with a laugh. “What is it, then?”

“We do a lot of work in the community,” you explained. “We connect families to resources and supports, register voters, advocate for the disenfranchised.” The longer you spoke, the more the heat inside of you rose, and the more that you hated that you were sitting inside of this outrageously expensive restaurant, having lunch with the most arrogant bastard you had ever met in your life and working for a corporation whose life-sucking, leeching financial behaviour indirectly contributed to so many of the inequities you had spent the last five years of your life fighting against. “A lot of people in this city lack access to things that you and I take advantage of.”

Sanghoon’s smirk had widened, and you wanted nothing more than to reach across the table and wipe it off of his face with your fist.

“Seems hopelessly idealistic, don’t you think?” he asked, his voice still propped up by that taunting tone that was making you want to stomp your feet and scream with frustration.

“I don’t think so,” you muttered instead.

“Ah,” Sanghoon sighed, lifting his menu with a quirk of his eyebrow. “I appreciate the sentiment, Y/n, and I do find it rather charming. But I’ve come to realize that the world works a certain way for a reason, and there is very little success in trying to disrupt what is meant to be.”

You were jolted by the dark cynicism in that, but you did not respond, instead picking up the menu to peruse it, letting the conversation drop.

Mercifully, after they’d placed their orders, Sanghoon fell into his habit of doing what he did best - talking at length about himself. It gave you a blissful reprieve from engaging in uncomfortable conversation with him, and you were more than content to let him prattle on if it meant you could sit silently and let his words float over your head.

During the course of their meal, you discovered far more about Kim Sanghoon than you had ever set out to unearth or Elena was capable of telling you. You learned that Sanghoon’s mother had passed away from cancer when he was in grade school, and it dug into the centre of your spine that they shared something so tragic in common. You also learned that his father had married three times since, a fact that you already knew from Elena, and that Sanghoon did not have a stable relationship with any of those women, in fact, he admitted quite plainly, that he was content to ignore them as if they simply did not exist.

He also shared that he had been on the rowing team at the University of Seoul, that he found finance uninspiring and boring if not lucrative, and that he owned his own mansion in the Hamptons, and he would absolutely love to show it to you when the weather grew warm again and they could go there.

You said nothing in response to that, only staring down into your glass. Why was he sure you would ever agree to go out of the country with him?

When their plates had been cleared away, Sanghoon leaned over the table, his eyes suddenly alight with a dance, his lips twisted into the most wicked version of his smirk you’d seen yet, and instantly you felt the anxiety spike and the lump reform in your chest.

“So, Y/n,” he began, resting his wrist beneath his chin. “I’m glad you took lunch with me today. It’s always so lovely to spend time with you.”

Once again, you remained silent, your heartbeat the only sound emitting from your vicinity.

“We should make this a routine, don’t you think?”

“Seems like it would get expensive pretty quickly,” you jeered, causing Sanghoon to toss his head back with a laugh, his yellow hair tumbling across his forehead.

“I love a woman with a sense of humour,” he asserted, leaning forward again, his voice taking on a low, dark edge, and you found yourself physically backing up in your chair. “As nice as this has been though, it pales in comparison to what I would like to do for you. Let me take you out this weekend, Y/n. For dinner, and maybe a show, or anything you like.”

You felt all of the air rush out of your lungs, leaving them to collapse in the centre of your chest as if you had just been slammed in the sternum. You swallowed carefully, trying to still your hands where they trembled inyour lap, cautiously levelling your gaze with Sanghoon’s.

“I’m not interested,” you told him, your voice low but even.

Sanghoon sat back, his smirk deepening as if he had expected this reaction. He cocked his head to one side, regarding you in a way that made your skin crawl.

“Does this has anything to do with that boy you were with in Phoenix Centre?”

At the word boy, you felt a sudden flare of angry heat wash over you, causing you to sit up straighter in your chair and set your wine glass down a little too forcefully.

“No, I -“

“I did some digging into him, too,” Sanghoon interrupted. “Lee Minho. A security guard for a public utility company downtown that Kim Capitol owns ninety percent of its shares. Which means, technically, that I own him.” Sanghoon began to laugh in a bright way that had you feeling like you were being pulled under its currents and drowning. “Really, Y/n, you can do much better than that.”

You stared at him, your mouth open and quivering as you tried to formulate a response, but your brain was submerged in a silent fury that burned out all of your executive functioning. You watched him continue to laugh, now shaking his head, and you briefly entertained the idea of sloshing the rest of your wine right into his face.

“I do love a challenge, though,” Sanghoon avowed, his pale blue eyes blazing at you. “I don’t mind you making me work for it, darling.”

You couldn’t speak for the remainder of their dinner or the ride in the helicopter back to headquarters, and Sanghoon seemed fully aware of it, pleased with himself for disarming you so completely. Your mind was torn with competing torrents of rage and humiliation, and when he finally deposited you outside of your office, departing your presence with a wink and a tilt of his head, you leaned against the wall and felt like you could finally breathe for the first time in hours.

Still, you were too distracted by the turn of events and felt suffocated by your office and the entire building, unable to do any work, deciding at once that you needed to get some air before Elena showed up and chatted incessantly into your ear. Grabbing your coat, you rode the elevator downstairs and left the Kim Building, letting your stilettos carry you away from the damn building.

Finding a small fountain a block away that was surrounded by benches and small gardens, you finally stopped, finding a seat, dropping your hands to either side of your hips on the bench. You inhaled deeply, feeling the first waves of a panic attack building inside of you and desperately willing them away.

You hated Sanghoon Kim, hated him more than anyone or anything you could even conjure into your imagination. You hated the condescension that was threaded through every word and thought he expressed, despised the way that he talked down your interests and passions. You were disgusted by his view of the world and detested the manner in which he treated everyone as if they were somehow at his whim. And you abhorred the way that he behaved with impunity as if his actions had no consequences or baring on the world around him. You were shaken by his audacity to look into your life, to look into Minho’s life, and then to throw all of it into your face with no regard for your feelings, only to turn around in the same breath and shamelessly pursue you romantically.

You hated him.

“Ms. L/n?”

You were pulled from the dearth of despairing thoughts that collided through your mind by a gentle, deep voice, looking up to find a handsome man who appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties staring down at you. He was smartly dressed in a crisp dark suit and black wool coat, his hair combed back against his head, dark and matching his goatee.

“Yes?”

“My name is Jung Haneul , Korean Attorney for the Southern District of Ggyeongi,” He explained, extending a hand and holding his identity card in the other. “Mind if I join you?”

You blinked, staring at his hand in silence for long stretches of moments, completely dumbfounded. What on earth would an Attorney want with you? Could this day get any more ridiculous?

“S-sure,” you finally stuttered in response, accepting his hand and then pulling away, scooting over to make room for him. Haneul nodded at you before sitting down beside you.

“Thank you. I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

You just nodded, unable to speak, a thousand questions burning the front of your brain.

“You are the daughter of Brandon L/N, Chief Financial Officer at Kim Capitol?” he asked, tipping his head at the massive Kim building that loomed overhead in the distance.

“Yes, that is correct,” you answered carefully.

“And you’ve recently begun working for the firm as well, is that right?”

“Y-yes.”

“Hm,” Haneul rubbed his hands together against the cold. “I imagine you’ve only just begun to become acquainted with some of the investments that Kim is involved in, no?”

“You could say that,” you agreed.

“Would you happen to know anything about recent mergers and trades involving Coral Corp and Icicle Energy? Or perhaps Rocket Industries?”

You just stared at him, feeling your heartbeat begin to rise.

“Has your father mentioned anything?” He went on. “My office has a great deal of interest in his involvement with these accounts. I was hoping perhaps, that you might be able to shed some insight.”

You swallowed, tasting iron, and you realized you had been biting down on your tongue until it bled. “No, I don’t know much about it. Is there some trouble?”

Haneul offered you a warm, placating smile, but there was something about it that disturbed you. He studied your face for a long moment, his brown eyes soft and caring before he shook his head.

“No, I wouldn’t say that,” he finally said. “There is just some activity we are monitoring on the markets, that’s all. Sometimes it is helpful to get an inside perspective.”

You didn’t believe that for a second.

Haneul was reaching into the breast pocket of his coat, pulling out a contact card and offering it to you.

“If you see anything suspicious, or come across any information that you think might be helpful, please do not hesitate to give me a call, Ms. L/N” he told you. “I just want to ensure that your father and his associates are protected.”

You accepted the card from him, staring down at the gold-emblazoned letters that were stamped into the cardstock.

“Um, okay,” was all you could manage.

Haneul nodded, smiling at you again as he rose to his feet.

“Thank you. Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. I hope to hear from you soon, Ms. L/N.”

He dropped his hands into his pockets, and you watched as he walked off, blending into the midday work crowds that flooded the streets of the Financial District.

Blunted now by anxiety that seemed to live permanently inside of you, you stared down at the card, feeling a debilitating tightness expand in your chest as you thought back to Sanghoon’s conversation about Coral Corp on your very first day of work.

What is happening?

***

“So, I guess you’re just not going to do anything about it, huh?”

Minho was sitting on the couch in their apartment’s living room, a rare occasion where he wasn’t holed up in his bedroom, brooding over his laptop or fighting the repressive thoughts that invaded his mind and soured his mood. Of course, he had only come out here because Jisung had been at work, but now Jisung was home, and it was time to retreat.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Jisung stopped him as he moved to get up. “You aren’t going anywhere. We are handling this right now, tonight, because it’s all Jihoo talks about anymore and I’m tired of your relationship issues seeping into mine.”

Minho sighed, flopping back against the couch, defeated. Jisung was such a pain in the ass, but there was no escaping this time, and deep inside, Minho knew that his friend was probably right.

Weeks ago, Minho had determined that he was going to finally close the gap between him and you, that he was going to air out his feelings in the wake of their hotel tryst, goddamn what the fallout might be. He could no longer live under the weight of their lack of communication or resolution about what had transpired between them, and as terrified as he was of damaging their friendship, he needed to figure this out before it killed him.

Worse than that, he hadn’t even seen you since that night. Your new schedule misaligned with his, and Minho was also certain that there was some avoidance happening here, neither one of them extending an invitation to the other to hang out or go anywhere the way they had before it had happened.

The event, the moment, the breaking point when he had his lips wrapped around your tender clit, stroking you to complete lunacy, his name bursting from your throat in sobs that outmatched anything he had heard in his wildest, most desperate dreams.

What he wouldn’t give to relive that moment, to hear you make those sounds and to taste you, sweet on his tongue again.

Instead, their exchanges via text had revolved around the safest of topics, how their days were going, checking up on each other but never graduating to anything beyond that. Minho hated himself, feeling like a complete coward and a failure, but he was frozen, unable to do anything at all about it.

The only thing he could do was channel his misery into his writing. He’d written you at least six different poems, none of which he ever had any intention of giving to you in the near future. And he’d at least made some progress with the book he was trying to write, though he found himself writing in disjointed fragments, his memories of the war overseas mimicked in most of the scenes he wrote, and his cynicism over your new job and Sanghoon fuelling the evil corporation that sat in the backdrop of the tale he was trying to weave.

Jisung had fallen into the chair across from him, reaching for the remote and shutting the television off. He gave Minho an uncharacteristically serious look before he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Listen to me, Minho,” he began, his eyes narrowing. “If you don’t talk to Y/n, you’re going to make yourself sick and you’re just going to drive her straight into that Kim asshole’s arms.”

What a fucking way to start the conversation. Minho shifted in his seat, feeling the anger begin to boil inside of him, the cords in his neck pulling tight.

“That’s right, get pissed,” Jisung goaded. “You’ve been sitting around this apartment, wallowing in self-pity, not doing a damn thing, while I bet that prick is pulling every move in the book on her. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already taken Y/n out.”

“Jisung,” Minho warned, feeling his neck grow dangerously hot.

“Well, what are you going to do about it, Minho?” Jisung was shaking his head. “Jihoo tells me everything, and she says Y/n's acting just like you, laid up in her room all the time, miserable. Clearly, she’s waiting for you to make a move. So what is it gonna be, huh? You gonna get your girl or let some rich playboy in a fancy suit snag her?”

“God, shut the fuck up” Minho bit out in response, tossing his head back and resting it against the back of the couch.

Jisung was leaning forward over his knees. “Honestly, I don’t know how you do it. I would have lost my mind by this point if I hadn’t made a move on Jihoo. But I do know one thing. You’re really gonna regret it if you find out that Sanghoon’s been making Y/n sound the way that you made her sound on New Year’s Eve.”

At that, Minho was at his feet, making for his jacket by the door and pulling it on.

“And just where are you going?” Jisung demanded from the couch.

“Across the street,” Minho snapped, slamming the door behind him.

He could hear Jisung’s laughter boom from inside the apartment all the way down the hall as he made his way toward the elevators.

It was early evening on a Sunday night, dusk just beginning to descend on the neighbourhood, leaving everything shadowed in purples and indigos. And although it was frigid, the temperatures deep in the teens, Minho felt nothing but heat as he crossed Sterling Place, all anger and rage and passion and desire.

If Kim Sanghoon so much as laid a finger on you, Minho was definitely going to catch a case.

Impulsively, he made his way up the steps of your brownstone, his heart rocketing through his chest as a thousand alarms went off in his head, warning him to abort mission. But the desperation and the panic inside of him was winning that battle, and he pressed his thumb roughly against your doorbell, a little too long and a little too hard.

Moments passed before he heard soft footsteps pad down the stairs inside. As the door finally opened, he realized that he had been holding his breath.

You appeared, your hair piled high on your head in a thick, sloppy bun, wearing another fucking yoga suit or whatever the heck it was called. This time you were dressed in royal blue, a brilliant colout on your skin. Soft, navy blue yoga pants that seemed to be made of a stretchy terry-cloth material, a matching hoodie that was unzipped, revealing the tight white tank top you wore underneath. It was immediately apparent that you were not wearing a bra.

“Minho!” You exclaimed, clearly surprised to see him. Your eyes widened slightly, then scanned over him, taking him in from head to toe.

Were you checking him out?

“I wasn’t expecting you,” you finally said. “Is everything alright?”

Minho expelled the breath he had been holding in, leaning against the doorway, placing one hand above his head. “Yeah, all good. I just stopped by because… I wanted to talk to you.”

You blinked, suddenly frozen, and Minho realized that already, he was turning this into a fucking disaster.

“I mean, if that’s okay,” he added softly, sounding like a complete idiot.

You snapped out of your daze, nodding and stepping out of his way. “Yes, of course. Come in.”

Minho stepped inside, you quietly closing the door behind him before leading him up the stairs to your apartment, his heart ricocheting into near collapse the entire way up.

When they reached your flat, Minho realized that it was the first time he’d ever been inside. It was pretty and feminine, and way cleaner and nicer than the pigsty he and Jisung lived in. It was embarrassing, really.

Jihoo, to his great dismay, was seated on the couch, dozens of papers spread out in front of her on the coffee table.

“Minho!” She exclaimed as he entered behind you, a bright smile lighting up her emerald green eyes. “What a pleasant surprise. Should have brought my boy toy with you too, though!”

“Um, Jihoo,” you softly interjected, tossing your friend a look. Jihoo stared for just a moment, then suddenly realized something, turning to gather her papers into her hands.

“Oh, I can finish this in my room,” she informed them for no reason whatsoever as she got to her feet. “Nice to see you, Minho,” she tacked on, tossing you a wink.

Once she had disappeared, you turned to Minho, gesturing to the couch. “Do you want anything to drink?” you offered.

“Nah,” Minho answered. Time to rip the band aid off. Though truth be told, he wouldn’t have argued with a strong shot of straight liquor right about now to steel his nerves.

You nodded, dropping into the couch, Minho slowly following suit and taking a seat, maintaining a respectful distance from you and instantly averting his eyes away, too compelled to stare at your breasts and your waist and those squeezable hips.

“So,” you began, “What did you want to talk about?”

Minho had to look at you now, roped in by the shy, tentative edge in your voice that reminded him of you when they were kids, when he had first started to fall in love with you, if he was being completely honest with himself.

“Y/n, I…” he started, feeling himself falter, beginning to hate himself all over again. Why was this so goddamn hard? Why was he such a fuck up? Why was it that Jisung seemed to be able to handle situations like this so flawlessly, while he couldn’t even work his tongue in his mouth properly to form words?

“Hm?” you coaxed, scooting a little closer to him on the couch, bringing with you something cherry and strawberry-scented.

He swallowed, suddenly aware that you were beginning to unravel his sanity just by sitting there beside him. He turned to you, letting their eyes meet, finding himself drowning in the sparkle of your irises.

“Y/n… about that night, on New Year’s…” he finally said it, but he let the words hang in the air, inconclusive.

You felt blood rush to your face and neck, and you turned away, clearly embarrassed. Minho felt like a complete idiot all over again.

“I - I’m sorry about that, Minho,” you blustered, staring down at your fingers. “I don’t know what came over me. I had too much to drink, and -“

Panicking, Minho leaned forward towards you. No, no, no! This was not how this was supposed to go!

“Y/n, you don’t need to apologize,” he consoled softly. “I’m glad it happened.”

You finally turned to look up at him, your eyes a little misty, your gaze faltering. You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

“I want it to happen again,” he found himself saying, his voice suddenly low and dark.

He saw your face brighten again as you stared back at him. You began to smile, but quickly walked it back, turning away from him and shaking your head almost sadly.

“I don’t know, Minho,” you began, and Minho felt the desperate panic begin to spike in his system again, filing him with fear of rejection, fear of losing you, fear of losing your friendship which he loved the most. “I just… I’m scared. I don’t want to ruin our friendship, and… I don’t know if I can handle a relationship right now.”

“Is this about Sanghoon?” Minho couldn’t stop himself from asking, and instantly, he regretted it, especially seeing the way that your spine suddenly snapped, sitting you up straighter as if he’d slapped you.

Shit.

It was clearly the wrong thing to say, because you were instantly at your feet, walking away from the couch with your arms crossed under your breasts. He could tell from the deep frown and the twisted look on your face that you were pissed.

“Absolutely not,” you hissed. “I do not like Kim Sanghoon at all. Why would you even ask me that?”

You stepped away even further, nearing the wall next to the television, and Minho’s panic had fully erupted, dragging him to his feet.

“Shit, Y/n, I’m sorry,” he declared, following behind you. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I don’t want Sanghoon,” you tiredly choked out, and Minho saw your shoulders shudder, realizing with horror that you were crying. He took another step closer to you, just as you turned around, tears in your eyes as you faced him.

“The only person I want is you,” you whispered.

Minho stared for just a moment before his body began to act, closing the distance between them and backing you up against the wall, his palms reaching for your face. As soon as you collided into it, Minho pressed himself against you, his lips melding with yours at once.

Your lips were so soft, and now, not under the debilitating and confusing haze of alcohol, Minho could savour every taste and sensation and texture beneath his tongue as his greeted yours. Your hands came up around his neck, pulling him in close, a moan escaping your lips and swallowed by his as you opened your mouth even wider to accept him. He dropped his hands from the sides of your face, lowering them in a long trail down the winding highways of your body until they rested at the juncture of your waist and hips.

Pressed up against you like this, your teeth gently nipping at his bottom lip before offering it a shy, playful suck, Minho realized how flimsy and thin this yoga shit actually was. God bless whoever had designed these things, he thought absently as your hips began to roll under him. He could feel your warmth and your softness beneath the layers of fabric, your breasts crushed against his hoodie, your core a warm heat that radiated against his groin and had his dick stiffening under his sweatpants.

You seemed fully aware of this, because you lifted your left leg and wrapped it high around his waist, deepening the contact between their centres. Without even thinking about it, Minho dropped one hand to your thigh, securing it around him as he pressed up against you, producing a gasp from your throat.

He pulled his lips away from yours, finally breaking their kiss, his eyes glowing bright and brown as they connected with yours, a starry, shining glitter. Your mouth was still open, your breath escaping in tiny pants as he began to slowly grind his erection against you.

“You want me?” he asked you in a whisper, dipping his face dangerously closer to yours.

You nodded slowly, your face beginning to contort slightly in the first tell-tale coils of pleasure, sending a virulent strain of desire through his blood. “I want you.”

He groaned, slamming his free hand on the wall behind you, caging you in, before dropping it into your hair and tearing the elastic out of it so that your locks tumbled in a messy spill of strands around your shoulders. “I want you too,” he growled, dropping his teeth to your neck.

He heard you keen as he drove his hips against yours, pulling your thigh higher and tighter around his waist so that he could grind his cock even closer against your heat, imagining your pretty shaved pussy, wet and slick and swollen under those layers of fabric. The thought had him rutting more forcefully against you, his hand now sliding up your thigh to grip and squeeze your ass.

“Oh, Minho,” you suddenly moaned, and Minho realized he might have just hit your spot.

He stopped, then rolled his hips slowly in the same fashion, looking down at you, releasing a slow breath.

“Right there?” he asked, his voice a decibel above a whisper, grinding again, watching you press your head against the wall as your beautiful features twisted.

“There,” you exhaled, breathless. “Oh, there, please. Please, baby.”

Fuck. Baby. You were going to kill him.

Minho continued rotating his hips against you in exactly the same way, the contact between them sending flames into his skull, your pants escalating into heady moans and then eventually desperate mewls and whines. Remembering that your friend was just down the hall, he clasped his hand around your mouth.

“Shhh,” he scolded you gently, giving you a particularly rough thrust. “You’re making too much noise, baby girl.”

Your eyes widened, pleading with him as he continued to grind, and when you fell almost silent again, he lowered his hand and dipped his mouth to yours, pulling you back in for a long, indulgent kiss that flared the fire between them and had his cock ready to rip through his pants.

“Oh, God. Minho,” you cried, pulling your mouth away from his. “I’m so close, baby, please don’t stop. I’m about to-“

He was leaning in, about to bite your neck, growling, just as the doorbell rang, a bright, cheerful flare that cut through the air and stabbed through his brain like a sword.

“Fuck!” he thundered next to your ear, slamming his palm against the wall three times in furious frustration.

“Oh, my god,” you rambled, your breath completely stolen. You lowered your leg from his waist, backing up slightly and severing the contact, tears in your eyes as your climax drifted away, now out of reach.

Minho heard a door open down the hall, and realized with horror that Jihoo was emerging. He backed away from you, giving you space and wiping his mouth.

Jihoo appeared in the living room, her eyes falling to them and taking in their dishevelled state, widening as she realized exactly what had been happening. Minho saw the faint ghost of a smile pull at her lips before she blushed slightly and turned away.

“Oh,” she cleared her throat, making her way toward the foyer. “I’ll just get the door.”

She disappeared, and Minho took another step back from you, still trying to catch his breath, the pain in his groin unbearable. You were fixing your clothing, zipping up your hoodie in an attempt to gain some modesty. Minho could still see your nipples poking through the thin fabric.

“Y/n?” Jihoo’s voice chimed from behind them, and Minho turned to see Jihoo entering the living room, leading a tall man behind her.

Brandon, your father.

Minho couldn’t think of a worse person who could have shown up at this moment. He had secretly been hoping it was Jisung; even Sanghoon would have been better than this.

But your father?

“Y/n,” Brandon admonished severely, his voice slicing through the air in the room like a blade. Even Jihoo looked completely terrified at his side, and she quickly turned and made herself scarce from the living room.

Brandon gave Minho a once-over, his face crumbling with dissatisfaction and scorn before he turned to you, absorbing your still somewhat heavy breathing, the tears that had welled in your eyes and the flush in your cheeks and neck.

“Dad?” you whimpered, and Minho wished lightning would just strike him dead and put him out of his fucking misery. “What are you doing here?”

Brandon’s face was pinched tight with disagreement, his moustache twitching above his lips. “Y/n, there are some things I need to discuss with you, concerning the Company and…” he turned back to Minho, imparting with him the most baleful look he could muster. “…Sanghoon. And we must talk alone.”

Minho wondered how much you would hate him if he punched your father right in the jaw.

As if in response, you turned to him, giving his arm a gentle push. “It’s okay,” you whispered, your eyes looking everywhere but him. “Let’s talk tomorrow, okay? I promise.”

Minho wanted to protest, wanted to argue and refuse, but he knew this was a losing battle. Instead, he nodded at you, turning to Brandon, but Brandon had already turned away from him and was staring directly into your face.

Heaving a sigh, Minho shook his head and made his way out of your apartment, zipping his jacket back up against the cold night air outside, suffering from the worst blue balls he had ever experienced in his life.

And he realized, that not once, had your father even acknowledged him.

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

“You really should smile more, Y/n.”

You glanced across the backseat of Brandon’s town car, catching your father staring back at you, watching your face carefully. You felt a sudden, bright flare of anger stab you from his words, but it was extinguished quickly by the nervousness that was building inside of you as they drove deeper into Bucheon, nearing Palace Arcadia, one of the ritziest hotels that towered over the other buildings in gleaming gold and silver.

The weeks following Thanksgiving had transpired with agonizing slowness as the temperatures dropped even further, as the leaves that had fallen from the neighbourhood trees began to fade and blow away, as the first snowfall of the season descended on the city, leaving it painted with whites and greys as everything began to freeze over. In tandem, holiday decorations began to spring up, the facades of houses and skyscrapers and the pines in the parks lighting up with bright colourful lights and the sparkles of garland and Christmas cheer.

Even though it was your favourite time of year and arguably the happiest, you found yourself struggling to enjoy the season, striving to even enjoy the crisp snowfalls that decorated your front steps with a thick layer of white fluff, unable to let go of your anxiety long enough to appreciate the echoes of children laughing, or the bright holiday music that seemed to emanate from every shop and building or park around you.

The semester had already drawn to a close, your final projects and exams cleared away and paperwork for your degree conferment already processing. While it was a load off of your shoulders to be finally, fully done with school, it only made more real the increasing certainty that once the holidays were over, you would be working for Kim Capitol.

You hadn’t even spoken to Chul about it yet, knowing that you would likely have to quit working at Seventh Heaven and probably wouldn’t be able to spend nearly as much time volunteering with AVALANCHE as you had in the past. It was not a conversation you were looking forward to having at all.

Worse than that, there was the matter of Kim Sanghoon himself. He was not the type to wait idly by, and ever since your first meeting with him, he had taken to phoning and texting you far more than you thought was appropriate. Most of the time, you ignored his calls, utilizing the excuse that you were working or otherwise busy and unable to take his calls. But you did occasionally respond to his texts, as coolly as possible, until he began to ask you out to coffee and brunch, leaving you to shuffle through excuses until you truly felt trapped.

You knew that you could not avoid his advances forever, and judging from his persistence, he was not the type to take no for an answer.

Then, there was Minho. Since the night on the church rooftop before Thanksgiving, you remained conflicted and torn by your feelings for him. You had been so close to him that night, pressed against his warm body, his arm around you, his face inches from yours, that you had almost thought that maybe, maybe, there was a chance that there was something growing between them. He had been about to kiss you, you were sure of it, right before your phone rang. Then everything had been interrupted, and even though you’d sent Sanghoon to voicemail, you knew the moment had passed, and you suddenly realized that you no longer felt quite as giddy and stoned and happy as you had moments prior. Attempting to avoid the awkwardness of the situation, you tried to play it off by enjoying Minho’s company for the rest of the night, but between the rigid stiffness that his body had assumed and the way he flinched at their friends’ drunken teasing, you had gotten the impression that something had been damaged.

As much as you tried to convince yourself that you didn’t want a relationship, that you and Minho were not sharing threads of attraction, that you were both simply content to remain friends, you knew deep inside that none of that was true. You had felt it between you both as you sat side by side on the rooftop that night, moments away from sharing something physical between them that might give an indication of what you both were truly feeling.

Yet once the night was over, once the misty haze of booze and weed was gone, you had both gone on pretending it had never happened, as if the moment had been imagined and not real. In any of your subsequent meetings or conversations, Minho never brought it up, and you dared not to either. No matter how much their friends teased or prodded, you both tried to ignore it, to deny its existence.

Still, you knew what was inside of your heart. You did have feelings for Minho. Strong ones. You may not be able to admit that to anyone else, but you turned it over inside of your own head all of the time, thinking about him nightly when you fell asleep, your pillow wrapped in your arms as you imagined it was him lying beside you, your fingers sometimes slipping past the waistband of your pajamas, wishing your hand was his.

It was too much to hold in, but you didn’t have the energy to try to figure out a way past it, and you were happy enough with your friendship with Minho remaining as it was, content to talk to him and spend time the way you always did, even if your heart longed to just get the words out and confess to him.

Now, you were on your way to yet another business affair with your father and the Kims, this time, Kim Capitol’s annual Christmas party. Although you had not yet officially started in your new position with Kim, the Kims had invited you, and Brandon insisted that you attend.

“This is an opportunity for you to meet the other executives at the company and begin networking with the staff,” he’d told you as soon as you’d slid into the backseat when he’d picked you up that evening. “Even though you’ll be working with Sanghoon, Kim is a very large organization, and it will behoove you to make as many connections as you possibly can to be most effective in your work.”

At the way he stressed behoove, you felt a cold chill ripple over your spine, and you straightened against your seat, feeling disgusted.

They arrived at the Palace Arcadia a little after seven that evening, Brandon’s town car depositing them outside of the hotel’s main entrance. You had passed this building more times than you could count since you’d moved to Seoul, but you had never really stopped to pay it any attention, nor could you remember ever being inside. It was certainly the sort of place you imagined your father spending plenty of time in.

You held your clutch under your armpit as they walked inside, passing through the hotel’s massive glass doors, less than a pace behind your father as you entered. The Four Seasons was a dive in comparison, you found yourself thinking. The front lobby of the Arcadia was shrouded entirely in gleaming, aurulent marble and cream-colored walls, bright, tile-panelled windows that let in the streaks of artificial light from outside in through delicately carved panels in the glass, everything radiating unmatched opulence. Even the chandeliers above head were somehow brighter than anything you’d seen before, glittering with thousands of gems of crystal teardrops.

You were barely listening as you and your father were first invited to drop off their coats and then escorted to the main ballroom where the Kim party was being held. As soon as you were free from your outerwear, your self-consciousness began to descend on you with the weight of a storm. You had chosen that night to dress in a high-necked, wine-coloured midi dress that stopped just an inch above your knees, form-fitting but not too tight, and sleeveless, adorned with thick straps that crossed over each shoulder. You’d swept your hair up into a twisted up do, pinned against the back of your head, long tendrils framing your face.

You did not miss the way your father gave you a once over after you’d handed their coats away, nodding approvingly before they made their way inside the ballroom.

The ballroom was even more sweeping than the Arcadia’s main lobbies and entranceways, one of the largest rooms you had ever seen and filled to the brim with Kim employees. The high ceilings were perforated by glass skylights that let in spectacular views of the night sky and the neon light pollution of Seoul. The room was filled with circular tables and included a dais and dance floor near the front, a pair of winding stone staircases on either side of the room leading to additional, private chambers.

“Ah,” your father huffed at your side. “I see the President. Come along.”

Brandon, now standing beside you in a three-piece, black tuxedo, offered you his arm, and you hated yourself for hesitating for a moment before you accepted it and followed him.

You could not shake the burn of stares that you felt on your back as you passed through the throng, men and women dressed in tuxedos and fancy cocktail dresses, openly watching you as you followed your father to the front of the room where President Kim stood among a small group of the company’s chief executives. You wondered why you were drawing so much attention. Was it simply because you were with your father, who was one of the most high-profile and well-respected executives in the firm? Or were people expecting you already? Had your name already begun to be passed around?

You didn’t want to think about it.

Brandon came to a stop when they reached President Kim, who was standing beside a voluptuous woman in a dark burgundy dress, her breasts nearly spilling from the deep V-cut of the neckline, her golden hair swept up high on the top of her head. Beside her was an older, barrel-chested man, dark hair peppered with grey, his face set into an eternal scowl.

“Brandon,” Kim tipped his cigar in your direction as you approached. “And Ms. Y/n, of course. So glad you could join us this evening.”

“We’ve been looking forward to this,” Brandon replied, and you hated how he decided to answer for them both.

“Ah, Ms. Y/n. Allow me to introduce you to Scarlet, our Chief Strategy Officer, and Joohyuk, our Chief Risk Officer,” Kim was saying next.

“A pleasure,” the woman named Scarlet offered coolly without extending a hand, and you could feel the ice pierce like daggers from her sharp, pale green eyes.

“We’ve heard quite a bit about you already, Ms.Y/n,” Joohyuk spoke next, offering you his hand brusquely, and you shook it carefully. His voice was rough and phlegmy, the sound of a man who was either perpetually coughing or yelling. “We welcome you to Kim Capitol.”

“Nice to meet you both,” you responded politely, keeping your tone even.

“Ms. Y/n, I hear, has more than double her father’s financial sense,” Kim chuckled before bringing his cigar to his lips for another puff. Brandon laughed along with this amiably.

“I wouldn’t doubt that,” your father agreed, turning to you, offering you a smile, his dark eyes gleaming. At that bit of praise, you felt your heart stutter, but then your father was turning his attention back to his colleagues again, and you were left wondering how genuine his sentiment truly was.

You realized, then, that you had not known for a long, long time how sincere your father’s feelings toward you actually were.

“Y/n, as a financial strategist, I’m sure you’ll be spending quite a bit of time around Scarlet,” your father was saying next. “Scarlet is one of the most brilliant financial strategists in the industry.”

Scarlet only shrugged, bringing her glass of wine up to her lips, and you thought that she appeared immeasurably bored.

“Scarlet knows a little bit about everything,” Joohyuk remarked, and all of the men laughed, Scarlet only rolling her pallid green eyes heavenward, and you wondered what was laced behind the comment that clearly you were not privy to.

“What seems to be so amusing?” a crisp, deep voice cut into the conversation, and you turned to see that Kim Sanghoon had approached, tonight dressed in a well-tailored white tuxedo, the vest below his jacket a shimmery shade of muted silver. The colour seemed to bounce off of his silky flaxen hair, making the locks that spilled into his forehead appear an even more glimmering shade of platinum. As soon as your eyes drifted up and met his, you felt rooted in place, the anxiety spiking against your nerves and sending a collision of ice into your spine.

“Y/n, I didn’t know you had arrived,” Sanghoon continued before anyone could answer his previous question. Miraculously, he smoothly cut through the group to approach you, and once again, he was reaching for your hand. You felt as if you were suspended in slow motion as you lifted it to him, watching in a terrified daze as he pressed his lips to your skin once again.

It was the second time you had seen him in person since your first meeting at the Four Seasons. You’d found a dozen reasons to avoid all of his calls in the interim and had exchanged no more than a few curt, to-the-point text messages with him since then. Yet here you were, once again living under his intense, frosty blue stare, under the staggering smirk that seemed to flicker with a shadowed, malignant intent. You didn’t understand why the looks he cast you alone were so deeply unsettling, why they dug under your flesh and burrowed with a heat that charred your bones while also freezing your nerves until they snapped away like delicate shards of ice.

“Good evening,” you managed.

Sanghoon’s smirk teased into a soundless laugh. “Your arrival is perfectly timed. I’d love to introduce you to one of my associates.” He moved closer to you again, now in the aura of your space, his cologne invading and poisoning it. He offered you his arm before turning to your father.

“Mind if I take her off of your hands for a bit?”

Brandon nodded approvingly, now wearing a smirk of his own as he turned to you. “Of course.”

You hesitated, watching Sanghoon’s arm hover just inches from yours. You felt as if you couldn’t breathe, his scent suffocating you with its deep, birchy spices and hints of French apple. Your father, though, had turned to you expectantly, levelling his gaze at you, and you slowly lifted your arm to accept Sanghoon’s.

You were sure that you heard Scarlet chuckle darkly under her breath, and when you turned to her, you noticed that the older woman was staring at you with knives in her eyes, the look behind that veil sheltering something utterly sinister.

“Have fun, kids,” Joohyuk remarked with a bellowing guffaw as Sanghoon led you away, the flicker of the ballroom’s yellow lighting dancing across his hair.

His arm in yours was uncomfortably warm, and their interlocked connection brought you far too close to him. He walked swiftly, the crowd of Kim employees parting like the Red Sea for him as he approached, and you found yourself being forced to match his pace as he pulled you along.

You noticed that they were heading toward one of the spiralling staircases near the eastern wing of the ballroom, and you felt a mild, flurrying sense of panic begin to rock over you.

“Where are we going?” you blurted.

Sanghoon didn’t slow down, but he did turn to you, his glassy blue eyes shining. “Ah, my colleagues are in one of the private rooms. These parties can become a bit… taxing, as the night wears on. You’ll find I am a man of simple tastes, Y/n. I’m not one for these robust crowds.”

He held your eyes for a moment, his smirk and the look in his eyes still producing the most unpleasant vibrations across your flesh that you could ever remember feeling. No matter how good looking he was, no matter how charismatic and charming, there was something deeply inauthentic about him that simply made your skin crawl.

You wanted to protest, but any words died deep in your throat as they began to ascend the staircase. Instead, you began to cycle through your options should you need them, knowing that you were not above round housing Sanghoon in the jaw if it came to that.

Eventually, he brought you to one of the small, private rooms on the upper level, which were really nothing more than elaborate corporate conference rooms with plush couches and the kinds of amenities that were typically found inside of expensive suites. They entered the room, and Sanghoon stepped out of the way to let you through the threshold. As you stepped into the room, you could already detect the sweet tinge of alcohol in the air.

Judging from Sanghoon’ words, you had been expecting a group, but there was only one other man waiting in the room when they entered, standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlooked Namsang Tower, his hands crossed in front of him. You felt your eyebrow immediately rise at the sight of the long, silky, midnight-black hair that trailed his neck in a flawless cascade, rivalling your own locks.

At the sound of their arrival, just as Sanghoon shut the door behind them, the man turned to face them, his eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of you. You felt your stomach flip as their eyes met, his dark and penetrating. Like Sanghoon, he was attractive in an unnerving sort of way, though his features were more beautiful than classically handsome, his face narrow, his lips full, eyes almond-shaped and lashes dark. His hair was an altogether separate matter; you were sure you had never seen a man with such an unbelievably gorgeous head of hair in your life.

“Hyunjin, this is Y/n,” Sanghoon said, capturing Hyunjin’s attention, who finally withdrew from the window and crossed the room to join them by the couch. “This is Hyunjin, our General Counsel. He does a great deal of personal work for me and my father as well. I should imagine you will get to know him very well as we begin to work together.”

“Ms. Y/n,” Hyunjin offered with a tip of his head, his voice smooth but not quite as deep as Sanghoon’s. Like Scarlet, he did not offer you his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” you choked out, feeling something uniquely frigid under Hyunjin’s study of you. It was not unnerving in the electric, leery way that Sanghoon’ stares had been. Hyunjin’s eyes were cold and distrustful, in fact, watching you as if he were waiting for you to attack, prepared with a counterstrike.

This thought left your insides bubbling uncomfortably, pushing up the anxiety into your throat until you felt like you might vomit.

Sanghoon tossed his head at Hyunjin and then glanced at the coffee table, before turning to you and offering you his same smirk.

“Have a seat. I’ll get us a drink.”

Once again, you felt the strong urge to protest, but summoned the strength to pursue your social expectations and dispel it, instead nodding as you sank into the couch, pulling the hem of your skirt as close to your knees as you possibly could before clapping your hands tight around your clutch in your lap. Sanghoon let his eyes linger a little too long on your face, before they dragged a long trail along the lines of your body, finally turning away to make his way to the sidebar across the room. You felt your breath escape as if you had been holding it beneath water when he finally turned away.

The seconds ticked by like hours as he fixed them drinks at the sidebar, you glancing up to see he was pouring from a bottle of Macallan single-malt scotch, one of the most expensive whiskeys in the world. Behind you, Hyunjin was quietly rustling through a briefcase for something on the conference table.

Sanghoon returned with both drinks in hand, offering one to you, which you accepted, willing your hands not to shake. He fell into a seat beside you on the couch, only a few inches away, though he mercifully broadened the gap between them by leaning back casually against the couch with one arm over its back, his leg crossed over his knee. You wondered how offensive he might find it if you slid back and gave them a little more space.

“So, Y/n,” Sanghoon began as he brought his glass up to his lips, and you found yourself despising how casually, how comfortably, he let himself toss your first name from his mouth. “We haven’t had much time to talk since we first met. I’d love to get to know more about you before you begin next month.”

You heard Hyunjin snap the briefcase shut behind you, startling you out of the trail of thoughts you’d only just begun to develop in response.

Instead, you brought your drink up to your lips, taking a deep but careful sip. As a bartender, you were very well acquainted with your scotches, and you knew that this stuff was particularly aged and strong. The warm liquid burned a hot trail down your throat behind the flavours of smoke and orange, and you felt your head swim as the alcohol seeped its way into your bloodstream.

“What would you like to know?” you asked cautiously, just as Hyunjin came around and placed a tiny silver vial on the coffee table in front of Sanghoon.

Sanghoon leaned forward to pick it up, twirling it over his fingers as he looked back at you. “Well, I know that your dad forced you to take this job, didn’t he?” he taunted in a low voice, a chuckle behind it, and you watched his long, sinewy fingers deftly unscrew the cap on the vial. “That leaves us with at least one thing in common, doesn’t it?”

You felt your heart begin to pound, completely disconcerted at his words. What did he know of your relationship with your father, or how tenuous things had been leading up to this moment? Did everyone know the most despairing, intimate details of your private life? Had your father said something of it to Kim? This thought so disturbed you that you almost glossed over the fact that Sanghoon had shared that he too felt the same as you did.

You started to inquire about his last comment when you realized that he was dumping a tiny mountain of white powder from the vial onto the tip of his pinky finger. You watched in silence as he turned slightly away from you to bring it up to his nostril before inhaling deeply, the powder disappearing from the pad of his finger.

You had heard plenty of stories about the behaviour of Hanging Street executives and investment bankers and brokers, but you had never really expected to see it so blatantly on display, right in front of you.

You were even more stunned when Sanghoon held out the tiny silver vial, offering it to you.

“Would you like a hit, Y/n?” he asked you, his voice suddenly much lower, and you could see his pupils dilate and expand against the pale translucent blue of his irises as the cocaine hit his system.

You shook your head instantly, this time actually sliding back slightly on the couch. “N-no. Thank you. I’m fine.”

Sanghoon shrugged, recapturing the vial in his fist before sliding it into the breast pocket of his blazer. He smirked at you once again, tossing his head so that his hair tumbled across his forehead in that dangerous way again, and he leaned back against the couch once more.

“Neither of you are any fun,” he complained, just as Hyunjin found a seat in one of the armchairs across from the couch.

“So, you did not want to work in finance?” You couldn’t stop yourself from asking, still lingering on the strange turn of the conversation and the manner in which Sanghoon had unmasked you.

Sanghoon chuckled in response, returning to his scotch. “It really doesn’t matter, does it, Y/n? I’m sure you’ve come to realize that, have you not?” His eyes were levelled with yours now, searching your face, and their colouring seemed to brighten now that his system was swirling with the faint touches of both drugs and alcohol. “When you come from families such as ours, you one day wake up to accept your birth right, and you make the most of it.” At this, he glanced at Hyunjin, tipping his head slightly, but you realized that Hyunjin was actually staring at you, his eyes smouldering with something that you did not quite understand.

“But what if you don’t want to make the most of it?” You found yourself asking, the whiskey talking now, and you could have slapped yourself for falling into conversation with Kim Sanghoon.

Sanghoon only laughed. “It could be much worse, Y/n,” he replied, a note of condescension in his tone. “We could have been born poor.”

At that, you felt the sudden flare of anger pool in your belly and expand into your chest, far outweighing the heat that your drink had produced inside of you.

The night progressed in a similarly agonizing fashion. Sanghoon pestered you with small talk on the couch for another round of drinks, asking you questions about your financial background and how you were looking forward to your new role, what ideas you might bring and what things you might change about Kim if given the opportunity. You answered them as carefully as you could, not wanting to appear rude but also completely perturbed by the entire experience. Only as you were finishing your second glass did your responses get a little bolder. And the entire time, General Counsel Hyunjin remained mostly silent, his eyes watching you intently before they would drift back to Sanghoon.

Sometime later, a little after ten, they rejoined the main party, the sounds of Christmas music beginning to swirl around you as you continued to sip on wine throughout the night, Sanghoon and your father and President Kim taking turns in alternating you through dances or introducing you to other important employees in the Company. By midnight, you were slightly tipsy and exhausted, completely overwhelmed by Sanghoon and Kim and the entire financial world.

How would you ever get through a lifetime of this?

Around one in the morning, your father had finally had enough, and he seemed to be aware that you had taken to drinking to get yourself through the night. The crowd had begun to disperse, and Brandon looped his arms with yours as they returned to Kim’s table at the head of the room to say goodnight.

Sanghoon was once again right on top of you as they exchanged their goodbyes, stepping far too close, his searing heat spilling over into your personal space and his cologne filling you with nausea.

Much taller than you, he had bent his head down beside your ear shamelessly, right in front of both their fathers and everyone else present.

“I hope you will take my calls after tonight,” he coaxed in a gravelly tone that was a little too loud to be considered a whisper.

You backed away, almost stumbling into your father.

“Don’t count on it,” you defied, hotly, far too loudly.

Your father shot you a dangerous, almost horrified look, but what you really hated was the way that Sanghoon simply began to laugh in response, tossing his head back, his hand now casually in his pocket, his voice rolling over you like thunder as if your words had been the most truly amusing thing he had ever heard.

“We are going to get along very well, Y/n,” Sanghoon replied after his laughter faded, and you hated the way that your father smiled at that.

You rode home with your face close to the window of the rear passenger seat as Brandon’s driver escorted them home, trying to absorb some of the glass’ coolness against your cheek as you listened to Brandon’s assessment of the evening, which included his sparse praises of your choice in dress and your polite manners and your smooth networking, but was interspersed with his criticisms of you drinking far too much and being sassy with the vice president and not smiling enough. You let his words fade somewhere behind you, leaning into the window as if you were a kid again in the back of your parents’ car in Gimpo, when you would press your face against the window and watch your breath paint puffs of condensation across the glass so that you could draw shapes and letters in them with the tips of your fingers.

When your father dropped you off, you were still feeling mystified by the haze of whisky and wine, and you fumbled your way through a farewell to him before ambling inside of your brownstone and up to your apartment. It was just after two, and the apartment was dark, Jihoo tucked away and well on her way to sleep.

You slid into your room and pulled off your heels and your dress, tearing your hair out of its up do before you rummaged through your purse for your phone. When you retrieved it, you realized that this was the first time in hours that you had checked it, since you had put it on silent before arriving at the Christmas party. Standing only in your undergarments in the center of your bedroom, still wearing your makeup, you lit up the screen of your phone to see one message waiting for you, received at 10:37 PM.

Minho: Hey

You bit your bottom lip, running your fingers over the display, savouring his name as you stared at it. Still cradling the phone inches from your face, you crossed the room to your bed and fell across it, belly down.

Y/n: Sorry, I just got home. Was with my dad again. Are you free tomorrow? It’s the last Sunday before Christmas, so might be our last shot to see the tree in Phoenix Centre

You held your phone in your hand, watching the screen, knowing that it was pretty late and that he was probably asleep. Eventually, your screen began to dim, and you started to give up, hoping he’d respond in the morning.

But just as you were about to drop the phone to the side, the screen brightened again.

Minho: Sure. Just let me know what time.

Minho: Hope your dad isn’t still being an ass.

Seeing his response, you let the phone fall to the bed beside you, and you dropped your face into the covers.

And for the first time that night, you smiled.

***

Your whiskey-wine headache the next day wasn’t bad enough to keep you in bed past ten, which still gave you and Minho plenty of time to spend the day together. As soon as your eyes opened, you stared up at the ceiling, letting the memories of yesterday re-flood you.

As much as Sanghoon and your father and Kim and their bizarre, haughty executives like Hyunjin and Scarlet and Joohyuk haunted you, the only memory that you cared about was that last text message with Minho at two in the morning, and instantly, you were texting him to confirm.

Y/n: Morning! I’m heading to shower. Want to leave around noon?

Minho: That works.

And so you were up, showering and trying to centre your mind. The weather was quite cold in Incheon this time of year, and so you dressed warmly in light wash jeans and a deep maroon, turtle-necked sweater. You brushed your hair and left it loose and long around your shoulders, sighing deeply at your reflection in the bathroom mirror before turning away, once again internally questioning your own image that looked back at you.

Jihoo was out with Jisung again, and so you were able to make your way out of the apartment without a line of questioning. When you descended the steps of your brownstone outside, you found Minho already waiting for you by the gate.

“Hey.”

You stopped and offered him a smile as you turned and locked the door behind you, already warmed over by the deep tenor of his voice in his greeting. He was wearing dark jeans and his dark grey motorcycle jacket again, and you could see his black turtleneck beneath it, wrapped tight around his throat.

“Heya.”

They walked side by side to the subways and through the streets of Bucheon, holiday lights and music drifting around them, Minho mostly quiet while you decorated the conversation with whatever topics you could pull from. You found it mostly difficult, though, your mind still swirling with the uncertainties that lay ahead beyond the New Year, of your unspoken conversations with Chul and AVALANCHE, of the tension between you and Sanghoon and the confusion of your new job in a company that seemed daunting and overpowering and that you wanted nothing to do with. You avoided those issues entirely, though, instead sharing with Minho some of your experiences that week teaching at Zangan’s dojo and about the novel you’d just finished, gently prodding him with questions about his writing or the books he was reading. Eventually, the conversation quieted completely, and you found yourself content to walk quietly at Minho’s side, though your right hand itched to reach out to take his.

As you neared Phoenix Centre, a small shop that was lit up bright with colourful holiday lights and an inviting Santa Claus display right outside the front door on West 18th Street caught your eye. You paused to take a glance at it, causing Minho to stop beside you and tip his head at you.

“What’s up?”

You smirked, an idea brewing and suddenly fuelling your blood with warmth. You took a few steps closer to the shop, peering through the window, Minho following behind you like a magnet. Through the glass, you could see everything from collectibles and tee-shirts to figurines and children’s toys, a home-grown novelty shop.

“Hey, Minho. Did you get me anything for Christmas?” you asked him daringly, and you watched as his face darkened before he turned away with a pout.

“No, I didn’t think we were doing -“

“Come on,” you smiled, pushing gently on his arm with both hands, leading him into the shop.

“Hey.”

Inside, the shop - Annie’s Blue Ribbon General - was characteristically small like most stores in the city, aisles that were too narrow and shelves that were overstuffed and packed with merchandise. Stuffed animals, gift items, compact discs and vinyls, even rows of clothing filled the tiny boutique. You turned around and glanced at Minho.

“This place has everything,” you told him. “Jihoo showed me this shop when we were in high school. We started a tradition, where we would pick out gifts for each other and buy them together. Sorta like an instant secret Santa.”

Minho looked completely dumbfounded, and you couldn’t help but laugh when he shrugged helplessly at you.

“Oh, don’t look so perplexed. All you have to do is find something that makes you think of me,” you told him, and as soon as the words escaped you, you felt your cheeks warm and found that you were grinding the toe of your boot behind your opposite foot, the tempo of your pulse beginning to rise. “And don’t spend more than ten bucks. I’ll meet you outside in twenty minutes, is that enough time?”

“I guess,” Minho agreed, still pouting in confusion.

You broke away from him, meandering your way through the aisles, searching for the right gift for Minho, your heart still pounding away in your chest. You weren’t sure why you had initiated this moment between them. It was completely true that you and Jihoo had shared this silly tradition - you had collected more trinkets and scented candles and plush toys over the years than you knew what to do with - and for whatever reason, it just felt like the right thing to do with Minho, too.

As friends.

And maybe, a tiny part of you hoped, it might bring them closer together, bridging that growing gap between them that plagued your night and day and left him infiltrating your dreams constantly.

You scoured the aisles, Mariah Carey crooning in the store’s MUZAK system, pouring out how all she wanted for Christmas was you. It was one of the most annoying songs in the world, but also one of the catchiest, and you found yourself quietly humming along as you searched the shelves for the perfect gift for Minho, the back of your mind pinpricking with the fact that all you wanted for Christmas was him.

Eventually, you stopped at a display case of shot glasses and whisky tumblers, and you admired their designs for a moment, considering. Shot glasses were always nice gifts, they were stackable and collectible and always useful. You perused the designs for a moment, looking for one that you thought was perfect for Minho until your eyes stopped on one that instantly painted a smile on your face.

You retrieved it from the case and brought it to the register to pay, just as you caught Minho leaving the line with his purchase in hand, making his way outside of the shop. You stood in line, still smiling to yourself and feeling a little giddy inside as Nat King Cole carolled on the speakers above.

After you paid, you made your way outside of the shop, finding Minho waiting for you on the sidewalk with his arms crossed over his chest. As soon as he spotted you, he unfolded them and held his bag out to you.

“Not yet,” you said, and without even thinking about it, you looped your arm through his instead. “Wait until we get to the tree.”

Minho readily accepted your arm, but said nothing, though you could see the hints of red that blemished his pale cheeks as they fell in step together, and you knew instantly that your own were warming as you began to wonder if maybe, despite the frigid temperatures outside, Minho was beginning to melt a little bit.

You walked the next few blocks arm in arm, the crowds thickening around them with tourists as they neared Phoenix Centre. Just ahead, you could see the vast square plaza that was nestled between two towering stone skyscrapers, packs of ice skaters roving the rink in the centre, colourful fairy lights bright against the grey, winter’s daytime sky. Flagpoles representing a volley of nations lined the plaza, and looming over all of it was a massive Norway spruce, nearly one hundred feet tall and glittering with holiday lights.

“There it is, Minho. Come on, let’s sit at one of those tables so we can get a closer look.”

Minho followed you silently through the throng of tourists and city dwellers who filled the plaza, the bright laughter of children and the shouts and happy cries of couples and families filling the air. The tables and chairs that lined the plaza were small and wrought-iron, bolted into the ground to keep them from scattering in the harsh Bucheon winds. They found a table that was close to the tree and afforded them an unobstructed view.

You sat first, and once Minho dropped into his chair, you scooted yours closer to his so that they were both able to face the tree and glance up at it. He turned to you for a moment as you moved your seat towards him, and your eyes met just as you lowered yourself comfortably into your seat. Minho quickly looked away, turning his attention towards the spruce, and you felt your cheeks flare again, your heart once more beginning its steady rise.

You placed your bag with Minho’s gift on the table, glancing up at the tree, drinking in its beauty for long moments. Faint Christmas music was echoing from a speaker somewhere in the distance, and you could hear the scrapes of the skaters’ blades against the ice on the rink behind them. As the wind pinpricked at your cheeks and flushed them cold, you felt enraptured suddenly by the holiday atmosphere, warmed-over inside by Minho at your side, pulsating a calmness that made you feel safe and, surprisingly, happy.

That thought drifting through you, you turned to Minho, catching a glimpse of his perfect profile, pale cheeks brightening pink with blood against the crisp, cold air, chestnut brown hair sparkling like tawny glass as the wind pulled through it. He was still staring up at the tree, and you could see the glimmers of walnut and hickory brown swirling against his lashes, and you found yourself reeled into the glimpse of his eyes as if by an unstoppable force.

“…It’s really pretty, isn’t it?” you found yourself suddenly saying. Even though you meant to refer to the tree, you were still staring at the side of his face, and a part of you deep down inside wondered if you weren’t really referring to him.

You watched as Minho nodded a little, simultaneously offering a silent shrug. Something gravitational was pulling at you, though, slamming your heart against your ribcage and with it, dragging you closer to him.

“Minho…?”

He turned to you, his brown eyes widening somewhat at the expectancy in your tone, their colour sparkling with pecan under the gleam of the holiday lights that surrounded them.

“Hm?”

You inhaled deeply, thinking that you were finally, just going to come out and say it. Perhaps, if you at least got this one weight off of your chest, you might be able to breathe, no matter how devastating the outcome might be.

“Sometimes, being old friends is hard,” you mumbled, your words sounding silly as soon as they stumbled from your lips. Minho was watching you intently as you spoke, and you saw his eyebrow furl slightly as he tried to figure out your meaning. You realized that you too had no idea what you were trying to say.

“I mean, timing is everything,” you went on, shaking your head sadly at yourself as you realized you were making even less sense, although you were shocked to hear Minho agreeing with you at your side.

“Yeah,” he conceded softly, nodding his head at you and tilting it to one side, his eyes now bright and bronzed, awash in a glow that you hadn’t noticed before.

“Minho…?” you continued, wanting badly to confess, wanting badly to pour your heart out right there on the table and share all of the deep feelings you had been harbouring for him over the course of the past few months, ever since the moment he had saved your life and caught you in his arms on a rickety train ride in October. But your words were failing, caught up somewhere in the same cage that held your heart, submerged at the bottom of the sea and held down by the weights of your life that had been closing in on you like a vice throughout the last several weeks. “I…”

“Hm?”

You turned quickly away from him, unable to handle looking back into his incandescent melting browns any longer. Instead, you reached for the bag from Annie’s.

“Here you go, Minho. Merry Christmas.”

He accepted the bag from you, in tandem offering you the one he had been holding in his hand. As he handed it to you, your fingers lightly brushed against one another’s, and you couldn’t stop the heat that rose again to the tops of your cheeks.

Holding your bag in hand, you watched out of the corners of your eyes as Minho opened his and pulled his gift out, pulling away the tissue paper that the attendant had wrapped around the shot glass. He turned it over in his hands, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered it.

“…Is this a hare?”

You giggled, finding yourself leaning into him. “It’s a baby rabbit, silly. It reminds me of your smile.” Unable to stop yourself, you reached forward and pulled his cheeks.

“Hey,” he protested, pouting again, and your laugh deepened, your breath coming out in tiny white puffs against the cold air.

“Thanks, bean,” he said after a moment and your giggles had died down. “It’s cute. You’re really sweet.”

Your heart beamed and magnified at that, warmth spreading over your entire body, including between your thighs. You tried to ignore the effect his words, wrapped so delicately in the gentle, deep tenor of his voice like a gift, were having on your body, and instead turned to your own gift and pulled the small bundle of tissue paper out of it, carefully unfolding it to reveal its contents.

Inside was a small, crystal figurine of a leaping blue dolphin, hand-carved and attached to a keychain. The blue was a deep aquamarine, and in the sunlight and sparkles of holiday lights that surrounded them, you could see the refractions of a kaleidoscope of colours where the artist had carefully carved the glass. You felt your heart catch in your throat as you turned it over in your fingers, your eyes widening in surprise.

You loved dolphins. And it was beautiful.

You looked up at Minho, finding him watching you with the corner of his lips turned up in the ghost of a knowing smile as he waited. You felt your voice catch in your throat, and you couldn’t stop the way that it cracked when you finally spoke.

“Minho… how did you…?”

“I remember when we were kids,” he replied softly, and you realized with sudden, stunning clarity that he was leaning over his knees, moving closer to you. “You used to love dolphins. You would get so mad about the animal cruelty at Seaworld. Do you remember that petition you started in sixth grade? When you got all of the kids and teachers to sign it, and then Mrs. Park helped you mail it to their headquarters?”

You just stared at him, awestruck that he remembered any of that.

“You always were a fighter, Y/n,” Minho added softly.

You couldn’t stop the bright grin that erupted on your face then, and you glanced back at the sparkling dolphin, admiring its detail. “They never did respond,” you said after a moment, turning back to look up at him. “But this is beautiful, and so thoughtful, Minho. I can’t believe you remembered that. I love it.”

But Minho was moving closer to you, his face inches away from yours, and you felt your heart suddenly pounding in your chest so loudly that you could hear the blood rush in your ears as you realized that his soft, boyishly replete lips were parting and that he was about to kiss you.

“Ms. Y/n?”

The voice was a thunderclap, a deep, booming echo that tore between you and Minho like the blade of a guillotine had been dropped, and at the sound, Minho instantly pulled back and resettled into his chair. You felt a cold, terrifying shiver run down your spine as you turned in the direction of the voice.

Standing just a few feet away was Kim Sanghoon.

He looked stunningly different than you were used to seeing him, today wearing dark grey peacoat over what you assumed was another three-piece suit, a white scarf wrapped around his throat. His sky blue eyes were narrow with mirth, and at his side stood Hyunjin, dressed fully in black, and standing unnervingly close to Sanghoon’s side.

You felt Minho tense up at your side, a wave of static electricity passing through him and snapping his spine until he was sitting up, straight as a rod.

“…Sanghoon,” was all you could say in reply.

Sanghoon’s eyebrows quirked, and his attention drifted away from you to settle on Minho, and you watched as he mentally sized him up. The tension was wrapped so thick around Minho that you were certain if you moved any closer to him, you would collide into it as if it were a wall.

And all the while, Hyunjin was staring directly at you, as if he were sizing you up.

At last, Sanghoon spoke. “And who do I have the pleasure of making my acquaintance with today?” He asked you, tipping his head toward Minho, clearly waiting for you to introduce them.

Your heart was now pounding for altogether new reasons, and so was your skull, and instantly you wanted to scream. You wanted to scream at the fact that Sanghoon had suddenly appeared, ruining yet another moment between you and Minho, wanted to scream at the fact that Minho had given you such a thoughtful gift and had been moments away from kissing you and remembered your passions from sixth grade and had called you a fighter like you wanted to be as a child and -

“This is my friend, Minho,” you heard yourself say, your voice far, far, away. “Minho, this is Kim Sanghoon, my employer at Kim Capitol.”

Minho bristled slightly, but he didn’t move, even when Sanghoon offered his hand. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and tossed his head at Sanghoon in greeting.

Sanghoon took it in stride, smirking, clearly amused as he retracted his hand and dipped it into his pocket instead. He watched Minho for just a moment before he turned his eyes back on you.

“Enjoying the tree, Y/n?” he asked you, emphasizing your name a little too much before he nodded up at the spruce that towered over them.

“I could ask you the same,” you fired, hot with anger, your knee beginning to buckle and sway.

“Ah, Hyunjin and I were just going for a stroll, discussing some legal matters, boring things, really,” he replied, gesturing to Hyunjin at his side, who stood as still as a statue, his hands folded in front of him. “Hyunjin is my lawyer,” he said to Minho, who just stared at him as if he simply did not give a fuck.

“Wonderful,” you muttered, turning back to the tree, hoping beyond all hopes that he would just leave.

Sanghoon seemed to take the hint, though he let a few beats pass, staring at your face and searing it with heat. Minho was now shifting in his seat, rolling his shoulders.

“Well, we will leave you to it, then,” Sanghoon finally said after a moment. “Merry Christmas, Minho and Y/n.”

You glanced back at him, watching as he turned and walked away, Hyunjin flanking his side again. They made off in the direction of a park, their figures disappearing into the throng of visitors, Sanghoon’s hair still shimmering gold beneath the sun and you just noticed that Hyunjin had his hair tied up.

“Who is that guy?” Minho asked the instant he was gone, and you felt serrated by the harshness in his tone.

“He’s nobody important,” you answered quickly, echoing your same sentiments to him the night that Sanghoon had called you on the rooftop in Sosa-gu, the last time he had punctured what you were certain was a moment between them. “I’m going to be working with him when I start at Kim, that’s all. He’s a smug asshole.”

At that, you saw the side of Minho’s mouth turn up into a slight smirk.

Even so, for the rest of the day, as they walked through the city and eventually rode the train back to Incheon, he was quiet and withdrawn, the tension pulled stiff between them like a tightrope.

And inside, you wanted to scream, but you also wanted to mourn - mourn the opportunities and moments that were dying all around you, killed off by a fate that you were seemingly destined to but had no hand in shaping.

***

“Hey, man,” Jisung was banging on his bedroom door, causing Minho to wince in aggravation. “You gonna come out of there at some point tonight? It’s almost nine and I am NOT leaving without you.”

Minho shook his head, staring up at his ceiling, studying the same web of cracks in the paint that he’d been looking up at for hours and days. Across the room, his television was softly playing the sounds of an action-drama series that Minho had tried and failed repeatedly to get into, desperately seeking refuge from his own thoughts.

The truth was, his head was a fucking mess, and he couldn’t concentrate on a goddamn thing. He was plagued by distraction, torn between debilitating flashbacks that had become recurring and practically impossible to endure, and endless, hopeless pining for you.

The former was simply painful, there was no better way to look at it. With so much idle time spent sitting around staring out of a glass booth at work, or wasting away in his apartment or Wonmisan Park, staring at his laptop’s blank screen, Minho’s mind pulsed with the dull ache of the war and the effects it had left behind on his psyche. Nightly, he was torn from sleep with visions of the desert and the men he had seen perish right in front of his eyes under the tatter of sniper fire or the bright flames of a detonated explosive. He and Jisung never talked about it, but their squadron had not been very fortunate during their last tour, and the remnants of a particular ambush that had killed their comrades continued to infiltrate his skull, the scene replaying in a bloody, endless loop throughout nightmares that left him waking with a start in a cold sweat.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, his relationship with you was a pressure cooker, ready to boil over and burst apart. He could no longer fight his attraction to you and was eager to just get his feelings out into the open, goddamn what the fallout might be. But you kept insisting that they were fucking friends, even when you continued to text and call him and invite him to trips into the city that felt too much like fucking dates even though you both tried to pretend you were not. And twice, he was sure that the electricity would finally snap through them and that the tension would break at last; he was sure that they would fucking kiss, and both goddamn times it had been ruined by that prick Kim Sanghoon.

Kim fucking Sanghoon. Minho absolutely hated him. Hours after that asshole had called your phone during their Thanksgiving rooftop celebration in Sosa-gu, Minho had Googled him, unable to resist the temptation of getting insight into the jerk that had your personal number and had the gall to call your phone late at night as if it were perfectly natural.

Who the fuck did he think he was?

To his great dismay and annoyance, Minho learned from his search that Kim Sanghoon was tall and good looking and filthy fucking rich. In every photo he wore the same smug simper, sometimes offering his arrogant glance directly to the camera, other times ignoring it completely and letting the paparazzi have at it with their candid shots of him. And there were too many shitty articles about him, all about his money and his financial prowess and his charisma and his new fucking promotion at Kim.

And you were going to be working for that son-of-a-bitch?

Minho couldn’t stop thinking about it, you working side by side with a scumbag like that, spending most of your waking hours with him. It burned him up in ways that he hadn’t felt since leaving the army, rendering him surly and short-tempered, snapping at Jisung for no good reason and spending most of his free time sealed up in his room, brooding over his laptop or his journal, or staring bleary-eyed at the television as he tried to digest shows and content that were not landing with any particular coherence at all.

He wanted to believe, desperately even, that you would never go for a rich, pompous asshole like Kim Sanghoon. He was the antithesis of everything that you believed in and stood for. Yet still, a tiny part of him nagged away at his subconscious, reinforcing the fact that Sanghoon was everything that he was not, that he had so much more to offer you than Minho ever could. And maybe, that just might be enough, especially since he and you were still just fucking friends. It burned him up with all that was happening.

Goddammit to hell.

“Minho?” Jisung banged again. “Get dressed. We are leaving soon, and you know Y/n is going to be upset if you don’t come.”

Goddamnit. Why did he did have to bring your name up?

The gods were really screwing with him, because then his phone buzzed at his side, and Minho looked down to see your name staring up at him along with your cute little blue heart.

Y/n: Hey! Jihoo and I are ready. This is going to be so much fun. Let me know when you guys are ready. We’ll meet you outside for the cab. I’ll see you soon

Goddamnit.

“Hurry up, Minho,” Jisung continued to bark. “I’m calling the cab in twenty minutes.”

Minho sighed, finally pushing himself up on his bed, shaking his head out. It was New Year’s Eve, and, under Sana’s pleading and prodding, AVALANCHE had splurged and booked a connection of suites on the top floor of the Marriott Hotel, right there in the centre of Incheon. Chul had been completely disagreeable about the ridiculous expenditure of money, but Sana had been relentless, and eventually, he caved into the demands of youth and allowed it to happen.

Minho really didn’t want to go to a fucking hotel party. He could just imagine all of your friends getting completely wasted and driving him insane, Sana and Jihoo undoubtedly the worst of all. And it sounded like a noisy and arduous affair that would just leave him with a headache.

Beyond all of that, Minho was just straight-up nervous about spending time so close to you. Ever since their day in Phoenix Centre just a little over a week ago, Minho could not climb his way out of his feelings for you. He had been completely prepared to throw all caution to the wind concerning you as they sat together in front of the holiday tree in the centre of the plaza, ready to press his lips to yours and finally test the boundaries of their relationship.

And then that prick had shown up.

Now, Minho didn’t know what to do about it. He couldn’t handle being around you without feeling like he was going to collapse from the stack of feelings that were building deep inside of him for you. He couldn’t even text you without getting an erection at this point, and all, any of, this was doing was making him sad and frustrated .

Still, Jisung was right about one thing. You would be upset if he didn’t show up to this stupid party. And so, he got to his feet and opened the door, finding Jisung leaning against it.

“I heard you loud and clear,” Minho muttered, shouldering past him. “Move out of my way so I can shower.”

“I hope you fix your attitude before we leave, Sunshine!” Jisung gibed, just as Minho slid into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Sometime later, after he’d showered and dressed in black chinos and a dark grey zip-up sweater, Jisung and Minho made their way out of the apartment, crossing the street to your and Jihoo’s brownstone, the girls coming outside as soon as they approached.

Already, Minho felt things begin to fall apart.

You looked stunning, even with your wool peacoat shielding most of your body and whatever spectacular outfit Minho was certain you were wearing. You were wearing that smattering of kohl around your eyes, winged at the corners and thicker than usual, and it made your eyes ever wider and brighter, the glow of your irises crashing against your heavy, dark lashes. Tonight, you’d left your hair down, and it was flowing long around your shoulders in a shimmering, inky spill, your baby hairs cutely and perfectly framing your face. Golden crescent moon earrings hung from your lobes, catching the glint of the streetlights overhead.

Your eyes lit up with a smile as soon as you saw him, and Minho wanted nothing more to see them flicker and burst up at him like that with you pinned beneath him, his hand wrapped around your throat.

“Heya,” you greeted him as they approached, and Minho almost lost it.

“Hey,” he responded lamely, rubbing the back of his neck, unable to tear his gaze away from your face.

“There’s our cab,” Jihoo cried as a yellow taxi approached, mercifully drawing your attention away from him. Though it didn’t help that the four of them had to cram into the back seat of the cab together, and of course he wound up seated next to you, your body transferring its warmth to his and the scent of vanilla creme cakes filling his senses as it drifted away from your skin.

Fuck.

It was a small blessing that the ride across the neighbourhood wasn’t very long, and you were deposited outside of the Marriott Hotel a short time later. It was a towering brick building with fat, glossy glass windows, and a cylindrical rotunda at its apex. Inside, it was far chicer than anything Minho had seen since moving to the city, black and white checkered floors surrounded by aquamarine furniture and bronze finishing.

“The gang is on the top floor,” you informed them as they made their way toward the elevators.

As soon as they’d walked inside, both girls had opted to shed their coats, and Minho shamelessly could not take his eyes off of you the instant you revealed your outfit. He stared at you, wondering if you were purposefully teasing him. You had dressed in a form-fitting, chocolate brown sweater dress that hugged your curves all the way down your body, stopping mid-thigh, complete with a cowl-neck that dipped just slightly enough to show a hint of cleavage. The dress was belted at the waist with a wide strip of black leather that was clasped at the centre with a gold crescent moon that matched your earrings.

But the thigh highs. You were wearing fucking thigh highs again, dark brown to match your dress and just slightly sheer enough to show a faint glimpse of your skin beneath. And to make matters even worse, you were wearing black, stiletto, lace-up suede boots.

Yeah. You were definitely fucking with him.

He stayed at the back of their group, his eyes glued to you as they took the elevators to the top floor and found the suites that AVALANCHE had rented, a collection of several large rooms that were connected by narrow doorways.

Minho was pleasantly surprised that the party was actually a really small affair, host to just a few of AVALANCHE’s core members, relieving a little bit of his social anxiety about the entire night. As they entered the main room, they found most of the gang already seated in the living room, on the couch and in chairs, some seated at the dining room table that was just across the room. Chul was seated in the centre of the couch, nearly consuming its entirety, Sera close at his side and his good arm wrapped around the back of the couch behind her. Dae and Kwan were playing cards at the table.

And of course, Sana was already in Suho’s lap.

“Now we can really get this party started,” Sana immediately declared, holding her red cup in the air and gesturing wildly. “Drinks are on the sidebar. Fill up and let’s go.”

“Who is watching the kids?” was the first thing out of your mouth when you noticed Chul and Sera sitting together.

“At home with Julia,” Chul replied, holding his beer up. “Ya know she’s not much of a drinker, so she offered to stay in.”

Minho was marvelled at the fact that the big man was still wearing his sunglasses indoors, once again.

Jihoo clasped her hands in front of her. “Minho, Y/n, why don’t you guys sit down on that loveseat over there? Jisung and I will get you your drinks!”

Minho wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.

“Nothing too strong,” you warned, as if you were reading his mind.

“Don’t be silly,” Jihoo waved you off, following Jisung to the sidebar, immediately reaching for a bottle of vodka.

“There’s plenty, so y’all don’t be shy,” Chul roared from his seat on the couch, tipping back his beer again.

Minho glanced at the loveseat that Jihoo had pointed at, finding it a tight squeeze and awfully intimate. If he sat next to you on that thing, he would be right on top of you.

Sweet Jesus, did he want to be on top of you.

He shook that thought from his head, watching you move across the room to drop into it. You scooted carefully over to one side, then glanced up at him, waiting.

He almost groaned out loud.

Minho shed his jacket and hung it up on the coat rack by the door, then followed you and slid into the seat next to you. This definitely was a loveseat, because he was instantly pressed shoulder to shoulder against you. Once again, he was captivated by your body heat and the confectionary aromas that drifted off of your skin and bled into his entire awareness.

“You guys got perfect timing,” Suho was saying, holding up a beer of his own, one arm wrapped around Sana’s waist, who was absently toying with his dark hair as she sipped her drink. “The ball is gonna drop in a little bit.” He gestured to the television.

“Just enough time to get good and drunk before it hits!” Dae called from the table across the room.

You emitted a tiny chuckle at his side at that, and Minho was instantly aware of how close you were once again, his heart beginning to throb almost painfully.

“I love Anderson Cooper,” Sera said. “He does such a great job, especially with Kathie Griffin.”

“I still say Dick Clark is the classic,” Chul grumbled, waving a hand in the air.

Jihoo appeared a moment later with two red cups in hand. She offered them to Minho and you, and Minho stared down into his to find it almost full with a dark pink liquid.

“Cranberry and vodka, can’t go wrong with that!” Jihoo cheered, just as Jisung sank into the armchair next to them. “And don’t complain about how strong it is, Y/n. It’s New Year’s Eve!”

Minho watched as she sashayed away and then fell into Jisung’s lap, who was grinning up at her as if there was no one else in the room. It was sickening.

The drinks were strong, and Jihoo and Sana kept pouring, even after the ball dropped sometime later and the midnight hour rang in the New Year. By that time, most of the gang was already quite drunk, and Minho could feel the alcohol wrapping tight around his brain, pulling him under.

And you were next to him, looped into the conversations with your friends that were happening around him, occasionally turning to glance up at him with a smile, and he wanted so badly to put his arm around you and swipe his tongue across your neck.

But he can’t. Friends. They were friends, right?

“So, you guys know that I am going to be that person,” Sana was now slurring, turning away from where she had ruffled Suho’s dark hair into a messy mop. She was looking directly at Minho and you again, and Minho instantly wished that the floor would just devour him. “We’ve got all these rooms here. I know I for one can’t wait to claim one.”

She turned back to Suho, threading her fingers through his hair once again, and Minho could see the man blush at the way she stared down at him.

But of course, she was turning her attention back to them an instant later. “How much do you guys want to bet that tonight is finally Minho and Y/n's night?”

“Speaking of rooms,” Chul interrupted mercifully, causing Sana to frown. “I think I’m down for the count. Can’t keep up with you kids.” He got to his feet, almost hitting the ceiling as he stretched. “C’mon, Sera.”

Sera was up and at his side, one arm looped through his as they disappeared into one of the connecting rooms down the hall.

“Okay,” Suho said as soon as they were gone. “How long has that been going on?”

Kwan chortled from across the room. “Oh, that’s been going on for a long while,” he admitted. “Chul doesn’t usually put his business out there, but it looks like he’s past caring.”

“I think they’re cute,” you added at his side.

I think you’re cute, Minho couldn’t stop himself from thinking.

“What?” You turned to him, eyebrows raising.

Shit shit shit. Had he said that out loud? What the fuck!

“They are cute,” he quickly clarified, and he sounded like an idiot, because it was not something that he would ever fucking say. You just stared at him for a moment, before you nodded and turned back to your drink.

Thankfully, it seemed like they were all too drunk to notice or dwell on it.

Eventually, Dae and Kwan departed for the evening, leaving the three couples still drinking in the living room, Jihoo and Jisung claiming the couch now that Chul and Sera had vacated it, pawing at each other as they bantered back and forth with Sana and Suho about a bunch of shit that Minho was having a difficult time following and couldn’t give a rat’s ass about, anyway. He was just glad that they had seemed to move on from their interest in his lack of a sex life with you.

You were mostly quiet, watching the television and sipping your drink, warm at his side. Minho could definitely feel the effects of the alcohol pulsing through his system by now, leaving him feeling unnaturally warm and a little woozy and lightheaded. He was also feeling his inhibitions begin to drop, and the longer he sat next to you, the hotter he grew and the faster his heart pounded and the more he wanted you.

It soon grew very late, and even Sana, Jihoo, and Jisung ran out of steam. Suho was the first to push up to his feet, his arm around Sana’s waist.

“Night, kids,” he said to them. “We’re gonna turn in.”

“Won’t be getting much sleep, though,” Sana laughed, and Suho blushed again, pushing her towards the hallway to one of the rooms.

“I’m in agreement with that. Come on, Jisung,” Jihoo was at her feet next, gently pulling on Jisung’s wrist. “Let’s give Minho and Y/n some privacy. You guys can have the room down that hallway,” she pointed.

Jisung was instantly at his feet, following behind Jihoo like a heeled puppy. “Don’t stay up too late, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he laughed, tipping a salute in Minho’s direction, and Minho just shook his head as they disappeared.

Minho glanced down at you, finding you sipping your drink again, your eyes glassy. He turned a little in his seat to face you.

“You okay?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking, his voice far too low and tenebrous for his liking.

You pulled your cup away from your lips, looking up at him, your pupils blown wide and your irises sparkling as you nodded slowly.

“I’m okay,” you told him, your words slurring just a little bit. “Do you… do you want to go in the room?”

Minho almost thought he was going deaf, his heart was thundering so loudly in his chest. Your voice had been so tentative and small, as if you were terrified of the question you’d asked, and Minho couldn’t take his eyes off of your lips, so pouty and glossy and full, parted and begging for him to kiss them.

If they went into that room, there would be no turning back, he knew.

“Yes,” he answered far too enthusiastically, then adjusted with a toss of his head. “Yeah. Okay.”

You smiled at him, the true, genuine smile that he saw so rarely from you, though it was mystified just a little bit by the haze of alcohol. You were then at your feet, taking his hand in yours and gently tugging at him as you led him away.

Oh shit.

Minho watched your hips sway the entire time you walked through the suite to the remaining bedroom in the rear, swathed in darkness save for the wash of moonlight that draped over the bed from the window above. He quietly closed the door behind him, following you into the centre of the room to where you’d stopped by the foot of the bed.

You were still facing away from him, glancing up at the window and the moon and starlight that filtered in through the wide panels of glass. Minho’s eyes trailed your shining river of silken hair, falling again past your shoulders, and the dress sticking to your round curve of your rear, stopping when he saw your fingers clench gently at your thighs.

“Minho…?” you were saying, and Minho was instantly stepping closer to you, pulled in by gravity.

“Y/n.”

At the sound of your whispered name on his lips, you turned around to face him, and Minho only had a fraction of a second to look into the swirly depths of your eyes before your arms were around his neck and your body was pressed tight against his. His brain collapsed in on itself when you crushed your lips against his, your tongue tapping gently at the seam of his mouth as you moaned.

Minho had always imagined that the first time that he kissed you, it would be slow and careful and closed-lipped and sweet. He was completely unprepared for this sudden, demanding passion, all heat and urgency, your mouth claiming his as if it had always belonged to you.

And maybe it had, Minho thought, opening his mouth to yours, accepting you, the alcohol still blurring his senses.

He almost didn’t realize that you were backing him up towards the bed until the backs of his knees hit the mattress and he was falling back onto it, clumsily managing to brace himself with his hands behind him at his sides. You were now holding both sides of his face between your palms, your tongue curling around his before you drew back to suck on his bottom lip. Instantly, Minho’s vision whited out.

Do something, he screamed at himself, but he was frozen, especially as you began to crawl over him, pushing him back against the soft comforter of the hotel’s bed.

Minho continued kissing you, savouring the feel of your mouth, the taste of your cherry lip gloss and the cranberry and vodka you’d been drinking all night staining his tongue. Dumbstruck, he watched as you pulled away, your palm dropping to his groin and running flat and smooth over his erection as you lowered yourself over him.

“Y/n..ah…” your name fell from his lips like a warning, but your eyes sparkled like darkened, stained glass windows as you looked up at him, something almost like reverence in your gaze.

“Shhhh,” you breathed, and Minho felt himself get painfully harder beneath your grip. “Just... let me have this moment.”

He watched you as you lowered yourself to your knees on the floor, still petting him gently through his pants, your eyes devilish and misbehaving. You then brought both hands up to his belt, undoing the buckle and opening it before attacking the buttons and zipper of his pants.

God. This was definitely not real.

Your hand was pulling his erection free, and as soon as your soft skin met his, he bucked his hips up towards your hand, unable to contain himself. He sat up on his elbows and glanced down at you, finding you smiling playfully at him as you wrapped your entire fist around his cock and began to pump.

Minho closed his eyes and tipped his head back towards the ceiling, the pleasure an agonizing sensation building low in his belly and setting his nerves on fire as you worked him carefully in your hand. Every time you pulled up on him, he was compelled to rut into your hand, his mind blankly working through the blend of arousal and alcohol to wonder that, if your hand felt this good, what would it feel like to be inside of you?

At that pleasant thought, Minho’s head snapped back up, glancing down at you at the feel of your wet tongue pressed to the head of his cock. You were staring up at him as if seeking his approval, but Minho could barely nod his head, let alone form any words. He watched as you flicked your tongue across his tip, before you wrapped your entire mouth around him, lowering your lips a little more each time you moved down and across him, wet and hot and completely on fire.

Holy fucking shit, he had his cock in your mouth, and you were draining the fucking life out of him.

Minho couldn’t handle it for long, especially as he forced himself to watch you as you bobbed up and down on him, tears springing from the corners of your eyes and your back arched so that your ass was poked out in the air behind you.

Just as you began to move faster over him, his entire dick slick with your saliva, Minho felt the cloudburst inside of him, his brain snapping as he broke and came down your throat with a moan.

“Fuck,” he swore out loud for the first time around you.

You pulled away from him, and he watched in complete awe as you visibly swallowed his spend before wiping the corner of your mouth with a bent knuckle, offering him a smile. Your other was still wrapped around his tip, your thumbs pressing his sensitivity which was still covered with some whiteness.

“Sorry,” you said, and Minho couldn’t fucking imagine why the fuck you were apologizing. “I’ve never done that before.”

Goddamnit holy fuck. If that really was the case, he can’t wait to be the one to ruin you.

“Come here,” he growled at you, leaning up and pulling your upper arms so that you were hovering above him again. As soon as he had a sure grip on you, he flipped you onto your back on the centre of the bed and crawled over you, instantly slotting his mouth over yours and kissing you deeply, tasting his salt on your tongue. When you moaned into his mouth, Minho lost his wits, and he bit your bottom lip hard before he broke the kiss and pulled back from you, staring down at your face.

You were misty-eyed, your gaze locked with his, your hips rotating gently beneath him in a siren call, and you were so, so, pretty, Minho just wanted to devour you, his forever.

“Oh, God...”

“Minho,” you whispered back, and the desperate need was so evident in your voice that it cracked right in the middle of his name.

He got to work instantly, dropping his lips to your neck, kissing and licking and biting your smooth, soft flesh, feeling the heat and your pulse beneath his tongue. You writhed under him, arching your back, your breathing steadily becoming laboured. Minho ran his hands over the expanse of your body, discovering a winding trail from your hips to your breasts, which he cupped and squeezed before he grabbed at the cowl neckline of your dress, pulling on it so roughly that he heard the seams tear and give way as he lowered it enough to discover your black bra beneath. Seeing the soft, smooth flesh of your breasts below with some marks here and there, Minho’s heart was slamming against the centre of his throat as he deftly pulled the lacy black fabric out of the way, freeing your perfect nipples, already diamond-hard and ready and yearning for him.

He carefully brought his lips to one nipple, swiping at it with his tongue, wetting it with a string of saliva, watching you as he moved. Your jaw dropped open, and he was fully enamoured when you let one hand drift to his scalp, toying with the hair at the back of his neck.

“Oh,” you breathed above him, arching your back again and pushing your nipple against his tongue.

Minho took the entire peak into his mouth then, suckling on it, one hand gently squeezing your opposite breast and working you into an absolute frenzy. As he dragged his teeth gently across your skin, you moaned again and lifted your hips from the bed.

“Minho,” you begged, and Minho had an indication of what you might be asking him for.

Minho sucked your nipple a little bit more for good measure before he backed away, dropping your nipple from his mouth and leaving the top of your dress torn and disheveled. He slid lower down your body, his hands running smoothly down your waist and over those full, voluptuous hips that had completely enraptured him for the last three months. He trailed past them, finding the hem of your dress, skirting over the gap of flesh just above your thigh highs. He stopped there, sliding his finger under the hem of one and letting it snap back against your skin.

“I love these fucking things on you,” he told you, looking up to meet your eyes, and you just smiled at him, your finger coy at the corner of your mouth.

Minho brought his hands up to the hem of your dress, his heart palpitating as he began to push it up, up, and up, you lifting up to assist him with riding it over your hips. As soon as it was bunched around your waist, Minho snaked his hands behind you to grasp palmfuls of your bottom, squeezing your soft, full flesh as he stared in wonderment at your black lace panties that shielded your arousal from him, noting the dampness in their centre.

“Fuck,” he cursed again, and you were rolling your hips again, encouraging him. Minho pulled his hands away from your ass and brought them to the waistband of your underwear, and instantly you were raising your hips again, waiting for him to slide them off.

“Minho,” you breathed his name again, and he fucking lost it for the third time. Without waiting another second, he pulled them away, down to your ankles, where he realized that you were still wearing your boots. Cussing internally, he took a moment to unzip them and slide them off of your feet, before he tossed them away somewhere along with his own shoes, your panties next joining the melee on the floor.

He crawled back over you, and you were already spreading your thighs for him, causing several rounds to misfire in the back of his skull. He stared in amazement at the presentation of you, noticing at once that your pussy was shaved with the exception of a small strip of curls on your mound. Instantly, he was assaulted with the beauty of your arousal, your inner lips slightly swollen and your clit hard and your entrance tight and all of it wet as you leaked right in front of him.

God, you were so pretty and so perfect. All of you.

“Minho,” you called to him again.

Minho almost didn’t know what to do, he was so overwhelmed by the sight of you. But instinct kicked in, combined with a strong desire to take care of you and make you feel good and have you crying out beneath him with your mouth open wide the way he had dreamed about for so, so long. He carefully brought one finger up to your folds, gently running across them and dipping into your wetness, swirling it over your flesh as he began to pet you softly.

“Higher,” you demanded immediately, and Minho looked up at your clit, inviting and hard and holy fuck.

He lifted his finger to it, rubbing it gently, and instantly, your entire body began to lock up and seize, your legs spreading further and your hands dropping to either side of your hips, fisting the covers into twisted knots. Minho was mystified by your reaction, and as he continued to rub, adding a little more pressure, he glanced up to find your face contorted in pleasure in a way that set his soul on fire.

“Oh, oh,” you were moaning, your eyes only half-open before you suddenly pinched them shut. “Oh, Minho, that’s so good, baby. Mmm.”

That was enough to put him in his grave. He looked back down at your sex, finding you dripping so badly your translucent liquids were sliding down the crease of your ass and greeting the sheets. Minho was sure he was en route to experience a coronary event.

Your moans were beginning to throttle him now, and all he was doing was rubbing at your clit with his fingertip. This was too good to be true, he couldn’t help thinking. He decided to test a new theory.

Without warning, he dropped his lips to your flesh and ran his tongue over your clit with a slow and careful lick.

“Oh!” you shouted, your hips buckling, your back arching, your head tossed from one side to the other, your hair sliding like an oil spill across the sheets. Minho’s heartbeat picked up pace instantly, fire screaming through his veins and electricity scorching every synapse in his brain.

“More,” you begged.

Minho began to lap at your clit in earnest, dragging the flat of his tongue over your flesh and relishing in your sweet, zesty flavour, bright and tart with a candied honeyness that had his eyes rolling in the back of his head. He savoured the sweet, blissful sounds you were making, deep husky moans alternated with bright shouts and cries of his name, your fingers threading through his hair and clutching him tightly.

You were so, so wet by now, leaking everywhere and making a mess, and Minho loved it, completely unable to stop himself from bringing his finger back to your pussy and toying gently at your entrance, testing it before slipping inside to feel you, your walls clenching around him as he gently poked and prodded until he found a smooth spot that had you wailing when he pressed it. Encouraged, he added a second to join the first and slowly began to fuck you with his fingers, wrapping his mouth around your clit and sucking on it between his lips, his tongue still flicking at its sides.

The noise that you were making began to escalate into full-blown sobs and wails, and Minho was certain that if anyone was still awake in this suite, they were hearing all of this. He didn’t give a fuck, though. He was making you come and he was doing a damn good job of it.

“Minho, Minho, Minho,” you started to chant. “Oh my god, Minho, baby… I’m going to…”

He could feel your entire body coil tight under him as he sucked and pressed deep inside you, and you finally broke apart, crying out his name in one final, forlorn wail. He stopped sucking and pressing like mad and instead kept his lips and fingers stilled against your flesh, waiting for you to ride out the incredible high, your hands now dragged away from his hair and slamming against the mattress as you wept.

Finally, you seemed thoroughly spent, and you tried to slide away from him, slamming your thighs shut around his head. Dazed, Minho pulled back from you and climbed back up, lowering himself to his side beside you.

“Good?” he asked, wiping his mouth, unable to avoid the smugness that was laced in his tone.

Your eyes were wide and glassy and wet as you stared at him with that same look of love in your eyes you had given him on the rooftop and under the tree in Phoenix Centre. But you said nothing, instead rocking into him, lacing your arms around his neck, tossing one leg over his hips as you snuggled yourself against him tightly, your dress still bunched up around your waist and your inner thighs stained with your own stickiness.

“So sleepy,” you whispered, and Minho realized, stunned, that almost instantly, you had fallen under.

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close to him and resting his chin atop your head, before planting a kiss on your head. He could feel the drunken borders of sleep begin to close in on him, too.

But he could only think one thing before he drifted off and fell into a very inebriated slumber.

He was truly, madly, deeply in love with you. You were more or less on the same chapter; if nothing, this cleared it out from him.

And this was, in fact, real.

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

Sundays had always been your favourite day of the week, because they were your days off, when you didn’t have to work or worry about class or teaching at the dojo or even volunteering with AVALANCHE, when you didn’t have to do anything except what you wanted to do, time that you could spend entirely to yourself, locked away in your room if you wanted to be.

But now, even that had changed, if just a little bit. Sundays were still your favourite day of the week, but now for an entirely different reason.

Sundays were your favourite day because they had become your day with Minho.

Ever since that first Sunday, when you’d brought him to the Souled and to the Union Park and the Promenades, something cemented and became ritual between them. The following week, you showed Minho around the more popular roads, where you bar hopped during the day and sampled cocktails at several chic, local lounges, your cheeks flushed by the time you stopped by the waterfront to admire a new sky view of the city. The week after that, they went with Jihoo and Jisung to Jeju Island, visiting the local stores and riding the ferry over the forest before sharing red-bean filled buns at a cafè there, your friends laughing and pawing at each other the entire time while Minho and you maintained a respectful, friendly distance, sharing and stealing quick glances and the occasional brush of warm skin. Your friends had mostly ceased teasing, since they had all lost their bet by now, only awarding their carefully guarded behaviour with rolls of their eyes or poorly concealed chuckles or occasionally snide remarks.

Sometimes, Minho and you wouldn’t even go anywhere to spend the day together, content to spend your time on the phone, sometimes watching the same movie on the same channel while bantering through commentary with each other, sometimes sharing in the mundanities and highlights of their lives, you always eager to share while Minho was always eager to listen. For you, his ear on the other end of the line was a beam of support, especially as your final semester drew closer to its end and you knew that you would have to deal with your father’s outrageous expectations soon.

This Sunday, though, Minho had sent you a text in the morning, asking you if you wanted to come over and watch The Wizard of Oz. It would be the first time you’d ever been to his apartment, and you overthought the implications of it completely, wondering if it meant that he wanted something more from their friendship.

No, no. He was inviting you over to watch a movie from their childhood, one that he remembered that you had wanted to see again. It was a sweet thing to do, but it didn’t mean that he felt anything more than what he’d made obvious.

It was a little disappointing, all of it had grown more disappointing as the days stretched into November, but you pushed your thoughts about it away. Your friendship with Minho was important to you, sacred even, and you really didn’t have time for another relationship right now, with your graduation approaching and the prospect of being forced into a job with Kim Capitol while dealing with your father’s stranglehold over your life.

You dressed simply and comfortably, slate-grey yoga pants with a plush, matching zip-up hoodie, piling your hair into a sloppy bun on the top of your head before pulling your sneakers on. As you were gathering your coat by the foyer, Jihoo appeared in the hallway, holding an armful of folders.

“Going out?” she asked, eyeing you up and down.

“Just to Minho’s,” you replied, not bothering to look up, not wanting your eyes or your cheeks to betray you under Jihoo’s knowing stare. You hastily buttoned your peacoat. “Just to watch a movie for a couple of hours.”

“Is it a sleepover?” Jihoo asked with a laugh in her voice, eyeing the soft knit fabric of your yoga gear.

You pointedly ignored her, slinging your purse over your shoulder. “And you? I’m surprised to see you staying in today.”

Jihoo gestured to the stack in her arms. “I’m way behind on grading and lesson planning,” she told you. “Besides, Jisung has some cop training thing to do today. It’s giving me some time to get caught up. I might even take a nap!”

“Sounds like fun,” you laughed, reaching for your keys.

“Listen, Y/n,” Jihoo was stepping closer to you, shifting the papers against her hip. Up close, you could see the sparkling cuts of jade set deep against the dark green in her irises. “Are you sure there’s really nothing happening between you and Minho?”

You sighed, shaking your head and looking down at where you held your keys in hand. There was nothing teasing in Jihoo’s tone, her voice was serious and concerned, probing for information, and ready to strike with advice. Which was way worse than her taunting.

“We’re friends, Jihoo,” you responded in a clipped tone.

Jihoo pursed her lips together, considering your words, turning them over in her head and then making a face like she was not buying them at all. “It doesn’t seem that way from where I’m standing, Y/n. I just want you to follow your heart. Don’t worry about what other people think, and don’t worry about taking a risk. I think he’d be good for you.”

“He’s not interested in me like that,” you declared, and hearing the words tumble past your lips broke you up inside a little bit. “Besides, I don’t have time for a relationship right now, Jihoo. You saw how distracting Rude was for me.”

“Hmm,” was Jihoo’s hum in response, a sceptical sound that she emitted with a roll of her shoulders.

“I’ll see you later,” you bade her, and made your way through the door, out onto Incheon’s cold, crisp street before Jihoo could find a way to prolong the conversation.

You crossed Sterling briskly, feeling the winds nip at your cheeks. November was already frigid, heralding the advent of the winter season and the quickly approaching holidays. When you made it to the other side of the block, you entered Minho’s apartment complex, waiting by the front desk to be buzzed up.

Minho lived on the fifth floor, and you took the elevator up, having a difficult time understanding why your stomach was rolling with so many nervous butterflies. You’d spent plenty of time with Minho over the last few weeks, and nothing had transpired that should make you feel like there was anything out of the ordinary between them. Maybe it had something to do with the idea of being inside of his apartment alone with him, but you knew that Minho was respectful, that he wouldn’t do anything to breach the lines of their friendship. Besides, you had convinced yourself that despite the deep, burning feelings that lived inside of you, Minho did not think about you that way, and that their friendship stood the same between them as it always had.

When you arrived at the apartment, Minho appeared at the door just a few moments after you’d knocked, he too dressed casually in heather grey sweats and a black pullover tee-shirt. His hair was floppy and mussed, an arrangement of gentle brown spikes that framed his narrow, boyish face.

You stared at him from your place in the threshold, drinking in the black of his eyes, which were slightly shadowed. The hallway of his apartment complex was poorly lit, and his apartment was dark behind him, making it difficult for you to see anything.

“Hey, bean.”

His greeting rolled over you in a complicated, twisted wave, his eyes first on your face but then searching your body and landing at your feet. Seeing a pair of boots by the doorway, you slid out of your shoes before stepping into his living room.

“Hey.” Your hands came to fidget at your sides. “Is Jisung home?” you asked, already knowing the answer but needing something to say.

“Nah,” Minho responded, making room for you to enter. You stepped through the doorway, unbuttoning your jacket. Without waiting, Minho had his hand out.

“I got it,” he said gesturing for your jacket, and you felt his fingers accidentally graze your upper arm when he reached for it, causing your cheeks to grow warm.

“Thanks.”

You waited while he took your coat away, and when he returned, you couldn’t help noticing that his eyes seemed low lidded, that his stare seemed to drift from your face and settle on the lower half of your body, hovering somewhere beyond your hips. He caught himself, though, and looked back up at your face.

“You want something to drink?” he finally asked you, and you just shrugged.

“Do you have any wine?” you asked timidly, thinking it was the only thing that could calm your nerves. “Or water is fine.”

Minho nodded at you, and you swore you could see the way the brown in his eyes shifted through hues, his nut-brown darkening to cocoa.

“Let me check. You can sit,” he gestured to the couch.

He disappeared into the kitchen, and you sighed audibly, sinking against the couch and trying to ignore the tingling between your thighs that the look in his eyes had produced. The spot you settled into was already warm, alerting you to the fact that he’d been sitting there before you arrived. Something about knowing that heated you up even further inside, and you curled your legs up under you on the couch.

Minho returned moments later with an apologetic look on his face, two glasses and a bottle in hand. He placed all of it on the coffee table in front of you.

“We don’t have much wine,” he muttered, gesturing to the bottle. His eyes scanned over you, lingering, and you felt the pulse between your legs again. “I hope this is alright. It’s a really cheap red.”

“It’s fine,” you agreed, but your voice escaped in a whisper.

He nodded, tearing his eyes from you as he unscrewed the cap on the bottle and set to pouring. You turned away, not wanting to watch him too closely, not wanting to see the way the cords in his neck pulled or the way his hair swept soft and dark across his forehead every time he moved.

He settled next to you on the couch, maintaining a respectable distance, but not one that was so far that you couldn’t catch the scent of his aftershave and whatever else he used in his hygienic routine, a scent that was clean and crisp and woodsy, like the pine trees that you vaguely remembered outlining your favourite park in Gimpo. He sighed softly beside you, and you couldn’t help but squish your thighs together as he reached for the remote.

“Where did you find the movie?” you asked when he kept silent, watching as he turned the television on and flicked through some of its settings.

“Wasn’t on any of the streaming services,” he told you, “So I ordered the DVD from Amazon.”

He was staring straight ahead as he spoke, his profile stern and angular as he navigated to the DVD’s settings and queued up the movie. Even though he had said it as casually as if he’d mentioned what he’d had for breakfast that morning, you felt warmed over by the idea that he’d actually purchased the DVD for them to watch.

You didn’t mention the impression this left on you, though, instead settling into the cushions of the couch as he leaned back, watching the lion roar as the Metro Goldwyn-Meyer emblem appeared on screen, heralding the start of the film. Minho leaned back as well, inches away from you, always the space between galaxies living between them.

The movie began with Dorothy ambling through her black and white life, only to stumble and awaken in a magical dream world that was splashed full of bright hues and filled with equally colourful characters. You were aware of the sound of your heartbeat the entire time you watched, aware of the tiny puffs of your breath as you breathed as silently as you could muster, aware of every time Minho shifted in his seat beside you.

Eventually, as the movie played on, Minho leaned in your direction, harmlessly stretching his arm over the top of the couch, reaching slightly behind your head. Watching as Dorothy and her friends skipped down the yellow brick road, soon stopping at a field of poppies where they collapsed in delirium, you smiled and chuckled low under your breath, and you felt yourself sliding closer to Minho, just barely letting the side of your head touch his shoulder when you leaned in his direction.

You weren’t aware that the wine, combined with the week’s exhaustion, had crept into your bones, gently pulsating you into a quiet slumber, your head against Minho’s arm as you fell into a peaceful sleep. You hadn’t even realized that you’d fallen under until you felt your body being jostled softly, the sound of your name floating in the ether above your head.

“Y/n? Y/n, wake up.”

You stirred, shaking your head out and blinking, slowly leaning away from where you were pressed against him. You could still catch his fresh, earthy scent in your nostrils even when you backed away, and you glanced up at him, running the knuckles of both hands under your eyes to dispel the sleep that had seized you.

“Hmm?” you murmured, genuinely perplexed.

“Your phone,” Minho said, pointing to your device which lay on his coffee table, and you noticed that for some reason, his cheeks were uncharacteristically pink. He had paused the movie, but it appeared that it was almost over, anyway. “It rang a bunch of times. I wanted to let you sleep, but it kept ringing.”

You smiled at him, suddenly enamoured by his thoughtfulness, and you picked up your phone to glance at the display. As soon as you saw the succession of missed calls across the screen, topped off by one simple text message, you felt your heart sink to the bottom of your chest, and you leaned back against Minho’s couch.

Dad: Call me.

You inhaled deeply. Your father had called you four times in a row. Either there was a serious emergency, or he was ready to drop another bombshell on you, expecting your complicity in his machinations over your life. You suspected the latter.

“Y/n?” Minho’s voice was quiet and tentative, but edged over with concern, as if he knew that something was unspooling inside of you at that very moment. “Is everything alright?”

You shook your head, still staring at your phone’s screen. “It’s fine. It’s just… just my dad.”

You turned to look at him, finding his eyes glowing and gleaming bright, and suddenly you were desperate to lean into him and wrap your arms around him, hoping he would hold you back, crushing you to him as they both absorbed each other’s warmth and strength.

Instead, they both remained stationary, the gravitational pull of the stars keeping them separated, two magnets with negative polarity.

“It’s getting late,” you said, suddenly stifled by his presence, by his scent and his sparkling chocolate eyes and his soft, messy hair and by the imprint of his dick that you could see in his grey sweats. You were overcome by the magnificence of his design, but also stricken by his cool seriousness, by the way he remained as stiff and in control as a statue the entire evening. “I should get going.”

“Uh…you don’t need a break?” he asked you. “You seemed pretty tired. You can crash here, if you want.”

You felt your mouth spreading into a tiny smile at the thought of laying in Minho’s bed, curled up next to him with his arms around you.

“I’m fine,” you responded, shaking your head gently. “I need to call my dad, and take care of a few things at home tonight.”

Minho nodded, and moments later, you’d gathered your coat and put your sneakers back on, Minho walking you to the door. Before you made for the elevators, you turned to him, and, without thinking, leaned in and gave him a hug.

It took a moment for him to reciprocate, but when he did, his arms came around you, strong and tight. You meant it to be a friendly gesture, the way you sometimes hugged Jihoo or Sana or Chul when they parted ways, if you were feeling especially affectionate. But with Minho, the feeling was different, and you were startled by the warmth behind his embrace, by the way your body instantly reacted, electricity boiling up your blood and sending white-hot sparks to each nerve ending as they awakened, seeking release.

“Thanks for the movie, Minho,” you told him, despairing at how your voice quivered when they finally broke apart. “I’ll text you later.”

He nodded at you, backing up into the doorway, his exterior exuding a calm coolness. You wondered how he managed it.

“Night, Bean.”

Across the street, you sat on your front steps, holding your phone in your hands. You didn’t want to go upstairs and take your father’s call inside, with Jihoo hovering nearby and the walls of their apartment caging you in. And aside from that, you needed a moment to cool off and air out your feelings after having the warmth of Minho’s embrace against your body, after waking up to the firmness of his shoulder under your temple, after feeling inundated by his clean, masculine scent for most of the night.

Sighing after a moment of sitting in the cool darkness, you opened your father’s contact, hesitating for a second before pressing send. He answered on the third ring.

“Y/n,” his crisp baritone pierced through the receiver, calm but serious. “I didn’t think you were working tonight.”

“I wasn’t,” you told him, suppressing the urge to sigh with frustration. “I was with a friend.”

He let out a hum in response, a sound that was laced with consideration, as if he were about to share an opinion about what you had said. Instead, he continued, “You aren’t working tomorrow night, either?”

“I’m off on Mondays.”

“Excellent,” he responded, and you couldn’t avoid the way that your body stiffened. “Five thirty, we are having dinner with the Kims at Four Seasons tomorrow.”

You felt a wave of anxiety ripple over you, your fingers tightening their grip on your phone at your ear. You were now very grateful that you had chosen to remain outside to take this call, desperately needing to inhale fresh air.

When you failed to respond immediately, your father simply continued. “I expect you to dress conservatively. You know the atmosphere of the Four Seasons. And it’s important that you make a good impression, particularly on the President.”

Your mind began to race as you tried to fashion a response, your knees pressinh together in frustration. Your heart was hammering loudly in your chest, a drumbeat that was pushing the anxiety up into your throat.

“Y/n?”

“I’m here,” you finally spoke, and suddenly, you felt so tired again, resigned to your fate. “What is the nature of this meeting, Dad?”

“They simply want to meet you, Y/n,” Brandon replied. “You’ve already got the job, of course. And it isn’t just on account of me, I’ll have you know. President Kim is well acquainted with many of your university's top business professors, and they had wonderful things to say about you, so I’m told.”

“Great,” you responded, enthusiasm lacking in your voice.

Brandon paused for a moment, seeming aware of the trepidation in your tone. “This is an opportunity to get to know them, particularly Kim Sanghoon, who you will be working closely with. I am sure they’ll have plenty of questions about your studies, and how you plan to be an asset to the Company.”

But you didn’t plan to be an asset to the Company.

“I only ask that you are prepared for that sort of conversation,” your father continued. “And that you be yourself. Of course, I’ll be right there at your side.”

You instantly hated the softness in your father’s voice, as if he were ripping your heart out where you sat, determining your life and making your choices for you beneath a pillowy caress and a smile. You closed your eyes, feeling the wind kick up your hair around you and brush it into your face.

There was no sake in arguing about this, you knew. The best you could do was amble your way through the motions, to get through what he asked of you and to ignore the stab of pain it dragged inside of your heart.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” was all you said in response.

***

You lay in bed wide awake almost the entire night, finally falling into a fitful sleep around five in the morning. Three hours later, you gave up, rising and stretching, only to sit on the edge of your bed and hang your head in your hands, dreading the events that the course of the evening would tear you through.

Your anxiety was so thick that you abandoned your morning run and even skipped your classes, instead sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, watching the steam rise as your thoughts raced and spun. Jihoo had already left for the day, and sitting alone in their apartment felt suffocating as you thought over and over again about how you would get through this dinner tonight and how you would get through your life now that your father had already planned its entirety.

You stared at your phone, sitting beside you on the kitchen table. You had half a mind to text Minho, but it was too early, and what would you say, anyway? He already knew about your predicament with your father, and his opinion on the matter had been that you should do what you wanted with your own life. That hadn’t been entirely helpful, because you knew that you couldn’t do that. You weren’t strong enough.

Instead, you lifted your phone and opened your browser, typing Kim Sanghoon's name into Google’s search bar. You had been avoiding looking him up, but now, you couldn’t resist the temptation to at least get a glimpse of the man you would be meeting that night and working for in the coming weeks.

The display instantly brought up a cache of paparazzi photos of Sanghoon, who you learned was disastrously handsome, tall, and well-groomed. He was blond, his hair a more honeyed platinum than what you were used to seeing, pale and combed close to his skull in a neat coif, with the exception of a few thick locks that spilled across his forehead. In nearly every photo, he was wearing some shade of white or pale grey, and it seemed he was never caught in a photo wearing anything that was less casual than a three-piece suit.

It was his eyes, though, that she found most striking, most unnerving. They were a pale, icy blue, so light you almost could not make out their shade in the photographs. Their colouring gave him a haunting look, as if he were staring right through your soul from every picture.

There were a few articles about him in Business and The Hanging Street Journal, mostly about his appointment as Kim’s new Vice President, but you didn’t bother to read them, already stricken by the fact that you were being forced to work for him. You let your phone clatter back to the kitchen table, holding your head in your hands.

You moved through the rest of the morning and afternoon in a thick haze, unable to concentrate on anything, your dread building the closer the clock wore on. Around four, you finally showered and began to get ready for the evening, dressing in a simple, lace-necked, black A-line cocktail dress, your legs wrapped in sheer nylons and your hair pulled back into a low ponytail at the base of your head. You took your time applying your make up in the mirror, staring at your reflection, wondering who was staring back at you, feeling like you were beginning to not recognize yourself at all.

Jihoo had just gotten home as you were preparing to leave, unpacking your school work on the dining room table. You stood up straight when she saw you drift out of your bedroom in your dress.

“That is fancy,” she remarked at once. “Is Minho taking you somewhere special on a Monday night?”

You felt your cheeks warm, even though the thought filled you with a sudden sadness. “No, Ji, don’t joke. I have a business dinner with my father.”

“A business dinner?” Jihoo repeated, crossing over to you with her hands clasped in front of her.

“He got me a job at Kim,” you finally admitted. It was the first time you had spoken about your new reality out loud, aside from your conversations with Minho. Jihoo’s eyebrow immediately shot up.

“You don’t sound very happy about it, Y/n,” Jihoo replied quietly.

“I’m supposed to start in January, right after my degree is conferred,” you responded, and you wondered idly if you stopped going to class and failed the rest of this semester, if you could delay the inevitable. “There really isn’t much to say about it, Ji. It’s what I went to school for.”

Jihoo nodded, offering you a little smile, but her eyes betrayed that she was unconvinced. “I suppose you’re right. I had just assumed you would work with AVALANCHE. Sana talks about how they are strapped for cash all of the time. It seems like Chul could use your financial sense.”

You didn’t say anything, just made for the foyer to retrieve your coat. You really didn’t want to talk about this. Just the mention of Chul and AVALANCHE was sending tiny cracks across the surface of your heart.

“I’ll see you tonight,” you wished your friend goodbye, disappearing down the stairs.

Brandon was already waiting outside for you in his black town car, escorted by his own personal chauffeur. The driver was at the rear passenger door as you descended the steps, holding the door open for you.

As you slid into the back seat, your father was seated against the far window, swathed in a three-piece, black and grey suit, his full head of dark hair combed back and slick, his moustache trimmed neatly above his lips. You offered him a small smile, one that didn’t reach your eyes as you folded your hands in your lap.

“Nice choice of dress,” he complimented you, and you only nodded, your fingers nervously dancing and twirling over your clutch.

The ride Downtown was mostly silent, you staring out of the window and watching Incheon’s gritty facade shift into the sparkling spires and bright lights of Bucheon. Brandon occasionally peppered the air with conversation, feeding you with tid-bits of information about President Kim and his son, Sanghoon. Kim had started the company thirty years ago, building the investment bank into one of the largest and most successful on all of Hanging Street, a firm that held the accounts of many large public and private institutions as well as a diverse portfolio of high profile, wealthy clients. Sanghoon, who was twenty-eight years old and a graduate of the Wansa High School at the Seoul National University, had recently been promoted to the Vice President position, placing him adjacent to your father in the organization, though while Brandon oversaw most of the investment and financial portfolios directly, Sanghoon would come to have broad supervision of the firm’s overall operations.

All of this information went in one ear and out the other for you, your mind drifting somewhere else, unable to summon the interest to engage in the conversation. It seemed your father took your silence for acquiesce, because by the time they arrived at the Four Seasons, he was smiling smugly at you, looking rather pleased as he offered you his arm so that they could walk inside together.

At one point during the ride, just as they had climbed over the Incheon Bridge, your phone buzzed inside of your clutch. You retrieved it to see a new text message on the screen.

Minho: Hey.

Y/n: Heya

Minho: You want to come over? Jisung’s at work, and I got a couple more DVDs

You almost moaned out your sigh of despair, wanting nothing more than to turn around and tear off this ridiculous dress and curl up next to Minho on his couch, watching movies with him late into the night. You angled your body away from your father as you typed your response, not wanting him to accidentally catch your screen.

Y/n: I wish, but I can’t tonight. Date with my dad. Can we rain check?

Minho: Sure.

Y/n: I’ll text you when I get home

The Four Seasons was one of the largest luxury five-star hotels in Downtown Bucheon, a popular choice in leisure and accommodations for the wealthiest of Koreans and tourists who came into town to visit for one reason or another. It offered a wide array of dining options, and you realized as you walked with your father through the hotel’s massive, chandelier-laden halls, that they would be eating at its very exclusive steakhouse.

Of course, it was the sort of place that required reservations well in advance, and as soon as Brandon gave his name, a maître d was leading them deeper into the restaurant, through cream-colored walls and dark burgundy carpeting against low yellow lighting and floor to ceiling windows that sparkled with the city’s life outside. Eventually, they stopped at a table where the President and his son were already waiting for them.

“Brandon,” Kim was instantly at his feet, a cigar in one hand as he extended a hand in greeting to your father. He turned to you next. “Ah, this must be Ms. Y/n.”

President Kim was tall and broad-shouldered, blond like his son with the same harrowing pale blue eyes, dressed in an elegant, dark plum pinstriped suit. He appeared to be at least a decade older than your father.

Rising to his feet at his side, was Sanghoon Kim.

In person, his beauty was even more breath-taking than the snapshots you had scoured on the internet that morning. Up close, he was a refined specimen of a man, tall and slender yet well-built, an angular jaw and romanesque nose, lips that were neither too thin nor too full but struck the perfect balance, utterly kissable, smooth and pale pink. His skin was creamy and flawless, and his silvery yellow hair spilled across his forehead in a perfectly coiffed tumble. He was wearing white again, only this time the vest beneath his blazer was a deep shade of dark lilac, providing a gentle contrast that seemed to refract and make his skin glow.

His eyes were on you instantly, and you watched those cornflower blue depths slide over you, drinking you in from head to toe before they narrowed and returned devilishly to your face, leaving you feeling unmasked and completely bared naked as your eyes met.

“Yes, this is my daughter, Y/n,” Brandon was gesturing, and at the sound of his voice, you snapped your attention away from Sanghoon and turned to his father and his outstretched hand. You seized it, offering him a firm handshake.

“Nice to meet you, sir.”

“A pleasure,” Kim said, before turning to Brandon with a quirked eyebrow and a nod, as if offering him his approval at the presentation of you. This gesture did not go unnoticed by you, and it made you feel hot around the neck with a sudden flare of anger, as if you were being offered here as some kind of trophy or gift.

Kim had turned to his son now, and Sanghoon was moving around the table, coming closer to you, and you almost wanted to step back and run from the way he was approaching.

“This is my son, Sanghoon,” Kim said, but already you could detect his cologne, a heady blend of blackcurrant and white birch that made you suddenly dizzy, he moved so close. You extended your hand again by default, and Sanghoon’ palms were too soft and too smooth when he took yours in both hands. You were stunned when he bent down and pressed his lips against the top of your hand instead of shaking it, his shock of yellow hair tumbling across his forehead.

“Such a pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Y/n,” Sanghoon greeted as he straightened and pulled away from you. “Your father has shared so many wonderful things about you, I feel like I know you already.”

His voice was much, much deeper than you had anticipated, smooth with the aristocratic lilt of a native New Yorker who had grown up on the Upper East Side. You immediately made out that he must have spent his childhood in America. Your hand was burning at the spot his lips had touched, and you only nodded carefully at his words, feeling your cheeks flare. His stare was so intense, and he didn’t seem intent on taking his eyes from you. You watched as the focus of his gaze dropped to the neckline of your dress, before hovering somewhere above your breasts.

Kim and your father were both taking their seats now, and Sanghoon eventually pulled his eyes off of you to do the same. Feeling branded by his stare, you tried to dispel the manic, disruptive thoughts that were running through your mind, triggered simply by his proximity.

You slid into a chair at the table next to your father, across from Sanghoon, which didn’t help your trembling hands or the slamming of your heart against your ribcage. You inhaled quietly through your lips, reaching at once for your glass of water and draining a small sip, hoping its coolness would extinguish some of the confusing flames that were rising inside of you. You hated the way that you were reacting, as if your body was responding without your brain’s consent. Sanghoon watched you as you settled into your seat, never once taking his eyes off of you.

Mercifully, the Kim men liked to talk, mostly about themselves, leaving you to sip your water and poke at your food when it eventually arrived, mostly in silence at your father’s side. The conversation began with small talk between Kim and Brandon about recent investments and the performance of certain stocks, talk that you understood perfectly well but were utterly bored by. Whenever you looked up, you found Sanghoon’ frosty blue stare on you, and you realized that his lips had turned up into a seemingly permanent smirk as he watched you, sipping on a glass of cabernet sauvignon.

Eventually, he was pulled into the conversation, discussion about his new role as the Vice President of Kim Capitol, and you were mercied that it dragged his attention away from you. You learned that Sanghoon thought very highly of himself and did not seem to shy away from the fact that he was very accomplished. He turned back to you with a smug smirk, and his blue eyes glittered under the low lighting of the restaurant as he informed you that just a couple of months ago, he had been listed on Forbe’s 30 Under 30 list.

“Have you seen that issue, Ms. Y/n?” he asked as he leaned back in his chair, holding his glass of red casually up in front of him.

“I don’t really read Business,” you replied without thinking, and your father shot you a dangerous look at your side. Yet Sanghoon only laughed, a rich, smooth sound, genuinely amused by your response.

“It is rather dull,” he agreed, and you tried not to return his smile too vividly.

By the time their plates had been cleared away, Sanghoon’ father had turned the conversation to you, which you had dreaded but knew eventually was coming.

“How are your MBA studies going, dear?” he asked you, now with his own glass of wine in hand. You had been carefully sipping on a glass of chardonnay, needing it only to tamp down your nerves and the heat that constantly flared in your veins every time Sanghoon Kim stole another glance at you or tilted his smirk in your direction. Clearing your throat quietly, you sat up straighter and looked at President Kim.

“I graduate in January,” you told him, keeping your voice perfectly crisp and neutral. As badly as you didn’t want to be here, as much as you hated all of this, you didn’t want to embarrass your father and further strain their relationship. In the end, you truly did want to please him, so that they could be close the way that they had been once before, happier times before your mother had died, even if it did mean you had to sacrifice your happiness to achieve it. “This is my last semester. I will say it is a very rigorous but excellent program.”

“Indeed,” Kim agreed, lowering his chalice back to the table. “I know quite a few of the professors in that program. Many of them were former brokers. McDuffy, in fact, worked for me many years ago. He spoke very highly of you, Ms. Y/n. He said you were very bright, with excellent strategical sense.”

You could only nod, feeling a tiny smile emerge that you had not expected at the praise. McDuffy was your Financial Strategy professor, you had taken both levels of that course with him over two years. Even though finance did not spur your passions, you did feel good about yourself knowing that others thought you excelled at it.

“He is one of my favourite professors,” you rejoined.

“Your father tells me that you have a background in psychology as well?” Kim continued.

You nodded, feeling your nerves ricochet again. You were nervous about talking about this, considering how strongly your father felt about your undergraduate choices, how much tension your defiance had introduced into their relationship.

“Yes. I was really interested in working with the public at one point, either in a hospital or perhaps a private practice.”

You noticed that Sanghoon had dropped his chin to rest on his fist, still leaning back in his seat with his elbow at the edge of the table, still openly admiring you as he listened from where he sat.

“Ah,” Kim conceded, leaning forward over the table. “Well, such expertise will certainly be valuable in your new role at the Company. Not only will you be helping Sanghoon with financial strategy, but your work as his personal performance coach will be perhaps your greatest asset.”

At the word “personal”, you noticed that Sanghoon's smirk had graduated into a full-blown simper, and that he tilted his head away from his fist to get a look at you from a different angle.

Brandon shot you a harsh look, and you did your best to avoid pursing your lips into a thin, angry line, instead nodding at the President, avoiding looking back at Sanghoon again.

“I am looking forward to it,” you finally relented, miserable but steady enough to be convincing.

The night eventually ended, and the four of them rose after the check had been cleared. You could feel the exhaustion of the night settling deep into your bones, reaching your spine. It hadn’t been a particularly arduous affair, in fact, the Kims had been tolerable, if not a little arrogant and full of themselves. But it was the fact that you had been propping up a front, wearing a falsified version of yourself all night that had you breaking away into despairing fatigue.

Just as they made their way to the sidewalk outside of the Four Season, waiting for Kim’s limo and Brandon’s town car, Sanghoon came up beside you, one hand in his pocket as he turned to face you.

You were suddenly aware of how tall he was, statuesque and nearly perfect, his hair shimmering under the streetlights and the glitters of the nearby skyscrapers.

“Y/n,” it was the first time he’d used your first name all night, and it rolled off of his tongue like thunder, rendering you still. “Is it okay if I call you that?”

“It’s my name,” you found herself shooting back, unsure of where the fire was coming from.

He chuckled, tossing his head from side to side, shifting those locks of blond hair that tumbled across his forehead. “Of course.” He was withdrawing his cell phone from his pocket, handing it to you. “Save your number in my phone. I know you aren’t starting until January, but there’s plenty for us to discuss in the meantime.”

Somehow, he’d come even closer, and his scent was once again strangling you, his frigid blue eyes impaling you.

Brandon had turned away from his conversation with Kim just a few paces away, and was watching your interaction with Sanghoon carefully. You were fully aware of the depth of your father’s stare. Aggrieved and unnerved, you accepted Sanghoon’s phone, cool in your hand, and carefully began to type your number into the blank contact.

This means nothing. It’s to make daddy happy. Eventually, you’ll figure a way out of all of this.

After you stored your number, you calmly handed the phone back to Sanghoon. He accepted, glanced down at its screen, then tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket.

“I’ll text you, Y/n,” he said then, his voice far too low, his baritone far too deep. “It was wonderful to make your acquaintance tonight.”

You could only nod, refusing and unable to verbalize your assent. You watched him then turn and drift away, following his father into the black stretch limousine that had pulled up to the curb.

The entire ride home in your father’s town car, you remained silent, your feelings abuzz with apprehension inside of you. You spoke only when absolutely necessary, replying to Brandon’s comments and observations about the success of the evening. He seemed to think that things had gone rather well, that you had shown a good face to the Company’s top brass and your future employers, though he thought you could stand to talk a little more. You wanted to slam your head against the glass of the window as you watched them crawl back into the urban greyness of Incheon.

The night was running into a blur when Brandon’s car finally dropped you off at your brownstone, and you climbed the steps after saying goodnight to your father, weary with lead in your bones. You were grateful that Jihoo was already locked away in your own bedroom for the night and would not be chancing to flitter about and pester you with questions.

As soon as you entered your room, you sank into the mattress, laying back and staring up at the ceiling, still in your fancy dress from the night. Everything was spinning and swimming around you, an unfortunate blend of anxiety and unease that was revealed in the shadows of your new reality.

You didn’t realize that you’d fallen asleep in your dress and your makeup and your heels until bright the next morning.

***

It was early the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and Minho was once again caught up with distraction, unable to concentrate even on reading, let alone writing anything of his own, finding his mind drifting to other places in turbulence every time he tried.

Ever since the night when you’d come over to watch The Wizard of Oz with him, his mind had been wrapped in a thick, perplexed haze. He couldn’t stop thinking about you, about your cute, pretty face, about your body and its endless highways of steep, winding curves, wrapped in the soft, elastic fabric of your yoga gear, urging him to wrap his palm around the firm curve of your ass to give it a gentle squeeze. He couldn’t take his mind off of the way your hair had been bunched up in a messy knot on the top of your head, soft tendrils drifting down into your face and against your neck, begging him to rake his fingers through them. He couldn’t let go of the fact that you had drifted silently to sleep beside him, dropping your head to his shoulder as you curled up on his couch with your knees to your chest, inviting him to wrap his arms around you and hold you close as you rested peacefully beside him.

And he couldn’t get over the fact that you’d reached out and hugged him tight, making him want to lean in and press his lips to your throat.

Yet Minho hadn’t been able to respond in any of those ways, instead had remained locked up in a tight, stoic rod at your side on the couch, behaving as if your very presence, the scent of your shampoo and the lotion rubbed into your skin, wasn’t setting him on fire.

There was nothing he could do about it, though. He was frozen in place, unable to act, terrified of betraying his feelings and laying ruin to his carefully constructed friendship with you. Although you were warm and kind to him, Minho knew that meant nothing. You were warm and kind to everyone. He had seen your bright and caring good nature on display countless times with your friends and others in their community. Even though they had begun to spend more time together, had shared conversations late into the night that bordered on intimacy, Minho didn’t see any indication at all that you felt anything more for him than the friendship that he’d grown so protective over.

Still, he realized that it didn’t make his own feelings any less complicated or impactful, that it didn’t tear the weight of them off of his chest. He still thought about you in ways that he knew he shouldn’t, seeing you in his dreams, trapped beneath him with your eyes and mouth open wide in pleasure as he poured himself into you.

None of his ruminations over you helped other parts of his life, either. He was still blocked in his writing, unable to get more than a few words onto the page at a time, none of them landing with any particular coherence. And to his great dismay, most of what he did manage to write failed to match his intentions - more and more he found himself writing about death and destruction, about evil and despair and greed, images painted from the desperate memories and flashbacks that were still haunting him from his past, dark desert nights on the opposite side of the world that were filled with the tatters of gunfire and the scatterings of shell casings and the detonation of IEDs that sent fragments of shrapnel into bloodied skin.

As that thought was leaving him, his phone rang, and he was surprised to see the incoming call was from his mother.

“Hey, mom.”

“Minho! How are you, sweetie?”

“I’m okay.” Minho suddenly felt a wash of guilt descend over him, realizing that he hadn’t phoned home to his mother since he’d first moved to Incheon. “How are you doing?”

He heard his mother inhale deeply, as if she were trying to capture her breath. “Oh, I am doing okay, love. It’s been a little lonely here, of course, but Lim Yeseul comes by often. She has a wonderful garden, even at this time of year, she is still managing to grow vegetables.”

“That’s nice, mom.”

“Any chance you might come to visit me soon?”

Minho flopped back on the couch, closing his eyes as he tipped his head back towards the ceiling. “Maybe. I’ve just gotten settled in here. And the tickets are really expensive this time of year.”

His mother made a clicking sound, just as she began to cough.

“Mom? Are you alright?” Minho didn’t like the sounds she was making at all.

“The air is thin up here, sweetie, you know that,” she responded after a while. “It’s always been difficult for me to breathe. So, tell me about Incheon.”

Minho didn’t think there was much to tell, his job was boring as hell, the city wasn’t exactly his aesthetic, and he hadn’t accomplished much since he’d been here. There was one thing, though.

“Um, hey. You remember Y/n?”

His mother gasped. “Why, yes of course! What a lovely girl. Her mother was one of my dearest friends. It was awful when she passed away.”

“Yeah,” Minho agreed, running his fingers through his hair. His cheeks were warm, and he didn’t know why. Why did he suddenly feel so embarrassed talking to his mother about you? “Well, she moved out here from Seoul. I ran into her. She lives across the street from me.”

“Oh, how wonderful! I imagine she must have grown into a beautiful woman.”

You have no idea, Minho thought.

“She was always such a sweet girl, and very bright, too. Just like her mother,” Jieun continued. “She was so mature for her age. The right kind of girl for you to settle down with, you know? Someone who can take care of you. She always seemed so nurturing, that girl.”

“I don’t know,” Minho fumbled in response.

“I worry about you, you know,” his mother went on. “Alone in that big city, so many temptations. I’d feel much better if you settled down with a nice girl like her.”

“I’m fine, mom.”

“Of course you are, sweetie.”

After hanging up with his mother, promising to call her again before Christmas, Minho sat in silence on the couch, her words echoing in his ear. His mother had been right about one thing. You were definitely nurturing. He could see it behind the passion of your advocacy work, in the way you cared for and doted on your friends, even in the way that you sacrificed so much of your free time for others, offering to babysit Chul’s daughter or teach free classes at Zangan’s karate.

What he wasn’t sure about was what place he really took up in your life, but he was certain it wasn’t the way that his mother thought it could be.

Y/n: Heya! Any chance you can get out of work this afternoon?

Minho shook himself out of his thoughts to glance down at his phone, seeing your text message illuminate the screen. He hated the way that his heart started to rise in tempo just at the sight of your name and its accompanying blue heart alone.

Minho: What’s up?

Y/n: AVALANCHE is having a Thanksgiving food drive in Sosa-gu, and we could use some extra help

Y/n: plus drinks with the crew afterward!

Minho stared at his phone, a little unsure about that last part. Still, the idea of spending the afternoon with you was much more appealing than sitting encased behind his glass booth at work, watching trucks deliver energy supplies and equipment at odd intervals throughout the night.

Minho: I’ll see what I can do.

Y/n: You’re the best! I’ll text you the address

Minho sighed, sending a few texts to some co-workers to make arrangements for a swap in shifts before he rose to shower and dress for the afternoon. You texted him the address of a shelter in Sosa-gu, which was actually built into an old church that was deep in the centre of the neighbourhood.

He tried to clear his mind of the intertwining thoughts that continued to assail his skull, a combination of his deep-seated desire for you and his overwhelming feelings of inertia and inadequacy in his own personal life as he made his way through Incheon’s grey and brick-red neighbourhoods. Departing the subway station, it didn’t take long for him to find the old church that housed the shelter he was looking for, especially since one of AVALANCHE’s bright green trucks was parked outside, a small crowd gathered in front of the building.

“Well, look who it is,” Suho was the first to greet him as he approached, and Minho considered it odd to find him still dressed formally in his school clothes, a plaid button-down and a tie under his jacket, so different from his usual casual attire of dark jeans or fatigues. “Did Y/n ask you to come?”

“Yeah,” Minho responded with a shrug.

“Chul’s got us passing out turkeys here,” Suho informed him, gesturing to piles of cardboard boxes on the sidewalk that were filled with frozen birds. “The girls are inside with a bunch of the kids, but we could use your help out here, if you don’t mind.”

Minho only nodded in response, and let Suho direct him. For the next couple of hours, he worked alongside him, unloading the turkeys and other foodstuffs, packing them into smaller cardboard boxes and passing them off to families. Chul, Dae, and Will also assisted, though Chul spent most of the time proselytizing to anyone who would listen, slamming his good fist into the palm of his prosthesis, extolling the failures of late-stage capitalism and AVALANCHE’s work to fight it.

“I’ve been encouraging Y/n to run for community President,” Minho overheard him grumbling to a resident at one point. “I’d run myself, but I think she’s better suited for it, smart as she is. She ain’t interested, though.”

Minho thought about that as he handed a package to a young woman with a child beside her. You running for public office? He could picture you, statuesque in a tight-fitting pantsuit, your lips painted red and your hair falling around your shoulders as you spoke passionately into a microphone.

Minho could picture you doing just about anything, as long as you were happy doing it.

Throughout the afternoon, Minho spent most of his time with Suho, and learned a lot about him as they worked side by side. For one, Suho was passionate about his work in education and with the public. Minho noticed that he couldn’t go very long in conversation without making some mention of the injustices his students faced simply because of their zip code or their skin colour, or how his school, situated in one of the poorest neighbourhoods in the city, was constantly strapped for resources and funds. Minho was even more stunned to learn that Suho was fluent in both Mandarin and Japanese, his eyes widening slightly whenever he would ease his way into a conversation with a native speaking resident.

Eventually, the sky began to darken, and the crowd waned, leaving them with a slight reprieve. Will got into the AVALANCHE truck and departed, leaving the remaining meals on the curb for later distribution. Suho turned to him, brushing his hands off on his jacket.

“Have you seen Y/n yet today?”

“Not yet,” Minho admitted. He hadn’t even yet gone inside the church since he’d arrived, he’d been so busy helping with the turkeys and the meals.

Suho leaned against the wrought iron fence that lined the church. “She’ll be happy to see you. She’s been talking about you a lot lately.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, tipping his head back to appraise him. “Don’t mean to sound like my girlfriend, here, but… you guys still friends?”

Minho sighed, really not in the mood to have this conversation again. Over the course of the last few weeks, Jisung hadn’t ceased to ask about it, and anytime that they spent with your friends, the matter was raised, despite the fact that all of them were in a deficit as far as their bet was concerned. Over and over again, you reinforced their friendship, and Minho readily agreed, and despite the time they spent together, neither of them dared venture past that boundary.

“That’s all it is,” Minho answered simply.

Suho folded his arms across his chest. “She told me you’re a writer.”

Minho appreciated that Suho wasn’t the type to dig, but he also wasn’t crazy about the turn of the conversation, either.

“Haven’t written much of anything. Kinda blocked.”

Suho’s lips spread into a wide smile at that, and Minho was wondering what he had said that could possibly be funny.

“Well, there are lots of ways to unblock,” he finally chuckled, just as Chul was approaching, an armful of turkeys. “I’m sure Y/n could help, if you let her.”

Minho opened his mouth, but Chul was dumping the turkeys into his arms.

“Take these inside. We’re done out here for the night. Still got some families inside, having meals. Need those stocked up in the freezer for the week.”

Minho only nodded, annoyed by the brusque demands but grateful for the break in conversation with Suho. They both followed Chul inside the church, where they found the ground level had been set up to serve as a makeshift cafeteria for families seeking shelter and food. As Minho walked the turkeys to the kitchen in the back, he spotted you sitting at a table with Jihoo and Sana and a pair of children.

After stocking the freezer, he followed Suho to their table and sat down across from you, not missing the radiant smile you offered him when their eyes met. You were glowing, your lips glossy and pink again, your hair tied back behind your head in a delicate braid, your fringe spilling across your forehead and your baby hair peeking from behind your ears.

“Minho! I didn’t know you were here. Thanks for coming.”

“Minho was outside with us all afternoon helping with the turkey distribution,” Suho announced, clapping him on the shoulder.

Minho just shrugged, but he caught the way your eyes sparkled at Suho’s words, the way your smile seemed to grow just a little more buoyant.

“We’re just short one loverboy,” Sana commented from across the table, prompting a snicker from Jihoo.

“Jisung’s on his way!” She gushed, clasping her hands in front of her. “As soon as he gets here, Chul’s treating us all to drinks on the rooftop to celebrate.”

“It’s an AVALANCHE Thanksgiving tradition,” Suho explained at Minho’s side. Every year after our annual turkey drive, drinks on the rooftop of the old church in Sosa-gu.”

“Sounds like fun,” Minho remarked, and he was honestly surprised to realize that he actually meant it.

“Minho,” you interrupted, gesturing to the two children who sat between you and Jihoo. I want you to meet Gunhoo and Miyoung. Chul’s kids.”

Minho turned his attention to the two children, who both began to smile at him. Gunhoo, floppy-haired and blue-eyed, seemed a little shyer than Miyoung, who instantly brightened with a smile at him.

“Hi, Minho!” she exclaimed. “Y/n talks about you all the time! She says you’re her best friend, favourite person!”

“Miyoung,” you hissed, your face turning hot, and Minho felt himself grow hot as well, suddenly feeling stiff and uncomfortable on the cafeteria bench.

“Y/n,” Jihoo interjected, pressing her palm to her breastbone dramatically. “I am utterly wounded! I thought I was your one and only!”

You let out a nervous laugh, shaking your head. “Miyoung, I said that Minho was my oldest friend. We grew up together in Gimpo.”

“I doubt that’s what she said,” Sana’s laugh was a rich husk. “Y/n doesn’t realize some of the things she says about you when you’re not around.”

At this, Suho nudged Minho knowingly in the ribs with his elbow, and Minho felt his pants tighten at the way that your gaze lowered.

“What’s Gimpo like?” Gunhoo blessedly asked.

They went on with that conversation for a while, indulging the kids in their dozens of questions until the shelter had almost fully emptied of residents and Jisung had arrived at the church, still wearing his IPD cadet uniform under his jacket. As soon as he made his way through the door, Jihoo was on her feet and at his side.

“So handsome!” she exclaimed, pulling open his jacket so that everyone could see his uniform. “All mine, ladies.”

Sana rose to her feet, coming to stand behind Suho, wrapping her arms around his neck affectionately. “That’s fine. You’ve got the hot cop, and I’ve got the hot teacher.” She tossed a wicked glare at you, hazel-brown eyes dancing with mirth. “And how bout you, Y/n? Hottest security guard?”

Minho really could not fucking stand Sana.

“Minho’s actually a writer,” you announced, and Minho wished the floor would swallow him up. “When he finishes his book, I’m going to be the first person who gets to read it.”

Sana was cackling, a horrendous sound that made the insides of Minho’s ears bleed. “Now, that is hot.”

By the grace of god, Chul appeared with Kwan at his side. “Aight! Meet y’all up on the roof.” He turned his attention to Miyoung and Gunhoo. “Ji, Soo, you two head home with Julia. I’ll see ya later tonight.” Minho watched as the towering man bent over Miyoung and pressed a kiss to her forehead before ruffling Gunhoo’s hair.

“Okay, daddy! Don’t stay out too late!” Miyoung made her way around the table to say goodbye to everyone, and Minho noticed that when she stopped at you, giving you a particularly long hug that lingered.

When the young girl had made her way over to Minho, she leaned into him conspiratorially. “Be nice to Y/n,” she whispered after looking back and forth, afraid one of the others might hear. “She’s been kind of sad lately. I know you’re her special friend, so maybe you can make her smile again.”

Minho just nodded, a little awestruck as he watched Miyoung skip away, wondering how the hell children managed to do shit like that.

Eventually, he followed the group up the back stairs of the old church to the roof, which was a just small, flat portion of the greater curved and angular spires of its apex. There was already an assortment of chairs and cases of beer left out, even a few bottles of spirits along with red plastic cups. From here, they had a wide-open view of Incheon, the tops of trees and brick buildings and houses against the dark sky that was awash with the moon’s glow.

You hovered at his side, and Minho had to resist the strong urge to reach out and touch you, especially as the breeze curled by them and he saw you shiver slightly. He sank into a folding chair and you sat beside him, and Minho wished that he could pull you into his lap, filled with jealousy at the way Jihoo fell into Jisung’s arms and Sana straddled Suho in his seat, both couples behaving as if it were the most perfectly natural thing in the world.

Godfuckingdamnit.

“I wanna thank all of y’all for your hard work today, and every day,” Chul announced, holding a beer up. “Another successful Thanksgiving drive thanks to the hard work of AVALANCHE. According to Kwan, we fed over five hundred families today.”

As Chul went on, Minho’s eyebrow raised at that statistic, thinking back to standing on the sidewalk earlier, filling packages and handing out turkeys. It hadn’t seemed like it had been that many, and it dawned on him that there really were a lot of people who simply didn’t have in this city, far more than he’d ever really thought about or considered. It made him think back to his conversation with you, about the poverty you had grown to see in Seoul, about Jihoo’s and Suho’ students, about how some people had more than they could ever use while others simply went without.

He turned to you at that thought, finding you staring up at Chul reverently. Out of everyone present, you seemed the most enraptured by Chul’s speech, nodding your head slightly. Minho also noticed that your eyes seemed to be misting over.

“You alright?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking, just as Dae opened a bottle of vodka and began to pour into the red cups, handing them around.

“I was just thinking,” you answered, turning to him, your lips curling up in the corners to offer him a shy, tiny smile. You were so freaking adorable, your lips so soft and kissable, Minho had to clench his fists at his sides to keep them from reaching out to cup your cheeks so that he could crush his lips against yours.

The gods favoured him then, because he was handed his cup, and instantly he brought it to his mouth and drank down a fast swig of vodka, setting fire to his nerves but at least giving him an excuse to turn away from you for a moment.

“How did things go with your dad?” he finally asked, once the alcohol had begun to settle into his blood.

You sighed, and Minho could see the sadness ripple across your features again, the same look you had worn when your father had called you the other night while you were at his apartment. You tipped your own cup, sipping deeply before you turned to him to respond.

“Fine, I guess. I’ve given up fighting with him, Minho. I’ll be working with Kim in January. At least the salary is good.”

Minho felt a new heat settle over him, but this time, it flared with the pulse of anger. As the words were leaving your lips, he could see the joy escape from your eyes along with them, and Minho found himself thinking back to Chul’s earlier words about you running for office.

“Is that what you want?” he asked you softly, and you just shook her head.

“It really doesn’t matter anymore,” you replied, staring down into your cup. “My father is right, some of my ambitions were a little silly, a little lofty. I have to think realistically.”

“Lofty?” Minho repeated. “Like running for office?”

You looked up at him. “What do you -?”

“Chul had mentioned it earlier,” Minho explained, leaning forward over his knees so that he could catch the glint of moonlight in the confused sparkles of your eyes.

“Oh,” you leaned back in your chair, blushing slightly, which made you rub your palms and place them on your cheeks as protection from the cold night air brighten, and Minho wanted so badly to reach forward and close the physical chasm between them, wanted badly to hold you close to him so he could absorb all of your apprehension and doubt and drain it away from you. “I know he’s been suggesting that for a while, but it’s silly, really.”

“I think you’d be good at it,” Minho couldn’t stop himself from saying. “You’re really smart, Y/n, and people listen to you. You know what you’re talking about when you speak. People would look up to you.”

You blushed further, staring down into your cup again, and Minho found himself zeroing in on your long lashes, a flush contrast against the skin of your high cheekbones. In that split moment, you were even more beautiful than you had ever been, exuding a calm, gentle shyness, and Minho wanted nothing more than to lean forward and press light kisses to your eyelids.

“Thanks, Minho. I guess it’s just not meant to be.”

He started to protest, but you decided to prowl on with the conversation, sharing that you thought that Chul would be much better suited for that kind of position, since he loved making speeches and was already well established and respected as a leader in the community. That led to a conversation about Miyoung and Gunhoo, who you revealed had both been adopted by Chul, Miyoung the daughter of his friend who had been killed years ago during a protest that had turned violent during clashes with police, and Gunhoo an orphan who was one of Jihoo’s students and had taken to spending a lot of time around AVALANCHE in the years since his parents died. Chul had recently made the decision to adopt him, since he’d already become part of the family anyway.

Minho let you talk, listening as he always did, filling in the conversation when you prompted him, but mostly content to watch you out of the side of his eyes as you spoke, admiring the line of your jaw and the slope of your neck, the shimmer on your lips as they moved and the shine of starlight in your hair every time you tucked a wayward lock behind your ear.

“So,” Sana’s voice had risen with a bright laugh to capture the attention of the group, and Minho looked in your direction, finding that you already appeared to be quite drunk. To his amazement, Jihoo was sparking a joint and bringing it to her lips where she sat folded in Jisung’s lap, right there in open, in the middle of a roof on a church of all places. “While that’s coming around, I think we need to address our little bet. Looks like we all lost.”

She was staring directly at Minho and you, and Minho could only shake his head as Jisung began to laugh, accepting the joint from Jihoo, who was also giggling, now slightly stoned and tipsy. What a hell of a way to celebrate Thanksgiving.

“You guys were wasting your time,” you insisted. “Minho and I are friends. We’ve been friends for a long time. And I am not interested in a relationship, anyway. It’s too much of a hassle.”

“Hmph,” Sana snorted, and Minho should have known that eventually, it would come to this, he just wished that it hadn’t, that he could figure out a way to escape.

“I wouldn’t say that, Y/n,” Suho interjected. “I mean, if it’s not the right time for it, then that’s fine, but don’t write it off forever. It does take effort to make it work,” he turned to Sana as he said this, offering her a crooked smile that, miraculously, managed to make her blush. “But it’s worth it. I think you and Minho could make it work if you wanted to. You guys seem perfect for each other.”

Minho’s neck was on fire.

“Minho will never make a move,” Jisung added unhelpfully, his eyes glassy now. “Not without some encouragement.” He laughed, wrapping his arms around Jihoo as she leaned into him, and Minho was absolutely disgusted.

Why the fuck were they still having this conversation?

“That gives me an idea,” Sana cried, now with the joint in hand. She took a drag of it before handing it to Suho, who accepted it, to Minho’s surprise. He took one hit before passing it to Chul, who waved it off, Dae reaching for it next. “My next proposal is five hundred for the first person who can successfully convince Minho and Y/n to just do it already.”

“Pff,” Chul humphed, arms folded across his barrel of a chest. “I’m out. Ain’t nobody got that type of money.”

“Oh, this is a challenge I can accept,” Jihoo bubbled, leaning back over Jisung’s lap so that her hair spilled out in a wavy tumble across her shoulders and over his knees. “I assure you all that I have this handled. Right, Y/n?” she offered you a wink, and you just shook your head, accepting the joint from Dae.

“Try if you like, but I’m immune to your wiles,” you said, and Minho watched you as you brought the joint up to your pretty pink lips, pulling on it slowly, a thin line of white smoke escaping when you parted your mouth and exhaled, the sweet odour wrapping around them both.

Why was watching you smoke weed giving him a rock-solid erection?

God, he wondered what was wrong with him.

You offered it to him, and Minho drowned out the sounds of your friends as they continued to debate their methods for getting him and you to finally hookup. He hesitated, but the shine and the sparkle in your eyes as you gestured to him had him raising his hand to accept it.

“Just a little,” you told him softly, “It will make them a lot more tolerable.”

Minho nodded, sharing a smirk with you before bringing the joint to his lips and inhaling carefully. Almost instantly, he could feel the giddy dizziness wrap around his brain in a hazy fog, and suddenly, he really didn’t give a fuck about their merciless teasing.

He got up to hand the joint back to Jihoo, and when he came back, he found that you had pulled your chair up right beside his, leaving no space between them. He hesitated before he sat back down, his thoughts swimming in a confusing blend of intoxication, and you were smiling at him, the stars in your eyes evident.

Something magnetic was suddenly building between them, pulling him in close, and Minho fell back into his seat, instantly aware of how close you now were to him. He was captivated by the sweet remnants of the shampoo you used, of the sugary, confectionary scent that drifted away from your skin, of the heat that your body exuded.

You were so, so close, and Minho’s brain misfired when your arm slipped under his, wrapping around it, and pulling him in towards you.

“Let’s just fuck with them for a little while,” you whispered, and he looked down to find your eyes glassy and your pupils wide and dilated, and you were looking at him with something like love in your eyes, misted over by the blur of alcohol and pot.

“I’m cold, Minho,” you said a little louder, and your right arm came to loop around his chest, effectively pressing you against him, and Minho lost it.

“Keep me warm,” you begged, your voice suddenly deeper and huskier than he’d ever heard it, and Minho was mystified, and thanking the gods that it was dark out here and no one could see the way he was steeping his pants.

The blend of booze and narcotics in his brain made his decisions and his actions a little more fluid, and he found himself gently shifting in his seat so that his arm could wrap around your shoulders, pulling you in close, and in turn, you snuggled up closer to him.

Moonstruck, Minho looked down to see that you were looking up at him, your head hovering by his shoulder and your face inches away from his. He missed the fact that their friends had mostly fallen silent around them, all of them watching them intently.

He didn’t know what was happening, but somehow, he was leaning down, and you were leaning up, and your lips were parting, and your eyes were closing, and oh shit oh shit oh shit you were about to kiss him and -

An obnoxious blare of music began to pierce the air, ridiculous sing-song ringing that emanated from your hip and tore like an axe between them, severing the connection. Instantly, you leaned away from him and pulled your phone out of your pocket, pulling it up to your face.

“Jesus Christ,” Jisung was saying, and Minho was suddenly very, very aware of Sana’s shrill laughter. “Unless that’s the President of Korea, ignore it! Just kiss her already!”

But the moment was broken, scattered to the wind, and Minho’s face was suddenly bright and hot and goddamnit was he fucking embarrassed.

And he couldn’t help but peer down at the glow of your screen as you cradled your phone in your hand, glancing at the name that flashed across the display, something vivid and hot and angry flooding him with jealousy racing through his veins.

Kim Sanghoon.

“Do you need to take that?” Minho couldn’t stop himself from asking, and he hated the way that his voice sounded, a cross between a ragey growl and a needy, cracked whine.

You deadened the screen, sending the call to voicemail and shuffling the phone back into your pocket. You turned to him and shook your head, then dropped your head to his shoulder, settling comfortably against him.

“It’s nobody important,” you whispered, and the others around them were laughing, filling Minho’s head with mist.

But Minho knew that wasn’t true, and somehow, the name that had blared that brief second across your screen was now permanently etched across the front of his skull, flashing like the bright lights and screens in the centre of Seoul. He was jealous and he knew he was falling deeper for you.

He hated this so much.

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