3am

You woke up in a sweat, remembering bits and pieces of your dream. It was sexual, extremely sexual—beyond anything you’ve ever done in your real life. You were in the middle of a house party, fucking someone on the couch while everyone was watching and cheering you on. They were making suggestions at the pair of you, and your partner was taking every idea to heart. What names to call you, what position to put you in, if he should let you cum or not.

It was so dirty and so good.

When you woke up and quickly went to pee you realised your panties were completely soaked through, and so were your pyjamas.

You quickly hopped in the shower, cleaning the mess off your thighs and getting ready for the day.

As you were brushing your teeth you couldn’t help but replay the parts you remembered from your dream, your thighs clenching as you thought about how deep he thrust inside you. And then suddenly an image came into your brain. You knew it wasn’t your boyfriend, Seungmin, who was fucking you in the dream. But you didn’t think you’d remember the face of who it was. And then you did.

It was Minho.

Minho, your boyfriend’s roommate and best friend. Who you never even considered you could have a wet dream about.

You felt shame take over your skin as you walked into the living room, needing something to drink to cool you down.

It wasn’t like you never had wet dreams. You had them quite often, and they weren’t often about your boyfriend either. He found it hilarious when you would wake up and tell him all about the sex you were having with your favourite anime character, or the blow job you just gave to the actor from whatever show you were watching.

You never thought you’d dream about anyone you knew in real life, let alone someone who was so close to you. So close to your boyfriend.

After you finished your breakfast you stood by the sink to wash up after yourself, a pair of hands snaking around your stomach from behind.

“Where did you go?” Seungmin’s soft voice whispered down your ear, still coated with sleep.

“Oh, I just wanted some food,” you excused.

“You were making those noises in your sleep again,” you heard more than saw his smirk, “did Levi fuck you good this time?”

“What? No! What are you talking about?” You escaped from his grip, getting your bottle and filling it with water. It was full already, so you dipped the whole container down the drain and then refilled it—just to save yourself from having to look at Seungmin with how warm your face felt at his question.

He knew you too well.

“Was it Mikasa, then?” He raised his eyebrows in glee.

“Shut up,” you chuckled at him.

“I wanna hear the dream,” he whined at you, “they’re always so good.”

“Pervert,” you shifted the attention to him, or more like tried. You knew how stubborn he could get, and your boyfriend wouldn’t stop until he heard the story. You wondered if you could get away with lying to him about the subject of your fantasy.

“Okay, fine. But you can’t judge!” You sent him a warning finger. Seungmin smiled at you, crossed his heart with his finger, and waited enthusiastically to hear more.

“I was at a party fucking someone in front of everyone else,” you said quickly. You couldn’t quite meet his eyes, but you still saw the expression on his face. Bewilderment and horniness and a hint of pride were the only emotions you could see.

“Everyone else?” He promoted, taking a step closer to you.

“Yeah, they were like… cheering and stuff.”

“Cheering?” You nodded.

“So,” his voice dropped to a whisper, his lips by your ear, “the whole room was domming you?”

“Yeah, something like that,” you sighed.

“Fuck,” he grabbed your hips, squeezing them. “No wonder you were so loud this time. Sounds like a really good dream.”

You looked up into his eyes, his pupils swimming with lust as he licked over his lips. Maybe Seungmin liked that fantasy as much as you did—even though neither of you have ever talked about something like that before.

His fingers slipped under your baggy shirt, gripping your skin.

“Didn’t think you liked an audience,” he said, planting a soft kiss by your ear.

He felt your cheek heating up, noticed how you weren’t even teasing him back. So he moved in front of your face, cocking his head to the side.

“Why are you shy, bubs?” You didn’t answer. “I’m sorry,” he pulled away from you, noticing you were extremely stiff now, “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“No, Minnie, it’s fine!” You promised him quickly. “I’m just… embarrassed.”

“From me?” He almost gasped.

“The dream in general. It was so vivid and hot and,” you sighed, finding the kitchen floor so extremely interesting.

“Then why are you embarrassed? You have hot dreams a lot, they’re the highlight of most of my mornings,” he smiled at you. “Who was it?”

You felt your heart drop. You couldn’t possibly tell him. It was weird, and wrong, and you were afraid it would upset him too much. “Uh, no one special.”

“Aw, someone else got to fuck my horny little girl,” he faked pouted at you. Seungmin honestly didn’t care at all that it wasn’t him in the dreams, because it was usually him who made them come true when you woke up. He just loved knowing what it was that got you all hot and bothered, even if the answer was sometimes a superhero or a fake lawyer or one time that guy from Atlantis.

“Don’t start,” you blushed, feeling the heat travel down your body and settle in your core at his nickname.

“Okay,” he conceded, “but you usually wake up really needy from these dreams so I thought I could help you out.”

“You’re so kind and selfless,” you teased, smirking at how he was suggesting it was only you that needed help—like you couldn’t see the semi in his shorts.

“I am those things, yes,” he smiled innocently at you.

“What are you?” Felix asked, entering the kitchen and going straight to the fridge. He took out a two litre bottle and started chugging it as he waited for your answer.

“I was just telling Minnie how he’s the cutest most beautiful boyfriend ever,” you smirked, as it was now your boyfriend’s turn to blush.

“Cute,” Felix smiled, before he started preparing his breakfast.

You jumped on the counter as the three of you started talking about the latest Marvel film and when you could all go and watch it, Seungmin slotting in between your legs as he faced Felix.

He hooked his hands under your knees as the conversation spiralled, his roommate not at all bothered by the physical affection between you two.

At this point you practically lived at the dorm, and were very used to the boys’ presence—as they were to yours.

When Jeongin woke up he didn’t even notice any of you in the kitchen until he started drinking his coffee.

Then he asked who wanted to join his shopping trip later this week.

“Can I come?” You asked eagerly, kicking your legs up around Seungmin’s body. He caught your calves up in the air then let you swing them back down, playing with your knees absentmindedly.

“Sure,” Jeongin smiled at you, taking a bite of the food Felix prepared for them.

“Yah!” You heard a shout down the hallway as the door opened then closed quickly. “You guys need to stop ordering so much shit!”

“It wasn’t me this time!” Felix yelled quickly, eyes wide as he looked towards the source of the voice.

Minho walked into the kitchen, five packages in his arms as a scowl painted his face.

He dropped them on the table with a bang, giving each of his roommates a death stare.

Jeongin happily ignored it, grabbing the first package on the pile and opening it with an excited dance in his seat. Then Seungmin walked away from you and picked up the other packages, tearing them apart quickly.

You realised you didn’t close your legs since he moved away. Minho was looking at you.

Your whole body was on fire as you watched him watching you, slowly moving closer to you. You couldn’t even look at him—even the smallest glance his way threw you straight back to your dream. The way he looked underneath you, the way he commanded the whole room as he touched you and f—

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, raising his eyebrows at you. He was right in front of you, reminding you to quickly shut your legs. “Move?”

“W-what?”

“You’re sitting in front of my blender,” he chuckled.

“Oh, oh yeah. Oh, of course. I’m so sorry, so sorry,” you jumped off the counter, extremely aware of Jeongin looking at you.

“Why is she being weird?” He half whispered at Seungmin. But the kitchen was small, and there was only you four in it anyway, and everyone could hear his question. It reminded you so much of the dream.

“I need to, um, I. Phone,” is all you managed, before you practically ran out of the kitchen and back into the room.

You groaned at yourself, sinking down into the bed as you tried to push the images from the dream away. It was impossible, and if you weren’t careful you’d ruin your new underwear in a matter of minutes.

A few seconds later, as you were still running your hands down your face, Seungmin walked into the room.

He plopped your phone down next to you.

“Your phone was in the kitchen, dumbass.” He sat down next to you, waiting for you to calm down.

“Okay, listen,” you started, taking in a deep breath.

“Your sex dream was about Minho and what Innie said got you so flustered because it was like your dream,” he confirmed, nonchalantly.

You gasped.

“I know you like the back of my hand, bubs,” he said when you just looked at him in shock before he kissed you softly.

“I’m sorry, Minnie, I’m sorry,” you shook your head, “I don’t control it and I know it’s wrong and I promise I feel nothing for him it’s not like that at all I—“

“—it’s fine,” he emphasised, making sure to look right into your eyes as he spoke. “I’m not jealous or mad or anything. It was actually extremely funny how flustered you got.”

“Min!” You yelled, slapping at his arm.

“Was that what you were moaning in your dream?” He smirked at you.

“Oh my god!” You groaned, covering your face as you fell onto your back. Seungmin crawled up your body, placing a hand on either side of your middle as he laughed.

**

Luckily for you, you weren’t faced with Minho again after that. Unluckily, it was because he got a confirmed test and was sent away to quarantine until he got better. Because of that, everyone that was in contact with him was forced into a five day isolation period—including you.

It wasn’t the first time you were isolating with your boyfriend, or his roommates for that matter, and so you happily just got on with your days in the house together.

Without the resident cook, you and Felix were in charge of feeding the others and Jeongin was in charge of complaining he was hungry after every meal.

“Why don’t you say thank you and just shut up?” Seungmin snapped after the third time, claiming he was disrespecting your efforts and he couldn’t stand for that.

Between video games and trying to work from home and the cabin fever, you were all actually doing pretty well. The only thing you had to complain about was the lack of privacy meant you didn’t have any alone time with your boyfriend, and worse of all, you never actually got to relieve the tension you felt since the dream.

So when you finished your work for the day and walked back into the room to see Seungmin on his phone, completely relaxed, you took your opportunity and climbed onto the bed.

You perched yourself right next to him, getting comfortable on your stomach, and tapped his chin.

“Kiss me,” you demanded. Seungmin laughed at you, locking his phone and discarding it on the bed before he followed your command.

His soft lips collided with yours as he brought a hand to your cheek, pulling you in closer.

You deepened the kiss, sighing against him as he put more force into his action—his tongue delicately licking your lips. You opened your mouth, moaning softly into the kiss as you relaxed against his chest.

“Oh wow, what a sight,” you heard a voice say behind you.

You jumped up, looking behind you to find Seungmin’s laptop was perched at the edge of the bed—and on it was an ongoing FaceTime call.

You only saw your reflection for a moment before you jumped up and turned around, and then you understood what the voice meant. Your ass was completely in view, leaving almost nothing to the imagination considering you were wearing your tightest pair of leggings.

And then you noticed who was sitting on the other side of the call.

“Sorry, hyung,” Seungmin said, bringing a hand around your shoulder, “I have to admit I forgot you were there.”

“Can’t blame you,” Minho chuckled. “You two get on with it, I can go.”

But he didn’t move.

“Wait,” you said quickly, “you were on your phone when I came in.”

“Yeah?” Seungmin shrugged.

“You were on FaceTime with Minho without even talking to each other?”

“I’m lonely,” Minho defended, “and I was just getting something to drink. I would’ve said something but I just got back and boom. Your ass was in my face.”

You covered your face in your palms.

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

“Don’t need to apologise for having a nice ass,” he said, simply.

You slowly lifted your head from your hands, looking at your boyfriend to gauge his reaction. Seungmin did not take lightly to people commenting on you or your body—but he was laughing.

“You do have a very nice ass,” he said with a glint in his eyes, before he brought his hand down to your ass and squeezed it.

“Minnie! He’s still here,” you pointed out quietly.

At that, Seungmin grabbed your ass tighter before he leaned into your ear and whispered, “you can end the call now if you want. Or we can make a little part of your dream come true.”

You gasped into the air, your thighs clenching before you even realised you did that.

“What did you say to her?” Minho laughed, clearly recognising that type of reaction.

“Give us a second, hyung,” Seungmin said quickly, noticing you haven’t given any indication this was still okay. He leaned forward towards his laptop, his finger reaching for one of the keys, but you quickly spoke up.

“Wait, wait. Don’t end the call!”

“I was just going to mute us, bubs,” he said, turning to you with his eyebrows high.

“Oh, okay,” you said sheepishly.

He muted the call, turning to you with a curious face. You noticed Minho was kind enough to look at his phone in the meantime, giving you two some semblance of privacy.

“So?” He prompted.

“Are you suggesting we just have sex in front of him?” You asked bluntly, because there was no reason to beat around the bush anymore.

“Not if you don’t want to,” he shrugged. “If it gets you going we can just make out until he gets tired and leaves. Or if it’s just a fantasy then we end the call.”

“What.. uh, what do you think he’ll say?”

“Ask him,” Seungmin suggested.

You slowly reached over to the laptop, clicking the button to unmute yourself.

“Minho,” you said, swallowing the very little moisture that was left in your throat.

“Yeah?”

“Can we keep going?”

“Oh, yeah,” he nodded, his hand coming into view on his keyboard, “I’ll call Minnie tomorrow.”

“No, no,” you tried, causing Minho to raise his eyebrows, “what if you stayed. And watched.”

“Watched?” Minho gasped.

“You said you’re lonely and you’re probably bored,” you began, encouraged by Seungmin’s hand on your back, “if you want to we can entertain you.”

Minho’s eyes flicked over to Seungmin, studying his reaction. When he saw the small nod his friend gave him, he nodded back.

“I am extremely bored,” he said slowly.

You took one final look at your boyfriend, seeing the reassuring smile on his face before turning back to the screen.

“Anything you’d like to see?”

“Your ass,” he answered instantly. You laughed, nodding before you got back into your previous position, making a point of shaking your ass from side to side as you got comfortable.

Seungmin’s hand was in your hair in a matter of seconds, pulling you towards him as he kissed you hungrily. It was messy, sloppy, the kind of kiss he gave you when he was dying to do more.

But Seungmin wanted you to set the pace—do only what you wanted to when you had an audience.

This was new, and so fucking exciting, but he didn’t want to do anything that would unsettle you. So he just kissed you, tongue crashing against yours as he tugged on your hair.

You lifted off the bed slightly, just to get closer to Seungmin, in the process showing Minho your ass from the best angle.

“Minnie,” you moaned into the kiss, feeling the wetness pooling in your underwear. “He likes my ass.”

“Yeah, I think he made that clear,” he chuckled at you.

“Slap it,” you asked quietly.

“You sure?” Seungmin pulled away. You usually only asked him to do that when you were well and truly gone, only letting your desperation talk.

“Please,” you said, kissing his jaw, “I think he’ll like it.”

So your boyfriend complied. He brought his hand to your ass, squeezing it harshly before he slapped it.

It didn’t hurt too much, thanks to the layer between your skins—and the fact Seungmin didn’t use much force.

“That was pathetic, Seungmin,” Minho said. “You need to slap it like you mean it.”

Seungmin noticed the way you whimpered—and a huge smirk appeared on his face.

“Like this, hyung?” He asked, before landing his palm on you again, this time it was loud enough to bounce against the walls. It was hard enough to jolt your whole body forward.

“Ask her,” Minho ordered.

“Was that hard enough for you, baby?”

“Harder,” you whined. Seungmin’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he did as you asked, landing another loud slap on your ass.

This time it stung, but not to the point of pain. You moaned.

“Yeah, I think she liked that one,” Minho chuckled.

You nodded quickly, looking up at Seungmin as you bit your lip.

“You’ll feel it more if I take this off,” he suggested gently, running a finger over the waistband of your leggings.

You didn’t even say anything, simply moved around until you managed to slip out of the soft material, whining at the way the air felt against your damp panties.

You could hear Minho sighing as your bare ass came into view.

“Why would you bother with underwear when it isn’t even covering anything?” He commented. Seungmin looked over your shoulder, observing Minho’s comment. Your thong really didn’t cover much.

He grabbed onto the pink string, pulling at it until it snapped back into place harshly.

You moaned again, arching your back before you quietly asked Seungmin to keep going.

He slapped your ass five more times, making you moan louder every time, before he grabbed your ass then rubbed his hand over the spot he hit.

He tapped your hip, urging you to move sideways on your knees—offering your ass up to him. He leaned down and kissed that same spot.

He then kissed down your ass, to the back of your thigh, and planted one small kiss on your core.

You almost forgot what was happening, what you were actually doing, before Seungmin grabbed your hips and moved you closer to the laptop.

He pushed your knees apart and chuckled.

“Look at that, hyung,” he said, almost proudly. “That wet patch is big.”

He ran a finger over your panties, from where the string sat snugly between your ass to your core, stopping at the entrance. He dipped his finger in as far as the fabric let him, causing you to buck your hips towards his hand.

“Aw, look,” Minho chuckled, “she’s needy.”

You moaned loudly at that, repeating the action with your hips.

“Minnie’s not being so nice to you, huh?” Minho asked, laughing lightly at how much you were pushing against Seungmin’s fingers.

“You think she knows it can’t go any deeper with her thong in the way?”

“She’s not very smart when she’s desperate,” Seungmin explained, “I don’t think she even knows it’s still on.”

The more they talked about you like you weren’t even there, the wetter you got. And Seungmin could feel it.

He knew you liked being talked down on, he knew you liked being called names, but he wasn’t too good at that. He tried, he always did, but the fear of getting carried away and hurting your feelings stopped him.

But now, with someone else chiming in and feeding your fantasies, he didn’t think he’d have to say much at all to hit the spots you craved.

He pushed his doubts to the side as he pulled you up to face him.

Minho slumped in his seat, upset to see your ass move away, but the next thing he saw was very much worth that slight disappointment.

Seungmin grabbed you by the throat, looking straight into your eyes as he said, “is my little girl all dumb for me?”

“Fuck,” was all you could say back.

“That didn’t sound like an answer,” Minho said.

Seungmin smirked as he saw your eyes practically rolling to the back of your head.

“Come on, baby. Minho wants you to answer,” Seungmin prompted, raising his eyebrows at you.

“Y-yeah,” you sighed.

“Yeah? Yeah, what?” Seungmin demanded, pressing his fingers into your throat for a moment.

“I get so dumb when I’m desperate for your cock, Minnie,” you groaned.

Seungmin smiled at you, leaning down to kiss you eagerly.

He ran his hands over your stomach, pinching your shirt in a silent question. But you didn’t respond, just pulled him closer to you by his neck as you kissed him harder.

Minho called your name, unsure if he was allowed to use any pet names with you, and got your attention.

“Can Seungmin take your shirt off?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you nodded quickly, letting your boyfriend peel your shirt off and toss it to the side.

“See, Minnie, you need to use your words sometimes.”

“Hey,” you grinned at your boyfriend, “that’s what you always tell me to do.”

“Don’t be a smartass,” Seungmin chuckled at you.

He grabbed your hips, pulling you towards him when Minho coughed.

“You’re gonna just let her be a smartass?”

You both stopped.

Seungmin turned to the screen, letting one of his hands rub against your stomach.

“What do you mean, hyung?”

“If she talks back to you, you should put her in her place.” You swallowed. You looked between Seungmin and the screen, noticing both boys wore a huge smirk on their faces.

“Yeah, I probably should,” he mused, running his finger across your jawline. “She does misbehave a lot.”

“I do not!” You protested.

“Already proving your point, man,” Minho tsked.

“She’s so demanding too,” Seungmin shook his head, “like she really thinks she’s the one in charge.”

You blinked up at him.

“But as soon as I ask her what she wants she’ll just say ‘just give me what you want’ like the good girl she should be,” Seungmin said. He used a voice to mock you when he quoted your words, and it made your whole body shudder as you clenched hard around nothing at all.

Minho laughed. “I think she felt that.”

“Should I check how wet that made her?” He suggested, looking right at you.

You nodded quickly, excitement pooling in your stomach at the thought he was going to touch you.

“Shhh,” he said, sickingly sweet, “I wasn’t talking to you.”

You moaned at that, eyes squeezing shut as your body instantly reacted to those words, too. The want in your core had turned into an ache, so strong you were sure you would lose your mind soon.

You asked Seungmin for this exact thing so many times—and finally you were getting what you wanted.

“Careful what you wish for, huh, bubs?” Seungmin whispered at you, seemingly managing to read your mind again. You chuckled at him, pecking his lips softly before you let him bring his fingers to your core.

He pushed your panties to the side, dipping one finger into your entrance.

“Fuck,” he chuckled airily, pushing deeper in pure curiosity. “Baby, I don’t think you’ve ever been this wet for me before.”

“Please,” you sighed, basking in the stretch his finger provided. But it wasn’t enough. “Please, more.”

“What do you think, Minho?” You clenched at that, moaning softly. Seungmin laughed.

“How much more can she take?”

You didn’t say anything, unsure of if it was your turn to speak.

Seungmin moved around, placing himself behind you as he turned your body to face the camera, the only thing blocking Minho’s view was Seungmin’s hand cupping your core.

“Answer him,” Seungmin said, warning.

“I can take more,” you sighed, eyes fluttering shut as Seungmin pressed his finger deeper into you with every slow thrust.

“He didn’t ask if, he asked how much. Are you stupid or you just can’t listen?” Seungmin froze. He never used that word before, only dumb, and suddenly his whole body was tingling with adrenaline. He messed up, he got carried away and hurt your feelings, and in front of someone else, too. you were gonna hate him and—

“Fuck, Minnie, if you say that again I’ll fucking cum,” you whined loudly, dropping your head on his shoulder.

Instinctively he added another finger, pace quick and deep. But he couldn’t say anything. He was too spooked, unsure of how exactly to word a sentence with that word in it.

He looked at the screen, admiring your body, the way you pushed your chest forward as you leaned on his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut and jaw hanging open.

He caught Minho’s face on the screen, eyes wide and hand silently gesturing for him to say something.

Seungmin sent him back a panicked look, only focusing on moving faster to make you cum.

So Minho took over.

“Come on, Minnie. Make her stupid cunt cum.”

Seungmin felt your walls closing in around his fingers, pulsing as you moaned loudly into his ear. You whined as he kept up his pace, helping you ride out your high, the electric current swimming all through your body as one of the strongest orgasms you’ve ever felt crashed into you. It didn’t stop, Seungmin relentless as he noticed your body wasn’t going limp like it usually did—another wave hitting you at full force.

When his hand started cramping he sucked on your exposed neck to distract himself which seemed to have backfired, as he felt your body reacting, another one shooting through your walls.

At one point or another you gasped out, pushing his wrist away from you.

“Okay, okay,” he kissed your cheek, stilling his hand inside you.

You panted heavily, your body covered in a layer of sweat as Seungmin lowered you both back onto the bed. He delicately pulled his hand away, grabbing a tissue and cleaning himself off as he gave you space to breathe.

He made sure to kiss your cheeks as you breathed, fighting the urge to wrap his hands around your middle because you didn’t like that when you were breathless. Finally, you spoke.

“Holy fucking shit.”

They both laughed.

“Does it always happen like that?” Minho asked, panting slightly himself.

“That has never happened before,” he laughed, kissing your temple. “You did so so well to take all that.”

“Yeah,” Minho agreed, “you did a really good job.”

You smiled sheepishly.

“Thank you for letting me watch,” he said, looking on as you signalled to your boyfriend that you were done.

“Thank you for helping. A lot,” you laughed.

You looked over at the screen and noticed a small white stain on the front of his shirt. “When did that happen?”

“Oh, some point during your ten minute orgasm,” he shrugged. You all laughed before you corrected him.

“Orgasms.”

“How many do you think that was?” Seungmin asked as he judged he could finally wrap his hands around you, leaning his chin on your shoulder.

“Maybe five?” You scrunched your nose, butterflies creeping into your stomach as both of them whistled in awe.

“New record!” He exclaimed, offering his palm out to you. You weakly gave him a high five.

“How are you feeling, Min?” You asked after the silence settled, as did your breathing.

“I’m okay—“

“I feel better—“

They both answered. Seungmin chuckled as he asked, “which one of us?”

“I meant Minho,” you giggled, “since he’s the one who’s sick.”

“I feel better actually, gonna do another test tomorrow to see if they’ll let me out of this prison,” he chuckled, taking a few sips from his water bottle.

“Yes, please come back soon. I’ve had enough of cooking for these guys,” you rolled your eyes.

Minho laughed at that, promising he’ll free you of your duties soon enough.

“You?” You turned your head lightly, cupping your boyfriend’s chin as you soothed your thumb over his skin.

“I’m glad you had so much fun. My hand hurts though,” he pouted. You brought his hand up towards your lips, kissing his wrist a few times before he nodded.

“And you, bubs?”

“Oh, I feel fucking incredible,” they laughed, “I kept telling you to be mean and you didn’t listen.”

“Well, now I know you were not kidding,” Seungmin exclaimed dramatically.

“I’m gonna go shower guys,” Minho said, running a hand through his hair, “make sure you drink a lot before you sleep, okay?”

The three of you bid each other good night, and once it was just the two of you again, Seungmin made sure to feed you and hydrate you and clean you before you cuddled until you fell asleep.

A few weeks down the line, the three of you were sat around the living room watching a movie Jisung recommended. During one of the montages, Seungmin spoke up.

“You know what I realised?” You both hummed. “During the six orgasms that happened that night, none of them were mine.”

“game day!” your coworker, jiyeon shouted, sticking her head out of the bus window as the gocheok sky dome finally came into view.

you knew the place better than most. after years of working there, you knew every shortcut, every security guard’s name. and even before that, as a teenager, you were there almost every week to sit high up in the stands.

you laughed, as the driver side-eyed jiyeon in the rearview. “get down. you're going to get yourself decapitated.”

she ducked back in, cheeks pink from the wind, and plopped down beside you. jiyeon had been with the team for two seasons now as one of the athletic trainers, which meant she was just as swamped as you, though she somehow made it look fun.

“the dodgers, who came all the way from the states, are playing against us tonight,” she said, eyes wide. “y/n, do you even get how insane this is? half my friends in l.a. are planning watch parties.”

“of course i get it, i’ve been thinking about this all week.” you said quickly, leaning forward a little in your seat. “ugh, i’ve always wanted to go to l.a. but between school and this job, it’s never been possible. i’ve never had the money or the time.”

jiyeon nudged your shoulder. “then we’ll go together. a proper trip. santa monica pier, dodger stadium, hollywood. if only the association would actually fund us instead of blowing the budget on more batting cages.”

before you could reply, her phone buzzed in her lap. she glanced at the screen and groaned, tilting it toward you. “three more media requests. want me to forward them?”

“don’t you dare,” you said with a groan, though you knew the requests would be stacked in your inbox before you even stepped off the bus.

around you, the players were loud and restless, some singing along to whatever music was blasting from the back, others dead asleep with their jackets pulled over their heads. 

jiyeon sighed and slumped sideways until her head landed on your shoulder. “okay, but real talk” she nudged you with her elbow. “that k-pop pr guy you’ve been working with on today’s first pitch. what’s his name again? woosuk?”

you hummed. “yeah. woosuk.” 

“i saw him at the meeting the other day. he’s hot,” jiyeon declared, like it was a fact.

you scoffed before you could stop yourself. “jiyeon.”

she groaned, smacking your arm with the back of her hand. “oh my god, you’re blind. he so is.”

you shook your head, biting back a smile. “he’s just not my type.”

“then whose type is he? because if you’re not calling dibs, i swear—” jiyeon leaned back, groaning. “y/n, you spend every waking second babysitting thirty overgrown athletes. shoot your shot.”

“i’m not shooting anything,” you said firmly, though jiyeon’s smirk told you she didn’t believe a word.

the bus slowed as it rounded the corner to the staff entrance. the driver pulled up to the curb, and players immediately started grabbing their bags.

you stood, tucking your clipboard under your arm and raising your voice over the shuffle of duffels and chatter. “okay, guys—credentials out. don’t lose anything. trainers first.”

jiyeon slid past you with her bag slung over her shoulder, pausing just long enough to wiggle her eyebrows at you. you narrowed your eyes at her, shaking your head. she only grinned wider, disappearing into the stream of people filing out the bus door.

when it neared the start of the game, the stadium was packed, cameras everywhere, fans from both sides waving signs and banners like it was the world cup. 

half your players were already trying to dodge reporters. the dodgers had their own pr team hustling just as hard, which only pushed you to keep up.

a cold breeze slipped through the stadium. the weather in march was tricky like that. the sun always shining hard, but the air still carried a bit of winter. you tugged the zipper of your team’s merch jacket higher.

you stepped back toward the baseline, squinting into the sunlight. your team was scattered across the diamond in warm-up drills. the broadcast team from seoul is somewhere behind you, muttering into headsets, trying to crop out the group of teenage boys flipping everyone off from the stands behind third base. you gave them a thumbs-up and mouthed, blur them.

you glanced at your watch—seven minutes until the first pitch—and flipped through the clipboard one last time.

everything was falling into place. the anthem singer was lined up. the cameras were rolling. the players were scattered across the baseline in neat formation.

“y/n-ssi?”

you turned.

the man walking up was dressed in slim-cut slacks and a crisp black polo with an id badge clipped to his chest. he wore a smile. you recognized him instantly.

kang woosuk. a pr manager just like you, but for a boy band.

it surprised you how different your jobs looked on paper but how similar they actually were. manage schedules for the best promotions and pray nothing caught fire online. maybe k-pop and baseball weren’t so far apart after all. at least not today, when your two industries collided in the same stadium and the same broadcast.

you’d met woosuk for the first time, a few weeks ago, when this evening’s ceremonial pitch was still just an idea on a powerpoint. “let’s have a popular idol throw the first pitch for team korea,” he said.

you nodded, agreed, and passed the coordination to your co-manager. you barely glanced at the name in the final email you got.

“seungmin should be finishing up now.” woosuk said cheerfully while looking at the tunnel.

you nodded once, clipboard pressed firm to your chest.

kim seungmin.

you hadn’t seen or heard that name in years. you had already convinced yourself it wouldn’t matter. that he’d throw the pitch today, wave, smile, and leave. that it would be clean.

“he’s extremely nervous, you know,” woosuk added with a light laugh. “but i told him he’ll do great. everyone’s gonna love it. thanks again for setting this up with us.”

you smiled back. “of course. happy to help.” you then turned away slowly, your heart crawling up into your throat, pulse thudding against your collar.

seven years. and in a few minutes, he’d be standing just across from you. 

you were in the middle of your thoughts when the youngest player on your team jogged over with a grin that you knew too well.

“noona,” the baseball player said, slinging an arm over your shoulder. “be honest. if i rip my pants today, will you cover it up? i don’t feel too good about these,” he snickered looking down at his tight pants.

you shrugged him off. “if you rip them, i’m releasing it myself.”

he cackled. “you’re evil.”

“get out of here.” you muttered.

his benched teammate rushed by and tackled him from behind, knocking him off balance, both of them crashing into the side rail. you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“sorry,” you said to woosuk. “they’ve been like this forever.”

“it’s fine, my guys are like that as well.” woosuk had his hands in his pockets, a little flushed. 

“oh yeah?” you said, arching a brow.

woosuk laughed under his breath. “trust me, you don’t want to know the things i’ve had to cover up.” he then looked over at the tunnel. “and seungmin—he’s actually one of the calmer ones. which is saying something, because even his calm isn’t exactly… normal.”

you smiled, adjusting the papers in your hands. “sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”

“you have no idea,” he said, shaking his head with an almost fond exasperation. it made you suddenly aware of his dimples.

the stadium speakers suddenly clicked on with a soft burst of feedback.

a hush fell over the crowd.

the first few notes of the national anthem played, and a young girl stepped up to the mic at home plate, clutching it with both hands. her voice rang out clear.

your eyes were fixed on the jumbotron, standing as still as everyone else.

but somewhere between the second and third verse, you noticed your pulse quickening, a restless beat against your ribs. at first you thought it was the crowd, the nerves from the game. 

you told yourself you wouldn’t care. you don’t care.

you’d gotten over seungmin. it had been years. you weren’t a teenage girl stuck on a boy who broke your heart behind a stadium anymore. you were a grown woman with a job and a life. you never looked him up. you never listened to his music with intention. sure, you saw his face every now on an award show billboard or some banner for his birthday.

but you never paid attention. you made sure of that.

so why now, was your heart picking up like this?

you pressed your palm to your chest and told yourself it was nothing. just nerves. but the second the final note rang out and the stadium erupted into cheers, you knew better.

the cheers rolled through the stadium like a wave, and the announcers’ voices boomed across the field.

seungmin was jogging out onto the field.

his black jersey was tucked clean, stride confident. his shoulders broader, his frame leaner. he waved toward the crowd with a smile, bowing slightly toward the mound. he was not just handsome, he was grown. taller, sharper, but still seungmin. that same face you used to know by heart. the sight of him standing on that mound in your team’s colors was surreal. like two parts of your life had collided.

the cameras zoomed in immediately, the jumbotron flashing his face across the stadium in high definition. you watched as he adjusted his grip, jaw tight, eyes flicking down the line toward home plate.

he turned the ball over once in his palm. the stadium cameras zoomed in, his face filling the big screen above left field. his lips parted slightly as he exhaled, shoulders rising then dropping in one measured breath. he adjusted his stance, tapped his foot, and wound up.

then he threw.

the ball smacked into the catcher’s mitt with a pop that echoed even from where you stood.

the crowd roared.

after the pitch, seungmin jogged off the mound toward the catcher with a sheepish grin on his face. he took a quick picture with him before a staffer guided seungmin back toward the tunnel, ushering him off the field as the game began officially.

you watched him disappear into the shaded corridor beneath the stands, the cheers still echoing faintly behind him.

“he’s good, right?” woosuk said beside you, nudging your elbow gently. “i could tell he was nervous. but he pulled it off.”

“yeah.” you blinked, forgetting he was still there. “he did.”

“you look shocked.” woosuk chuckled softly. “what—you didn’t expect idol boy to be that good?”

you snapped your gaze back to him. “no, no,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “it’s not that.”

he grinned, clearly amused, but let it drop.

you weren’t shocked at all. if anything, that pitch made him look even more seungmin than ever.

“you two haven’t met, right?” woosuk said, already gesturing for you to follow him.

you froze for half a second. you tried to lie, say the truth, either or but nothing came out.

your grip tightened around the clipboard. “i should really stay here,” you said, forcing the words out. “make sure everything’s running smoothly.”

“y/n, you’ll be right back” woosuk replied lightly, already taking a step toward the corridor. he glanced back at you, his dimples showing again. “let loose a little.”

and with the field already in motion without you, you couldn’t argue with him.

so you nodded.

you followed him through the gate and into the cool, concrete quiet of the interior corridor. the hallway was lit by harsh fluorescents and stacked coolers. the noise of the stadium faded as you walked deeper.

and then you saw him.

seungmin stood at the far end of the hallway, leaning back against the wall, one hand braced over his heart like he was trying to slow it down. his eyes were closed. one of his staff was holding his phone and he was talking to the camera for a vlog. he was mid-sentence, voice light and slightly breathless.

then he turned.

his gaze fell onto yours. but just as quickly, his eyes slid past you and landed on woosuk. he reached forward, casually lowering the camera in the staff’s hands. she nodded and stepped back, disappearing down around the corner.

woosuk chuckled at seungmin’s state. “you alright?”

“yeah. it went by fast.”

seungmin looked at you again, neutral, just like he would a stranger.

“this is y/n,” woosuk said, gesturing between you. “team korea’s pr manager. this wouldn’t have been possible without her.”

seungmin bowed slightly. “thank you for the opportunity.”

you bowed in return. “of course,” you said, your voice coming out smoother than you expected. “you did well out there.”

seungmin’s mouth curved into the faintest smile that could only be described as friendly.

woosuk stepped in, cheerful as ever. “he used to play, you know. before he became an idol.”

seungmin glanced at him, then back at you. “yeah. i’ve always been into baseball.”

you swallowed, forcing a polite nod. none of this was news to you—but you said nothing.

woosuk clapped his hands lightly. “seungmin, you’re staying for the game, right?”

“yeah,” he said, nodding.

you cleared your throat, adjusting the papers against your side. “well, i should head back out there. i’ll see you two later.”

woosuk nodded brightly. “of course, go ahead.”

you gave him a half-smile, then looked at seungmin. he didn’t say anything, but he was still watching you, his expression completely unreadable.

you turned and walked back toward the tunnel, the quiet clack of your shoes echoing off the concrete. seungmin watched you disappear around the corner. you didn’t look back. 

woosuk nudged seungmin’s arm once you were out of view. “come on, let’s grab a drink. you earned it.”

they made their way toward the lounge, the noise of the crowd growing faint behind them.

he opened a fridge, grabbed two cold cans of beer, and passed one over. “she’s nice, huh?”

seungmin looked over. “hm?”

“y/n,” woosuk said, popping his tab open. “gorgeous too.”

seungmin nodded slowly, “she is.” he cracked open his can, lifted it to his lips. 

woosuk wet his lips. “kind of wasted on a job like this, don’t you think? honestly, if she wasn’t buried in work, i’d—” he cut himself off with a low laugh, shaking his head.

the first swallow went down rough, and seungmin coughed.

woosuk looked at him mid-swig. “you okay?”

seungmin waved it off quickly, clearing his throat. “yeah, yeah.” 

woosuk tipped his head back, taking another long sip before speaking. “i’m thinking of taking her out. just for a drink.”

he blinked at woosuk, forcing a scoff that didn’t quite land. “you and her?”

woosuk grinned. “yea, after the game.”

“oh.”

“you sound thrilled.” woosuk said, sarcastically.

“no—i mean,” seungmin scratched the back of his neck. “just… i didn’t think she was your type.”

woosuk raised a brow. “why, because she’s got a job?”

seungmin gave him a flat look. “because you’re… loud. obnoxious. and she’s…”

he trailed off.

“not that,” woosuk finished for him.

seungmin let silence answer.

“you just met her, how would you know?” woosuk said, bumping his shoulder. 

seungmin furrowed his brows, eyes narrowing slightly as he stared down at his drink.

of course, he knew.

woosuk seemed decent, at least on the surface. charming, funny, the kind of guy who could make anyone laugh and swoon within minutes. that was exactly the problem.

seungmin knew how easily people like woosuk got what they wanted, and how quickly they could lose interest once the shine wore off. he didn’t want you to be one of those temporary distractions for him. not you.

and if you heard the way woosuk was talking about you now, you’d shut down instantly. seungmin knew that much. the old you would’ve hated it. 

but that was the old you.

the truth is, he didn’t really know you anymore. seven years was a lifetime, and people didn’t stay teenagers forever. he had no idea what you liked now, what you couldn’t stand, who you trusted, who you pushed away. for all he knew, maybe you wouldn’t be bothered by woosuk's provocative charm. maybe you’d even let yourself enjoy it.

“yeah, you’re right. you guys probably have a lot in common.” seungmin brought the can to his lips. “go for it.”

he took one last sip, then glanced toward the live broadcast of the game on the tv, where the first inning was already underway.

“i’m gonna go up now,” he said, nodding toward his seat.

“cool,” woosuk replied, bringing his phone to his ear. “i’ll catch up after this call.”

seungmin walked alone into the tunnel, the roar of the crowd growing louder with every step. when he reached the railing, he slid into his seat and sat back.

from across the field, he spotted you again—standing near the dugout with a headset on, lips moving fast as you spoke into a mic. 

seungmin looked back at the field again and didn’t look your way for the rest of the evening.

the stadium lights dimmed slowly. you’d been here hundreds of times, long after the crowd filed out, when the vendors shut down their grills and the cleaners started sweeping popcorn into plastic bags. the diamond looked almost holy under the glow of empty seats and floodlights.

you hugged your clipboard against your chest and let yourself breathe. it still felt unreal, standing this close, like you had cheated your way into a dream. you’d grown up in the nosebleeds. now you had a job that let you stand practically on the grass. if you could go back in time and tell teenage you, she would’ve screamed.

team korea had lost. you were always bummed after a loss, especially for home games. 

but it wasn’t just about being “bummed” anymore. this job plugged you right into the team’s mood. you felt a loss in small things like the way a player pressed his lips together and gave everyone attitude, or the way a rookie kept staring at his shoes.

your past felt simple from up there. after losing, you’d be annoyed for an hour, maybe two, and then move on. you’d stomp down the steps with your soda, and on the subway back home seungmin would—

a familiar soft laugh drifted from a few seats down, pulling you back. he was there, talking to one of his staff. you hadn’t realized how close he’d sat until now. his voice carried just faintly across the rows, the same way you remembered it.

and then his eyes shifted. just a glance at first, but then they caught on you, and he didn’t look away. you froze. you told yourself to look back at the field, at the scoreboard, at literally anything else. but you couldn’t.

there were so many things you wanted to say. but at the same time, if you really did face him again, you had no idea if you’d be able to get anything out. there were too many unanswered questions between you two. the distance and time hadn’t erased any of it, it had just let it pile up. and now, sitting this close to him, you could feel all of it pressing at the back of your throat.

you stayed there with eyes locked on him. he looked at you like something he used to call home.

your throat burned, and before you could stop it, your eyes started to sting. the clipboard dug into your palm as if grounding yourself could undo the pressure building inside. slowly, carefully, you broke the stare, tilting your gaze to the side.

a hand suddenly grabbed your shoulder and a voice cut through. “it was so crazy today i barely got to see you.” 

it was jiyeon. she had a noticeable scowl on her face. 

“half the guys are asking for ice packs at the same time, and of course we’re out of the big ones because someone decided to use them as pillows on the bus ride here. do you know how many shoulders i’ve wrapped in the last twenty minutes? my fingers are going numb.”

normally, you would’ve laughed outright at her dramatics, but all you could manage was a small chuckle, thin but real enough to satisfy her for a second.

her expression softened. “you okay?”

“yeah,” you said quickly, brushing under your eye like it was just a stray lash.

she frowned, not buying it. “you’re pale. and you’ve been running around all day like a one-woman army.”

“well, it was a big game,” you said, trying for casual, though your voice came out softer than you meant. “of course i’ve been running around.”

ji-yeon gave you a flat look, unimpressed. “seriously, y/n. the day’s basically over. leave early, take a break. nobody’s going to fall apart without you for a couple hours.”

you hesitated, glancing back at the field like you needed proof that the world would keep spinning if you stepped away. the players were already filing off, the crowd long gone. she was right—your part in today was done.

finally, you nodded.

she smiled, the way she does when she is half bossy and half kind. “bye. go. i mean it.”

“yeah okay, bye,” you murmured with an eye roll and a smile.

you stepped out of the dugout and peeked at where seungmin sat. his seat was empty now. 

you shook it off, focused on the railing in front of you, the cold metal under your palm, and started walking.

the hallway swallowed the last of the stadium noise. you kept your eyes on the floor tape, the green line that led to the locker rooms, like it was a trail you could not afford to step off.

inside, the room was half lit and mostly quiet. a couple of guys talked in low voices near the sinks. a trainer zipped a med kit. you set your clipboard on the bench, slid your headset into its pouch. you took off your team jacket and pulled a hoodie over your t-shirt.

you checked your phone. three new emails, one calendar alert for tomorrow, a message from jiyeon telling you she pulled the shoulder kid for treatment and to stop reading your inbox. you put the phone face down.

you needed to leave. you were terrified of seeing him. you had no idea what would come out of your mouth if you ever had to speak to him. maybe nothing. maybe something you would regret.

you zipped your bag and swung it over your shoulder. you took one last look around the room, made sure there was nothing with your name on it left behind. 

you then made your rounds of saying goodbye, offering small words to the players and staff who lingered. a few pats on the shoulder, a quiet “good job today,” even if the game hadn’t gone your way. the guys nodded back with weary smiles, grateful for your steadiness.

you were halfway out of the locker room when you remembered—one goodbye you hadn’t given yet.

the door creaked open before you could think on it, and woosuk stepped inside. his eyes landed on you almost immediately, and he brightened. “hi.”

“hi,” you said back with a smile.

“heading out?” woosuk said, leaning on the doorframe like he had all the time in the world.

“yeah,” you said. “long day.”

“i could tell,” he stepped in and let the door fall shut behind him. “i wanted to say thanks again. everything went smoother than my manager expected. which is a miracle.”

“tell your manager to have more faith,” you said, smiling.

“i will,” he said. he tipped his head toward the bench. “you done for the night?”

“more or less,” you said. “emails can wait until tomorrow, i’ll slack off today.”

“healthy,” he said, grinning. “how do you usually celebrate a job well done, ms. slacker?”

“usually with sleep,” you said. “sometimes a good show.”

he pretended to look offended. “so, not by listening to me talk for two hours.”

“hm,” you said. “only if you come with captions.”

he laughed and rubbed his thumb over the edge of his badge and looked at you more directly.

“if you are not swamped anymore,” he said, “do you want to get a drink?”

you propped your bag on the bench. “to network, or to, you know…dally?”

“the other one,” he said, smiling.

you let out a quiet chuckle. 

you shifted your strap higher on your shoulder. “i appreciate it. i really do, but i should head home.” you searched for the right words. “i try not to mix postgame work brain with drinks. i get weird about lines.”

he tipped his head, smile still easy. “i know a place down the street that does citron soju.”

“that is tempting,” you said.

“that sounded like a yes,” he said, stepping closer. his hand lifted before you could process it, fingers brushing a piece of hair that had slipped from your ponytail. he tucked it behind your ear as your heart picked up in the wrong way.

“i really do mean no,” you said, steady as you could manage. “another day. maybe for coffee.”

“we can still do a tiny toast now,” he said. “one glass. fifteen minutes. i’ll even set a timer.”

“woosuk,” you said, with a little sigh.

“then let me walk you to the bar,” he said. “you can say no inside, where it’s warmer.”

“you are quite the persistent one.” you tried to say it with a light tone.

“i’m persuasive,” he said, flashing a smile. “and i like seeing you outside of baseball. you’ve got a real smile when you’re not working.”

“kang woosuk, my smile is real in and outside of work.” 

he leaned his shoulder against the bench, watching you with that same half-smile that never seemed to falter. “you’re too quick to say no,” he said lightly. “you’d be surprised how much better a drink tastes after a day like this.”

“i’m not saying it wouldn’t,” you said.

“not even fifteen minutes?” his tone was casual, but his words pressed in. “fifteen minutes is nothing. you’ll spend longer waiting for the subway.”

you didn’t want to be rude. again, the easiest path was also to give in and sit through one drink even though you weren’t an ounce interested in him. you almost considered it, just to get him out of the way.

“alright,” he saw you thinking and stepped closer. “you’re overthinking it, come on.”

“she said no,” a voice cut in.

your blood ran cold. you looked over.

woosuk didn’t even need to turn to know who it was.

he paused, made a tight face of frustration, pressing his lips together. you turned. seungmin stood a few feet away with one hand in his pocket and a calm that felt very firm.

woosuk scoffed. “evening.”

seungmin stood at the end of the row, cap in one hand, eyes steady. “you heard her.”

you swallowed and cut in. “it’s fine, seungmin. i was just about to leave—”

“i’m being harmless,” woosuk cut you off, eyes fixed on seungmin. “we were just talking.”

“and you weren’t listening,” seungmin’s eyes became darker.

“do you always insert yourself like this?”

seungmin reached out and caught woosuk’s forearm, ignoring his question. “she’s trying to leave, just like we are,” seungmin said. “let’s go.”

woosuk’s jaw flexed. “seungmin, come on.”

seungmin let go of his arm. “you can be mad at me later. right now, she’s leaving.”

“no, what’s your deal with her?” woosuk said, turning on him. 

seungmin’s brows pinched. “my deal with her?”

“you know, you were exactly like this earlier. weird. acting like i’m out of line for asking her out.” he scoffed. “you think you get to decide because you threw a ball tonight and everyone clapped?”

“woosuk,” seungmin said with a disappointed look on his face.

woosuk said, eyes flat. “or you wanna screw her like you do every woman you lay your eyes on. you just can’t stand that i’m getting there first.”

your stomach dropped. heat rushed your face. you felt the strap dig into your shoulder and you couldn’t tell if you were breathing too fast or not at all.

seungmin’s jaw tightened. “watch your mouth.”

woosuk lifted his chin. “i do everything for you, seungmin. i put out fires. i make you look good when you’re tired and moody. your job is to mess up, mine is to fix the rest. so listen to me here.”

you found your voice, thin but steady. “let it go, both of you.”

woosuk barely glanced at you. “go get your ball signed and let the adults talk.”

“i’m not moving.”

“you’re not her anything, seungmin. stop acting like it.”

seungmin went still. his hand closed around his cap until the bill bent.

for a second he looked like he might put woosuk through a locker.

“that’s where you’re wrong.”

woosuk went still. his face changed like he had seen bloody murder.

you stared at seungmin. he kept his eyes on woosuk, jaw set, cap crushed in his hand.

no. he didn’t just do that. he reached for the messiest thing he could find. 

who is he to say anything for you? you don’t even know him anymore if this is his judgment.

woosuk’s mouth twitched. “what does that mean.”

heat rushed up your throat. your eyes prickled. you shook your head once and looked at seungmin.

“are you fucking serious,” you said.

“y/n,” seungmin said.

“no.” you lifted a hand.

woosuk stared between you and seungmin, shock stamped on his face and nothing clever left. 

“do not speak to me again. this is over.” you said to woosuk.

he didn’t say a word.

you turned, heels biting into the floor as you walked away.

seungmin’s scoff followed. you didn’t see the look he shot woosuk. then his steps moved, catching up to you in the aisle.

behind you, seungmin’s voice came. “y/n.”

you didn’t look back. the side exit came into view, and you shoved the bar hard, the heavy door swinging open. cool air rushed your face as you stepped out.

his hand caught yours before you could get more than a few steps onto the pavement.

you ripped your hand. shame still stuck in your throat.

“how dare you, kim seungmin,” you yelled, voice rough at the edges. “how dare you say that. you had no right.”

“y/n—”

“no!” you pointed your finger at him, teeth gritted so tight it hurt. “you don’t get to throw us into the air like that because you’re angry, because you want to win some stupid pissing match with him. he’s not supposed to know, no one is supposed to know!”

your chest heaved. your finger trembled where it still pointed at him, and you felt the wet burn in your eyes threatening to spill over.

you pulled a breath in, then another, and finally dropped your hand. you turned your face away, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. 

“i used the only lever he respects,” he said. “that was wrong. i know that.”

for a moment neither of you spoke. the night was quiet, save for your uneven breathing.

he decreased the gap by a careful step.

you looked up.

“i’m sorry, y/n,” he said. he tipped down a little to catch your eyes, and your knees did that traitor thing where they forgot how to be bones.

do not melt. stop it.

he held your gaze. “i wasn’t thinking,” he admitted. “i let him push me.”

your brain failed to serve up a sentence. he always did this when you were upset. lowered to your height. took the sharp out of his voice. it used to work. it is working, which is rude. you wanna shove him.

you tried to look at the streetlight instead of him. the streetlight was unhelpful. streetlights don’t apologize in the voice that used to talk you down at two in the morning. they don’t tilt their heads. streetlights are useless.

“i’m still mad,” you said, trying mostly to convince yourself.

“i know,” he said. “you should be.”

“i mean it,” you said, glancing back at him. “really mad.”

“i hear you,” he said. 

“and your pr manager is an asshole,” you said.

“i know,” he said. “i’m sorry for him.”

his eyes stayed on you, soft in a way that only made the lump in your throat heavier. you wanted to cry again, to let the tears push through, but you held them back with a shaky sigh. 

you looked at him longer than you meant to. his eyes didn’t waver, pulling at something you didn’t want pulled at. his hair was mussed from the cap still crumpled in his hand. his jaw looked tighter than his voice sounded.

your old friend from high school once made a joke. she said that the second seungmin became an idol he’d get that scary looking plastic surgery face and that it’d be so easy to get over him. you had laughed and nodded because she was trying to make you feel better, even though you felt empty at the time. 

but it’s even harder when he’s still that handsome. your seungmin, just older. the same careful mouth, the same way his eyes soften when he’s paying attention. whatever you told yourself would change didn’t. it makes everything hurt.

you couldn’t stand here a second longer without doing something you would regret for life.

you swallowed the ache down. “i’m going home,” you said. “bye, seungmin.”

you turned.

“y/n,” he said.

you stopped. 

you stared at the pavement and counted three cracks in it, as if that would keep your throat from closing.

“don’t say bye like this,” he said. “not like i’m a stranger.”

you turned your head. “what are you then?”

he took a step, then another.

“we haven’t said a single thing to each other in years,” he said. “i can’t watch you walk away like this.”

for a second, your body almost betrayed you again. you straightened up hard. “move.”

“tell me to, and i will.”

“i just did.”

“say it like you mean it.”

you hated him a little for knowing your tells. you hated that you could still feel the shape of his hand in your wrist from thirty seconds ago.

“i just wanna talk about us,” he said.

“there’s nothing to talk about, kim seungmin.”

his head tipped back the smallest bit like the sound of his name coming out of mouth did something to him. he caught himself, eyes finding yours again like nothing had happened. your heart picked up but you pretended you didn’t see it. 

“we both know it ended badly.” he said, looking at you again. 

“i know,” you said. “i can give you an apology and then we let it go, alright?”

he didn’t like that. you saw it in the way his mouth set and the way his fingers tightened even more on the cap.

you rolled your eyes and turned, walking away fast. he scoffed matched you in two strides.

“look, i’m not trying to make you feel bad,” he said, words tripping over each other. 

“well you are.” you mumbled, walking faster.

“y/n, listen to me,” he said, breath catching. “i wake up and it’s in my mouth before coffee. when i try to write songs, it gets all wrong because i start writing for you and i can’t get out. then you were just there today and my brain stopped working—”

“just let it go!” you snapped, spinning on him so quick he almost ran into you.

“i can’t let it go!” he said, too loud. he flinched at his own volume, dragged a hand over his mouth, and tried again. “i can’t.”

you stared. seungmin was not calm. his chest rose and fell too fast. you weren't used to this version of him. so out of control of his emotions.

“i won’t sleep. i won’t eat. you’re gonna be on my mind, whether i like it or not. i’ll think about this forever.”

your knees went weak. heat crawled under your skin so fast. your body was not taking notes on boundaries. you’ll be on his mind, he said. you liked that way too much for someone who was trying to be sensible. 

“well i won’t,” you said, aiming for firm and landing closer to breathless.

he went quiet. 

he knows you’re lying. you know he knows.

you hear yourself the way he must have heard you. breathless and certainly not firm. your pride wants a redo in a colder voice. your vocal cords are traitors. 

he knows you’re not gonna forget him, no matter what you told him. 

he watches the exact second you choose to be honest. 

you lift your chin.

“fine,” you said, and you hated how fast it came out. “i will. happy?”

his shoulders eased a fraction. he didn’t smile. smart. you exhaled.

“i’ve just been trying to make this easier for both of us,” you said. 

“ignoring each other is only gonna make it worse,” he said, his eyebrows furrowed and his head tilted a little. it was stupid hot. 

“i know, but i can’t even look at you,” you said. “i told myself i’d be calm and distant and smart. i’m none of those, seungmin.”

“and i—i can’t stand here with you because you do something to me i can’t explain and i just…” you stopped, because your mouth had sprinted ahead of your pride. you dragged a hand through your hair like that would pull the words back in. 

“just what,” he said.

you didn’t answer. 

“just what,” he said again, softer.

he stepped closer. his hand lifted, then fit along your jaw.

“tell me,” he said. his voice dropped. “please.”

your brain went white. he was too close. too much. this is the line. it’s crossed. if it wasn’t crossed before, it’s crossed now.

“you make me stupid,” you said.

your eyes circled his mouth like a hawk. you so badly wanna test if the memory is still accurate. you imagine it for one dangerous second and your stomach drops like you missed a step. you swallow hard. stop it. you’re a person with self-respect. you do not kiss your ex. 

his eyes flicker to your mouth and back up like a reflex he is trying to smother. you clench your jaw and tell yourself you’re immune. you’re not.

you stepped in. close enough to feel the heat off his chest without touching it. your eyes slid shut because looking at him kept blowing holes in your plan. your pulse was a drum in your throat. 

you could hear his breath catch and settle. want rolled through you in a clean, shameless sweep that made your knees feel loose. you hated it. you leaned into it anyway.

“y/n,” he said, low, like a warning to himself.

fuck it. you reached up, found the front of his hoodie, and fisted it hard. the fabric was warm and soft and right there. you tugged him down and kissed him.

he went still for a beat like he was making sure this was real, then he kissed you back. his hand found the wall behind you instead of your body, braced there like he was holding himself back. 

you tugged the hoodie again and he followed, mouth slanting over yours until your head tilted and your breath hitched. heat climbed everywhere at once. your fingers slid under the edge of his hood and into his hair.

"shit," he swore against your lips.

you opened your mouth. he tasted like mint. he still kept that one hand off you, knuckles white on the wall, like the only way to behave was to keep his hands out of this.

his teeth gently grabbed your lower lip before his tongue went back in. you let go of his hoodie and grabbed his wrist instead. that made him groan, which made you pull him closer, which made him kiss you deeper, which made your knees try to give out. 

you pulled away for air. your chest lifted hard. he leaned back in and kissed you like he had been starving for this. you met him halfway before your brain could decide. 

he bent his elbow until his forearm was against the wall.

“seungmin,” you said against him, and he made a sound that hit low in your stomach.

his mouth found your jaw and then your neck. your head tipped back and your fingers slid into his hair again. he swore under his breath and followed the line under your ear. your breath hitched. you wanted his hands, all of them, anywhere, and he still hadn’t touched you. it made you crazy.

“please,” you heard yourself say. 

his knuckles pressed harder into the brick like he was anchoring himself there. “tell me what you want.”

“you,” you said. your fingers curled in his hair.

“come back with me.” he said with a whisper against your ear. 

your brain tried to be responsible. it made a weak list. work in the morning. jiyeon’s mouth if she ever finds out. none of it stood up to the way his voice felt when he asked, or the way your name sounded a minute ago.

you were drunk on him. you hadn’t had a sip of anything and still the ground did a slow slide under your feet. if someone asked you your own phone number right now you’d blink like a goldfish. and your brain, which loves a plan and a spreadsheet, had clocked out. 

you didn’t see him as a boy anymore. you saw a man who had learned how to hold himself steady and mean it. you wanted the past version of him for a long time because it was easy to miss a ghost. this wasn’t a ghost.

next thing you know, keys flashed in his hand. a taillight blinked. you made a choice and followed it through.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You turned to Minho instead. And his jaw was already tight. His entire body had stiffened, the gentle sorrow that had clouded his face moments ago replaced by a cold kind of clarity. He shifted against the bed again, a painful, slow twist of his torso, his gaze never meeting yours as he muttered,

“She’s… a good friend.”

The words stung more than you expected them to.

You looked back at him sharply, his eyes were focused on the corner of the room now, distant and dull.

Seungmin blinked, confused. “Wait— really?”

His voice lightened, almost too quickly. “That’s great! Wow, what are the odds?” He looked at you with that sweet smile you loved, the one he wore when he was proud to show you off.

His hand slid around your waist as he turned back toward the others. “This is Y/N. She’s my girlfriend. I’ve been meaning to introduce her to you guys, but… definitely didn’t picture it being in a hospital room,” he laughed, his fingers squeezing your hip gently.

You smiled softly but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. And then you made the mistake of glancing at Minho again. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even looking at you. His eyes had dropped to where Seungmin’s hand was resting on you. Like that touch was something offensive. Something intrusive. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought he might crack a molar.

You gently stepped out of Seungmin’s hold, clearing your throat.

“I should go,” you said quietly.

Minho’s voice was immediate.

“Yeah,” he said. Sharp. Bitter. “You should.”

Seungmin turned, surprised at the sudden bite in his friend’s tone.

“Hey, don’t be an asshole,” he said with a light laugh, trying to brush it off, unaware of the storm swelling in the air between you. “She came to check in on you— that’s sweet. Don’t be rude.”

You forced a smile. “It’s fine, really. I—”

“No, stay.” Seungmin kissed the side of your head. “I’ll run down and grab you a coffee. Want a chocolate croissant too?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could, Felix and Jeongin spoke up from behind him.

“We’ll come,” Felix offered.

“Yeah, I want to grab a coffee too,” Jeongin added, already turning toward the door.

And just like that, the three of them were gone.

You were alone with Minho again.

But this time, it didn’t feel like the quiet after a storm. It felt like the lightning hadn’t even started.

Minho’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his uninjured fingers gripping the edge of the blanket draped over him. His leg was still propped in a cast, his arm half raised in a sling, but somehow he looked tenser than ever like he might pull the IV in his arm off just to make the ache in his chest feel real.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, low but audible. “I can’t believe this.”

You exhaled shakily. “Minho…”

He scoffed. It was soft. Almost under his breath.

But you heard it.

“I was going to tell you,” you said, voice fragile.

“Oh, you were?” he snapped suddenly, eyes cutting toward you. “Right before or after I told you I loved you?”

“Minho—”

“After, I’m guessing. Since you let me pour my entire fucking heart out like an idiot.”

You winced at that.

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“No, you didn’t,” he said. “But you let me.”

Silence again. It burned.

You swallowed. “I tried to speak, but you just— you dumped a whole confession on me, Minho. What was I supposed to do? You came crawling back, not me. You waited until now, until I finally moved on, and now suddenly you want to say everything you couldn’t before?”

“I almost died,” he hissed, like that gave him the right to upend your world. “Do you have any idea what it’s like— lying there, barely able to breathe and all you can think about is how fucking stupid you were to let someone walk away from you?”

You blinked, breath catching.

“Do you know what it’s like to love someone,” he continued, “and realize you destroyed it before you even had the balls to admit it?”

His voice cracked.

And yours did too.

“I begged you to give me more, Minho,” you whispered. “I begged you to show up. To show me that I mattered. You wouldn’t even let me meet your friends.”

He scoffed, bitter. “Well, now you’ve met them.”

You laughed, hollow. “Yeah. While I’m dating one of them.”

He shook his head, jaw clenching. “Fuck.”

You took a step closer but stopped yourself. His anger wasn’t loud. It was the kind that simmered just beneath the surface, the kind that hurt worse because you knew it was covering something else.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” you said quietly.

He laughed dry, humorless. “Of course you didn’t.”

“I’m not the bad guy here,” you pushed, voice rising. “Don’t look at me like I planned this.”

“You didn’t plan it, but you let it happen.” His voice cracked again, and this time he didn’t try to hide it. “You let it, Y/N.”

Your chest tightened. “You think I wanted this to happen? You think I wanted to show up here and find out the guy I finally feel safe with is your friend?”

“I told you I loved you,” he snapped. “And what? That meant nothing?”

“Don’t you dare,” you spat, the emotion finally breaking through your own voice now. “Don’t you dare act like I didn’t wait. Like I didn’t beg for more. Like I didn’t sit in that bed a hundred nights hoping you’d finally want me for real.”

“I would’ve told you earlier—”

“Then why didn’t you!?” you cried. “Why did you wait until I moved on, until I found someone who actually wants me in daylight instead of just when the lights are off!?”

“Because you vanished!” he shouted.

The room rang with it. Neither of you had raised your voice like this before, not even during your last fight.

“You blocked me, you disappeared, you ghosted everyone,” he said, voice ragged. “I thought I lost you forever.”

You flinched.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” you said, quieter now. “I was trying to survive. You made me feel like I was never enough. Like I was a secret. You didn’t want to meet Som. You never let me into your life, Minho.”

He was breathing heavily now, clearly trying not to break down again.

“You’re so fucking lucky I’m not telling Seungmin,” he said suddenly, his voice venomous. “Lucky I’m not telling him that I had you first.”

You recoiled like he’d slapped you.

And maybe, in a way, he had.

“That’s low,” you whispered.

His eyes finally met yours again. Red. Glassy. Unapologetic.

“You want me to pretend it didn’t happen?” he snapped. “That you didn’t beg me to stay after every night I came over? That you didn’t fall asleep with your fingers tangled in my shirt, or your lips on my neck? You want me to erase that?”

You stared at him, trembling.

“You said you loved me,” he said, quieter now, but no less bitter. “So don’t sit there and act like this—like this new thing with Seungmin changes that.”

You shook your head slowly, tears clinging to your lashes.

“It does change it, Minho,” you said softly. “Because he wants me. All of me. Not just the parts that are convenient.”

His face twisted, wounded, angry.

“I wanted all of you too,” he said. “I just… I didn’t know how.”

You turned away, covering your mouth to keep from crying harder. The truth was, you didn’t hate him. You never did. You still didn’t. But that didn’t mean you could go back. Didn’t mean you should.

Didn’t mean you could look Seungmin in the eye after this and not feel like you’d cheated him just by being here.

When you looked back at Minho, his head was bowed now, eyes on his lap. The tension was gone. In its place was defeat.

But you couldn’t comfort him. Not anymore.

Minho had just parted his lips to speak again to say something, anything when the door opened behind you, cutting the tension in the room like a blade through silk.

“Hey, we’re back,” Jeongin called brightly as the trio returned, coffees in hand. Seungmin smiled as he walked in, immediately making a beeline toward you, you quickly wiped your tears.

“Here,” he said gently, handing you the warm drink. “Extra sweet, just how you like it.”

You nodded, forcing a smile, your fingers brushing his as you accepted the cup. But before you could say thanks, he leaned in and gave you a quick kiss on the lips soft, casual, innocent.

But it didn’t feel innocent. Not with Minho clearing his throat from behind you.

The sound was sharp not loud, but loaded.

You froze slightly. It felt wrong. Too wrong. You turned quickly and looked at Seungmin. “I should really go.”

He blinked. “Already?”

You nodded, eyes flitting quickly toward Jeongin and Felix. “It was really nice to meet you both.”

You didn’t even glance at Minho. And maybe that was cruel, but you couldn’t. Not without unraveling.

“Let me walk you out,” Seungmin offered, already stepping toward the door.

You gave him a tight smile. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said simply, looking back at his friends. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

The moment the door closed behind the two of you, you could feel the silence erupt behind it.

But you didn’t look back.

You just kept walking down the quiet hallway with Seungmin beside you. He watched you.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

You smiled, but it was off, too stiff. “Yeah. Fine.”

But he noticed. Of course he noticed.

You were tense. Distracted. Barely looking at him. Holding your drink like it was an anchor.

He hesitated, then asked, “So… Minho, huh?”

You stopped walking for just a second too long.

“What about him?”

“I just mean—” Seungmin rubbed the back of his neck. “Isn’t it weird that we’re all connected like this and didn’t even know?”

You laughed, but it was hollow. “Yeah. Weird.”

“How do you two know each other, anyway?”

You blinked. “We were… friends. Back in school. A few years ago.”

It wasn’t a total lie, there was friendship, at some point. You just didn’t mention the nights spent wrapped in his sheets or the fights you couldn’t forget.

Seungmin nodded slowly. “That makes sense, I guess.” But then he stopped walking again.

“I mean, I just think it’s kind of odd. I’ve talked about you before to the guys. And you’ve never mentioned him. I’ve never even seen you two cross paths before.”

Your throat tightened.

“Yeah… we drifted,” you offered.

He gave a slow, thoughtful nod. Didn’t push it.

When you made it to your car, he opened the door for you, arms slipping around your waist in a gentle hug before kissing your forehead.

“I’ll call you later?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” He smiled. “Drive safe.”

You waved as he backed away. Then you closed the door and sat in the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel with both hands. You didn’t start the car.

Your reflection stared back at you in the rearview mirror tired, confused, conflicted.

You shouldn’t be thinking about Minho. You shouldn’t be thinking about the way his voice cracked when he said he loved you. You shouldn’t be thinking about how he looked at your hand in Seungmin’s like it physically hurt him. But you were. And that made you angry. Not just at Minho. At yourself.

You weren’t sure if you came here out of guilt, or grief, or nostalgia. But now the guilt followed you into your car, onto your skin, curling in your chest and wrapping around your heart like a vice.

You slammed your drink into the cup holder and whispered to yourself, "Fuck."

-

The silence had been loud between you and Seungmin since the hospital.

You hadn’t meant to be distant, hadn’t meant to let your thoughts spiral into the past, into a pair of soft eyes and whispered regrets in a sterile hospital room. But they did. And Seungmin noticed. He didn’t push. But he noticed.

The shortened texts. The longer response times. The quiet way you sat beside him, staring at your drink more than you stared at him. So, he showed up without warning one morning. A knock on your door, a warm smile waiting behind it, and arms that wrapped around your waist like he still believed you were something soft and warm and his.

“I want you to come over to my place,” he said.

You blinked at him, hair messy from staying in all day. “Right now?”

He nodded. “The guys are gone for the weekend. Visiting their families. And Minho’s being taken care of by his mom, apparently.”

You tried not to visibly flinch at the mention of his name. Seungmin didn’t seem to notice. “Come over. Spend the night. Just us.”

You hesitated, the tension in your body betraying you, but then he smiled and said, “Please. I haven’t seen you smile in days. And I kinda miss that.”

It was such a Seungmin thing to say. Genuine. Undeniably sincere.

Your lips quirked despite yourself. “You’re so dramatic.”

He grinned. “Is that a yes?”

You sighed and nodded. “Fine. I’ll pack a bag.”

“A whole bag?” he teased. “This is a big deal.”

You laughed and gave him a playful shove as he followed you to your bedroom, helping you throw things into a duffel. He tossed in a hoodie of his, insisting it was a necessary item. You rolled your eyes but didn’t take it out.

The ride to his dorm was filled with giggles and quick kisses at every red light.

By the time you reached the front door, his hands were already on your waist, mouth brushing your neck. You tried to unlock the door between giggles and breathless laughter, eventually letting him take over as he kicked it open gently with his foot. He didn’t stop touching you.

You barely made it past the doorstep before your lips found his again, his hands cupping your face as your fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt. The familiar warmth of anticipation bloomed in your chest as you slid your hands under his sweater, feeling the curve of his waist, his ribs-

“Is this how you greet everyone that walks in?” a voice said flatly.

You froze. Your hands dropped from Seungmin’s shirt like it burned you. And slowly, carefully, you turned toward the voice.

Minho. Sitting on the couch.

Crutches leaned against the armrest, one foot in a cast, his other leg bouncing slightly in irritation. His head was wrapped still, bandages peeking from beneath his hoodie. He looked bored, annoyed, but mostly tired. Your stomach plummeted.

“Minho?” Seungmin said, blinking in disbelief. “What—what are you doing here? I thought your mom was—”

“Hovering. Yeah.” Minho rolled his eyes and leaned back with a grunt. “I told her to bring me back. I’m not a child. I don’t need to be babysat.”

Seungmin glanced at you and then back to his roommate, voice still gentle. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“Resting,” Minho scoffed, gesturing vaguely with a hand before dropping it against his thigh with a slap. “Yeah. This is me, resting.”

You took a tiny step backward, feeling the shame creep up your spine.

Minho looked at you then briefly, with unreadable eyes before he started struggling to stand. His movements were stiff, slow, as if he was still learning how to navigate this broken version of himself.

“I’m going to my room,” he said, brushing past the two of you with obvious effort, limping. “Enjoy your day.”

There was nothing warm in his voice. Just exhaustion and a quiet storm of emotions you couldn’t name.

“Wait—” Seungmin stepped forward. “You want anything to eat? I was gonna grab some food. Did your mom make you anything?”

“I’m not hungry,” Minho said without turning back.

Then the slam of his bedroom door. The sound echoed.

Seungmin winced slightly. “Well… there goes that vibe.”

You stared at the closed door, your chest hollowing out. “He’s okay, right?”

Seungmin turned back toward you, smile a little tight. “Yeah. He’s like that sometimes when he’s in pain. He’ll be fine.”

You nodded slowly, though your eyes lingered on the hallway.

“He’s been weird about food ever since the accident,” Seungmin continued as he pulled his phone out. “Went on a whole hunger strike in the hospital when the nurse brought him hospital food. Said he wanted to die a peaceful death, not from poison.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly.

Seungmin smiled. “So I’m gonna head out, grab something I know he likes, and maybe some snacks for us too. You want anything?”

You shook your head. “I’m good.”

“Make yourself at home, yeah? My room is down the hall. The clean one.”

You nodded with a small laugh. He leaned in and kissed your cheek before grabbing his keys.

“I’ll be quick,” he promised, then left.

The door clicked behind him. And suddenly, the air changed. You were alone again. With him.

Well, technically not in the same room. But the thought of Minho just behind the door, wounded, bitter, watching your hands on someone else made your skin prickle. You stared down the hallway. Maybe you should leave. Maybe you should’ve never come here. But Seungmin had helped you forget. Even if only for a few hours.

Still… Minho’s eyes haunted you.

You were just about to grab your duffel and head toward Seungmin’s room, ready to bury yourself in soft blankets and pretend none of the night had happened, when you heard the distinct click of Minho’s door opening behind you.

Then his voice, groggy and irritated.

“Seungmin?”

You froze.

He didn’t wait for a response. The floor creaked under his uneven steps as he raised his voice slightly.

“Yah, Seungmin—where the hell did you go?”

You turned around slowly. “He’s not here,” you said softly, words barely loud enough to carry across the apartment.

Minho’s eyes found yours and immediately rolled. “When’s your boyfriend coming back?” he asked, spitting the word like it offended him.

You crossed your arms. “He stepped out. To get you food.”

Minho scoffed. “Didn’t ask him to.”

“No,” you said evenly, “but he cares. That’s why he did.”

Minho huffed and muttered something under his breath as he moved forward, clearly not using the crutches his doctor probably begged him to. His limp was severe, and every few steps he winced, even if he tried to hide it behind that cold exterior of his.

You followed after him instinctively. “Minho—what are you doing? You’re not supposed to be walking around like that.”

He didn’t answer. Just kept going.

“Do you need help?”

“No,” he snapped.

“Don’t be stubborn. I can—”

“I said no,” he cut you off, louder this time, voice slicing through the quiet of the apartment. He turned sharply, nearly stumbling as he did, glaring at you like your concern was an insult.

You blinked. Hurt. Frustrated. Angry.

He grunted, pausing by the couch to grip the armrest for balance. “Leave me alone.”

Your chest tightened. “You’re being a real asshole, you know that?”

He laughed, humorless, head tipping back against the couch. “Yeah? Tell me something new.”

You clenched your jaw. “I’m trying to help. Because you’re clearly in pain. You’re limping, you’re not using your crutches—”

“I said I don’t want your help,” he snapped again, louder this time. “What part of that are you not getting?”

The words hit harder than they should have. You recoiled slightly, the sting blooming sharp in your chest. You crossed your arms over yourself, eyes narrowing.

“Still mad I moved on?” you said quietly.

He froze.

For a moment, you were sure he was going to ignore you like he always used to when things got hard, when conversations didn’t go his way.

But then he turned, slowly, wincing as he leaned his weight on the back of the couch. His jaw was tense, and his knuckles white from gripping too hard.

“I’m not mad that you moved on,” he said. “Okay, maybe I am. But I’m mostly pissed that you didn’t let me fix things. You blocked me. Shut me out. Didn’t answer my calls, avoided our friends. You just… disappeared. And then two months later you’re dating my friend.”

You stared at him. At the vulnerability barely hidden under the anger in his tone.

“You had a chance,” you said, quietly now. “So many. And every time I tried to open up, to ask for something more, you gave me the same cold shoulder, the same excuses.”

He looked down. Guilty.

“I begged for something real,” you added, voice cracking despite your best effort to stay calm. “And you made me feel like a joke. Like I was just convenient. Like I was embarrassing to acknowledge.”

Minho finally looked at you. His eyes were red, not from tears, but from the sheer weight of emotion he never let himself show.

“I didn’t know how to be what you needed,” he said. “But I wanted to try. I was just—”

“Scared,” you finished for him. “But that fear cost you us.”

The silence returned, but this time it wasn’t empty. It was heavy. Soaked in everything you never got to say before.

“I’m not mad you found someone,” Minho said, voice quieter now. “I’m mad that I didn’t fight for you harder. That I let you walk away thinking you didn’t matter to me.”

The ache in your chest deepened.

You wanted to hate him. You should hate him.

But the way his voice cracked, the way he looked at you like you were still the most important person in the world to him, it made it hard.

You stepped back, putting space between you both. “You’re too late, Minho.”

His lip twitched. “I know.”

You didn’t know what else to say. And honestly, you didn’t want to keep doing this, standing in the middle of a war between your past and your present.

So you turned away, walking toward the hallway, whispering, “Get some rest.”

“Hey,” he called behind you, just as your fingers grazed the doorframe.

You paused.

His voice was raw. “Do you love him?”

Your heart pounded. You didn’t answer.

And the silence said more than anything you could’ve spoken. The question hung in the air long after you shut the door behind you.

“Do you love him?”

It echoed through your skull, rattled through your chest, and burned under your skin like a fever. You pressed your back to the closed door, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as you fought to steady your breath. You didn’t answer him. You couldn’t. And that silence? It screamed louder than anything else. You swallowed hard and forced your feet to move. The hallway in Seungmin’s dorm felt colder now, distant. Like you didn’t quite belong here. Like you’d trespassed into a life that was never supposed to be yours.

When you opened the door to Seungmin’s room, everything felt too still, too quiet.

His bed was neatly made. A soft vanilla and cedar scent lingered in the air, familiar now. Comfortable. You dropped your bag on the floor and sank down at the edge of the bed, running your fingers over the blanket absently.

Did you love him?

Your mind was a war zone.

Minho.
His broken voice, that desperate confession in the hospital room, the storm of pain and longing in his eyes, it had unraveled something inside you that you thought you’d stitched shut. You hadn’t expected to feel anything for him again. You were supposed to be over him.

But then why had your heart clenched when he looked at you like that?

You groaned and let yourself fall back onto the bed, arms flung over your face. The pressure in your chest was unbearable. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. How the hell did you end up here?

Seungmin was good to you. He treated you like you mattered. Like you were worth something more than a secret.

He brought you food when you were too tired to cook. He let you wear his shirts. He kissed your forehead when you were anxious and sent you ridiculous selfies at 2am just to make you laugh.

He was the kind of calm you’d always craved.

And yet…Minho had been chaos. Unpredictable. Infuriating. But he’d also been your first heartbreak. The one who knew every version of you, messy, broken, drunk on love and desperation. And now he said he loved you.

Now, when it was too late.

Your phone buzzed against the bed. You turned your head slowly to look at it.

Seungmin: Almost back. Got your favorite snacks too.

You stared at the message, fingers hovering above the screen, not knowing how to respond.

Because how could you face him?

How could you look Seungmin in the eyes and pretend you hadn’t just stood face to face with your past and hesitated when it asked you a question that should’ve had a simple answer?

You rolled over, pressing your face into the pillow to muffle a scream that never came out.

There was no one to blame but yourself.

You were the one who let Minho crack open old wounds. You were the one who walked into that hospital. You were the one who stayed in the room when you should’ve walked out the second you saw his face. This wasn’t just a love triangle anymore, this was guilt tangled with grief, twisted into the hollow space inside your chest that kept asking:

“What if…?”

What if Minho had told you sooner? What if you had waited? What if you were never really over him?

The door creaked open minutes later and you scrambled to sit up, wiping your face with your sleeves as if it would erase the storm behind your eyes. Seungmin stepped inside with two plastic bags of snacks, his smile warm and unsuspecting.

“Hey, hope you like what I grabbed,” he said casually, holding the bags up.

You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “Looks good.”

He sat beside you on the bed, resting his head against your shoulder. “You okay?”

You hesitated. Then nodded again. “Yeah… just tired.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple and pulled you into his side. “Then rest. I’ll put on a movie.”

You curled into him without a word, trying not to let your shaking fingers betray you. He didn’t notice or maybe he did and chose not to say anything. Because Seungmin always gave you space. But the truth was, no matter how soft this moment was, no matter how warm his embrace felt…Your heart was still back there.

Standing in a room with the boy who broke it.

And you didn’t know what that meant anymore.

Later that night, after the quiet had settled and the air between you and Seungmin had grown soft again, you found yourself lying next to him in his bed, tucked beneath the warm comforter, bodies curved instinctively toward each other, the flickering light of the movie painting dim shadows across the room. His room felt like him.

Clean, but lived in. Simple, but filled with the quiet kind of care that took time to notice. His hoodie draped on the back of a chair, his open book on the nightstand like a scene paused in time.

Seungmin turned his head to look at you, his hand resting loosely on your waist. “So,” he started with a teasing grin, “is my place anything like you imagined?”

You laughed softly, grateful for the lightness of his tone. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” He raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like you’re being polite.”

You shook your head, smiling. “No, I just thought you’d be more of a clean freak, honestly. Like, every sock rolled, labels facing out, vacuum lines in the carpet kind of guy.”

He gasped playfully. “Are you saying my room isn’t clean?”

You gave him a look and gestured around. “Your room is clean. The rest of the dorm? Ehh…”

Seungmin scoffed. “That’s not on me. The rest of the dorm is the guys’ fault.”

You giggled again, and for a second it felt good to pretend like things were simple. Like your mind wasn’t spiraling under the surface, coiled in anxiety and guilt. But the moment passed too quickly. Because your laughter faded.

And Minho’s voice crept back into your mind.

"Do you love him?"
"You didn’t even give me a chance."
"You’re already dating my friend."

Your smile faltered. You stared at the screen, no longer seeing the movie. All you could see was Minho’s face. The frustration in his eyes. The way his jaw clenched when Seungmin called you “babe.”

Your stomach churned.

Minho was still angry. And as much as he tried to pretend otherwise, he could be petty. Reckless. Especially when hurt.

Would he tell Seungmin? Would he blurt it out one day out of spite, that he had you first? That you loved him once? That your silence in that hospital room said more than any confession ever could?

Seungmin didn’t know. Not really. You hadn’t told him the whole truth. Only enough to keep things comfortable. But now? Now it felt like you were balancing a house of cards with one small breeze from Minho capable of knocking it all down.

You didn’t notice how quiet you’d gone until Seungmin shifted beside you and nudged your leg with his. “Hey. You okay?”

You blinked, forcing your expression to relax. “Hm? Yeah.”

He didn’t buy it.

“You’ve been off since the hospital,” he said, his voice softer now, but sharper. More direct. “Is this about Minho?”

Your breath caught for half a second and that was enough to make your denial too fast.

You shook your head, a little too hard, a little too quick. “No, not at all.”

He stared at you. And then… he laughed. Softly. Dismissively. “Alright, alright. You just did a full exorcism nod but I’ll let it go.”

You forced a laugh too, but it tasted bitter in your throat. Seungmin reached for the remote to lower the volume and leaned back into the pillows, pulling you closer again.

“As long as you two didn’t date or anything then we’re good,” he said casually, like he was making a joke. “That’d be awkward as hell.”

You froze. Completely.

His arm was still around you, and you were curled into him, but your heart stopped. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to forget how to breathe.

You laughed, but nervously this time. Seungmin didn’t seem to notice. He stretched, yawned, kissed your forehead, and muttered something about being glad you were here with him. That he’d missed you. You nodded and smiled, still half-turned in his embrace. But your thoughts were miles away. Would this small lie, this tiny omission be the thing that eventually destroyed everything? Would Minho say something? Would Seungmin still trust you if he knew? You didn’t know.

All you knew was that you should’ve told him the truth from the beginning. But now… it was too late. Now, your past was tangled with your present and both were staring at each other across the same hallway, the same couch, the same friendship circle.

You closed your eyes and listened to Seungmin’s breathing slow beside you, trying to convince yourself that this was where you belonged.

That the truth wouldn’t matter.

That love, real love was still possible here.

But deep down, a voice whispered something you didn’t want to hear: “Secrets don’t stay secrets forever.”

-

You woke up tangled in Seungmin’s limbs, one arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck, his legs hooked lazily around yours like he was afraid to let you drift too far even in sleep. You barely had a moment to register the hazy light of morning spilling through the windows before he was stirring behind you, pulling you even closer.

“You’re not getting up without me,” he murmured sleepily.

You giggled, your voice hoarse and quiet with the remnants of sleep. “You’re clingy in the mornings.”

Seungmin didn’t even deny it. You didn’t want to move. Not yet. Not when the sunlight was just beginning to filter through the blinds and the weight of reality hadn’t yet settled back onto your chest. Seungmin stirred, groaning sleepily before he blinked his eyes open, his voice gravelly as he muttered, “I’m starving.”

You giggled softly.

His arms tightened for a second, before he rolled and effortlessly swept you up into his arms like it was second nature. You gasped, squealing through laughter, your arms wrapping around his neck as he carried you down the hall like it was nothing.

“Seungmin!” you half-whined, half-laughed. “You can’t just haul me around like a bag of rice!”

“I can and I will,” he said smugly, his cheek resting on the top of your head as he walked.

You were still laughing when he reached the kitchen and gently set you down onto the counter like you weighed nothing but your breath caught the moment you turned and saw him. Minho was already seated at the dining table. Bowl of cereal in front of him, spoon in hand, eyes sharp as glass. Watching.

His jaw was tense. His knuckles slightly white around the spoon. He looked like he hadn’t slept, dark circles settled under his eyes, hair still tousled from bed.And he was clearly not amused.

Seungmin paused, caught off guard blinking at the sight of his roommate. “Hyung, I didn’t even see you there — I thought you were sleeping.”

Minho didn’t even look up. “Clearly not,” he muttered, shoving another spoonful into his mouth, the crunch of cereal almost aggressive.

You sat awkwardly against the counter, now suddenly painfully aware that you were just giggling in his friend’s arms, the same friend who had kissed you breathless the night before.

You stood up awkwardly, smoothing your shirt, avoiding Minho’s gaze, though you could feel it.

Heavy. Icy. Familiar.

Seungmin broke the tension, turning back toward Minho. “Why’ve you been in such a bad mood lately? You bite everyone's head off.”

Minho didn’t even look up from his cereal. He just muttered, “Must be all the sugar I’m forced to watch.”

You blinked. Your lips parted like you were going to say something maybe to call him out but instead you just bit your tongue and turned away. You didn’t trust yourself to speak without letting the anger in your throat boil over. The entire energy in the kitchen had shifted, and it hadn’t even been two minutes.

Seungmin handed you a steaming cup of coffee and leaned against the counter with that easy smile of his. “You know what we should do?” he said suddenly. “We should go on a date. Like… a real one.”

That brought your gaze back to him, softening instantly.

“Yeah?” you asked, intrigued. “Where to?”

He shrugged. “Anywhere. Nowhere. Just get in the car, drive far, and do whatever. Doesn’t have to be a plan. Just us.”

You smiled, warm and genuine. “I’d love that.”

Minho shifted in his seat. The scrape of his spoon against the bowl suddenly sounded louder than it should’ve.

Then came his voice casual, calculated.

“I’ll go too.”

You and Seungmin both turned your heads at once.

Your eyes wide. Seungmin’s surprised. You’re stunned.

Seungmin blinked. “What?”

Minho leaned back in his chair, feigning nonchalance. “I’ll come. I’ve got nothing to do. Can’t exactly be left alone these days.”

You blinked again, completely caught off guard.

Seungmin actually considered it.

“I mean… I guess,” he said slowly, trying to read Minho’s tone. “You barely let me help you with anything, so there won’t be much difference if you come along. Could be good to get out.”

You wanted to scream. This was a bad idea. A terrible idea.
Seungmin was just being nice, too nice and Minho was clearly doing this to provoke you. To stir something. You could see it in the smug twitch of his mouth when he caught your expression.

You sipped your coffee, trying to hide the dread.

Because now the past wasn’t just colliding with the present. It was coming along for the ride.

And you were stuck between the boy who held your heart now…and the one who had crushed it.

-

You were already buckled into Seungmin’s car, hands wringing together in your lap as you stared out the window, trying to calm the unease curling in your chest.

“Maybe… maybe Minho should stay behind,” you said suddenly, your voice quiet but laced with urgency.

Seungmin was adjusting the music settings on his phone when you spoke, but he looked up at you, surprised. “Huh?”

You struggled for a reason, any excuse, any believable lie. “I mean—he’s still healing, right? What if it’s too much for him? The car ride… the walking around… maybe it’s not the best idea…”

Seungmin leaned back in his seat, one arm draped over the wheel as he watched you.

“Okay… what’s really going on?”

You shook your head quickly. “Nothing, I just— I don’t want him to feel like he has to come.”

Seungmin chuckled, clearly missing the full weight of your tension. “Trust me, Minho never does what he doesn’t want to do. You know how stubborn he is.”

You didn’t answer. You did know. You knew too well. Seungmin glanced toward the house. “Honestly, it’s the first time he’s voluntarily agreed to leave the house since the accident — without his mom nagging him or us dragging him out. I don’t wanna ruin that by telling him no.”

You sighed, your forehead hitting the headrest behind you. Of course. Of course Minho would make it harder for you to escape him. The timing was almost too cruel.

Seungmin’s gaze softened when he noticed. “Look, if this gets weird or sucks, I promise, we’ll leave early, and I’ll take you out somewhere nicer next time. Just the two of us.”

You forced a smile. “You better.”

He grinned and leaned over to kiss your temple, brushing your thigh reassuringly as he reached over to start the car. You tried to match his warmth, but your stomach churned when you saw the front door of the dorm swing open.

Minho appeared.

He was clearly struggling, limping slightly, his arm stiff at his side, but with that same determined arrogance you knew all too well. His eyes locked on yours through the windshield, and something shifted in his expression not soft, not kind. Calculating. You stiffened in your seat.

As he neared the car, he lifted a hand, pointing to the passenger side and calling through the barely-cracked window. “I’m taking the front.”

he said casually, already pulling the passenger door open.

Seungmin turned to you immediately with an apologetic look, already registering the small flinch in your shoulders, your stiff posture.

“I can sit in the back,” you said quickly, already unbuckling your seatbelt before he could protest. You weren’t going to argue. Not about something so petty, something Minho was clearly doing just to get a reaction. Minho slid into the seat beside Seungmin with an ease that grated on your nerves, settling in and letting out a dramatic sigh, like it was his car, his road trip.

Seungmin looked at you in the rearview mirror, his eyes laced with concern. “You okay?”

You nodded with a tight smile. “Yeah.”

But you weren’t. Because you knew what Minho was doing.

Front seat. Right hand man. Still inserting himself like he belonged. Like he hadn’t destroyed every part of you just months ago.

But this time, you weren’t going to let him see you shake. You folded your arms across your chest and turned your eyes to the window. The radio buzzed low in the background as Seungmin pulled out of the parking lot, humming lightly to whatever indie playlist he’d put on. He was trying to keep the mood light.

Minho, meanwhile, had taken over the front seat like a throne. His elbow rested on the window, head tilted toward Seungmin, throwing out little comments here and there about the music, the traffic, the weather, anything to control the air between the three of you.

But you didn’t bite. You didn’t speak. Not until spoken to. And even then, only in short syllables. He noticed, of course he did. Minho always noticed.

And when Seungmin laughed at one of your dry jokes and reached for your hand between the seats, threading his fingers through yours, Minho went silent. Completely still. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to.

Because you already knew, that this was exactly what he feared. Not just losing you. But watching you belong to someone else. Watching someone else touch you like you were theirs.And you were.

At least… you wanted to be.

But as you sat there, feeling Minho's heat radiate from the front, seeing his reflection in the side mirror every time you blinked, it was getting harder to ignore the storm in your chest.

You weren’t sure where this drive would lead.

But deep down, you feared it was already too crowded… Even in a car built for three.

-

The drive started off quiet. Except for the soft hum of the car's tires on the road and the muted strum of some indie acoustic song Seungmin had playing low through the speakers. You sat in the backseat, hands clenched together in your lap, eyes watching the landscape blur past.

Minho was scrolling through his phone lazily, as if he wasn’t tuned into every word you and Seungmin exchanged.

“Beach sounds nice,” Seungmin said suddenly, glancing at you through the rearview mirror, hoping to lighten the mood. “Haven’t been there in a while. Could be fun.”

You looked up and smiled softly, nodding. “Yeah… it could be.”

Minho didn’t even look up, but you felt it the second he opened his mouth. “The beach? Seriously?”

Seungmin looked at him. “Yeah?”

“It’s freezing,” Minho muttered, setting his phone down with an annoyed sigh. “Who the hell goes to the beach in November?”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “You can still go to the beach without swimming,” you said, voice light, hoping to diffuse the tension.

“Right,” Minho replied dryly. “Let me just soak in the freezing wind and sand in my shoes for fun.”

Seungmin chuckled, brushing it off. “Put on a jacket maybe.”

“You got jokes now?” Minho grumbled.

Seungmin just laughed again, easygoing, like Minho’s sarcasm didn’t sting the air at all. “It’s not that serious. Just wanna get out for a bit. Chill by the water. It’s better than staying cooped up all day.”

Minho didn’t respond. Not verbally. Just a long, drawn-out sigh and a head tilt toward the window.

You leaned your forehead against the cold glass. The silence stretched out awkwardly again until Seungmin broke it.

“We should buy a kite or something. I used to fly kites at the beach when I was a kid. Might be fun again.”

You smiled at the thought. “That sounds cute.”

Minho snorted. You didn’t look at him, but your jaw clenched.

“What?” Seungmin asked, amused.

“Nothing. Just picturing you running around with a Doraemon kite on a freezing beach,” Minho said, chuckling without humor. “Very manly.”

“I’ll take pride in my Doraemon kite, thank you,” Seungmin replied playfully.

You laughed. You didn’t mean to. It just slipped out, genuine and light but as soon as you heard Minho shift again in his seat, you regretted it.

He turned slightly, just enough to glance at you through the side mirror. “Didn’t know your type was dorky beach guys and cartoon kites.”

Your smile dropped. Seungmin caught your reaction in the mirror and frowned. “Minho.”

“What?” Minho asked innocently. “I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, and I’m saying chill.”

Minho went silent again, and for a brief moment you thought that would be the end of it, but he wasn’t done.

“So, how’d you guys meet again?” Minho asked suddenly, voice feigning curiosity.

You and Seungmin both stiffened slightly.

Seungmin answered, casual and honest. “Through Som, her friend and Seojin, my friend. Kind of a setup, I guess?”

Minho hummed “Right… right. Weird coincidence, huh? Small world.”

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t sure if you could.

“Sometimes the world just throws people together,” Minho added. “No matter how messy or inconvenient it is.”

Seungmin glanced at you again, brow furrowing. “You okay back there?”

You blinked and nodded. “Yeah. Just car sick, maybe.”

You weren’t car sick. You were Minho sick. And he knew it.

The rest of the drive went on in a strange rhythm. Seungmin would say something sweet or make a plan, and Minho would deflate it with a passive jab or a backhanded comment. Every time you laughed or leaned forward to talk to Seungmin, you felt Minho’s presence press against you like static. Always there. Always lingering.

The worst part? Seungmin still didn’t know the truth.

He didn’t know why Minho’s words cut into you like barbs, why your silence was deeper than awkwardness, why this car ride felt more like punishment than a spontaneous trip to the beach.

And as the ocean finally came into view, distant and shimmering beneath a pale sky, you realized something that made your stomach twist:

You weren’t just dreading the destination.

You were terrified of what the ride back might look like. Because the three of you couldn’t keep circling the same truth forever eventually, one of you would have to crash.

-

The car hadn’t even fully parked before you had the door open, feet hitting the pavement with a grateful sigh. The long drive, thick with Minho’s interference and Seungmin’s forced cheerfulness, had knotted your nerves tighter than you’d realized. The moment the cold sea breeze kissed your cheeks, you felt the tiniest bit lighter, freer.

You stretched, arms high over your head, back arching, taking in the sound of the waves crashing in the distance. Seungmin stepped out next, keys jingling as he shut the car door behind him. “I’ll go grab the stuff from the trunk,” he said with a grin. “Could you help Minho out? He’s a little stubborn but he might hurt himself.”

Your smile faltered just slightly, but you nodded. “Yeah… sure.”

Seungmin kissed your temple, murmuring a thank-you before walking around to the back of the car. Minho was still sitting in the passenger seat, looking far too smug for someone who was supposed to be injured and emotionally wounded. He gave you a slow blink. “Don’t bother. I got it.”

“You literally have a cast on your leg and an arm brace,” you said, deadpan.

“I’ve got one good leg and one good arm,” he replied, already moving to open the door and stand up, wincing dramatically. “More than enough.”

You stepped forward, trying to steady him. “Will you just let me help?”

“I don’t need—”

“You’re limping like your bones are made of wet paper, Minho.”

He huffed, reluctantly leaning on you just enough to avoid stumbling into the sand. The contact was stiff. Tense. You held his elbow, he refused to meet your eyes.

You both walked like that, awkwardly half attached, your frustration barely hidden under your breath and his pride shattered all over the asphalt.

“Left, not right—”

“I know how to walk.”

“You’re doing it weird—”

“Maybe because my leg is broken, genius.”

You were about to argue again, some snide remark perched on the tip of your tongue, when an older woman walking her fluffy white dog paused near the path leading to the sand dunes. She looked between the two of you with a warm, bright smile.

“Oh,” she cooed, hand to her heart. “Aren’t you two just the cutest couple?”

You froze. Completely and utterly froze.

You opened your mouth, panic rising in your throat like heat but before you could correct her, deny, explain, Minho beat you to it.

“Thank you,” he said with a lazy smirk, nodding toward the woman. “She takes care of me well.”

The woman beamed. “Young love is such a gift. You make a beautiful pair.”

And then, as if the universe wanted to plunge you deeper into a pool of unwanted complications, you heard footsteps behind you and turned to see Seungmin approaching, arms full of bottled drinks and a bag of chips swinging from his wrist.

He had definitely heard her.

Your heart nearly stopped.

You pulled your arm away from Minho instantly, eyes wide and throat tight. Seungmin blinked at the scene, confused, a little taken aback. “What was that about?”

The old lady gave him a polite nod and continued on her walk, humming to herself.

Minho stayed silent. Not a word.

You stepped forward. “She— She thought— It’s not—”

“She thought we were dating,” Minho supplied calmly, brushing invisible lint off his hoodie. “Weird misunderstanding. Happens all the time.”

Seungmin blinked again, laughing awkwardly. “Oh. Hah. Yeah… I guess that could look kinda…”

He glanced between you both. Something in his smile faltered just slightly. But he didn’t say anything more.

Minho’s eyes were on you. Sharp. Watchful. And smug. You didn’t know whether to scream or run.

The wind had picked up slightly by the time the three of you laid out the picnic blanket near a jagged dune. Seungmin had found a spot tucked enough from the crowd to relax, but not even the calm of the sea could dilute the tension pooling between you and Minho.

You sat beside Seungmin, trying to focus on the way his fingers laced through yours gently, trying to breathe and just be here, in this moment. But it was impossible with Minho sitting across from you both, picking at his snack like he had nothing better to do than ruin your sanity.

“So,” Minho muttered, breaking the silence as he leaned back on his uninjured arm, “how long has it even been now? What — a month and a half?”

You blinked, confused at first. “What?”

“You two,” he clarified, flicking his chin in your direction. “Dating. It’s been a while, huh? Time flies when you jump into a new relationship.”

Your spine stiffened.

Seungmin glanced at you. “I guess… about that long,” he said casually. But there was a flicker of something in his expression, a narrowing of the eyes, a slight shift in his shoulders. Minho didn’t stop.

“So… no ‘define the relationship’ talk?” he asked mockingly. “Or are you guys just winging it — like you did with the last guy?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard.

Seungmin’s hand slowly uncurled from yours.

“Alright, enough,” Seungmin snapped suddenly, voice sharper than you'd ever heard it. His words cut through the air like a blade. “What the hell is going on with you two?”

The question landed like a bomb. You and Minho both stiffened, caught mid-breath.

Seungmin stood up, fists clenched at his sides. “Seriously. I’ve tried to ignore it — the weird tension, the looks, the smartass comments. But I’m not stupid. So if one of you wants to be honest for once, I’m all ears.”

You couldn’t speak. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. Minho looked at the sand, jaw tight.

The silence stretched. And stretched.

Seungmin scoffed, the betrayal thick in his voice. “Great. Awesome. That says enough.”

He turned, the sound of his footsteps crunching against the sand growing fainter as he stormed off toward the shoreline, hands shoved in his jacket. You inhaled sharply, chest tight and pulse pounding as Minho let out a breath, low and slow. “He’s pissed,” he muttered. “Didn’t think he’d blow up like that.”

You whipped your head toward him, eyes flashing. “Are you serious right now?”

He looked at you, unfazed. “What?”

“You poked and pushed all day,” you said, voice rising with every syllable. “You couldn’t just let it go — you had to turn this into a disaster.”

Minho didn’t flinch. His voice was calm, but it was edged. “You’re the one pretending nothing happened between us. I just got tired of the act.”

You stared at him, furious and confused and torn down the middle.

“So what now? You staying here to fight with me? Or going after your boyfriend?”

The words dropped like ice between you.

You didn’t answer right away, you just stood there, heart pounding, breath shaky. Because the truth was you didn’t know what you wanted to do.

But you knew what you had to do.

The clouds had started to shift the moment Seungmin walked away. You could feel it, that strange heaviness pressing down on the air, the kind that warns you before the first drop even hits the ground. You didn’t even think. You just ran after him.

“Seungmin!”

Your voice was swallowed by the sound of the wind rushing off the waves. The seagulls scattered, shrieking above you, as if even they didn’t want to stay and witness what was about to happen.

He didn’t stop. Not right away. His long strides carried him toward the edge of the water, shoulders rigid, jaw tight, the anger rolling off him like heat. But then your footsteps caught up, sand shifting under your feet and you reached out, catching the sleeve of his jacket just as the first drop of rain landed on your cheek.

He turned. Slowly.

His eyes, soft brown usually so full of quiet humor and warmth were sharp now, wounded. “You’re finally going to tell me?” he asked, voice low but trembling with the effort to stay calm.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. The words tangled in your throat, choking you.

He laughed bitter, humorless. “Right. Guess not.”

“Seungmin—”

“No,” he cut in, louder this time, voice cracking. “Don’t. Just—don’t.” He ran a hand through his damp hair as the drizzle grew heavier. “You’ve been weird for weeks. Avoiding me, zoning out, shutting down every time he’s around. And I keep telling myself not to take it personally, not to push you, but—” He gestured wildly, his frustration spilling out now. “—but I can’t ignore it anymore. What the hell is going on with you and Minho?”

You flinched.

“There’s nothing—”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice snapped, sharp enough to make you go still. His eyes, wet now, whether from rain or something else you didn’t want to name, locked onto yours. “You’re not even good at it. You think I didn’t notice how tense you got at the hospital? Or how he looks at you? You think I didn’t see it?”

You wanted to speak, to explain, but the words burned too much to form.

“I just want to know why,” Seungmin said softly now, the anger thinning into hurt. “Why you’ve been acting like this. Why you shut me out.”

The rain came harder, little droplets turning to a misty downpour, seeping into your hair and your clothes until everything clung to you.

You swallowed hard. “It’s… complicated.”

He let out a small, incredulous laugh. “Complicated? You’re kidding me, right? Because it looks pretty simple from where I’m standing. Whenever Minho’s around, you shut down. You look guilty. You get angry. And now you’re both sniping at each other like—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “God, I don’t even know what to think anymore.”

You stepped closer, heart pounding. “It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?” His voice rose over the rain now. “What are you so afraid to tell me?”

You closed your eyes. The rain hit harder. A cold, relentless rhythm against your skin. The world felt like it was holding its breath.

And then quietly, trembling, you said it.

“Minho and I…” You swallowed. “We used to hook up.”

The words hit the air like thunder. Seungmin’s face fell completely blank. “What?”

“It was before you,” you said quickly, desperate, your words tumbling over one another. “It wasn’t serious. He didn’t want a relationship, and I did, so I broke it off. I didn’t want to hide it from you, but I thought if you knew—”

He cut you off with a short, broken laugh. “So you thought lying about it was better?”

You froze. “I wasn’t lying. I just—”

“Didn’t tell me,” he finished for you. His voice was flat now. “Same difference.”

“It’s not,” you whispered. “I just didn’t want to hurt you.”

He stared at you for a long moment, the rain running down his face like tears he refused to shed. His jaw clenched. “You think this hurts less?”

You didn’t know what to say. Because he was right.

He looked away, hands tightening into fists. “You know, I wouldn’t have cared if you told me from the start,” he said quietly, voice rough. “But now? You let me walk around thinking I was paranoid. Like I was imagining things.”

You stepped closer, but he stepped back, shaking his head.

“Don’t.”

The single word tore through you.

He scoffed under his breath, his tone sharp with exhausted disbelief. “Whatever. You and Minho — whatever history you’ve got — I don’t even want to know the details.”

“Seungmin—”

He turned away before you could finish, the final thread snapping. “I just need space,” he muttered. “Go back to him if you want. I’m done for now.”

And then he walked away. You stood there, drenched, cold, watching the distance between you grow wider with every step he took. The ocean roared beside you, the rain pounded against your skin, and you finally realized, the storm outside was nothing compared to the one inside you. You’d wanted the truth to set you free.
But all it had done was leave you standing alone in the rain.

The rain didn’t let up. If anything, it grew more intense, a steady downpour that soaked you down to the bone. You stood frozen, head down, your arms clutched tightly around your midsection as if you could keep yourself from falling apart if you just held tight enough.

But it didn’t work. The sobs came anyway. Silent at first, then shaking. Your chest ached, not from the cold, not from the rain, but from the words Seungmin had left behind. You'd broken something and you didn't know if you could fix it.

“Hey—”

A soft voice behind you. Minho.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to. You knew it was him by the sound of his voice soft, but cautious, almost hesitant like he wasn’t sure if he had any right to say your name at all.

“Please,” he said again, a little louder now, trying to make himself heard over the rain. “Don’t cry.”

You heard him take a step closer. He was limping. Still refusing to use his damn crutches. You wished you didn’t care but you did.

He reached out. You felt the ghost of his hand on your arm, not touching, just hovering, waiting for permission.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice breaking more than he wanted it to. “I didn’t mean to… I just get so—fuck, I get so jealous, okay? Seeing you with him.” His voice cracked. “It’s stupid, I know. I had my chance and I blew it.”

You didn’t move.

Minho exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since you stopped him in his room earlier. “I never stopped… thinking about you. Wanting you. I just—I didn’t think you’d move on so fast. I thought—”

You turned your face away.

Not because of the rain, but because if he saw the look in your eyes, the shattered kind of pain that wasn’t for him anymore, he might have mistaken it for something it wasn’t.

You took a step forward. Then another. And another. You left him there, mid-confession, mid-apology, standing soaked in the rain the same way he left you once, heart full of regret but too late to matter. You didn’t run. But your pace was steady, determined, like if you kept moving you wouldn’t feel the ache still lodged in your chest.

Then you saw the car.

Parked crookedly near the edge of the road, windshield streaked with rain. Through the blurred glass, you saw him. Seungmin. Head leaned against the window, hair plastered to his forehead, shirt stuck to his back, face unreadable from this distance.

You climbed in slowly on the passenger side. You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just stared out the windshield like it held all the answers you both needed. He was soaked. Absolutely soaked. He hadn’t even tried to dry off like he hadn’t moved an inch since he left you standing on the beach.

You breathed out softly. “Seungmin…”

He turned slightly at the sound of your voice but didn’t say anything.

You were about to speak again when the back door clicked open and Minho climbed in soaked, cheeks flushed either from cold or from the sting of what had just happened. Tension filled the car like fog. Seungmin’s jaw tightened. His fingers flexed around the steering wheel, but still he said nothing. His knuckles whitened. You looked straight ahead.

The silence was suffocating. Wet clothes, soaked seats, fogged windows, pounding hearts. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed too loudly.

After what felt like hours, Seungmin finally spoke.

His voice was low. Careful. Measured. “We should go home.”

Your heart stuttered.

You nodded once, eyes still on the dashboard. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Okay.”

He didn’t glance at Minho. Didn’t ask if he was comfortable. He just reached forward, turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life. The headlights cut through the rain, and the car began to move slowly, smoothly, through the storm. Nobody said another word the entire way back. You sat in silence. Minho behind you.
Seungmin beside you.
And the space between all three of you louder than anything else.

It was the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled. Because the truth was already there, soaking into the fabric of the seats, clinging to your skin, and hanging in the air like a storm that wasn’t done yet.

-

The car rolled to a stop in front of his apartment building, headlights dimmed beneath the heavy rain still drizzling from the sky. You stared at the dashboard, silent, trying to find the words, any words that could fix what had just unraveled between the three of you.

Minho was the first to get out, not saying anything, not even a glance back. The door slammed shut behind him with finality. You both watched him limp inside, his figure disappearing behind the doors and into the building like he hadn’t just lit a match to everything that felt safe.

You turned to Seungmin. "Can we just—"

"I’ll drop you off at your place," he cut in, his voice low, flat, unreadable.

You swallowed, your throat tight. "Seungmin, please. Can you just… listen to me for a second?"

His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles pale. He didn’t look at you.

Then, slowly, he turned his head, and when your eyes met his, it wasn’t anger that hit you the hardest, it was the disappointment.

"Are you serious right now?" he asked, voice shaking, barely above a whisper. "After all of this?"

You blinked, heart in your throat. "I didn’t do anything wrong."

He laughed. Not a cruel laugh. A disbelieving one. The kind that came from someone who wasn’t sure whether to scream or walk away. "You didn’t do anything wrong? Are you actually saying that right now?"

You stiffened. "I—"

"You had so many chances," he snapped, cutting you off again, his voice rising. "So many chances to just tell me the truth. That you and Minho… that you used to—whatever that was. Hook up, talk, flirt, sleep together—I don’t even know anymore."

"We didn’t have a relationship," you said sharply, hands clenched in your lap. "I didn’t lie about that. It wasn’t a relationship, it was just—"

"A situationship, right?" he finished bitterly, eyes narrowing. "That makes it so much better."

You felt your chest cave in slightly. "It’s over. There’s nothing between us anymore, Seungmin. It’s done. It’s been done."

"Then why didn’t you tell me?"

You didn’t have an answer. Not one that would sound good enough. Not one that would sound like the truth. He stared ahead, breathing uneven. “Do you know why this feels worse?” he asked, his voice quieter now, raw.

You said nothing. Let him speak.

“It’s not because you and Minho had a thing,” he said. “I could’ve handled that. I really could have.”

You turned your face toward him, heart pounding, waiting for the blow.

“It’s because you didn’t tell me,” he continued. “You kept it from me. You acted like I was the only one with feelings in this—and now I feel like…” He swallowed hard. “I feel like I was just the safer option. Like you chose me because I wasn’t Minho. Because he didn’t want you… and I did.”

Your eyes stung.

“That’s not true,” you whispered.

He finally looked at you again. “Then why does it feel like I’m the rebound?”

You opened your mouth. But no words came.

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head like he hated himself for even needing to ask. “You should go inside.”

You didn’t move.

“I said go,” he repeated. But softer this time. A whisper, almost. Like even he couldn’t say it too loud.

So you opened the car door, still unsure of where things stood between you now. Your foot hit the pavement like it weighed a thousand pounds.

You hesitated, hand still on the door. “Seungmin…”

But he didn’t look at you. Just shifted the car back into drive.

You stood at the curb, watching the car pull away, red taillights disappearing into the distance. Gone, just like that. And for the second time that night, you were left in the rain. Except this time, it wasn’t Minho chasing after you. And it wasn’t about love lost.

-

You weren’t sure what emotions were simmering inside you grief, guilt, confusion, or all of them tangled together like knots you didn’t know how to untie. You’d cried yourself to sleep the night before, the image of Seungmin’s disappointed face imprinted behind your eyes. His words echoed over and over, louder than the rain that had soaked you through.

By morning, you woke up with a dry throat and swollen eyes. You laid there, staring at the ceiling, the early light of the day casting shadows across your walls. You held your phone in your hand for a long time. Long enough for the lock screen to dim, then light up again. Your thumb hovered over Seungmin’s name in your favorites.

You wanted to call. To beg. To apologize again, in a way that didn’t feel clumsy or too late. But the silence between you had weight to it, and something told you maybe you needed to give him space, maybe this time wasn’t about words, but about breath. Distance.

So instead, you cleaned.

You scrubbed your bathroom, washed your dishes, folded your laundry, vacuumed the rugs you’d been ignoring for weeks. You reorganized a cabinet that didn’t need organizing. And between each task, you’d stop, pick up your phone, and type a message to Seungmin.

Then delete it.

Then do it again.

"I’m sorry."
"Please talk to me."
"I didn’t mean to hurt you."
"I love you."

All of them felt wrong.

Just as you’d typed something halfway coherent, a knock on your door snapped you back to reality. Your heart jumped, ridiculously hopeful that maybe, just maybe, it was Seungmin. That he’d come to talk. That he’d forgive you.

But when you opened the door, it wasn’t him.

It was Minho. And your smile died before it even had the chance to live.

He didn’t wait for you to speak. He just brushed past you, holding a small grocery store cake in a clear plastic container, the kind with whipped frosting and bright fruit on top, your favorite.

He set it on the coffee table and sat on your couch like he’d done it a thousand times before. You stood there, arms crossed, confused, closed off.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you asked, voice tight.

He leaned back, letting out a long, tired sigh. “Are you gonna sit and eat, or should I just leave it here and go?”

You didn’t move. Not at first. You were torn between slamming the door and letting the cake speak for itself. But something about the way he looked, uncharacteristically quiet, hesitant made you stay. Minho had never been good at showing vulnerability. And yet, there he was, waiting, eyes on the table instead of you. You didn’t sit next to him. You sat at the far end of the couch, putting as much space between you as it would allow. He didn’t seem surprised. For a while, neither of you said anything.

Then, without looking at you, Minho said, “I overheard Seungmin talking to Jeongin on the phone.”

Your head whipped toward him. “What?”

“Last night. I couldn’t sleep,” he continued, his voice low. “He was talking about your fight. Sounded like he was really upset.”

Your chest ached at the thought of it. You hadn’t let yourself cry yet today, but his words almost shattered that fragile restraint.

“I figured you might be… feeling like shit,” he added.

You stayed quiet. Mostly because he was right.

He slid the cake toward you with a plastic fork. “So… I got you this.”

You blinked at the cake. Then at him.

“You really think sugar’s gonna fix this?”

“No,” he said, with the smallest smile. “But I figured if you were gonna cry, you might as well do it while eating your favorite cake.”

A tiny, unwilling laugh slipped from you. “That’s the dumbest logic I’ve ever heard.”

“Worked, though,” he said, eyes flicking toward your smile. “You laughed.”

You stood as if to get plates and a knife, but he shook his head. “Nah. Don’t bother. Just eat it like this.”

“Minho,” you said incredulously. “It’s a whole cake.”

“And it’s just for you.” He shrugged. “Live a little.”

You rolled your eyes, but then you dipped your fork into the corner and took a bite, soft whipped cream and fresh strawberry, just sweet enough to warm something small in your chest. You laughed again, for real this time. Minho beamed.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t pretending to be okay.

And for the first time in longer, Minho looked at you like he’d won something. Not a game. Not a fight. But your laugh. And he’d take it.

Even if, in the end, it wasn’t his to keep.

It was strange, how normal it felt. Minho in your living room, sitting on your couch like he hadn’t been a ghost for the last few months. Like his words hadn’t fractured something between you and Seungmin. Like he hadn’t once been someone you couldn’t get out of your system.

He stood up and looked around slowly, eyes scanning your apartment like he was reacquainting himself with a place he used to call familiar.

“Not much has changed,” he noted, voice casual.

You rolled your eyes and leaned against the kitchen counter. “It’s been four months, Minho. I didn’t gut the place and start over.”

He smirked. “Still. I thought you’d get rid of my energy in here.”

You smiled reluctantly, but it faded just as quick. You didn’t want him to think this was a walk down memory lane. It wasn’t. You weren’t those people anymore.

His eyes drifted toward your hallway wall, where a few framed photos were hung, sunsets, friends, a blurry selfie with Som and one newer addition. You hadn’t realized how obvious they were until he pointed at them.

“Wait,” Minho said, brows lifting as he moved closer. “Is that you? Like, baby you?”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh God.”

He was already walking over, peering closer.

You darted forward. “My mom sent those and guilt-tripped me into putting them up. I didn’t think anyone would actually—”

Minho gasped dramatically. “You were a bald baby?!”

“Give me that,” you said, rushing to tug the frame out of his hands. But he held it just out of reach, grinning. “You were so chubby. Oh my god. Look at your cheeks!”

You laughed, both horrified and amused, as you tried to snatch it from him. “Minho, stop—seriously.”

“No wonder you like sweets. You’ve been in training since birth.”

You finally managed to grab the frame from his hands, clutching it to your chest and glaring at him playfully. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best,” he countered easily.

You started to turn away, intending to return the photo to its spot, but as you moved, his hand caught your waist lightly, meant to be playful, maybe but it lingered. Just a second too long.

Not enough to be deliberate, but long enough that it made the air in the room shift.

You stiffened. He must have noticed, because he pulled away instantly and cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as he moved back toward the couch. The tension hovered like a thick fog. You didn’t say anything at first, heart thudding quietly in your chest. That touch soft, familiar, wrong threatened the fragile balance you were trying so hard to keep. He slumped back onto the couch, feigning nonchalance, though he didn’t quite meet your eyes.

You set the photo frame down gently on the kitchen island and crossed your arms. “You should stop straining yourself.”

Minho leaned back, sighing like he didn’t hear you. He lifted his leg onto your coffee table and let out a yawn so exaggerated it made you raise an eyebrow.

“I’m good,” he said. “I’m keeping you company.”

“Minho—”

“I know I messed things up,” he said, cutting you off quietly, still not looking at you. “But I like being around you. Even if it’s just like this.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Because part of you missed him too, not the way he made you feel confused or guilty, but the ease. The old familiarity. The version of him that existed before the heartbreak. But you also knew this wasn’t fair. Not to him, and definitely not to Seungmin. So you said nothing.

He took that silence as permission, sinking deeper into your couch, grabbing the TV remote like he belonged there. Like he hadn’t just shaken your world again.

You stood frozen for a moment longer, watching him as the TV flickered to life. You weren’t ready for this, whatever “this” was turning into. But for now, you let him stay. Maybe just for a little while longer. Because sometimes the quiet was easier than another goodbye.

-

The night deepened around you, shadows stretching across the apartment as the only light came from the muted flicker of the TV. Minho had gotten comfortable, too comfortable, his injured leg stretched out, his arm lazily draped over the back of the couch.

You sat at the far end, still clutching the fork he gave you with that ridiculous fruit cake. It sat between you now, half-eaten, frosting smudged on the container’s clear lid, and yet untouched since the last bite. Minho hadn’t said anything else for a while. Neither had you.

But the silence wasn’t quiet.

It hummed with unspoken memories. The kind that didn’t leave with time. The kind that lived in glances and ghost touches and laughs you used to share in this very room.

“I forgot how quiet you get when you’re overthinking,” Minho murmured suddenly, his voice low, soft.

You turned your head slowly to look at him. “I’m not overthinking.”

He smiled at you faintly, but his eyes didn’t hold the same smugness they usually did. Not tonight. “You’re always overthinking. Especially when it comes to me.”

You inhaled, sharp and shallow. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He shifted slightly toward you. “I’m not. Just stating facts.”

You laughed under your breath but it sounded tired. The kind of tired that didn’t come from lack of sleep, but from the weight of emotional whiplash you’d been feeling for days now.

Minho looked at you then, really looked. Like he hadn’t seen you in years even though you were right in front of him.

“Do you ever think about how things could’ve been different?” he asked, voice quieter now. “If I wasn’t so scared before.”

You didn’t answer at first. Your hand clenched the fork tighter.

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, eyes still on the TV. “You were scared. I moved on. That’s life.”

“But did you?” he asked gently.

That made you look at him.

He was closer now. You hadn’t realized when it happened, but he had shifted, his shoulder now only inches from yours. His eyes searched your face, not with hunger or lust, but longing.

Painful, unresolved, guilt-laced longing.

You swallowed. “I’m with Seungmin.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“Then why are you—”

“Because I had you first,” he said, bitterly. “And I ruined it. And now someone else gets the version of you I could’ve had if I just—if I hadn’t been such a coward.”

You opened your mouth, but he cut in again.

“You look at him the way I used to dream you’d look at me. You tell him things I never got to hear. You let him in.”

Your eyes burned, the truth of his words slicing through the guilt already nestled in your chest.

“I let you in, too,” you finally whispered. “You just didn’t want to stay.”

Minho leaned forward, forehead almost touching yours now.

“I want to stay now.”

You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was you. But suddenly his lips were on yours, soft and searching. And for a second, just one second, you let him. The kiss wasn’t heated. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow. Heavy with everything that hadn’t been said.

But it was also wrong.

You pulled back first, breath shaky, lips still tingling from the contact. You stared at him, wide-eyed, heart pounding against your ribs.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

He nodded, lips parted, forehead still close to yours. “I know.”

You pushed off the couch and stood up. You didn’t say anything as you grabbed the half eaten cake and walked it back into the kitchen. You needed space, air, clarity anything but that couch and the history that lived on it.

Behind you, Minho didn’t move. And for once, neither of you knew what came next.

//

masterlist

Domestic? No. Maybe. Yes.

With Seungmin, it starts quietly.

Softly.

Almost accidentally.

You’re backstage, touching up your lip gloss, when he appears behind you without warning like a judgmental Victorian ghost.

He doesn’t greet you.

Doesn’t even blink.

He just says, "Your eyeliner’s crooked," and reaches over your shoulder to fix it without permission.

"Hello to you too," you mutter.

"I’m saving you," he replies.

"From what?"

"Public humiliation."

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with the gentlest touch known to mankind, then instantly looks away like the contact physically wounded him.

"I’m leaving," he says.

He does not leave.

He sits on the couch, arms crossed, pretending he isn’t waiting for you to finish.

He even coughs loudly every time someone else walks near you, like staking territory through passive-aggressive respiratory claims.

When you’re finally done, he stands up like he’s been dismissed.

"Let’s go," he says.

"I didn’t ask you to come with me."

"You never ask."

You tell him, "You don’t need to walk me to the car."

So obviously, he walks you to the car.

Every. Single. Time.

"Oh look, you again," you tease.

"I was already heading this way," he lies.

"You were literally walking toward the cafeteria."

"I got lost."

"You've been working here for five years."

"You don’t know my sense of direction."

He opens the car door for you anyway.

Checks your seatbelt.

Tells your manager, "Don’t drive fast. She bruises easily."

"I do not."

"Psychologically, maybe."

But when you laugh, his eyes soften.

Just for a second.

Then he looks away so fast he practically injuries his neck.

𖹭

Your group members notice.

He brings your favorite drink.

He buys your favorite snack.

He leaves your favorite candy in the green room with a note that says

"Not for you" (but it's obviously for you).

Your leader cornered him backstage.

"Seungmin. Are you… into her?"

Seungmin laughs like he’s been accused of murder.

"Me? Like her? Be serious."

Then he walks over to you, fixes your collar, hands you your bottle, and whispers, "Drink water. You forget. Constantly."

Your leader stares like they’ve witnessed a wildlife documentary.

𖹭

One day, during a joint filming, a male idol approaches you.

Polite. Cute. Smiling way too much.

You’re talking with him when Seungmin spots it across the room.

His face goes blank.

Then tense.

Then murderous in a very quiet way.

Han walks by, sees him freezing like Windows XP, and asks, "Bro… are you overheating?"

"I’m fine," Seungmin says through clenched teeth.

Han points. "Then why are you staring like you're about to fight air?"

"I’m not."

"You’re crushing your water bottle."

"Strength training."

When the idol finishes talking to you and walks toward Seungmin, the temperature drops ten degrees.

"Hey Seungmin-ssi," the idol says. "Do you know if she’s dating anyone?"

Seungmin smiles.

A terrifying, cold, elegant smile.

"Oh, she’s definitely interested in someone," he says.

"Oh really? Who?"

"You wouldn’t know him. But he’s… the type she likes."

"Oh? What type is that?" The idol smirks. "Someone like you?"

Without hesitation, Seungmin replies:

"Yeah. Exactly me. She’s mine."

The idol blinks like his soul just blue-screened.

Seungmin, walking away, pats him on the shoulder. "Good talk."

And Bangchan, who was like three meters away pretending not to eavesdrop, walks over immediately grabbing Seungmin to a private space.

"Seungmin. You just said she's yours."

"No I didn’t."

"I HEARD IT."

"You mishear."

"SEUNGMIN."

"I need to rehearse."

He turns to leave.

Chan grabs the back of his hoodie.

"Tell me the truth. Do you like her?"

Seungmin freezes.

Five seconds of pure silence.

Then:

"...yes."

It’s so soft Chan almost doesn’t hear it.

"THEN TELL HER!" Chan shouts.

"No."

"Why!?"

"Because she’s annoying."

"You stare at her like she controls the moon."

"Coincidence."

"You walked her to her dorm at 1 a.m. last night."

"Safety."

"You bought her favorite snack after she said one time she liked it."

"I was hungry too."

"You held her bag for TWO HOURS during soundcheck."

"You're not the only one strong, you know?."

"Kim Seungmin, I swear—"

Seungmin sighs, cheeks burning.

"Fine. I like her. A lot. Happy?"

Chan beams. "Ecstatic."

Seungmin hisses and runs away.

𖹭

You two received the title of "the bickering couple."

Because the more he likes you,

the more he complains.

"You put too much blush."

"You walk too slow."

"You talk too much."

"You smile too much."

"You breathe too dramatic."

And yet:

He drapes his jacket over your shoulders.

He stands behind you when it’s cold.

He buys your iced coffee before you even ask.

He untangles your necklace without being asked.

He keeps extra hair ties in his pocket "for emergencies."

Your emergencies.

One day, you accidentally fall asleep on the waiting room couch.

You wake up covered with his jacket.

And a cup of warm tea on the table.

When you open your eyes, he’s sitting on the floor next to you, scrolling his phone.

"Did you… stay here?" you ask.

He shrugs. "You drool when you sleep. Someone had to supervise."

"Did I actually drool?"

"No. I just didn’t want to leave."

Your heart does a full gymnastics routine.

He pretends he didn’t hear it.

𖹭

Later that night, your group is getting ready to leave.

You’re packing your clothes when he appears at your side.

"I’ll carry it," he says.

"I can carry my own stuff."

"I know. But watching you struggle is painful."

You laugh. "You’re being nice."

"No, never, I'm not."

He takes your bag anyway.

As you’re walking toward the exit, you bump shoulders.

He doesn’t move away.

Instead, he shifts slightly closer.

"Seungmin," you say softly. "Why do you do all this?"

He swallows.

Looks away.

"Not your business, shorty," he mutters.

But his ears turn pink.

His fingers brush yours.

The stadium is sweltering hot, the crowd is screeching between innings, and if one more guy spills beer on you, you might actually lose it. You usually love baseball games, and have so much fun shouting for your favorite team and eyeballing the hot players in their tight pants. Usually.

Maybe you just haven’t had enough to drink. There’s no reason you shouldn’t be having fun with your friends, leaning into them and whispering about the game, or more commonly, the players you have a massive crush on.

Or maybe you’re sitting there thinking about your date from last night, the guy who talked way too much and didn’t ask a single question about you. You didn’t even want to go, he was a friend of a friend, and you owed her a favor, and he was kind of cute, so you figured, why not? Big mistake.

You haven’t sworn off dating, but your recent string of bad dates has become particularly exhausting. You love your friends, but there’s a part of you that wants to go to these games with somebody else. A partner. Preferably in a romantic capacity. 

There’s a group of guys on the right of you, and Mina keeps leaning forward, trying to make jokes with them. They laugh and joke back, and you try your best to laugh and play along. You catch a few of their faces when you glance over, and Jesus fuck, they’re all good-looking.

Your friends are on the other side of you, definitely drunk, and having the time of their lives. You resort to actually watching the game, trying to focus on something to drown out the chaos around you. A batter on the other team strikes out, so terribly that you almost feel bad for them.

“Ouch…that’s embarrassing," you mutter under your breath.

“It’s one strikeout,” a voice from next to you says, almost annoyed. “There’s plenty of game left to play.”

You whip your head to see the man sitting next to you, smirking as he sips his beer. There’s a Giants hat on his head, which makes you laugh. They’re losing pretty badly right now.

“Giants fan?” you ask, as if it isn’t obvious.

“I take it you’re not,” he observes.

“I don’t really have a favorite,” you say honestly. “But there’s at least 5 more teams I’d pick before the Giants.”

He scoffs at that, but you catch a faint hint of a smile as he turns back to watch the game. He’s really, really handsome. You turn to your friends to hide your smile as you sip your drink. 

You make snide comments as the game goes on, and he dishes them right back at you. One of the players on your team drops a ball, and you let out a groan.

“That’s your guy?” the man whispers next to you. 

“Hush,” you say back, because it’s the only thing you can think of without making prolonged eye contact and stuttering over your words. You try to hide your smirk but can’t deny the flirty edge that the conversation has. 

You’re only half listening to Sana drone on about how she hates her new boss when the giant screen above you flashes pink. Bold words appear on screen.

KISS CAM.

The camera bounces around from couple to couple, a series of cheers echoing throughout the crowd. Sometimes it’s cute, like when the people on screen are obviously dating, but half the time it looks so awkward when random strangers pucker up just because of a little attention from the camera.

It takes a second to register when your face pops up on the screen.

Your face. And the man next to you. The man you met today, the man whose name you don’t even know.

“Do it!” you hear your friends laughing beside you, egging you on.

You turn and see his friends doing the same, patting him on the back and hollering at him. You make eye contact with him and can’t help but laugh. 

You give him a shrug. “Why not?” you say. It’s harmless. Plus, he’s stupid hot, and you’d be dumb to turn down a kiss from a hot stranger, even if it is in front of thousands of people.

“Ah, what the hell.” He sighs, smiling, and leans forward.

Your lips connect, and you hear the crowd erupt around you. You feel the sound vibrate through your seat more than you can hear it. His lips are so warm and soft, and everything fades away for a moment. It’s tender, surprisingly so. 

You break the kiss first after a few seconds. Four seconds? Or ten? You lost count, honestly. You pull back in time to see his eyes flutter open. He smiles at you, warm and genuine. God, he is really handsome.

The crackle of the announcer over the loudspeakers catches your attention, and you remember where you are all at once. You feel your chest tighten, suddenly very aware of what had just transpired.

“I’m Seungmin,” he says, and you snap out of the panic you were about to enter. 

You introduce yourself. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“That’s one hell of an icebreaker,” he jokes. You both laugh, turning your eyes towards the field before the embarrassment sets in again.

You find it increasingly hard to keep your eyes off Seungmin as the game continues. He bumps your elbow every time he leaps out of his seat to cheer on his team, and you have to pretend you don’t notice. You smell his cologne when he leans in too close to make a snide comment, and you have to roll your eyes to avoid making eye contact with him. Trying to act cool, like he doesn’t do anything to you, is pure torture.

The game ends 6-5. You didn’t pay too much attention to the score, just enough to tease Seungmin when the Giants slipped behind. It didn’t matter though, they ended up pulling through and winning tonight.

“I never doubted them for a second,” he says smugly.

“You probably should have,” you say back, laughing.

Your friends get up to leave, and you turn to follow them, collecting your empty drink cup as you walk out. Just then, you feel a tug on your wrist.

“Wait! Uh…can I get your number?” Seungmin asks, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Your eyes light up as you look back at him and nod. The two of you exchange numbers, ignoring the way both of your friend groups snicker and tease behind you, before going your separate ways. 

The whole walk back to the train, your friends talk about the day, their plans, and their lives, but you’re not really listening. It’s hard to when your mind is full of the handsome stranger you’d just met minutes ago. And you especially can’t stop thinking about the kiss.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Mina says, nudging your shoulder. 

You shrug your shoulders and turn to stare out the window. “Just tired. We had a long day.”

She doesn’t buy it, leaning closer into your space to get a better look at your face.

“Are you thinking about the Giants guy?” she says, definitely teasing you. You shoot her a glare and roll your eyes, but you feel your face grow warm and hope it doesn’t show.

You get home, you shower, eat some leftover pasta that’s been marinating in your fridge, and collapse into bed. By this point, you’ve mostly convinced yourself that today was a one-off. A funny story to bring up at dinner. “Remember that one time…” your friends will say. That’s just what happens. You meet someone fun at an event, and then life takes over.

But as soon as your head hits the pillow, your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Unknown: giants won btw. in case you needed a reminder.

You roll your eyes before saving the contact and typing a reply, smiling to yourself like an idiot.

You: a whole text JUST to brag? Seungmin: just making sure you knew Y: I was THERE S: yeah but did you watch or were you distracted Y: no idea what you’re talking about S: mhm… Y: congrats on the win, don’t let it get to your head!

You find yourself checking your phone more than you’d like to admit over the next few days. Your heart skips a beat every time you get a notification on your phone. Sometimes, he says good morning and asks about your day. Sometimes he just sends a dumb meme with absolutely no context. Or provides commentary for whatever game is on that night. 

Today’s message from him starts differently than usual.

Seungmin: hypothetically You: hypothetically… S: if I needed a date for a wedding Y: okay… S: would you go with me? Y: what’s in it for me? S: you get to feel REALLY GOOD about yourself for doing a favor for little old me S: and a free trip to Jeju…

Your eyes go wide at that.

Y: it’s in JEJU!? S: yeah my cousin’s loaded or something Y: hypothetically it would be a yes S: okay great! S: another hypothetical… Y: mhm S: ….i told my mom i was bringing my girlfriend? Y: you have a girlfriend? S: NO no no i don’t have a girlfriend, that’s the problem Y: i see… S: so uh would you also hypothetically pretend to be my girlfriend? Y: you can’t tell your mom you were lying? S: it’s…complicated. i’d rather not be lectured or have her try and set me up with all of the bridesmaids

You’d also prefer that, but you don’t mention it.

Y: hmm…hypothetically one weekend wouldn’t kill me S: oh my god you’re a lifesaver Y: hypothetically? S: super not hypothetically. very realistically actually Y: okay fine. when is it? S: next weekend Y: you’re good at planning things S: please? Y: if i say yes too fast does it make me look like a loser for not having any plans already S: if you say yes too fast it makes you look like an absolute saint for saving my ass Y: would you look at that! i’m free

You close your eyes, excited for the upcoming weekend. But not too excited. That would be too obvious.

The airport is crowded and much too noisy for this early in the morning. Seungmin finds you easily, waving you down by the check-in counters. He’s taller than you remembered, cleaned up nicely, but definitely sleepy.

“Hi, stranger,” you say as you walk up to him. He greets you with a sleepy smile, and you notice how cute he looks bundled up in a hoodie and his tousled hair.

“Ready to lie to my whole family?” he says, laughing, like he can’t believe he’s about to do exactly that.

To be honest, you’re not sure. You hardly know this man, but if there’s a chance you continue seeing him, the last thing you want to do is put on a false persona or lie about your guys’ history.

By the time you settled into your seats, Seungmin insisted on getting the window seat, and you had a couple of hours to get your story straight.

“How long have we been dating?” you ask as the plane steadies after takeoff. 

“Sorry?”

“In your hypothetical world that you told your family about. How long have we been together? Where did we meet? We need to get our story straight!”

“Ahh okay. So, we’ve been together four months.”

“Specific, believable, I like it. How did we meet?”

“The truth. Baseball game kiss cam. I literally couldn’t make it up if I tried,” he laughs.

“Okay, fair.”

You talk about his family and what to expect for the rest of the flight. Every family has its drama, quirky relatives, and secrets. The flight wasn’t long enough to cover everything, but you feel confident you know who to avoid and who’s safe to talk to.

The plane lands, and you find yourself hoping they like you. Hoping that after all this, Seungmin still likes you too.

The hotel is massive, spewing bright neutral colors and modern accents. You’re still marveling at the lobby, looking at the ginormous chandelier above you, when Seungmin waves a keycard in front of your face.

“C’mon, I want to shower before dinner.”

And the room is just as nice as the lobby. It’s large, with a balcony facing the ocean attached. You’re high up enough where the noise from the street won’t bother you when you try to sleep, which you’re grateful for. The giant king bed sits in the center, surrounded by beautiful artwork.

Giant king bed.

One bed. Singular.

You set your stuff down, frowning at the arrangement. “It’s a little soon to share a bed, don’t you think?” You try to come off as playful, but your heart is beating faster at the thought of sleeping next to a man you hardly know.

“I know, I’m sorry. I should’ve mentioned that.” His apology is sincere, and you can tell this weekend is already stressing him out.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m just joking. I guess they wouldn’t really have believed us if you asked for separate rooms anyway, right?”

He relaxes his shoulders at your comment, nodding in agreement and putting down his stuff. He disappears into the bathroom, and you take the time to flop down onto the bed.

Everything’s going to be fine. People share beds all the time. Sana has slept in your bed more times than you can count after a night out, and you’re perfectly fine with her crowding your space or snoring in your ear.

You’re still thinking about a thousand different ways this weekend could go wrong when Seungmin comes out of the bathroom, showered and dressed. 

“We have a couple of hours to kill. Wanna go for a walk?”

And so you slip your shoes back on and head back down to the lobby.

The fresh air feels nice and warm with a hint of sea salt. The two of you make your way down to the beach and start to walk along the shoreline. Seungmin kicks off his shoes and rolls up his pantlegs before heading closer to the water.

You follow suit, slipping off your sandals and skipping towards the water. You flick a bit of water up with your toes, and it lands on him.

“Hey!” he shouts, laughing, flicking it back at you. You squeal and run, holding your pants up to keep from dragging them through the water.

The wet sand sticks to your feet as you pretend to run, only getting a couple of yards away before two arms wrap around you to stop you in your tracks. Your shrieks turn into laughter as you twist in his grip, trying to get away. Your feet kick in the air as he lifts you a couple of inches off the ground. 

“Put me down!” you cry out. He carries you a couple of steps before putting you down. You playfully push him, both of you still laughing. You notice the wrinkles around his eyes as he smiles, and your heart swells with joy. Just joking around like this just feels so comfortable with him. 

The two of you keep walking down the beach, commenting on the beautiful view or the temperature of the water.

“Thank you for coming,” he says after a while. “I know it’s weird and we barely know each other and—”

“Seungmin.”

“Uh…yeah?”

“Hush. I’m having fun.”

He nods, shoving his hands in his pockets and keeps walking, and you watch his worried face disappear into a smile.

The sun starts to set before he suggests you head back to change into clothes for dinner. You agree, and he loosely wraps his arm around you as you walk back to the hotel.

The rehearsal dinner is held in a banquet room just off the hotel’s main lobby. The room is draped in white fabric and well lit, the kind of setup that would cost at least three or four times your rent. You hardly have any time to admire it before you’re shuffled through conversations, meeting Seungmin’s relatives.

“This is my girlfriend,” he says about a dozen times before you have to remind yourself that that’s not actually true. You feel your heart flutter every time a relative comments on how cute the two of you are, though.

His aunt whispers something in his ear that makes his ears go red. His uncle tries to get the two of you to take shots with him before Seungmin eventually whisks you away from the conversation.

There are a few toasts, most of which drone on forever, with Seungmin fidgeting in his seat. You want to ask if he’s okay, but you have a feeling that he isn’t up to talking about whatever family-related issues are causing his stress.

“Almost done, I promise,” he says low in your ear as he guides you to what you’re hoping is the last group of people.

There’s a woman in a long white dress, not quite a wedding dress, standing at the front of the room towards the podium, accompanied by a tall man in a suit. You’re guessing the bride and groom.

“Seungmin!” The bride says warmly. “I’m so glad you came!”

“Hi, Yuri. Congratulations.” His voice is flatter than you’ve ever heard it before.

“Cousin!” his cousin exclaims as he pats him on the back. Seungmin introduces him as Jiho, his mother’s sister’s son.

“You must be the girlfriend! I’ve heard about you,” Yuri says. She flicks her eyes up and down, as if she’s assessing you. You’ve gotten it from most of his family members, but she’s been the most obvious one to do it tonight. Probably bride confidence, or one too many glasses of champagne.

“All good things, I hope,” you say, sipping on your glass of wine.

“We’ll let you get back to it,” Seungmin says quickly, leaving you almost no time to wish them a good evening before he guides you out of the room and to the elevators.

“Are you okay?” you ask. He’s noticeably stiffer, adjusting his clothes like they’re too uncomfortable now.

He makes eye contact with you and seems to realize that he’s sending a million different distress signals. “I’m fine, sorry. It’s just family stuff.”

You nod your head in understanding, not wanting to push it further. The elevator dings and you step into it, feeling the warmth of his hand on the small of your back.

“Do you think they suspected anything?” you ask as he unlocks the door to your room, trying to be lighthearted.

“Never, you did perfect,” he says, with a genuine smile you haven’t seen since earlier on the beach.

You sit on the bed, letting Seungmin use the bathroom to shower and change into pajamas first. This is possibly the strangest first date you’ve ever been on, if you can even call it that. You text your friends back, updating them on the day, and lock your phone before they can barrage you with questions you don’t feel like answering.

“All yours,” he says, stepping out of the steamy bathroom. He’s drying his damp hair with a towel, fully in his pjs, but he looks so handsome like this. You stop yourself from staring too hard before you take your turn getting unready from the day.

By the time you come out of the bathroom, Seungmin’s not in the room. You notice the balcony door is slightly open and see a figure standing outside, leaning against the rail. You slide the glass door open and join him outside.

“All good out here?” you ask.

“Yeah, just…thinking.”

“About?”

“I’m really glad you came with me.” He turns to look at you, sincerity written all over his face. He gently grabs your arm and pulls you in for a hug.

He smells so nice. You get a whiff of his shampoo mixed with his laundry detergent, but then catch something else underneath it all. It’s just Seungmin. A man you hardly know who has managed to weave his way through your every thought in just a few weeks.

You pull back a moment, offering a smile, and he tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear. Your pulse quickens, the way it always does when he looks at you like that. 

“Can I…?” he starts, tipping his head down slightly, and you know what he’s asking.

You answer by closing the gap yourself.

It’s soft, much softer than the first. There’s no crowd counting down, no friends drunkenly cheering you on–just you and Seungmin, under the moonlight in a quiet moment. He wraps one arm around you to pull you tight against him, and you snake your hands around his neck to ground yourself. The ocean’s waves crash in the background faintly, and you feel the nerves from before fall away. It’s more comfortable than you were expecting, not that you were expecting anything.

When he finally pulls back, he keeps his forehead against yours. If he loosens his grip on you, you might fall over. You hope he doesn’t.

“Ready to lie to more people tomorrow?” he laughs sheepishly.

You laugh, kissing him again in response. If there’s something still unsaid between you, it can wait until tomorrow.

The morning is a bit of a blur. You get dressed and make your way over to the venue, a beautiful building that seems like it was made just for weddings. Seungmin is antsy the whole time, holding your hand through it all like letting go would mean certain death. The ceremony is beautiful, and you sit right beside him through it all. It’s been a lovely weekend being a plus one at a wedding for people you just met yesterday.

At the reception, you’re standing near the edge of the dance floor waiting for Seungmin to come back from the bar when Yuri comes over to you.

“Hi!” she says brightly.

“Congratulations again,” you say. “The ceremony was beautiful.” “Thank you so much.” She glances around, maybe looking for someone. “It must be so weird for you to be here.”

“Yeah, maybe a little,” you shrug. “I don’t know many people, but Seungmin’s been the best at introducing me to everyone.”

She takes a sip of her champagne. “You’re brave for showing up to your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend’s wedding. I don’t know if I’d be able to handle it.”

Her voice replays in your head. Your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend's wedding.

Your head tilts sideways, and your heart sinks to the floor. Maybe you misunderstood her. “Sorry, what?”

Yuri’s face flickers with surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry. He must not have told you…”

Your heart feels like it’s going to fall out of your ass. You excuse yourself, setting your glass on the nearest surface and high-tailing it out of there. You pass the bar on the way and catch Seungmin’s surprised face when you don’t stop.

The elevator doors close, and you realize how fast your heart is beating. Who cares if the bride is his ex-girlfriend? You certainly don’t have room to be jealous, he isn’t actually yours to be jealous over. Still, it would have been nice to get a heads-up.

You throw your shoes off when you get into the room and head straight for the balcony. Your stomach starts brewing something nasty, and you feel like you might throw up if you don’t get your breathing under control soon. The breeze feels nice against your face, and the ocean serves as calming white noise as you take deep breaths.

The balcony door opens behind you, and you hear slow footsteps behind you. You don’t turn around.

“You could have told me,” you say, trying not to cry.

“I know,” Seungmin says as he approaches the railing next to you. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? Why are you even here?”

“I’m here for my cousin, and my mother would have thrown a fit if I didn’t come.” You scoff. “But still, I should have told you. I just didn’t know how.”

You stay silent for a moment. “I get why you didn’t.” The words surprise you as they come out of your mouth. But it’s the truth. You do get it. “It still would’ve been nice to know.” “That’s fair. I really am sorry.”

You both fall quiet for a moment before you break the silence again. “She’s marrying your cousin?”

He laughs for a moment and nods his head. “Yeah. Like I said, family drama.”

“I’m really sorry, that’s a lot to handle.”

“It’s fine. It was years ago. We dated in college, they got together after we broke up. I’m pretty sure there was some overlap, but it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Do you…,” you start to ask a question, but hesitate. You’re not afraid of the answer, per se. You’re afraid of the insecure girl bottled up deep inside, afraid that revealing her means showing your true feelings. Leaving everything out in the open, vulnerable. 

“Do you still love her?”

“No.” He answers quickly and without hesitation. It eases the butterflies in your stomach, but now he knows. He knows that you’d been thinking about it, that you care. 

You nod slowly, accepting his answer. He takes a step closer, grabbing a hold of your hand as it dangles by your side. The air on the balcony shifts as he takes a step closer, dragging his hand up your arm before resting it on your cheek.

“Let me show you.” It’s a request that you gladly accept with a nod as he leans in to kiss you. It’s gentle yet passionate, showing you he means what he says. 

He walks you backwards back into the hotel room, sliding the glass door behind you as he guides you back into the room. The lamp lights are on, and your shawl and heels are kicked to the corner as you try not to trip on them. The fan humming does little to mask the noise of your heavy breathing between kisses.

Seungmin’s hands are everywhere. Cupping your face, sliding down your neck, gripping your waist, making good on his word. He kisses you deeper, tongue sliding against yours as he backs you further into the room.

He guides you down gently on the bed, and you can feel how hard he is through his dress pants. It makes the heat between your thighs grow, your mind suddenly filled with nothing but want. He snakes a hand behind you to unzip your dress and pull it down.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he says, kissing down your body. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it before. I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

You’re left in your lace bra and panties, and his mouth comes down hot against your body as he leaves open-mouthed kisses all the way down. His hands cup your breasts, and you let out a moan when his thumbs brush against your nipples.

“Seungmin, please,” you breathe out as you pull him closer.

He unhooks your bra and drops it to the floor. His mouth closes around your nipple, sucking and flicking his tongue around it. You tug at his hair in response, basking in the feeling.

Your hands fight with his shirt buttons as he crawls back up your body to kiss you again. He takes off his dress shirt and peels off his undershirt, exposing his lean torso. He looks so hot all disheveled like this.

You reach for his pants next. “Off,” you demand. He sheds the rest of his clothes quickly, cock springing free. It’s hard and bright red, already glistening at the tip. You reach down between you to give him a couple of strokes, and he lets out a deep moan at your touch.

He hooks his fingers into your panties and rips them off next, grabbing at your thighs to spread them wide. You’re soaked, you can feel it. He stares in awe.

“So fucking perfect,” he mutters before situating himself between your thighs.

He places a kiss on your inner thigh before dipping between your folds, licking at your entrance. He works his way around your sopping cunt, and you feel the heat in your belly grow.

“Fuck, that feels so good,” you moan as he moves to pay attention to your clit.

He hums against you in response, sending shockwaves through your whole body. He finds a rhythm that makes your head spin and your muscles tighten as you head barreling towards your peak.

“I’m gonna—fuck, Seungmin!” You cry out, hips bucking and shaking against him as you come in his mouth. Your body is trembling, and he slowly works you through your orgasm.

You pull him back up once your body stops shaking and taste yourself on his lips. You kiss him sloppily, not bothering to stop for a breath. “Need you, right now.”

He positions himself at your entrance, pausing for a breath. “Ready?” he asks. You nod, feeling like you’re going to explode if he waits another second.

He pushes in slowly, keeping eye contact with you the entire time. You feel the stretch inch by inch, feeling so perfectly full as he bottoms out. He drops his forehead against yours when he’s fully buried inside you.

“I could stay here all fucking night,” he moans. “You feel so fucking good already.”

“Seungmin, please move.”

He starts with slow, steady thrusts that quickly turn rough and passionate. The bed creaks below you in time with his movements. You wrap his legs around him, making him hit deep inside. You let your nails rake at his back, and he lets out a deep moan.

As soon as he angles his hips and hits the sensitive spot inside you, you’re seeing stars. His movements quicken, and the room is filled with the slapping of skin against skin. You feel the heat come back, about to bubble over once again.

One of his hands slips between you, thumb making circles around your clit in time with his thrusts. You feel your body squeeze around him, cunt pulsing, and your vision whites out.

“Holy shit, Seungmin!” you cry out his name over and over as he fucks you through another orgasm.

He follows moments later, the feeling of you clenching around his cock throwing him into his own orgasm. His hips stutter as he buries himself deep inside you, choking out your name as he comes. He collapses over you, and both of you try to catch your breath.

After a minute, he rolls over next to you and pulls you close, tracing circles on your back. Your skin is slick with sweat, and you feel sticky, but it all feels so right.

“Please stay,” he whispers against your hair. “After this weekend. I want to take you out. Properly.”

You nuzzle your face deeper into the crook of his neck. The balcony door is still cracked open, letting in a gentle breeze that cools your warm skin.

“I’d like that,” you say, looking up to give him a gentle kiss. 

It may have been a weird weekend, but you have no regrets. Not when it brought you here, on an island in the middle of the ocean, in the arms of a ridiculously dorky, handsome man.

a/n: thank you all so much for your support! sorry again if this feels rushed, i had so much fun writing it i've just been SO busy!!

permanent taglist: @11racha @jisuperboard @kloversung @sourtae @binniebb @b4echo @hanjinology @eyyyylucieeee @bbyyuuu @viisstrayy @starlostjisung @stryscribbles @miniseungkimcami @embobema @sssoulesss @awkwardlyshawna @fuzzylard @0omillo0 @jup-exe @jaziona92 @cassie264 @chikmentendies @inlovewithstraykids

The stadium is sweltering hot, the crowd is screeching between innings, and if one more guy spills beer on you, you might actually lose it. You usually love baseball games, and have so much fun shouting for your favorite team and eyeballing the hot players in their tight pants. Usually.

Maybe you just haven’t had enough to drink. There’s no reason you shouldn’t be having fun with your friends, leaning into them and whispering about the game, or more commonly, the players you have a massive crush on.

Or maybe you’re sitting there thinking about your date from last night, the guy who talked way too much and didn’t ask a single question about you. You didn’t even want to go, he was a friend of a friend, and you owed her a favor, and he was kind of cute, so you figured, why not? Big mistake.

You haven’t sworn off dating, but your recent string of bad dates has become particularly exhausting. You love your friends, but there’s a part of you that wants to go to these games with somebody else. A partner. Preferably in a romantic capacity. 

There’s a group of guys on the right of you, and Mina keeps leaning forward, trying to make jokes with them. They laugh and joke back, and you try your best to laugh and play along. You catch a few of their faces when you glance over, and Jesus fuck, they’re all good-looking.

Your friends are on the other side of you, definitely drunk, and having the time of their lives. You resort to actually watching the game, trying to focus on something to drown out the chaos around you. A batter on the other team strikes out, so terribly that you almost feel bad for them.

“Ouch…that’s embarrassing," you mutter under your breath.

“It’s one strikeout,” a voice from next to you says, almost annoyed. “There’s plenty of game left to play.”

You whip your head to see the man sitting next to you, smirking as he sips his beer. There’s a Giants hat on his head, which makes you laugh. They’re losing pretty badly right now.

“Giants fan?” you ask, as if it isn’t obvious.

“I take it you’re not,” he observes.

“I don’t really have a favorite,” you say honestly. “But there’s at least 5 more teams I’d pick before the Giants.”

He scoffs at that, but you catch a faint hint of a smile as he turns back to watch the game. He’s really, really handsome. You turn to your friends to hide your smile as you sip your drink. 

You make snide comments as the game goes on, and he dishes them right back at you. One of the players on your team drops a ball, and you let out a groan.

“That’s your guy?” the man whispers next to you. 

“Hush,” you say back, because it’s the only thing you can think of without making prolonged eye contact and stuttering over your words. You try to hide your smirk but can’t deny the flirty edge that the conversation has. 

You’re only half listening to Sana drone on about how she hates her new boss when the giant screen above you flashes pink. Bold words appear on screen.

KISS CAM.

The camera bounces around from couple to couple, a series of cheers echoing throughout the crowd. Sometimes it’s cute, like when the people on screen are obviously dating, but half the time it looks so awkward when random strangers pucker up just because of a little attention from the camera.

It takes a second to register when your face pops up on the screen.

Your face. And the man next to you. The man you met today, the man whose name you don’t even know.

“Do it!” you hear your friends laughing beside you, egging you on.

You turn and see his friends doing the same, patting him on the back and hollering at him. You make eye contact with him and can’t help but laugh. 

You give him a shrug. “Why not?” you say. It’s harmless. Plus, he’s stupid hot, and you’d be dumb to turn down a kiss from a hot stranger, even if it is in front of thousands of people.

“Ah, what the hell.” He sighs, smiling, and leans forward.

Your lips connect, and you hear the crowd erupt around you. You feel the sound vibrate through your seat more than you can hear it. His lips are so warm and soft, and everything fades away for a moment. It’s tender, surprisingly so. 

You break the kiss first after a few seconds. Four seconds? Or ten? You lost count, honestly. You pull back in time to see his eyes flutter open. He smiles at you, warm and genuine. God, he is really handsome.

The crackle of the announcer over the loudspeakers catches your attention, and you remember where you are all at once. You feel your chest tighten, suddenly very aware of what had just transpired.

“I’m Seungmin,” he says, and you snap out of the panic you were about to enter. 

You introduce yourself. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“That’s one hell of an icebreaker,” he jokes. You both laugh, turning your eyes towards the field before the embarrassment sets in again.

You find it increasingly hard to keep your eyes off Seungmin as the game continues. He bumps your elbow every time he leaps out of his seat to cheer on his team, and you have to pretend you don’t notice. You smell his cologne when he leans in too close to make a snide comment, and you have to roll your eyes to avoid making eye contact with him. Trying to act cool, like he doesn’t do anything to you, is pure torture.

The game ends 6-5. You didn’t pay too much attention to the score, just enough to tease Seungmin when the Giants slipped behind. It didn’t matter though, they ended up pulling through and winning tonight.

“I never doubted them for a second,” he says smugly.

“You probably should have,” you say back, laughing.

Your friends get up to leave, and you turn to follow them, collecting your empty drink cup as you walk out. Just then, you feel a tug on your wrist.

“Wait! Uh…can I get your number?” Seungmin asks, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Your eyes light up as you look back at him and nod. The two of you exchange numbers, ignoring the way both of your friend groups snicker and tease behind you, before going your separate ways. 

The whole walk back to the train, your friends talk about the day, their plans, and their lives, but you’re not really listening. It’s hard to when your mind is full of the handsome stranger you’d just met minutes ago. And you especially can’t stop thinking about the kiss.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Mina says, nudging your shoulder. 

You shrug your shoulders and turn to stare out the window. “Just tired. We had a long day.”

She doesn’t buy it, leaning closer into your space to get a better look at your face.

“Are you thinking about the Giants guy?” she says, definitely teasing you. You shoot her a glare and roll your eyes, but you feel your face grow warm and hope it doesn’t show.

You get home, you shower, eat some leftover pasta that’s been marinating in your fridge, and collapse into bed. By this point, you’ve mostly convinced yourself that today was a one-off. A funny story to bring up at dinner. “Remember that one time…” your friends will say. That’s just what happens. You meet someone fun at an event, and then life takes over.

But as soon as your head hits the pillow, your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Unknown: giants won btw. in case you needed a reminder.

You roll your eyes before saving the contact and typing a reply, smiling to yourself like an idiot.

You: a whole text JUST to brag? Seungmin: just making sure you knew Y: I was THERE S: yeah but did you watch or were you distracted Y: no idea what you’re talking about S: mhm… Y: congrats on the win, don’t let it get to your head!

You find yourself checking your phone more than you’d like to admit over the next few days. Your heart skips a beat every time you get a notification on your phone. Sometimes, he says good morning and asks about your day. Sometimes he just sends a dumb meme with absolutely no context. Or provides commentary for whatever game is on that night. 

Today’s message from him starts differently than usual.

Seungmin: hypothetically You: hypothetically… S: if I needed a date for a wedding Y: okay… S: would you go with me? Y: what’s in it for me? S: you get to feel REALLY GOOD about yourself for doing a favor for little old me S: and a free trip to Jeju…

Your eyes go wide at that.

Y: it’s in JEJU!? S: yeah my cousin’s loaded or something Y: hypothetically it would be a yes S: okay great! S: another hypothetical… Y: mhm S: ….i told my mom i was bringing my girlfriend? Y: you have a girlfriend? S: NO no no i don’t have a girlfriend, that’s the problem Y: i see… S: so uh would you also hypothetically pretend to be my girlfriend? Y: you can’t tell your mom you were lying? S: it’s…complicated. i’d rather not be lectured or have her try and set me up with all of the bridesmaids

You’d also prefer that, but you don’t mention it.

Y: hmm…hypothetically one weekend wouldn’t kill me S: oh my god you’re a lifesaver Y: hypothetically? S: super not hypothetically. very realistically actually Y: okay fine. when is it? S: next weekend Y: you’re good at planning things S: please? Y: if i say yes too fast does it make me look like a loser for not having any plans already S: if you say yes too fast it makes you look like an absolute saint for saving my ass Y: would you look at that! i’m free

You close your eyes, excited for the upcoming weekend. But not too excited. That would be too obvious.

The airport is crowded and much too noisy for this early in the morning. Seungmin finds you easily, waving you down by the check-in counters. He’s taller than you remembered, cleaned up nicely, but definitely sleepy.

“Hi, stranger,” you say as you walk up to him. He greets you with a sleepy smile, and you notice how cute he looks bundled up in a hoodie and his tousled hair.

“Ready to lie to my whole family?” he says, laughing, like he can’t believe he’s about to do exactly that.

To be honest, you’re not sure. You hardly know this man, but if there’s a chance you continue seeing him, the last thing you want to do is put on a false persona or lie about your guys’ history.

By the time you settled into your seats, Seungmin insisted on getting the window seat, and you had a couple of hours to get your story straight.

“How long have we been dating?” you ask as the plane steadies after takeoff. 

“Sorry?”

“In your hypothetical world that you told your family about. How long have we been together? Where did we meet? We need to get our story straight!”

“Ahh okay. So, we’ve been together four months.”

“Specific, believable, I like it. How did we meet?”

“The truth. Baseball game kiss cam. I literally couldn’t make it up if I tried,” he laughs.

“Okay, fair.”

You talk about his family and what to expect for the rest of the flight. Every family has its drama, quirky relatives, and secrets. The flight wasn’t long enough to cover everything, but you feel confident you know who to avoid and who’s safe to talk to.

The plane lands, and you find yourself hoping they like you. Hoping that after all this, Seungmin still likes you too.

The hotel is massive, spewing bright neutral colors and modern accents. You’re still marveling at the lobby, looking at the ginormous chandelier above you, when Seungmin waves a keycard in front of your face.

“C’mon, I want to shower before dinner.”

And the room is just as nice as the lobby. It’s large, with a balcony facing the ocean attached. You’re high up enough where the noise from the street won’t bother you when you try to sleep, which you’re grateful for. The giant king bed sits in the center, surrounded by beautiful artwork.

Giant king bed.

One bed. Singular.

You set your stuff down, frowning at the arrangement. “It’s a little soon to share a bed, don’t you think?” You try to come off as playful, but your heart is beating faster at the thought of sleeping next to a man you hardly know.

“I know, I’m sorry. I should’ve mentioned that.” His apology is sincere, and you can tell this weekend is already stressing him out.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m just joking. I guess they wouldn’t really have believed us if you asked for separate rooms anyway, right?”

He relaxes his shoulders at your comment, nodding in agreement and putting down his stuff. He disappears into the bathroom, and you take the time to flop down onto the bed.

Everything’s going to be fine. People share beds all the time. Sana has slept in your bed more times than you can count after a night out, and you’re perfectly fine with her crowding your space or snoring in your ear.

You’re still thinking about a thousand different ways this weekend could go wrong when Seungmin comes out of the bathroom, showered and dressed. 

“We have a couple of hours to kill. Wanna go for a walk?”

And so you slip your shoes back on and head back down to the lobby.

The fresh air feels nice and warm with a hint of sea salt. The two of you make your way down to the beach and start to walk along the shoreline. Seungmin kicks off his shoes and rolls up his pantlegs before heading closer to the water.

You follow suit, slipping off your sandals and skipping towards the water. You flick a bit of water up with your toes, and it lands on him.

“Hey!” he shouts, laughing, flicking it back at you. You squeal and run, holding your pants up to keep from dragging them through the water.

The wet sand sticks to your feet as you pretend to run, only getting a couple of yards away before two arms wrap around you to stop you in your tracks. Your shrieks turn into laughter as you twist in his grip, trying to get away. Your feet kick in the air as he lifts you a couple of inches off the ground. 

“Put me down!” you cry out. He carries you a couple of steps before putting you down. You playfully push him, both of you still laughing. You notice the wrinkles around his eyes as he smiles, and your heart swells with joy. Just joking around like this just feels so comfortable with him. 

The two of you keep walking down the beach, commenting on the beautiful view or the temperature of the water.

“Thank you for coming,” he says after a while. “I know it’s weird and we barely know each other and—”

“Seungmin.”

“Uh…yeah?”

“Hush. I’m having fun.”

He nods, shoving his hands in his pockets and keeps walking, and you watch his worried face disappear into a smile.

The sun starts to set before he suggests you head back to change into clothes for dinner. You agree, and he loosely wraps his arm around you as you walk back to the hotel.

The rehearsal dinner is held in a banquet room just off the hotel’s main lobby. The room is draped in white fabric and well lit, the kind of setup that would cost at least three or four times your rent. You hardly have any time to admire it before you’re shuffled through conversations, meeting Seungmin’s relatives.

“This is my girlfriend,” he says about a dozen times before you have to remind yourself that that’s not actually true. You feel your heart flutter every time a relative comments on how cute the two of you are, though.

His aunt whispers something in his ear that makes his ears go red. His uncle tries to get the two of you to take shots with him before Seungmin eventually whisks you away from the conversation.

There are a few toasts, most of which drone on forever, with Seungmin fidgeting in his seat. You want to ask if he’s okay, but you have a feeling that he isn’t up to talking about whatever family-related issues are causing his stress.

“Almost done, I promise,” he says low in your ear as he guides you to what you’re hoping is the last group of people.

There’s a woman in a long white dress, not quite a wedding dress, standing at the front of the room towards the podium, accompanied by a tall man in a suit. You’re guessing the bride and groom.

“Seungmin!” The bride says warmly. “I’m so glad you came!”

“Hi, Yuri. Congratulations.” His voice is flatter than you’ve ever heard it before.

“Cousin!” his cousin exclaims as he pats him on the back. Seungmin introduces him as Jiho, his mother’s sister’s son.

“You must be the girlfriend! I’ve heard about you,” Yuri says. She flicks her eyes up and down, as if she’s assessing you. You’ve gotten it from most of his family members, but she’s been the most obvious one to do it tonight. Probably bride confidence, or one too many glasses of champagne.

“All good things, I hope,” you say, sipping on your glass of wine.

“We’ll let you get back to it,” Seungmin says quickly, leaving you almost no time to wish them a good evening before he guides you out of the room and to the elevators.

“Are you okay?” you ask. He’s noticeably stiffer, adjusting his clothes like they’re too uncomfortable now.

He makes eye contact with you and seems to realize that he’s sending a million different distress signals. “I’m fine, sorry. It’s just family stuff.”

You nod your head in understanding, not wanting to push it further. The elevator dings and you step into it, feeling the warmth of his hand on the small of your back.

“Do you think they suspected anything?” you ask as he unlocks the door to your room, trying to be lighthearted.

“Never, you did perfect,” he says, with a genuine smile you haven’t seen since earlier on the beach.

You sit on the bed, letting Seungmin use the bathroom to shower and change into pajamas first. This is possibly the strangest first date you’ve ever been on, if you can even call it that. You text your friends back, updating them on the day, and lock your phone before they can barrage you with questions you don’t feel like answering.

“All yours,” he says, stepping out of the steamy bathroom. He’s drying his damp hair with a towel, fully in his pjs, but he looks so handsome like this. You stop yourself from staring too hard before you take your turn getting unready from the day.

By the time you come out of the bathroom, Seungmin’s not in the room. You notice the balcony door is slightly open and see a figure standing outside, leaning against the rail. You slide the glass door open and join him outside.

“All good out here?” you ask.

“Yeah, just…thinking.”

“About?”

“I’m really glad you came with me.” He turns to look at you, sincerity written all over his face. He gently grabs your arm and pulls you in for a hug.

He smells so nice. You get a whiff of his shampoo mixed with his laundry detergent, but then catch something else underneath it all. It’s just Seungmin. A man you hardly know who has managed to weave his way through your every thought in just a few weeks.

You pull back a moment, offering a smile, and he tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear. Your pulse quickens, the way it always does when he looks at you like that. 

“Can I…?” he starts, tipping his head down slightly, and you know what he’s asking.

You answer by closing the gap yourself.

It’s soft, much softer than the first. There’s no crowd counting down, no friends drunkenly cheering you on–just you and Seungmin, under the moonlight in a quiet moment. He wraps one arm around you to pull you tight against him, and you snake your hands around his neck to ground yourself. The ocean’s waves crash in the background faintly, and you feel the nerves from before fall away. It’s more comfortable than you were expecting, not that you were expecting anything.

When he finally pulls back, he keeps his forehead against yours. If he loosens his grip on you, you might fall over. You hope he doesn’t.

“Ready to lie to more people tomorrow?” he laughs sheepishly.

You laugh, kissing him again in response. If there’s something still unsaid between you, it can wait until tomorrow.

The morning is a bit of a blur. You get dressed and make your way over to the venue, a beautiful building that seems like it was made just for weddings. Seungmin is antsy the whole time, holding your hand through it all like letting go would mean certain death. The ceremony is beautiful, and you sit right beside him through it all. It’s been a lovely weekend being a plus one at a wedding for people you just met yesterday.

At the reception, you’re standing near the edge of the dance floor waiting for Seungmin to come back from the bar when Yuri comes over to you.

“Hi!” she says brightly.

“Congratulations again,” you say. “The ceremony was beautiful.” “Thank you so much.” She glances around, maybe looking for someone. “It must be so weird for you to be here.”

“Yeah, maybe a little,” you shrug. “I don’t know many people, but Seungmin’s been the best at introducing me to everyone.”

She takes a sip of her champagne. “You’re brave for showing up to your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend’s wedding. I don’t know if I’d be able to handle it.”

Her voice replays in your head. Your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend's wedding.

Your head tilts sideways, and your heart sinks to the floor. Maybe you misunderstood her. “Sorry, what?”

Yuri’s face flickers with surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry. He must not have told you…”

Your heart feels like it’s going to fall out of your ass. You excuse yourself, setting your glass on the nearest surface and high-tailing it out of there. You pass the bar on the way and catch Seungmin’s surprised face when you don’t stop.

The elevator doors close, and you realize how fast your heart is beating. Who cares if the bride is his ex-girlfriend? You certainly don’t have room to be jealous, he isn’t actually yours to be jealous over. Still, it would have been nice to get a heads-up.

You throw your shoes off when you get into the room and head straight for the balcony. Your stomach starts brewing something nasty, and you feel like you might throw up if you don’t get your breathing under control soon. The breeze feels nice against your face, and the ocean serves as calming white noise as you take deep breaths.

The balcony door opens behind you, and you hear slow footsteps behind you. You don’t turn around.

“You could have told me,” you say, trying not to cry.

“I know,” Seungmin says as he approaches the railing next to you. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? Why are you even here?”

“I’m here for my cousin, and my mother would have thrown a fit if I didn’t come.” You scoff. “But still, I should have told you. I just didn’t know how.”

You stay silent for a moment. “I get why you didn’t.” The words surprise you as they come out of your mouth. But it’s the truth. You do get it. “It still would’ve been nice to know.” “That’s fair. I really am sorry.”

You both fall quiet for a moment before you break the silence again. “She’s marrying your cousin?”

He laughs for a moment and nods his head. “Yeah. Like I said, family drama.”

“I’m really sorry, that’s a lot to handle.”

“It’s fine. It was years ago. We dated in college, they got together after we broke up. I’m pretty sure there was some overlap, but it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Do you…,” you start to ask a question, but hesitate. You’re not afraid of the answer, per se. You’re afraid of the insecure girl bottled up deep inside, afraid that revealing her means showing your true feelings. Leaving everything out in the open, vulnerable. 

“Do you still love her?”

“No.” He answers quickly and without hesitation. It eases the butterflies in your stomach, but now he knows. He knows that you’d been thinking about it, that you care. 

You nod slowly, accepting his answer. He takes a step closer, grabbing a hold of your hand as it dangles by your side. The air on the balcony shifts as he takes a step closer, dragging his hand up your arm before resting it on your cheek.

“Let me show you.” It’s a request that you gladly accept with a nod as he leans in to kiss you. It’s gentle yet passionate, showing you he means what he says. 

He walks you backwards back into the hotel room, sliding the glass door behind you as he guides you back into the room. The lamp lights are on, and your shawl and heels are kicked to the corner as you try not to trip on them. The fan humming does little to mask the noise of your heavy breathing between kisses.

Seungmin’s hands are everywhere. Cupping your face, sliding down your neck, gripping your waist, making good on his word. He kisses you deeper, tongue sliding against yours as he backs you further into the room.

He guides you down gently on the bed, and you can feel how hard he is through his dress pants. It makes the heat between your thighs grow, your mind suddenly filled with nothing but want. He snakes a hand behind you to unzip your dress and pull it down.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he says, kissing down your body. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it before. I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

You’re left in your lace bra and panties, and his mouth comes down hot against your body as he leaves open-mouthed kisses all the way down. His hands cup your breasts, and you let out a moan when his thumbs brush against your nipples.

“Seungmin, please,” you breathe out as you pull him closer.

He unhooks your bra and drops it to the floor. His mouth closes around your nipple, sucking and flicking his tongue around it. You tug at his hair in response, basking in the feeling.

Your hands fight with his shirt buttons as he crawls back up your body to kiss you again. He takes off his dress shirt and peels off his undershirt, exposing his lean torso. He looks so hot all disheveled like this.

You reach for his pants next. “Off,” you demand. He sheds the rest of his clothes quickly, cock springing free. It’s hard and bright red, already glistening at the tip. You reach down between you to give him a couple of strokes, and he lets out a deep moan at your touch.

He hooks his fingers into your panties and rips them off next, grabbing at your thighs to spread them wide. You’re soaked, you can feel it. He stares in awe.

“So fucking perfect,” he mutters before situating himself between your thighs.

He places a kiss on your inner thigh before dipping between your folds, licking at your entrance. He works his way around your sopping cunt, and you feel the heat in your belly grow.

“Fuck, that feels so good,” you moan as he moves to pay attention to your clit.

He hums against you in response, sending shockwaves through your whole body. He finds a rhythm that makes your head spin and your muscles tighten as you head barreling towards your peak.

“I’m gonna—fuck, Seungmin!” You cry out, hips bucking and shaking against him as you come in his mouth. Your body is trembling, and he slowly works you through your orgasm.

You pull him back up once your body stops shaking and taste yourself on his lips. You kiss him sloppily, not bothering to stop for a breath. “Need you, right now.”

He positions himself at your entrance, pausing for a breath. “Ready?” he asks. You nod, feeling like you’re going to explode if he waits another second.

He pushes in slowly, keeping eye contact with you the entire time. You feel the stretch inch by inch, feeling so perfectly full as he bottoms out. He drops his forehead against yours when he’s fully buried inside you.

“I could stay here all fucking night,” he moans. “You feel so fucking good already.”

“Seungmin, please move.”

He starts with slow, steady thrusts that quickly turn rough and passionate. The bed creaks below you in time with his movements. You wrap his legs around him, making him hit deep inside. You let your nails rake at his back, and he lets out a deep moan.

As soon as he angles his hips and hits the sensitive spot inside you, you’re seeing stars. His movements quicken, and the room is filled with the slapping of skin against skin. You feel the heat come back, about to bubble over once again.

One of his hands slips between you, thumb making circles around your clit in time with his thrusts. You feel your body squeeze around him, cunt pulsing, and your vision whites out.

“Holy shit, Seungmin!” you cry out his name over and over as he fucks you through another orgasm.

He follows moments later, the feeling of you clenching around his cock throwing him into his own orgasm. His hips stutter as he buries himself deep inside you, choking out your name as he comes. He collapses over you, and both of you try to catch your breath.

After a minute, he rolls over next to you and pulls you close, tracing circles on your back. Your skin is slick with sweat, and you feel sticky, but it all feels so right.

“Please stay,” he whispers against your hair. “After this weekend. I want to take you out. Properly.”

You nuzzle your face deeper into the crook of his neck. The balcony door is still cracked open, letting in a gentle breeze that cools your warm skin.

“I’d like that,” you say, looking up to give him a gentle kiss. 

It may have been a weird weekend, but you have no regrets. Not when it brought you here, on an island in the middle of the ocean, in the arms of a ridiculously dorky, handsome man.

a/n: thank you all so much for your support! sorry again if this feels rushed, i had so much fun writing it i've just been SO busy!!

permanent taglist: @11racha @jisuperboard @kloversung @sourtae @binniebb @b4echo @hanjinology @eyyyylucieeee @bbyyuuu @viisstrayy @starlostjisung @stryscribbles @miniseungkimcami @embobema @sssoulesss @awkwardlyshawna @fuzzylard @0omillo0 @jup-exe @jaziona92 @cassie264 @chikmentendies @inlovewithstraykids

It starts like most nights do—low lighting, soft jazz, the smell of expensive bourbon and even more expensive cologne drifting through the speakeasy’s velvet-lined walls. The kind of place that pretends not to notice you unless it wants to.

He always notices you.

Minho’s already at the bar, polishing glassware with deliberate, almost surgical focus. No smile. No greeting. He doesn’t do small talk—just glances at you when you slip onto the stool you always take, his gaze lingering for a moment too long on the bare skin above your knee before it flicks away like you imagined it.

He slides a drink toward you without asking.

Tonight it’s something amber and sharp—neat, no garnish. Not the floral bullshit you usually order to irritate him but don't actually enjoy.

“You’re learning,” you murmur, fingers curling around the glass.

“You’re predictable,” he says, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement. Approval, maybe. It’s hard to tell with him.

You take a slow sip, letting the burn settle in your chest before you speak again.

“Gonna make fun of me tonight, or just stare at my legs?”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Why can’t I do both?”

You raise an eyebrow. He’s in a mood.

Good.

You lean in a little, voice dipping low. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked me.”

Minho finally looks at you head-on, the edge of a smile ghosting across his mouth.

“If I liked you,” he says, smooth as glass, “you’d know.”

The heat that curls low in your stomach has nothing to do with the liquor.

You shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve been playing this game for weeks—weeks of drawn-out glances and sharp tongues, of letting your knee graze his thigh beneath the bar, of asking him questions you already know he won’t answer just to hear the dry curl of his voice when he tells you no.

But tonight, the rules feel different. The air feels heavier. Charged.

You blame it on the day you had. On the message you didn’t answer. On the fact that your body still remembers the way your so-called lover grabbed your wrist last night when you dared to pull away first. The apology this morning was short. Cold. Like a favor he did you.

You’re tired of favors. Of men who act like your body is borrowed space.

So maybe that’s why you’re here again. Why your dress is a little shorter than usual. Why your smile is a little sharper. Why you stare at Minho like you want him to cut you open and see what’s underneath.

“I think you like me,” you say, swirling the amber in your glass, eyes fixed on his fingers as he reaches for a bottle behind him.

He uncaps it without a word. Pours slow—like he’s buying time or maybe making you wait on purpose. The line of his jaw is clean and sharp in the bar’s dim light, a profile carved in something colder than marble.

You’ve never seen him fluster. Not once. That’s part of why you keep coming back. That composure, that razor-thin control—you want to see it slip. Just once. Just enough to know what he looks like when something matters.

But Minho doesn’t rattle. Doesn’t rise to the bait. He sets the bottle down, replaces the cap with the same care you imagine he uses with everything else—his knives, his words, his hands.

“I think you like being watched,” he says finally, without looking at you. “That’s not the same thing.”

Your lips curl. “Is that what you do? Watch me?”

He glances up, and the full weight of his gaze hits you square in the chest—dark, steady, measuring.

“Only when you want me to.”

You swallow. Hard.

There’s nothing coy about it now. No masks, no playful deflection. Just static in the air and the slow realization that this isn’t banter anymore.

It’s foreplay.

Your thighs press together instinctively beneath the bar. The liquor burns differently now—hotter, deeper.

Minho sees it—how your legs shift, how your breath stutters—but he doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t need to. The power slips over him like a second skin, smooth and effortless, like he was born to unravel people slowly and never touch them at all.

You try to hold your ground, try to find something clever to say, but the words stick to your tongue. They don’t come.

He leans forward—just slightly, just enough that you catch a whisper of his cologne, clean and sharp like crushed pepper and steel. The kind of scent that makes you ache without knowing why.

“You always drink faster when you’re upset,” he murmurs. “Didn’t think he’d blow you off again.”

Your stomach flips.

You didn’t tell him that.

Not out loud.

But you’ve mentioned him in passing before—your almost-boyfriend, your never-quite-yours. The man who texts when he’s bored and shows up when he’s drunk, who fucks you like a secret and then disappears for days. You’ve never named him. You never had to.

Minho’s too observant for that.

You look away, embarrassed, a little raw.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

Minho hums like he understands. Not kindly—accurately. Like a blade understanding the softest part of skin.

“Didn’t think you would.”

His voice is soft. Low enough that it doesn’t carry over the jazz humming through the room, but not so low that it misses the mark. It slides under your skin, settles there. Warm. Heavy.

You press the rim of your glass to your lips, but don’t drink. You’re stalling. He knows it.

“Is this where you offer comfort?” you ask, tilting your head toward him, trying to claw some of the power back with your voice. “Tell me I deserve better?”

Minho chuckles—quiet, sharp-edged. “You know you deserve better.”

He lets it hang there for a beat too long, until you can feel the unspoken part of it clawing up your spine.

You deserve better, and I could give it to you. But I won’t.

Not yet.

His fingers flex against the bar’s edge. It’s the first crack in his control tonight, the only betrayal of the restraint wound tight through every part of him. You don’t think he even notices it—but you do.

Because that’s what this has always been, hasn’t it? A standoff. A war of glances and gestures. Who can make the other want without asking.

You swirl the last inch of liquor in your glass, watching the amber catch the low light, pretending like you’re not memorizing the shape of his hand against the bar.

Minho isn’t looking at you anymore. Not directly. His eyes are focused somewhere beyond you—on a bottle that doesn’t need touching, a thought that doesn’t need voicing. But his body betrays him in small, precise ways. That flex of his hand. The stillness of his shoulders. The slow, measured breaths like he’s giving himself rules to follow.

Don’t reach for her. Don’t say her name. Don’t touch unless she begs.

You can feel it—how close he is to undoing himself. How he’s fighting it like it would cost him something if he gave in.

And that makes you reckless.

“Why haven’t you?” you murmur, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “If you’ve thought about it—which you have. Why haven’t you done anything?”

You lick your lips—subtle, involuntary—and his eyes drop to your mouth like it was the only thing in the room worth watching. Just for a second. Just long enough to make your pulse thrum in your throat.

“You’re not going to offer comfort,” you say, quieter now, more to yourself than him. “That’s not your game.”

Minho doesn’t deny it.

“I don’t comfort girls who let men treat them like that,” he murmurs, voice like slow smoke. “I fuck it out of them.”

Your breath catches.

You can’t help it.

It punches the air straight from your lungs—just for a second. Just long enough for your lashes to flutter and your grip on the glass to falter and your entire body to go still.

You should’ve known that’s where he’d take it. You should’ve seen it coming. But hearing it—feeling it—low and steady like that, like an invocation and not a threat?

It’s something else entirely.

Your thighs clench beneath the bar. Instinctive. Useless. You feel suddenly too warm in your skin, in your dress, in this damn chair. Like the room’s shrunk down to just the two of you and the weight of those words lingering in the air between them.

He said it like a fact. Like a promise. No smirk. No tilt of his head. No performance.

Just Minho—staring at you with that terrifying, surgical precision that’s never been louder than it is now.

He knows what he just did.

Knows you’re squirming. Knows you’re soaking. Knows exactly where your mind’s gone—and he hasn’t even touched you.

Your tongue darts out again, a nervous reflex.

And that’s when he leans in.

Not by much—just enough that his mouth is close enough to graze the rim of your glass if you tilted it.

“I’d start with your mouth,” he says, barely louder than the jazz, like he’s confessing something obscene to a priest. “Because I know you’d still try to be smart with it. Even while you’re choking.”

Your stomach drops.

Your fingers curl tight around the edge of the counter to ground yourself, but it’s no use. His voice is a velvet hand at your throat, gentle enough to tease, firm enough to hold

Minho doesn’t linger.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch into tension, doesn’t wait for your reply, doesn’t press a single inch further into the ache he’s just created.

He simply pulls away.

Smooth, unbothered, like he didn’t just fillet you open with nothing but words. Like your insides aren’t still ringing with the ghost of him. He reaches for a towel, wipes a nonexistent smudge from the rim of a coupe glass, and then—casually, almost bored—slides the folded slip of paper toward you across the polished marble.

Your bill.

Back to business.

It’s maddening. Unbearably normal. Like he didn’t just spit filth into your ear that made your spine arch in the seat. Like he didn’t just speak to you like he already owned your body and was only waiting for the right time to claim it.

Your hand moves on autopilot.

Fingers dip into your purse, fishing out your card, swiping it through the reader like this is any other night, like you’re not unraveling at the seams. Like you’re not trembling just slightly beneath the surface of your skin, still burning with every word he spoke to you moments ago.

The reader beeps.

Declined.

You blink.

Try again. Slower this time. Like it might make a difference.

Declined.

The air shifts.

You don’t look up. Can’t. You stare at the reader, thumb hovering over the chipped edge of your card like pressing harder might fix it. Like it wasn’t inevitable. Like you haven’t been running on fumes and stubbornness and overdraft protection for longer than you want to admit.

You exhale through your nose. Force a quiet laugh. “Sorry,” you mutter, trying for nonchalant. “Guess it’s been a week.”

Minho doesn’t move.

You finally glance up—and he’s already looking at you.

Not annoyed. Not smug. Just still. Measured.

Then he takes the bill back without a word.

Folds it in half.

Tucks it beneath the register.

“It’s okay,” he says, and his voice is different now—softer, low and careful like a hand on the back of your neck. “I’ve got it.”

You hesitate. “No, really. I can come back tomorrow—”

“I said it’s okay.”

The quiet in his tone settles over you like a coat. Warm, heavy. Weighted with something you don’t quite recognize yet.

You search his face for a catch. A smirk. A condition. But there isn’t one.

And that—that’s what undoes you more than anything else.

Because it’s not a trade. Not a tease. Not a power play.

It’s just kindness.

Uncomplicated. Unexpected.

From him of all people.

You swallow hard. Nodding feels dangerous, so you don’t.

You just sit there, small and grateful and aching in a way you didn’t expect.

“I’ll pay you back,” you say quietly. “Next time.”

Minho doesn’t respond right away. Just tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re not a charity case,” he says finally. “I know you’ll settle.”

You nod again. This time it lands.

He straightens. Pulls your empty glass away, sets it behind him.

“You staying a while?” he asks. Not teasing. Not performative. Just… offering.

And you want to say yes.

But your throat is tight and your wrist still hurts beneath your sleeve and your body feels like too much tonight—too raw, too full, too loud.

So you say, “Think I’ll head out,” and your voice sounds gentler than it should. Like you’re asking permission.

Minho nods. Doesn’t question it. Doesn’t try to stop you. Just wipes the bar in front of your empty seat like he’s already preparing for the next ghost to sit down.

You stand slowly. Adjust your bag over your shoulder, glance toward the hallway that leads to the exit.

He doesn’t say anything at first. But you feel him watching you—not your ass, not your dress, but the way you cradle your arm. The way your hand hovers over your wrist like you’re guarding something.

And then—

“Did he grab you?”

Your spine stiffens.

Like someone cracked ice down your back.

You don’t turn around right away. You just stand there, shoulders drawn tight, fingers white-knuckled around the strap of your bag.

“Excuse me?” you ask, voice sharper than you mean it to be.

Minho doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t repeat himself, either. Just waits.

You finally turn, chin lifted in that familiar tilt—the one you wear like armor, the one you’ve perfected for moments like this. When someone sees too much. When someone dares to ask.

“I don’t need you psychoanalyzing my love life,” you say flatly. “It’s none of your business.”

Minho says nothing.

Which somehow makes it worse. And for some reason, you can’t stop talking.

You huff a laugh, bitter and breathless. “Jesus. You let one card decline and suddenly you think you’re my therapist?”

Still nothing.

Just that same steady gaze. Not pitying. Not cold. Just... seeing.

And maybe that’s why it stings. Because he’s not wrong.

You fold your arms, fingers pressing hard over the bruise like you can erase it by force. “He didn’t mean to,” you finally mutter.

Minho’s voice is quiet. Even.

“But he did.”

You look away.

It’s not a fight. He’s not raising his voice. He’s not accusing you of anything. But something about the way he says it—flat, factual, calm—makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something shameful.

You shake your head. “It’s not that simple.”

His expression doesn’t change. “It never is.”

You exhale hard through your nose. Every part of you wants to run. You don’t like feeling cornered like this—especially not by someone like him. Someone who doesn’t play pretend

Someone who sees everything and speaks only when it counts.

“I’m not some broken girl who needs saving,” you snap.

“I know.”

And again—it’s not cruel. Not dismissive. Just a truth, spoken plainly.

That disarms you more than anything else.

He knows.

He knows you’re angry and proud and stubborn. He knows you want control, even when it costs you peace. He knows you’re clawing your way through something you don’t want to name yet. He knows—and still, he said nothing until you were already walking away.

You sigh. The kind of sigh that tastes like surrender.

“I’m fine,” you say. Softer now. “Okay? I’m fine.”

Minho doesn’t agree. Doesn’t argue. Just nods like he’s filing it away for later.

And then, gently:

“Text me when you’re home.”

You look at him.

Really look at him.

The dark sweep of his lashes. The slow tension in his jaw. The barest flex of his fingers against the rag he’s holding—like he’s grounding himself on the bar instead of reaching for you.

“I don’t have your number,” you say, quiet again.

He doesn’t even blink.

Just reaches for a napkin. Writes it down in clean, deliberate strokes. Slides it to you without flourish, like it’s nothing.

You take it with fingers that don’t feel like yours.

The napkin is soft, a little damp in one corner, the ink bleeding just slightly where his pen dragged too slow over cheap paper. His handwriting is neat. Precise. The kind you’d expect from him. Not a flourish in sight.

You stare at the numbers for a beat too long.

Like if you memorize them now, maybe you won’t have to admit how much you care that he gave them to you.

“I’m not going to cry in the cab,” you mutter. Not to him. Just to yourself. A warning. A promise. A lie.

Minho’s mouth twitches—too fast to call it a smile. “Good. They charge extra for that.”

You roll your eyes, but the sound that escapes you is almost a laugh.

Almost.

You fold the napkin once. Then again. Tuck it into your purse like it’s fragile, like it’s worth something, like it matters. You don’t say thank you. Can’t. The words would taste too much like gratitude and not enough like the armor you’re trying to put back on.

He doesn’t press. Just nods once—final, quiet—and goes back to polishing the same glass he’s been holding all night. Like none of this ever happened.

You walk away before you can change your mind.

Before you do something stupid, like apologize for flinching. Like ask him to say it again, that he knows you’re not broken. Like ask if he’s ever been hurt in a way that still echoes years later.

The hallway is dim. The velvet curtains at the door part with a whisper. The street outside is colder than you remembered.

You step into it anyway.

That night, lying on your side with the city leaking through the blinds in long gray stripes, you stare at your phone screen for too long.

You’ve opened a new message three times. Deleted it each time.

Minho’s number sits untouched in your contacts now. Just a string of digits and a name that feels like something you shouldn’t be allowed to keep.

Eventually, you type:

[you]: home.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Then nothing.

Then:

[bartender]: good. sleep.

You stare at it for longer than you should.

Just those two words. No punctuation. No fluff. Just simple, clean concern dressed up like a command.

You can almost hear his voice in it—low, even, with that deliberate edge that makes everything sound like a dare.

You think about typing something back. A joke. A thank you. Something to make it lighter.

But it’s too late for pretending now. And maybe—just maybe—you like that he didn’t say take care or sweet dreams or anything that would let you brush this off as ordinary.

Because it’s not.

You set the phone on your nightstand.

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep before the sun rises.

The bass is too loud.

It rattles your ribs, crawls down your spine, settles behind your eyes like a headache waiting to happen. Bodies press in on all sides—sweaty, glittered, half-drunk strangers shouting lyrics they only know the chorus to. The lights strobe fast enough to make you nauseous.

You wish you were having fun.

You should be having fun. It’s Maya’s birthday. Everyone showed up. Friends, coworkers, mutuals you forgot you still followed. You wore the good dress, the one that makes you feel like the sexiest version of yourself. You downed two shots at the bar and danced until your skin burned.

And for a while—it worked.

Until he showed up.

You feel him before you see him. Isn’t that always the way?

That weight in the room. The static against your skin. The sharp twist in your stomach that feels too close to guilt to be anything else.

You turn. And there he is.

Leaning against the bar like he owns it, drink in hand, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make a show of it. He doesn’t look at you at first. He never does. Always lets you spot him first. Lets you feel him before he lets you see him.

Your heart drops anyway.

It’s been three weeks since you told him not to text you again.

Not after the last time—not after his fingers curled too tight around your wrist and left a bloom of purple that took a week to fade. Not after he said your name like a curse when you tried to walk away. You were never his. That was the whole point. And yet… it never seemed to matter.

You turn back toward your friends. Pretend you don’t see him.

It works for ten minutes.

Then a hand slides around your waist.

“You look good tonight.”

You freeze.

His breath is warm against your ear. Familiar. Suffocating.

You force a smile, even as your whole body goes still. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he murmurs, voice syrup-smooth. “Say hi to my favorite girl?”

Your throat tightens. “I’m not your anything.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” His fingers flex at your waist. Not hard. Not yet. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve already lost something.

You shove his hand off. Step back.

“I said don’t.”

He laughs—soft and cruel. “You’ve got some nerve, walking around like that. That dress. That mouth.”

You’re not sure what breaks first—the fear or the fury.

But your hand moves before your mind can catch up, pushing at his chest, not hard enough to knock him back but enough—enough to draw a line, enough to say stop, stop, STOP.

He stumbles back half a step, but the grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens.

“Oh, she’s got teeth tonight.”

You hate that he says it like he’s proud. Like he likes it when you push back—because it means he gets to push harder.

“Don’t touch me,” you spit, louder this time. Louder than you meant it to be. Louder than the beat crashing around you.

A few heads turn. Not many. Not enough.

He laughs, cruel and close and reeking of entitlement. “Calm down, drama queen. We used to have fun, remember?”

You take a step back.

He follows.

His hand shoots out again, this time not for your waist—but for your face. Fingers clamp around your jaw, sudden and firm, yanking you forward so fast your breath lodges in your throat.

You gasp.

Pain sparks where his thumb digs in. Your hands shoot up instinctively, trying to pry him off, nails raking across his skin in desperation.

“I said don’t fucking touch me!” Your voice breaks—sharp, raw, real—and for a second, just one, the crowd parts around the two of you like the air shifted.

He leans in closer. His mouth is at your ear. “You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls, voice low and mean. “Is that it? That little bartender got you feeling brave?”

The blood drains from your face.

Because you never mentioned Minho. Not to him. Not to anyone who would repeat it.

It hits you like a punch to the chest. Not just the shock of his voice, low and poisonous in your ear—but what he said.

That little bartender.

Minho.

He knows.

You don’t know how. Don’t know who told him or what he heard or why it matters to him at all—but the fact that he said it means he’s been watching. Listening. Picking up pieces you didn’t even know you were leaving behind.

Your stomach lurches.

“I said—” you shove him with everything you have, panic fusing with rage “—get off me!”

This time, he stumbles. Actually stumbles.

His grip slips from your jaw, and you recoil like you’ve been burned, taking three steps back so fast you nearly trip. Your chest is heaving. Your eyes sting. The club feels too loud, too tight, the lights flashing like warning signs behind your eyelids.

But he recovers fast.

Too fast.

And now he’s pissed.

“You fucking slut,” he spits, voice ugly and thick with venom. “You think someone like him is gonna want you for anything more than your mouth? You think he’s any different?”

You don’t stay to hear the rest.

You turn.

You run.

You don’t care that your friends will wonder where you went, that your drink is still half-full on the table, that your heels weren’t meant for this kind of escape.

You just run.

Out through the club doors, down the street, across the crosswalk without waiting for the signal. You walk like if you stop, he’ll catch up. Like the weight of his voice will sink into your skin and stay there. Like you’ll never feel clean again if you don’t keep moving.

You’re breathing too fast. Hands shaking. Vision blurry. Heart thudding like it’s trying to break out of your chest.

You swallow around the knot rising in your throat, the panic curling its claws up your spine, pressing down hard on your ribs like punishment.

And before you even know where you’re going, your feet are taking you there.

You don’t remember making the turn. Don’t remember crossing the street. You just blink—and suddenly the neon glow of the bar bleeds into your vision, cool and low and familiar in the haze of your panic. The bar. His bar.

And he’s there.

Outside, leaning against the brick wall near the back entrance, one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding a lit cigarette between two fingers. The glow of the cherry lights his face in pulses—his cheekbone, his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw. His sleeves are rolled up, and there’s a smear of something on his forearm. 

He hasn’t seen you yet.

Not until your steps falter and the click of your heels dies out beneath the sound of his exhale.

Then—he lifts his head.

And his whole body goes still.

You must look like a disaster. Eyes wide. Breath shallow. Shoulders drawn up like a cornered animal. Your lipstick smeared, hair falling out of place, the strap of your dress slipping.

But he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t move.

Just watches you.

The silence stretches for a moment too long. Then, quietly—

“Did something happen?”

Your throat tightens at the sound of his voice.

Low. Measured. But not indifferent.

There’s something else beneath it. A thread of tension wound so tight it barely makes it to the surface. The kind of control that only comes from practice. From restraint.

He doesn’t take a step toward you.

Doesn’t reach out.

Minho can read a room better than anyone you’ve ever met, and right now, you’re a room filled with alarms—flashing, screaming, crumbling.

He sees it.

“I…” Your voice falters. “No.”

You mean yes. You mean everything.

But the syllables won’t fit in your mouth.

He nods once. Slow. Like he hears what you didn’t say.

The cigarette between his fingers burns to the filter before he drops it to the pavement and crushes it beneath the heel of his boot.

You don’t realize you’ve been swaying on your feet until your hand shoots out to brace against the wall.

Minho’s eyes flick to the motion, then back to your face. He still doesn’t move.

Instead, his voice softens—somehow quieter than before, like he’s afraid even sound might be too much for you right now.

“I’m just down the block.”

You blink at him, still catching your breath.

“My place,” he adds, nodding toward the street, toward the night that still hums like static around you. “Nothing weird. Just… quieter. Warmer. No one else there.”

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t trust him—you do, in ways you probably shouldn’t—but because your whole body still feels wrong. Like your nerves are too close to the surface, like any wrong move might set them off again.

Minho sees it.

He doesn’t rush to reassure you. Doesn’t over-explain or fumble for comfort.

Just lifts a shoulder in a light shrug and says, dryly, “I have cats.”

Of all the things he could’ve said. “Cats,” you repeat, the word catching oddly on your tongue like it doesn’t belong in a night like this. Like it’s too soft, too domestic, too absurdly normal for the way your heart is still hammering inside your ribs.

Minho nods. “Three of them.”

You raise an eyebrow—wary, trembling, but still capable of curiosity. “Three?”

“Soonie. Doongie. Dori,” he says. “They're spoiled. Judgmental. Loud as hell.” His tone doesn’t change. Still calm. Still flat. But there’s something careful behind it. Like he’s offering you a rope. Something to hold onto. Something that doesn’t smell like sweat and fear and everything you just ran from.

You nod. Just once. And somehow, that’s enough.

His apartment is small. Not cramped, not cold—just lived-in. Clean in that intentional way, like someone takes pride in it but doesn't obsess. The floors are wood, soft under your bare feet when you kick off your heels by the door. The kitchen glows faintly from the under-cabinet lights he left on, casting long amber streaks across the floor.

And the cats… the cats are waiting.

One sits perched on the back of the couch like he owns the place—which, judging by the scratch marks in the armrest, he might. Another peeks out from under the coffee table. The third appears from the hallway, tail high, meowing like you’ve personally offended him by existing.

You blink again.

“They’re boys,” Minho explains as he hangs his keys. “But they act like little old ladies. Dori’s the mouthy one.”

The meowing continues. A chorus now. You’re too stunned to respond at first. But then—Doongie, maybe?—pads up to you with those wide, judgmental eyes and headbutts your calf like it’s his god-given right.

Something inside you breaks. Not in the sharp, painful way. Not like at the club. No. This is different. This is soft. Shaky. This is the moment your body decides it’s safe enough to start crumbling. You crouch down—slow, careful—and let your fingers curl into his fur.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel it drip from your chin. Until your breath stutters. Until you fold over completely, arms wrapped around a cat who didn’t ask for this, face pressed into the warm softness of something alive and gentle.

Minho doesn’t say anything. He doesn't touch you. You feel him move quietly behind you—setting a glass of water on the coffee table, flicking off the main lights until only the soft kitchen glow remains. And then… he just sits. A few feet away. Cross-legged on the floor, still in his black button-up and rolled sleeves, watching you like you’re made of glass and still trying to figure out if the cracks were already there.

You stay curled there on the floor for a while—knees tucked beneath you, fingers knotted in soft fur, cheek pressed to Doongie’s side like it might anchor you to something solid.

The apartment is quiet, save for the occasional swish of a tail or soft thump of paws. You can feel the warmth of Minho’s presence without looking at him. He doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just stays—close enough that you don’t feel alone, far enough that you don’t feel trapped.

Eventually, your breath starts to come steadier. The shaking dulls. And when you finally lift your head, cheeks sticky with dried tears and eyes too tired to hold anything else, he’s still there—arms resting loosely over his knees, gaze steady. You wipe at your face with the back of your hand, half-laughing, half-apologizing.

“Sorry,” you murmur, voice rough. “I didn’t mean to—fall apart all over your cat.”

Minho shrugs. “He probably liked it.”

You snort, exhausted. “He’s purring.”

“Doongie’s kind of a slut for attention.”

You laugh—a real one this time, hoarse and soft—and drag your fingers through Doongie’s fur once more before sitting up straighter, wiping your cheeks with the sleeve of your dress.

Minho stands slowly, careful not to startle the moment, and disappears into the hallway without a word. A minute later, he’s back, holding a folded bundle in his arms—what looks like a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie so worn it’s probably been through a hundred washes. He sets them gently on the arm of the couch beside you.

“Shower’s through there,” he says, nodding toward the narrow hallway. “First door on the right. Towels are on the rack. The water takes a second to heat up.”

You blink up at him, the offer settling slowly over you like warmth. He doesn't say you look like a mess. Doesn’t tell you to clean yourself up. Just offers you comfort in the quietest way he knows how. You nod.

The bathroom is small, clean, and filled with that same soft golden light that seems to follow him everywhere. You peel yourself out of your dress, step under the spray, and let the steam unwind you. It’s the first time all night you feel like you’re breathing in something clean. Like maybe there’s still space in your skin for something that isn’t fear.

You stay until the water starts to run cold. When you finally step out, dressed in his clothes, skin still damp and flushed from the heat, your heart thuds with a strange, fragile kind of relief.

And then you see it.

The couch. The cushions have been cleared, a blanket folded neatly at the foot, pillow fluffed, a glass of water on the side table. One of the cats is curled up like a sentry near the armrest, blinking at you lazily as if to say it’s fine now.

You stare for a second. Because it’s not just that he made up the couch. It’s that he didn’t assume. Didn’t point you toward his bed. Didn’t insist. Didn’t press. He just knew.

You sit down slowly, tucking the blanket over your legs, body sinking into the cushions like they were waiting for you.

Minho reappears from the hallway, already dressed down—black joggers, a loose hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair damp like he rinsed off too. He gestures toward the light. “You good if I kill this?”

You nod. He flips the switch. The room dims. He doesn’t say goodnight. Doesn’t do the awkward lingering thing. He just turns, quiet as always, and heads for his bedroom.

And for a moment, you let him go.

For a moment, you think it’s fine. But the second the door clicks shut, something tightens in your chest. Your breath catches. Your pulse jumps. That same fear from earlier curls back in under your skin—not loud, not sharp. Just a whisper now. A what if. What if he comes back. What if he finds out where you went. What if this silence isn't safety at all, but the space before another breaking point.

You sit up. “Minho?”

A beat. His door opens again. The light from his room spills into the hall. He’s already halfway back into the living room when he says, “Yeah?”

Your throat works around the words. They feel small. Silly. Needful. But you say them anyway. “Can you stay?”

He pauses. Looks at you. And you can tell—he knows. Knows exactly what you mean. Knows it’s not about him. Not about company. Not about flirting or closeness or warmth. It’s about safety. It’s about knowing the world can’t get to you if he’s there. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t make a sound. Just disappears for a second, then comes back with two blankets folded under one arm and a spare pillow under the other. He drops them on the floor beside the couch, shrugs out of his hoodie, and settles down without a word.

The hoodie slips off his shoulders in one smooth motion, revealing the thin black tank top underneath—clinging just enough to map the sharp cut of his collarbones, the slope of his shoulders.

You don’t mean to stare.

But the fabric hangs loose at the chest, dipping just low enough to expose the curve of ink over his left pectoral—black lines disappearing into shadow, something abstract and intricate. Just a glimpse. Just enough to wonder what the rest of it looks like when he breathes.

Minho doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just too tired—or too gracious—to call you on it.

He lies on his back beside the couch, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped loosely over his stomach. Doongie circles once on the rug, then collapses beside him like a guard, chin resting on his forearm.

You turn onto your side. The room is still. Not quiet—still. Like the air itself is holding its breath. You don’t sleep. You can’t. Not with the phantom heat of a hand still lingering on your face. Not with the aftershocks of fear still curling around your ribs. Not with the weight of this unfamiliar kindness just a few feet away, warm and steady and unearned.

So you watch him. And eventually, he turns his head. Eyes open. Heavy-lidded but focused. A slow drag up your face. Your cheekbone. The faint shadow blooming just below your temple. His jaw ticks, subtle but sharp, and he doesn’t look away. You don’t flinch.

“Didn’t know you had a tattoo,” you whisper.

He blinks. Like the words take a second to land. “Mm.”

His gaze flicks down briefly—to where the fabric clings to his chest, then back to your face. There’s no smirk, no warning, just a shift in the air, like gravity tilting. “Wanna see it?”

The question isn’t loaded. It’s not teasing. It just is. You nod. Minho sits up slowly, one hand tugging at the hem of his tank top. The fabric slides up and over his head in one clean motion, soft and soundless. He tosses it to the side and leans back on his elbows, the muscles in his arms flexing, loose and languid.

The tattoo stretches across the left side of his chest—black ink, fine lines, bold shapes. It isn’t a compass. It’s a storm. A swirl of wind and waves, jagged mountains etched in silhouette. At its center, the faint outline of a wing—fractured and rising, like something caught between ruin and flight. The ink moves with him, flexes when he breathes, like it’s alive beneath his skin.

You stare.

Not because it’s beautiful—though it is—but because it feels right on him. Like he was born with it. Like whatever storm he came from left its mark on the inside first, and this was just its echo.

Your hand moves before you can stop it.

Slowly, like reaching for fire. Like asking for permission with the space between your fingers. When you don’t meet resistance, you touch him.

Just a single point at first—your fingertip landing lightly on the edge of the wing, where ink meets skin just beneath his collarbone. His breath hitches, subtle but real, a flicker of tension in his chest. You feel it before you hear it. Then you trace. Softly. Reverently. Down the curve of the wing, across the stormline where jagged wind spirals out into broken waves.

Your touch drags slow, deliberate, following the black lines like you’re learning a language. One that only his body speaks. Minho doesn’t move. He just watches you. The way your lashes lower, the way your lips part slightly like you’re holding your breath for him. The silence between you is thick but not heavy—dense with something neither of you are ready to name.

When your finger glides over the highest peak—inked mountain just above his heart—his head tilts back slightly, like the contact pulls something from him. His throat bobs with the swallow he doesn’t bother to hide. You pause. Right over his heart now. The skin is warm. Steady. And for a second, the storm beneath your own ribs goes quiet—like his rhythm tames yours without trying. He exhales.

His eyes flutter shut for a beat, then open again—slow, measured. He looks at you like you’ve unraveled something in him, like your touch left ink on him instead. But when his gaze drops lower, it changes. Softens. Darkens. And then his hand moves. Carefully. Cautiously. Like he’s seen too many things break when touched too fast.

He lifts it to your face, the backs of his fingers ghosting along your jaw—light enough to be mistaken for air. He doesn’t go straight for the bruise. He lingers near it, watching you, waiting for the slightest sign of retreat.

You don’t give it.

So he shifts—just slightly—until his knuckles brush the edge of the swelling beneath your eye. You flinch. Not because of the pain. Not because it hurts. Because of how gentle it is. Like he’s afraid to hurt you, like he doesn’t know how to hold something unless he’s sure it won’t shatter. Like he wants to carve your bruises from your skin and wear them instead. His fingers hover there. Still. Tense. A breath away from trembling.

“Fucker’s lucky I wasn’t there,” he murmurs.

You inhale—slow, shallow. The air catches in your throat like it’s thick with something unspoken, something too big to name. Minho’s hand starts to pull back. And maybe that’s why you speak. Maybe that’s why you reach for something else, anything else, before the room folds in too tightly.

“So,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “that tattoo.”

Minho pauses. Just for a moment. His eyes flick back to yours, and he knows what you’re doing. Of course he does. The deflection is transparent, but he lets it happen anyway—lets you steer them away from the heaviness still clinging to your skin like ash.

“What about it?” he murmurs, settling back on his elbow, the other hand now resting on his chest near the ink you traced. You mirror him slightly, folding into the edge of the couch, letting your cheek rest against the pillow, eyes fixed on the storm etched into his skin.

“The wing,” you say after a beat. “In the center. What’s it mean?”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then: “Freedom.”

You blink. “It’s broken.”

His mouth quirks—barely a smile, not quite bitter. “Yeah. It usually is.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you say nothing. Just let your gaze trace the peaks and spirals, the places where black lines blur like smoke, the edges of him carved in ink instead of bruises. His body tells a story too. You just haven’t read all the pages yet.

Minho shifts again, slowly lying back down on the floor, the side of his arm brushing the base of the couch now. You're above him on the couch, laying on your side so you can look at him.

“You can ask,” he says softly.

“About the tattoo?”

“About anything.”

You hum—soft, skeptical. The kind of sound that curls into the quiet and lingers, not quite a no, not quite a yes. You’re tired now. The real kind. The kind that settles into your limbs like gravity, like wet sand. Your eyes flutter half-shut, your voice feather-light.

“That sounds dangerous.”

Minho lets out a low exhale, something between a laugh and a sigh.

"Maybe.”

Your gaze slips to his again—his eyes open, trained on the ceiling like the answers might be there if he stares hard enough. One hand still rests loosely over his chest, the other pressed against your cheek.

You reach for it. Not with purpose. Not even with need. Just because it’s there. Because it feels like the thing to do.

Your fingertips graze his, gentle, thoughtless. And then his hand shifts—just slightly—so his pinky catches yours. Hooks. Holds.

It’s not a kiss. It’s not a confession.

But it feels like both.

You don’t speak for a while. Don’t need to.

The silence feels clean now. Like rain after smoke. Like you could fall asleep inside it without drowning.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too loud. Just lets you anchor there—your hand half-curled over his, your lashes brushing your cheek as your eyes slip closed.

But then, soft and slurred, half-dreaming:

“You have a nice voice.”

You feel his hand twitch. Just a little.

“Yeah?” he says, and it’s quieter than anything else he’s said tonight—rough around the edges like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the compliment.

You nod against the pillow. “Mhm.”

There’s a beat.

“You’ve heard me say some pretty fucked-up things.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. “Have I?”

He huffs a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Just a sound with history behind it. With edge. With weight.

“Don’t play innocent,” he murmurs. “You remember.”

You do.

Of course you do.

Words like silk and smoke, coiled tight with implication. The things he said across the bar, into your drink, into your skin without ever laying a hand on you.

You remember all of them.

But you’re tired. Softened. And the edges of those memories feel dulled now—faded by warmth and flannel and the rhythm of his breathing a few feet from your chest.

So you hum again, lashes still pressed to your cheeks. “They didn’t sound fucked-up at the time.”

Minho’s quiet for a while after that. The kind of quiet that hums.

You can feel it in the space between your bodies—how the air thickens again, but not with tension. With memory. With the weight of everything you haven’t said and the things you probably never will.

“That’s the problem,” he says eventually, voice low enough that you almost miss it. 

Your eyes open again. Just barely. The room is still steeped in shadow, but your vision finds him easy—half-lit, half-lost in the floor beside the couch. One arm tucked beneath his head, the other still tethered to yours.

You study the line of his jaw, the way it tenses and relaxes like he’s caught between restraint and regret. He’s not looking at you anymore. Just staring at the ceiling again, like maybe it’ll answer for him this time.

“You say that like you’re proud of it,” you murmur.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just exhales, rough and dry.

“No,” he says. “I say it like I don’t know how to stop.”

That hurts in a way you didn’t expect. Not because of what he said—but because of the way he said it. Like a flaw in the foundation. Like a truth carved into him long before you ever stepped foot inside that bar.

You shift a little, turning more fully toward him, cheek pressed deeper into the pillow. Your fingers are still slotted with his. His skin is warm. Callused at the tips.

“You don’t have to stop,” you say quietly. “Just don’t lie about what you mean.”

That gets him.

His gaze flicks to yours—fast, sharp. Like he wasn’t expecting that. Like no one’s ever said it to him quite like that before.

“I never lied,” he says.

You blink at him. Slow. Sleepy. “No. But you hide.”

Minho doesn’t answer. Just watches you. Face unreadable. Chest rising slow beneath the ink on his skin.

And then, almost too soft to hear:

“I don’t want to scare you.”

That makes you pause. The silence stretches thin and long between you.

“You don’t.”

Minho swallows. His thumb brushes, barely, against your knuckle.

“Not yet.”

You shake your head. Your voice is nearly gone now—nothing but a breath. “I think I’m harder to scare than you think.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I’m starting to believe that.”

The air settles again. Like the truth came in and made itself comfortable.

You close your eyes, finally letting your body sink into the couch. Letting the warmth of him—his hand, his presence, his voice—press into all the places that still feel fragile.

“Don’t stop talking,” you whisper.

He blinks. “What?”

“Your voice,” you murmur, already half gone. “It’s nice. It helps.”

And when you drift off like that—quiet, safe, held by nothing more than the sound of him—Minho stays awake long after. Eyes on the ceiling.

Still talking.

Just in case you can still hear him.

You wake to the scent of coffee and something faintly savory—garlic maybe, or eggs. The couch beneath you is warm where your body curled into it, blanket tangled around your legs. A cat is pressed to your ribs like a living paperweight, tail flicking once when you stir.

For a moment, you forget where you are. Forget what happened. Forget him.

Then the ache hits. Dull and deep, low in your chest and blooming outward. You shift to sit up, and it all comes back.

The club. The hands. The words.

The running.

And then—Minho.

His apartment is quiet now, but not empty. There’s music playing low from somewhere down the hall. You follow the sound on slow feet, dragging the blanket with you like armor.

You find him in the kitchen, barefoot in gray sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt, sleeves pushed up. He’s at the stove, spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other. There’s a pan of eggs on the burner. A second mug waiting beside the sink.

He doesn’t turn when you enter. Just glances over his shoulder and says, “Mornin’.”

His voice is rough with sleep. Deeper. It hits somewhere low in your spine.

You hover at the doorway, feeling small in his clothes—his hoodie draped over your frame, sleeves too long, the hem brushing your thighs.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Making breakfast,” he says, cutting you off with casual finality. “You still eat, right?”

You blink. “I… yeah.”

“Good.” He turns back to the pan. “Then sit.”

You do. Quietly. At the counter, fingers curling around the warm ceramic of the mug he left for you. It smells like cinnamon.

He plates the eggs. Adds toast. Pushes the dish toward you and leans back against the counter with his own. He eats without looking at you at first, fork moving in clean, efficient motions.

When he does speak again, his voice is softer.

“You don’t have to go back.”

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth.

“What?”

Minho lifts his gaze. Steady. Calm.

“I’m serious. If you don’t feel safe there…” He trails off, jaw tensing. “Stay here.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch far.

“I’ve got room,” he adds. “Cats already like you. You don’t snore.”

That last part earns the smallest smile from you. “You don’t know that.”

“I was up half the night,” he says, mouth twitching. “I’d know.”

You look down at your plate, pretending to rearrange the toast like that’ll somehow buy you time to think. But the words—stay here—they’ve already lodged themselves under your ribs. Warm. Unexpected. Real.

And terrifying.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you say finally. Quiet. Like if you speak too loud, you’ll ruin the softness of it all.

Minho sets his fork down.

The sound is soft, deliberate. When you glance up, he’s watching you again. Really watching—like he does when he’s about to say something that’ll cut deeper than you expect.

“You’re not.”

Just that. Nothing flowery. Nothing performative. Just the fact of it, laid bare on the table between you like it shouldn’t be questioned.

You want to believe him.

You almost do.

But then your fingers twitch near your coffee, and the pain in your face pulses a little sharper—pulling you back into the fragile ache of your own body. You shift to look away, to hide the swelling that’s bloomed across your cheekbone and down to your jaw.

But Minho doesn’t let you.

He moves around the counter slowly, like he’s trying not to spook you. His hand is warm when it finds your chin again—fingertips brushing along your jawline, coaxing your face toward his. Gentle. Grounded.

“Let me see.”

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb ghosts beneath your cheekbone, skimming over the darkened bloom that’s bloomed overnight. His brow furrows—not in pity, not even in anger. Just... stillness. A silence that hums with the kind of fury he’s learned how to wear like armor.

His voice is low when it comes.

“I hate that he touched you.”

You blink. Something thick swells in your throat, too full to swallow down.

“I hate that I didn’t find you first.”

That hits you harder than it should.

You try to speak—but your voice sticks somewhere behind your teeth. So you just nod, your cheek pressing into his palm like your body can answer for you.

Minho doesn’t let go—not yet. His fingers trail down to the edge of your neck, where the fabric of his hoodie pools at your collarbone. You’re not sure if he realizes how close he’s gotten. How the warmth of him wraps around you now, even without touching anything else.

“I want you to stay,” he says again, steady now. “Not because I feel bad. Not because you need help. I want you here.”

Your next breath comes too fast. Too shallow.

His thumb moves again—just a gentle stroke along your jaw.

“Say something,” he murmurs.

You breathe in once, shaky and thin. “Okay.”

The corners of his mouth pull—slow, subtle. Not quite a smile. Something quieter. Relief, maybe.

He lets your face go with that same care—like he’s afraid it’ll leave a mark if he’s not gentle enough. Then he steps back, returns to his plate, and picks up his fork again like he didn’t just hand you the softest kind of shelter.

You take another bite of your eggs.

They taste better than they should.

You don’t move in all at once.

There’s no official decision, no suitcase moment. Just the slow accumulation of things—your toothbrush beside his, a sock that somehow never made its way back into your bag, a t-shirt folded neatly at the foot of the bed that you don’t remember taking off. A rhythm forms. One that begins with his voice in the morning—low, rough, coffee-laced—and ends with the soft click of the front door when he comes home from the bar past midnight, thinking you’re asleep.

You never are.

The apartment starts to feel different. Lived-in. Yours, even if you never say it out loud. Your shoes by the door. Your laughter echoing off the tile. Your perfume clinging to his sheets like memory.

Minho doesn’t comment. Not once. He just starts making a second cup of coffee without asking. Starts keeping almond milk in the fridge. Throws your laundry in with his like it’s never been separate.

And you—you watch him fall into it as easy as breath.

He moves through the apartment like smoke. Silent, confident, present in ways you’ve never been used to. There’s no performance with him, no empty gestures. If he folds your towel, it’s because it needed folding. If he brings home your favorite tea, it’s because he remembered. And if he looks at you too long in the mirror while you brush your teeth, it’s because he wants to, not because he expects anything in return.

One night, he comes home late. The bar ran over, and the cats had started pacing like they could feel the quiet shift without him. You’re curled on the couch in one of his hoodies, a half-finished movie playing on low, just waiting for the lock to turn. When it does, and he steps inside—shoulders drawn, eyes tired, the scent of smoke and whiskey clinging to him—you don’t say anything at first.

Just watch him.

He slips off his boots. Shrugs off his jacket. Walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of water like he’s not sure how to be here yet.

Then he grabs the pack from the counter.

You sit up.

“Minho.”

He pauses. Doesn’t look at you.

You rise slowly, tugging the sleeves of the hoodie over your hands, padding barefoot to meet him.

“You said you were trying to quit.”

“I am.”

“You’re also lighting a cigarette at midnight.”

He exhales through his nose. Tired. “Rough night.”

You stop just short of the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen, bare toes curling against the tile, the silence stretching taut between you.

“Want to talk about it?” you ask softly.

“No,” he says.

Not harsh. Not clipped. Just final.

Minho pulls the cigarette from the pack with that same familiar motion—two fingers, flick of the wrist. The sound of the lighter clicks once, twice, before the flame catches. He doesn't look at you as he inhales, jaw tight, lashes low. The cherry glows in the dim.

You wrap your arms around yourself.

He leans against the counter, exhales slow, smoke curling up toward the ceiling. It swirls around the line of his jaw, catches the faint sheen of sweat at his temples, clings to him like it’s part of his skin.

You hate how good he looks like this. Angry. Quiet. Unreachable.

But you hate more that you can’t reach him.

“Was it something at the bar?”

His lips twitch. He doesn’t answer.

You step closer, voice gentler now. “You don’t have to carry it alone, you know.”

“I’m not,” he says. Still not looking at you. “I’m carrying it just fine.”

You frown.

“Minho—”

“I said I’m fine,” he snaps.

And this time, it is clipped. Sharp. The kind of sharp that cuts more than it means to. He finally looks at you then—eyes rimmed with something hot and unreadable, mouth hard.

The silence that follows is cold.

You shift your weight, wounded but trying not to show it. “Okay.”

Minho’s jaw ticks. Like he wants to take it back, but doesn’t know how. Like everything in him is fraying at the edges, and you just happened to be the softest thing close enough to get caught in it.

He curses under his breath. Stubs the cigarette out halfway through, presses the filter down into the tray until it smears.

Then, quieter: “It’s not you.”

“I know.”

He runs a hand down his face, palm dragging hard across his mouth like he’s trying to erase himself. Then he sighs and looks at you—really looks at you. The hoodie swallowed around your frame. The bare legs. The worry softening your brow.

His voice breaks a little on the next part.

“Had a guy come into the bar tonight. One of those types—smiles too wide, looks through women instead of at them. He kept cornering this girl, leaning over the counter, asking me why I gave a shit when I told him to back off.”

You say nothing. Just listen.

Minho swallows. “He called me a cockblock. Said I must’ve been jealous.” His gaze drops, eyes narrowing. “Said I looked like the kind of guy who watches.”

You don’t interrupt.

“He grabbed her arm when she tried to leave. Wouldn’t let go."

The words hang there. Not just what he’s saying—but why he’s saying it. You feel it bloom in your chest. Cold. Familiar.

You walk the last few feet.

He doesn’t stop you this time.

Your hand finds his wrist—warm, tense, still trembling slightly. You run your thumb over the bone there, grounding him.

“You’re not that kind of man.”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to be.”

That makes you pause.

He looks up. His voice is low. Bitter.

“I wanted to slam him into the bar. Make him bleed. Make him feel small. And the worst part?” A breathless laugh. “I would’ve enjoyed it.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But you didn’t.”

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

You squeeze his hand.

It’s quiet for a while. The kitchen lit only by the soft amber under the cabinets, casting warm shadows along the tile. The cats have settled somewhere in the living room. Even the city feels hushed.

He rubs his thumb over your palm absently.

Then, suddenly: “He looked at her the same way—”

He stops himself. His jaw locks.

You swallow.

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. You know.

And he knows you know.

So you step closer. Gently. Carefully. Press your forehead to his shoulder, breathing him in—smoke and soap and something like home. You pluck the cigarette from his lips and he lets you, watches as you toss it into the sink.

“Come to bed,” you murmur.

He doesn't move.

You tug on his hand again. “Please.”

Minho glances at you—eyes a little too tired, a little too dark—but he lets you guide him.

He doesn’t say much once you're in the bedroom. Just peels his shirt off and tosses it into the corner. You catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his chest again—the wing in the center of the storm, fractured, fighting to stay airborne.

You turn away to climb into bed, give him space.

But when you settle under the blanket, he’s already there. Already behind you. Warm and solid, arm slipping around your waist without hesitation. His chest to your back, his breath against your neck.

He’s quiet for a long time. And then:

“I hate that I couldn’t stop it. What happened to you.”

You close your eyes.

His fingers tighten slightly against your side. Not rough. Just firm. Just real.

“I think about it more than I should,” he murmurs. “What I’d do if I saw him again.”

You shift, just enough to feel him breathe differently—like your movement catches him off guard, like he wasn’t expecting you to respond. But you don’t turn around, not yet. You just let your voice slip into the quiet, soft and slow.

“What would you do?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then another.

His breath ghosts across your shoulder. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d scare you.”

His voice is quiet, but not gentle. Measured. Sharp at the edges like he’s spent all night filing it down.

You blink slowly into the dark, heart thudding, air thick between your bodies. You feel him behind you—warm, solid, tense. A wall at your back. A shield. A fuse.

“Tell me anyway,” you whisper.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t exhale.

And just when you think he might pretend he didn’t hear you, Minho speaks.

“I’d wait,” he says, voice low, words heavy like molasses. “Wouldn’t say anything. Wouldn’t warn him. Just watch. Let him come close. Let him think he could try again.”

Your breath catches.

His fingers curl slightly where they rest on your waist, grounding himself in the shape of you.

“Then I’d take his hand,” Minho murmurs, “the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”

A chill snakes down your spine.

Not fear.

Just something colder. Older. Like someone had finally said the thing you weren’t allowed to say out loud. That it wasn’t okay. That it would never be okay.

“And when he screamed,” Minho continues, voice almost tender now, “I wouldn’t stop. I’d make sure he understood what it feels like to lose control. To be small. Helpless. The way he made you feel.”

You turn in his arms.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Face to face now.

His jaw is clenched. Eyes storm-dark. He looks dangerous like this. Not because he’s violent. But because he’s loyal. Because he means every word and there’s no drama in his voice—just truth. Cold and clean.

You reach for him without thinking.

Your hand moves to his face, fingers threading into the hair at his temple, thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone like you’re trying to soothe something in him—or maybe in yourself. And Minho… he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t soften either. He just lets you hold him, lets your touch settle over the anger still thrumming in his bones like a warning bell that hasn’t stopped ringing.

“You wouldn’t scare me,” you whisper.

His brow twitches, just slightly. “You should be scared of a man who wants to hurt for you.”

“No.” You shake your head. “I’ve been scared before. You’re not that kind of man.”

His mouth parts. His breath hits your lips. The weight in his eyes shifts—something cracks beneath it. Not entirely. Just a fracture. A weakness. A truth.

“You don’t know what I’d do,” he murmurs.

You lean in, close enough that your breath brushes his skin when you speak.

“I don’t need to,” you whisper. “I know what you’ve already done.”

His brow furrows, but you go on—soft and steady, the words falling between you like they’ve been waiting for a place to land.

“You made space. You listened. You held me when I couldn’t hold myself. You let me have silence without asking for anything in return.” Your fingers press more firmly against his jaw, thumb brushing just below his lower lip. “That’s enough. That’s more than anyone else ever did.”

Minho’s eyes darken—not with lust—but with something thicker. Something closer to reverence. Like the weight of your trust is heavier than all the violence he ever imagined inflicting in your name.

His hand rises slowly, palm cupping your cheek with a gentleness that borders on fragile. His thumb swipes beneath your eye like he’s checking for something he missed.

“I don’t deserve that,” he says, voice raw.

“Maybe not,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his. “But you have it.”

And that’s what breaks him.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just enough to make him move.

Minho kisses you like he’s falling. Like he’s been holding himself upright for so long, he doesn’t remember what it feels like to give in. His mouth finds yours, and there’s no hesitation in it—only heat, only hunger. His tongue slides against yours with a quiet groan that vibrates in your chest.

You gasp softly when he pushes you back, his body pressing you into the mattress, weight balanced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. One hand slips under your shirt, fingers skimming up your ribs, pausing just beneath the curve of your breast.

He pulls back barely an inch, eyes flicking over your face like a question.

His breathing is uneven, but his touch isn't. His hand rests there—still beneath your shirt, just barely cradling your breast like he's not sure he deserves to hold anything so soft. So willing. His thumb strokes gently, slowly, and his eyes search yours like he's waiting for a line to cross. Or worse—waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for the hem of your shirt, dragging it up with trembling fingers. You don’t break eye contact. Don’t speak.

You just offer.

And Minho accepts.

He helps, silent, peeling it over your head with quiet reverence. He looks at you like you’re made of something rare and unrepeatable. And when his gaze drags over your chest, down the soft swell of your ribs to your stomach, he breathes your name like a confession.

His voice is wrecked when he says it—your name, cracked and reverent like he’s saying it for the first time. Like it’s a word he isn’t worthy of.

“Fuck, look at you.” His hands drag down your sides, slow and sure, palms wide and heavy like he’s trying to ground himself. He shifts over you, mouth lowering to your breast, and he moans as soon as his lips close around your nipple—no restraint, no performance. Just need. He sucks hard. Just once. Like he can’t help himself. Then he pulls back, panting, and shakes his head like he’s already losing it. “I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

You smile—lazy, wrecked, already warm all over—and tilt your head just enough for your lashes to sweep up, gaze locked on his. You reach for him, fingers trailing down his arm until your palm flattens against his chest, right over the fractured wing. “I’m not looking at you like anything,” you whisper.

Minho’s breath stutters—one of those shallow, fractured exhales that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. Not when your palm is flat against his chest, thumb grazing the tip of that wing inked over his heart. Not when your eyes look like that—half-lidded, dark, shining with something he’s not sure he deserves.

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough. “Keep lying to me.”

But he doesn’t pull away. He watches you. Watches the way your hand trails lower, slow and certain, down the cut of his abdomen. Fingertips ghosting over the faint dip of muscle, over the waistband of his pants, teasing the edge like you’re not sure yet—like he has any say in it anymore.

Minho goes still. Not because he doesn’t want it. God, he does. He’s so hard it hurts, cock straining against the fabric, already leaking for you. But there’s something in his face—tightness around the mouth, tension in his jaw. A flicker of control barely clinging to the edge. And you see it. You see all of it. So you press your lips to his collarbone—soft, reverent—and whisper, “Let me.”

Minho shudders. And then he nods. You sink down the bed a little, propping yourself on one elbow, other hand already slipping beneath his waistband. He lifts his hips to help, pants shoved just low enough to free him. His cock springs up, flushed and thick, tip slick with precome, veins standing in sharp relief.

“Jesus,” you murmur, fingers curling around the base. “You’re so hard…”

“Because of you,” he rasps. “You lying, teasing little thing—”

You give him a slow stroke, and he chokes.

You give him another stroke, tighter this time, and the sound he makes punches straight through you—low and ragged, a shattered groan caught in the back of his throat. His hips twitch, almost against his will, and you can feel the restraint vibrating through his body, every muscle tight like he’s on the verge of snapping.

“You’re shaking,” you whisper, almost teasing. “What happened to all that control?”

Minho laughs—just barely. Just a breath.

“Keep talking like that,” he mutters, “and I’ll ruin you before you even get the chance to try.”

But the way his eyes flutter shut when you twist your wrist on the upstroke says otherwise. “Hah—fuck—” He’s panting now, head tipped back, one arm holding himself up beside your head for support while the other fists the sheets like he needs something—anything—to hold onto.

You lean up, breath brushing the underside of his jaw, your voice soft and honey-sweet in his ear.

“You gonna beg for it?”

He freezes. His eyes snap open, and there’s something electric in the silence between you. His cock throbs in your hand, twitching like the idea alone nearly undid him. He turns his head slightly, lips brushing yours.

“Do you want me to?” he whispers.

You smile, smug and slow. “Wouldn’t hate it.”

He groans—deep, guttural, wrecked—and it makes your cunt clench. He looks like he could devour you whole, like he might if you ask nicely. Or if you don’t.

“I’d get on my fucking knees if you told me to,” he mutters, mouth moving along your jaw, your cheek, your throat. His hand finds your hip and grips, firm enough to bruise. “I’d crawl. I’d beg. I’d say please—is that what you want?”

You don’t answer. You just stroke him again—slow, tight, deliberate—and feel the way he shudders against you, how his whole body flinches like your hand alone is enough to wreck him.

“Mm— baby, slow down—fuck—” He buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing skin.

“I’ll give it to you,” he murmurs. “Anything. You want me desperate? Pathetic? Done. Just say it.”

You hum, soft and pleased, lips brushing his temple. “I think I like you pathetic.”

Minho groans—“Fuck, you’re evil,”—but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he sinks into it. Into you. Every stroke of your hand wrings another sound from his throat, each more desperate than the last.

You swipe your thumb over the slit, smear precum down the shaft, and his entire body jolts.

“Shit—don’t—f-fuck—”

“You gonna make a mess in my hand, baby?” you ask sweetly, tightening just a little. “Gonna come like this? Without even being inside me?”

He growls. “No.”

You blink up at him, lips parting in mock surprise. “No?”

Minho pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes absolutely wrecked. Hair messy, jaw clenched, throat flushed with effort. He’s trying so fucking hard not to lose it.

“I’m not coming until I’m inside you,” he says, voice low, dark, edged with pure hunger. “Until I’m fucking deep in that pretty cunt, feeling you squeeze me while I lose it. You think I can come just from your hand?”

He leans in, nose to yours, breath harsh. “I’d beg for the chance to do it right.”

You blink once. Then twice. Then you let go of his cock. Minho groans like it physically hurts.

“Then beg.” He stares at you. One long, heavy moment. Then he kneels back on his haunches, hands splayed on your thighs, and dips his head.

“Please.”

Just one word—but fuck, the way he says it. Voice hoarse, raw, like it’s scraped from the bottom of his chest. His lips graze the inside of your knee as he speaks again.

“Please, let me in. Let me fuck you slow. Let me feel you stretch around me.”

You exhale shakily.

He presses another kiss higher. “Let me make you come on my cock. Let me ruin you so good you forget anyone else ever touched you.”

Your thighs tremble. He reaches for your underwear, eyes flicking to yours for permission, and when you nod—barely, breathless—he tugs them down with reverence, slow enough to make you whimper.

Minho drags your underwear down your legs like it’s the last ribbon off a present, like beneath it is something he’s been waiting his whole life to unwrap. When the fabric slips past your ankles, he tosses it somewhere behind him without a glance. His gaze never leaves you. You’re already soaked.

He sees it—feels it when he runs two fingers through your folds, slow and deliberate, spreading you open with a breathless “fuck me.” His knuckles tremble.

He sees everything. Every flutter of your lashes, every twitch of your thighs, every slick sound his fingers make as they glide through you, slow and reverent. His knuckles tremble, but his touch doesn’t falter—not even a little. If anything, the way his hand moves only deepens, turns hungrier.

“Fuck me,” he breathes again. He parts you with two fingers, spreads your folds and watches your cunt clench on nothing, dripping for him, aching.

“Look at you,” he mutters, like he can’t help it. “So wet I can see my reflection. What the fuck did I do to deserve this?”

You’re panting now, back arching just slightly off the sheets, eyes half-lidded but fixed on him, on the way he looks at you like you’re something sacred and ruined all at once.

“Touch me,” you whisper. “Please.”

Minho sinks two fingers into you in one smooth stroke—slow, thick, curling just right until your breath hits the back of your throat. He groans, low and guttural, watching your cunt stretch around his fingers like it’s something holy.

“So fucking tight,” he grits out, voice wrecked. “How the fuck am I gonna fit my cock in you if you’re already this tight around my fingers?”

The question is low, more to himself than to you, but it rips through you like heat, like lightning. Your walls flutter helplessly around his fingers at the thought, and Minho groans—long, drawn out, wrecked.

“Oh, you like that,” he breathes. “You want me to stretch you open, don’t you?”

Your answer is a breathy whimper, more sound than word—your hips canting up, your fingers curling in the sheets. Minho watches you, chest rising and falling like he’s the one being touched, like you are the thing unraveling him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and then he’s lining up. His cock drags through your folds, thick and flushed, already smeared with your slick. He grinds once—slow, deliberate—letting the head catch against your clit before slipping lower. When he presses in, the stretch burns, even as your cunt welcomes him, soaking and clenching and shaking just from the promise of it.

“Jesus—ngh, fuck—you’re tight,” he growls, jaw clenched, forehead tipped against yours. “Gonna ruin me.”

He gives you an inch. Then another. Then thrusts the rest of the way in with a groan that sounds like it’s been caged in his throat for weeks.

You cry out—sharp, startled, stretched to the brim in one sudden, devastating motion.

“Minho—”

“Shh,” he pants, not stopping. His hips roll into yours, hard and deep, dragging his cock through your walls like he’s trying to etch himself into them. “You can take it. I know you can. Look at you—fuck—made for this.”

The first few thrusts are brutal. Snapping, deliberate, filthy. Your thighs tremble. Your back arches. He pins your hips down like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t keep you there. Every time he sinks back in, your breath knocks out of your lungs, and his name falls from your lips like a prayer—wrecked, endless, real.

“Just like that,” he grits, cock dragging against your walls, soaked in you. “Let me fuck it into you—let me make you feel me.”

But then— Then he slows. Not because he has to. Because he wants to. Because he wants to feel all of it. His hand slides under your thigh, hikes your leg higher around his waist, and he sinks into you again—slower this time. Deeper. His hips roll instead of snap, the rhythm shifting into something that feels closer to worship than fucking.

He fucks into you slow, deep—each thrust wringing a breathy moan from your throat, each drag of his cock carving his name deeper into the heat of you. The sweat on his skin glistens under the low light, hair clinging to his forehead, jaw tight with effort and restraint. You’re clinging to him now—arms looped around his shoulders, nails dragging across his back, body arching to meet every roll of his hips. And then he says it—low, ragged, right in your ear.

“Feel good?”

You gasp, nod, whisper-plead a breathless “Yes.”

He hums—a soft, dark thing, almost smug. He thrusts a little harder, just once, like a reward, like a test. “Yeah?” he pants. “How good? Tell me."

You try—but your voice catches. It’s just air at first, punched out of you by the deliberate grind of his hips, by the thick, aching stretch of him moving so slowly inside you you could scream. You manage a broken, breathy sound: “So—fuck—so good…”

And Minho groans. Long, low, full of grit. He kisses your jaw, your cheek, your lips—messy, hot, open-mouthed. His breath fans against your skin as he mutters, “That all you’ve got for me, baby?”

You dig your nails in—fuck him, he knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly how good he feels, the way his cock strokes that spot just right, again and again, with filthy precision. The way his hand curls around your thigh to keep you spread for him, to keep you right there

You whimper his name—soft, ruined—like it’s the only word you remember, and he groans, sharp and deep, lips dragging along the sweat-slick curve of your throat.

“God, you feel—” he pants, voice splintered, barely holding. “You feel so fucking good, baby. You’re so tight, so warm, you—fuck, you ruin me.”

Another thrust—slow, deep, devastating—and your head falls back against the pillow, mouth open in a silent cry. Minho watches your face twist, watches your chest heave, and it breaks something in him.

“I—shit—I think I’m in love with you.”

It slips out like a sin. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like he couldn’t hold it in one second longer.

Your whole body goes still beneath him—just for a moment. Like your brain’s catching up. Like his words are a second kind of penetration, sharp and unexpected. He freezes, too. Breath held. Eyes wide. The moment burns.

And then you whisper, broken and trembling: “Say it again.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate this time. “I love you.”

He moans it into your mouth, like it hurts to say, like it hurts more not to. His hand slides up your side, tender now, reverent.

“I fucking love you,” he says again, forehead pressed to yours, hips still rolling deep, slow, full of everything he never knew how to say before now.

“You hear me? You’re not just someone I fuck, you’re—god, you’re everything.”

Your lips part—words rising up like breath, like instinct—but you don’t get the chance.

Minho kisses you before you can speak.

Not soft. Not tentative. It’s all tongue and teeth, heat and hunger, the kind of kiss that steals thought and gives only feeling in return. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been starving for it—like he’s still starving, even now, with his cock buried deep inside you and your body curled so sweetly beneath his.

You gasp into him, and he drinks it down—tongue licking into your mouth, filthy and tender and real.

And then it’s all friction.

The slow roll of his hips turns urgent, dragging moans from your throat he swallows between kisses. He fucks into you like he means it now—like every thrust is a promise carved into your bones. You cling to him, helpless against the way your body arches, the way your cunt tightens around him, soaked and pulsing, every nerve on fire.

“M-Min—hah—Minho—”

He pulls back just long enough to look at you—just long enough to let you see how wrecked he is, how far gone, how in it he is with you.

“You’re mine,” he pants, voice rough and wrecked, thrusts hitting deeper now, harder, his hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. “You hear me? Say it.”

You nod, broken. “Yours—fuck, I’m yours—”

And that’s all he needed.

He groans—loud, guttural—and buries himself deeper, cock twitching as he fucks you through it. His thrusts lose rhythm, chasing his high, and you’re barely hanging on, every drag of him inside you rubbing all the right places, the sweet heat spiraling again in your belly.

You’re both so close. So close.

And when you come again—tight and soaked and shaking all around him—he feels it. Feels you flutter and pull and milk him until he can’t hold back anymore.

He buries his face in your neck, gasping your name as he spills inside you, hips stuttering, voice wrecked.

“I love you—fuck—I love you, I love you—”

It’s not gentle when he comes.

It’s everything.

And when the tremors subside, when your nails loosen from his back and your breaths sync again, he still doesn’t let you speak.

Not yet.

He just kisses you.

And kisses you.

And kisses you.

You learn something about Minho that night. That as nonchalant and unshakable as he seems—cool and composed, cigarette smoke and sharp tongues—when he gets going, he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re crying his name again. Not until your thighs tremble and your voice is wrecked and your body’s too boneless to beg for more, even though your eyes still plead with him.

You lose track of how many times.

The night runs long and slow and molten—fucking turns to touching, touching turns to laughing, and every kiss feels like a secret passed between mouths.

Now, the room is quiet again. Still.

You’re sprawled across the sheets, skin bare, limbs warm and heavy with exhaustion. The duvet’s been kicked down to your ankles, your body slick with the soft sheen of sweat, your chest rising in steady, sated waves.

Minho is gone—but only for a second.

You hear the quiet thud of the fridge door, the sound of a glass under the tap. When he returns, he’s shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and he’s holding out a glass of water like it’s some sacred offering.

“Drink,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and sex. You sit up just enough to take it, careful not to meet his eyes at first—and then you see them.

The marks. Dark smudges blooming across the sharp cut of his hips. Nail trails raked down the meat of his shoulders. A bite on his collarbone, faint and already bruising. All yours. And suddenly you feel… Shy.

You didn’t before—when his mouth was on you, when his hands were everywhere, when your back arched and you begged him not to stop. But now, in the soft quiet, with morning somewhere close on the horizon, it hits you. So you reach for the blanket, dragging it up your chest like modesty matters, like you didn’t spend the whole night unraveling beneath him.

Minho sees. Of course he sees.

And he smiles.

That slow, crooked thing. The one that doesn’t show teeth but somehow says everything.

“Oh?” he murmurs, placing the water on the nightstand before crawling back into bed. “Now you’re shy?”

You don’t answer. Just burrow into the pillow, cheeks hot. He slips beneath the duvet anyway—doesn’t give you a choice. Just tugs it down again with a smug little hum, eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to memorize the exact shade of your embarrassment.

“I like the marks,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Wish you’d left more.”

You blink at him. He just keeps going—slow, lazy kisses trailed down your arm, his body curling around yours like he can’t bear the distance. One arm loops under your waist. The other hooks over your thigh. And then he’s half on top of you, all weight and warmth and him. Clingy.

He tucks his face into your neck like it’s the only place he knows how to breathe. His nose nuzzles behind your ear, lips brushing the shell of it when he speaks again—low, slurred, thick with sleep and smugness.

“Gonna have to start wearing long sleeves to work.”

You choke on a breath, eyes fluttering open. “Because of me?”

“Mm.” He kisses your jaw. “Unless I want to get fired.”

You raise an eyebrow. "You work at a bar, not an office."

“Yeah,” Minho hums, lazy and amused. “But people tip more when I’m unmarked.”

The words slip out casual, offhand—like a throwaway comment he doesn’t mean anything by.

But your smile falters anyway.

Just a flicker. Just enough for him to see it.

You shift beneath him, eyes drifting away, teeth catching your lower lip before you can stop the twist of something sour in your gut. You don’t say anything—not right away—but your silence says enough.

Minho stills.

Then lifts his head, just barely, so he can see your face.

“Hey.”

You blink up at him, startled by the sudden seriousness in his voice.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, tone low. Honest. “Because I’ll quit.”

Your heart stutters.

“What?”

“I mean it.” His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “If you don’t like it—me working there, people flirting, whatever—I’ll quit. I don’t give a fuck about the tips.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off before you can answer.

“I only took that job to kill time. To pay rent. But you—” His brow furrows. “You’re not something I’m willing to risk for a few extra bills thrown in a jar.”

You swallow hard.

He watches you.

Your eyes search his face—his furrowed brow, the firm set of his mouth, the dark smudge of sleep still softening the corners of his eyes—and there’s no doubt. No teasing in his voice, no smirk on his lips. Just Minho. Serious. Steady. Unflinching in his honesty.

“I’d rather be yours than anyone’s favorite bartender,” he says, quieter this time.

Your throat tightens.

And for a second, you can’t speak. You can only stare, caught between the weight of his words and the way his fingers stay curled so gently around your jaw—like you might vanish if he lets go.

You whisper, “I don’t want you to quit.”

He waits.

You blink slowly, pulling in a breath thick with the scent of him, the warmth of his body still heavy across yours. “I just didn’t like the idea of someone else looking at you like I look at you.”

Minho’s expression shifts—barely, but you feel it. Something in his chest loosens. His eyes soften, flicking between yours.

“No one else gets to,” he says simply. “Not anymore.”

You exhale, shaky with something that feels suspiciously close to relief. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He leans down, brushes his lips against yours—so soft, so sure. “They can look all they want. But I go home with your marks on me. I come home to you.”

Your pulse trips. Your hand fists the sheets at your side, but he feels it. Feels the way the tension bleeds out of you when he says it like that. Like a promise.

And then he flops on top of you.

Dead weight. Limbs loose. Hair flopping messily across his forehead as he buries his face in your chest with a dramatic sigh.

You laugh, startled. “Minho!”

“Mmm,” he grunts, nuzzling between your breasts. “Too early for serious talks. Thought we were in our post-sex cuddling era.”

You squirm under the sudden weight, still giggling, breath hitching when his cheek brushes the swell of your breast. “We can’t be in our post-sex cuddling era if you suffocate me in it.”

He hums again. Doesn’t move.

Just slings an arm over your ribs like a human paperweight, sighs through his nose like he’s never been more at peace. “Shhh,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “You love it.”

You do.

You really, really do.

You let your fingers find his hair, carding gently through the tangled strands at his nape. He melts into it, chest rising and falling slow against your stomach. The silence between you stretches—soft, golden, alive with the echo of everything that came before. Of everything that now lingers.

Minho doesn’t say anything else for a while. He just breathes you in. Lets you trace lazy shapes along his spine. Lets his lips ghost across your skin every now and then, aimless, unthinking. Like he needs the taste of you to fall asleep.

Eventually, you murmur, “You’re not really gonna wear long sleeves, are you?”

He snorts into your chest. “Hell no.”

“Good,” you whisper.

He hums again, content. Almost purring.

Then, after a beat: “Might even go shirtless.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” His voice is muffled against your skin, low and lazy. “Let ‘em see everything. Let ‘em know I’m taken. Ruined. Whipped.”

You huff a laugh, warm and breathless, chest shifting beneath him. “You’re not whipped,” you tease, even though your heart trips a little at the word. The way he says it like a badge of honor, like something he wants people to know.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t even lift his head.

“Babe,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin with every syllable, “I let you suck a bruise into my neck while my dick was still inside you. I think the jury’s in.”

Your face heats instantly. “Oh my god—”

He grins, smug and sleepy and so clearly unrepentant. “Should’ve taken a picture. Hung it behind the bar.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m so serious.” He nuzzles into your sternum, exhales a satisfied sigh. “Caption it: Do not touch. Fed and fucked.”

You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “You’re insane.”

He chuckles. “I’m in love.”

The words land softer than they should, but firmer than you'd expect. Not casual—comfortable. Like truth in its final form. And you feel it, all the way down: the weight of his affection, the certainty of it, so tangled up in the ridiculous things he says that it feels like breathing.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere left for him to go. “You’re still insane,” you whisper, lips pressed to his hairline.

“And you’re stuck with me.”

The truth of it rings out between you—not heavy, not sharp. Just there. Simple. Whole. You are. He is.

His fingers drum a slow beat against your ribs. He studies you for a second longer, then tucks himself back in, face hidden against your skin, every inch of him wrapped around you like a shield.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs, already halfway there. “We can fall in love more tomorrow.”

You close your eyes.

And you do.

It’s been a few weeks.

A few golden, quiet, full-bodied weeks—where everything that once felt fragile now feels real. Whole. Yours.

Minho had asked you properly—booked out the bar for the night, turned the lights low, played your favorite song on vinyl, and gave you a private bartender show complete with one too many shirtless shaker tricks and your name carved into a lemon twist.

He cooked, too. And kissed you between courses. And pulled you into his lap to ask—not casually, not like it was assumed—if you’d be his girlfriend.

You said yes.

Of course you did.

And now you live together. Officially. Your clothes are in his drawers. His toothbrush sits next to yours. He makes you coffee and you fold his laundry and somewhere in the haze of shared spaces and soft kisses, you forgot what it felt like to flinch.

And then it happens fast.

One moment, you’re walking up the block—hands tucked into your sleeves, heart light from the texts Minho sent not even ten minutes ago.

[Minho] : hurry up[Minho] : wear that thing i like [Minho] : might be drunk by the time you get here if i keep taste-testing the menu

The bar’s glowing ahead, amber light spilling out of the windows like warmth. You’re already rehearsing the way you’ll slip onto a barstool, lean over the counter just far enough for him to grab your waist and kiss you across the spill mat—

You weren’t expecting him.

The ex.

Slurring your name like a threat. Blocking the sidewalk like a curse you thought you’d buried for good.

And for a second, it startles you. Not because you’re afraid—no, not anymore. But because how dare he.

How dare he still think he has access. How dare he act like the time you spent clawing your way out of the wreckage didn’t matter. Like the scars he left didn’t teach you how to fight.

You meet his stare.

Voice steady. “Get out of my way.”

“Oh, now you’ve got a mouth?” he slurs, taking a step forward. “What, dick that good it grew you a backbone?”

You don't flinch.

Not when he leans in, not when he sways close enough for you to smell the sour reek of alcohol clinging to his breath like bile. Not even when his voice drops lower, curling around your name like it still belongs to him.

It doesn't.

"You heard me," you say again, firmer this time. "Move."

But he doesn't. He laughs instead—ugly, mean, mouth curled in that old, familiar smirk that used to make your stomach sink.

Now it just makes you angry.

“You always thought you were better than me,” he sneers, stepping closer, invading your space like he owns it. “Acting like you're some fucking saint now, just ‘cause you got a new dick to suck—”

You move to sidestep him, but his hand shoots out—grabbing your wrist, hard.

Too hard.

You stumble back with a gasp, shoulder slamming into the brick wall of the alley beside the bar. Pain sparks up your arm, sharp and hot where his fingers dig into your skin.

"Let—go of me—"

He doesn't.

His grip tightens.

“Don’t fucking walk away from me—”

And then it happens in a blink.

A blur of dark hair, a sharp crack of movement, and suddenly your ex is off you, shoved back so fast and so hard he nearly falls into the curb. The momentum knocks him sideways, but he catches himself, stumbling back with a curse.

Minho steps between you.

Calm.

Controlled.

Lethal.

Minho’s voice is low. Measured.

“You have until the count of three.”

Your ex scoffs, bloodshot eyes narrowing. “The fuck are you gonna—”

“Three.”

No warning. No buildup.

Just violence.

Minho’s fist slams into his jaw with a sickening crack, the force of it snapping his head sideways. He stumbles—off-balance, stunned—but Minho doesn’t let up. Another punch, straight to the ribs, and you hear the breath leave his lungs in a strangled wheeze.

Your ex hits the ground hard.

But Minho’s not done.

He drops to one knee beside him—precise, deliberate—and grabs his hand.

The hand he used on you.

You freeze, breath caught in your throat.

Because you remember.

“Then I’d take his hand, the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”

And now—

Now you watch it unfold in real time.

Minho takes that wrist in both hands, pins it to the pavement, and presses down—hard—until your ex screams.

“No—no, fuck—stop—!”

Minho’s grip doesn’t waver.

He curls his fingers around one of your ex’s.

“First one,” he mutters—almost gently. Like he’s naming something, not destroying it.

Then he bends.

The crack is sharp, grotesque. It splits the air like a firework misfired—brief and brutal and final.

Your ex howls, voice cracking as he thrashes beneath Minho’s knee, but it doesn’t matter. Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

Just shifts to the next finger.

“Second.”

Another break. Another scream.

You don’t look away.

You should—maybe. A part of you knows that. But the rest of you, the part that remembers—remembers shaking hands, bruised ribs, the way your ex used to whisper apologies into your hair while you cried onto the bathroom tile—that part of you watches.

And breathes.

Minho leans closer.

Not loud. Not unhinged. Just cold.

“Third.”

Crack.

Your ex is crying now. Tears, snot, spit—he’s babbling nonsense, slurring pleads that dissolve into whimpers.

“Stop—please—I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean—”

Minho grabs the fourth finger. “You meant it every time.”

“Fourth,” he says, and the word falls like a guillotine.

He pulls.

The snap is quieter this time—deeper, more internal. A tendon giving way. A joint yanked cruelly from its socket. Your ex lets out a broken sound, not quite a scream anymore. Not loud. Just raw. Hollow. The kind of sound a man makes when he realizes no one’s coming to save him.

Minho still hasn’t raised his voice.

Hasn’t needed to.

Because this isn’t rage. It isn’t revenge.

It’s justice.

Delivered slow. Delivered steady. Delivered by the man who saw every crack in you and loved you anyway—especially because you survived them.

Minho shifts again.

“Fifth.”

“No,” your ex gasps, eyes rolling, lips slick with blood from where he must’ve bitten through them. “No—no more, I—please, please, I—”

But Minho’s hand is already there, curling around that last finger like a closing grave.

And this time, he doesn’t say anything.

He just looks at him—right in the eyes. Like he wants this to be the last thing your ex ever remembers when he reaches for something in the dark.

Then he snaps it clean.

The sound is sickening.

The scream is hoarse. Shredded. Barely human.

“Touch her again,” Minho murmurs, bending the wrist back until the guy writhes, “and I’ll break your fucking spine next.”

And finally—finally—Minho lets go.

He rises slowly, like he’s not rushing to leave the wreckage behind, like he wants your ex to feel every second of what it means to be beneath him. A shadow cast by justice. A reminder that some hands don’t heal—they answer.

He turns to you.

And all of it—the sharpness, the stillness, the steel in his spine—it bleeds away when his eyes meet yours.

He sees the shock there, the tremble hiding in your shoulders.

And he moves to you—not with fire this time, but with the same careful quiet he always gives you after storms. Hands gentle. Expression softer now, but no less certain.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

You nod—but it’s shallow. Fragile.

So he cups your face in both hands, grounding you.

“Look at me,” he says. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

And you know it's true.

Because he is here.

Your mom’s were best friends, you grew up in the same house practically, spent holidays together. He was less a boy and more a permanent fixture in your home. You had done most of the looking out for him when you were younger, fending off anyone who dared to look at him the wrong way. And when he went off to college, you following him, two years later, it was his turn to look after you. He introduced you to his friends, a group of boys from the frat he joined, skipped class to hang around your dorm when you weren’t feeling well. He was your best friend. He was your Han Jisung.

Your Han Jisung, who is currently trying to convince his friends that he has never kissed you and has never thought to.

It annoys you a little. You’ve run through your fair share of men, and some women, since you’ve started college last year. You know you're attractive, that certainly isn’t the problem. So why was Jisung so adamant in proving to his friends that he’s never thought of you in that way? You were starting to feel a bit wounded.

“I’m calling bullshit,” Felix says, leaning against the beer pong table. Smoke drifts upward from the shared joint hanging between his fingers, a fuzzy halo above his blonde head. “Never? Not even once? Come on.”

You don’t even know how this conversation started. One minute you're all lounging around at this house party on a random Friday night, and the next the discussion had shifted to this.

“No,” Jisung’s thigh bounces up and down, which isn’t unusual. He always gets jittery when he smokes. “No. I haven’t, she’s like a–”

“For the love of a fat ass, don’t say she’s like a sister to you,” Hyunjin says, wrinkling his nose.

“Why not?”

Hyunjin gestures wildly at the position you two are sitting in right now. You’re practically in his lap. Your legs are tangled with his on the beat-up couch, and your head is resting on his shoulder.

“That’s how we always sit,” Jisung says, eyebrows pinched in confusion. 

“Okay, well, my sister doesn’t have a lap full of me right now, so there’s that,” Felix says, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

Jisung just grumbles something and snatches the joint from Felix. He leans his head back into the couch, breathing it in deeply, passing it to you without even lifting his head from the pillows. You catch it with your teeth, brows furrowing in disappointment when you're hit with nothing. It’s dead. You pluck it from your lips and lean forward to crush it in the ashtray on the coffee table. When you settle back against the cushions, you shift, just slightly.

Your knee brushes against the crotch of his jeans. The resulting twitch from him is immediate, a little jump of muscle that tells you everything you need to know. He has thought about it. He’s lying through his teeth and it’s hurting your fucking ego.

Hyunjin stretches out his leg to nudge your leg with his foot. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You ever thought about it?”

You and Hyunjin have a weird sort of relationship. You hooked up once at a party, back when you were a freshman. Jisung had found out and gotten upset, telling you that his friends were all assholes and man-whores and were therefore off-limits. You pointed out that Jisung had slept with some of your friends and you hadn’t said anything but he wouldn’t be swayed, refusing to talk to you until you promised to never do it again. You decided then that Hyunjin, though he was beautiful and a pretty decent fuck, was not worth it. The two of you never spoke of it again, but a certain level of playful flirtation has remained. 

“Sure,” you say breezily, picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion.

Jisung sits up so fast you nearly topple over. “You have?” The look on his face is nothing short of comical.

“Yeah. Have you not?”

“No,” he says, and the lie is so obvious it hangs heavy in the air, “We’re best friends.”

“So?” Hyunjin’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, dark eyes dancing with mischief. “Best friends can have fun.”

You’re starting to think he might be right. And you’re starting to think you’d like to have some fun with Jisung, especially if it meant wiping that stupid look off his face. It was a dangerous thought, one that you’d entertained briefly before, always shoving it down because it felt wrong, like crossing some sort of sacred line.

But right now, watching him squirm, it feels more like a starting line.

You shift again, slower this time, and rest your hand on his thigh. His leg stops bouncing. He freezes, all motion ceasing except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He’s looking straight ahead, at the wall, but you can feel the heat of his gaze on your profile.

“What’s so wrong with me that you don’t want to kiss me?” You pout, looking at him through your lashes.

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and his eyes are wide and dark and full of something you can’t quite name. “Nothing,” he breathes. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

You shrug one shoulder, making a show of sighing and rolling your eyes towards the ceiling. “Clearly there’s something wrong with you, then. I know for a fact almost all of your friends have thought about kissing me.” You’re bluffing, mostly. You only know for a fact about Hyunjin. And maybe Seungmin. But that was more of a vibe.

Thankfully, Felix gets the hint. He leans forward on the couch, balancing his elbows on his knees. “I have.”

Jisung turns sharply towards him, parting his lips but before he can speak, Hyunjin chimes in, raising his hand. “I did.” Then, when Jisung throws him a look so dirty, he recoils. “Once. And I never did it again.”

“I wouldn’t be so against it,” Changbin chimes in from where he's playing beer pong. He giggles and turns back to the game ignoring the death glare from Jisung.

You flash him a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Then you turn back to Jisung. You can feel the beat of his heart through the denim of his jeans, a frantic little drum solo against your palm. “See? I’m very kissable.”

He doesn't move, doesn't back away. He just swallows, the sound loud in the suddenly quiet corner of the party. His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips and back again.

You sigh loudly, untangling your legs from his and getting up from the couch. "Whatever," You step past him. "I'm gonna go get more–"

A hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you back so suddenly that you can’t help but yelp, landing in a heap onto Jisung’s lap. Before you can react—or even adjust yourself properly—his lips find yours.

It’s not a soft, tentative kiss. It's a crash. It’s messy and a little desperate, the way a teenager kisses for the first time. There’s an edge of frustration to it, of months, maybe years, of unspoken tension finally boiling over. His tongue slides against yours, and you can taste the cheap beer and the lingering smoke. His hand moves from your wrist to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to prove a point. Someone wolf-whistles, Felix maybe, but it fades into a distant hum, and all that’s left is the frantic beat of his heart against your palm and the dizzying taste of Han Jisung.

When he finally pulls away, you’re both breathless. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the brown of his irises. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, a smug little smirk playing on your lips.

"Shit," Jisung breaths. "You're good at that."

"You were there too, you know," You tease bumping your forehead into his. Maybe you should feel a little weird about kissing this boy you've known since you were children when you've never crossed this line before. But, strangely, or maybe not so strangely, there's nothing weird about it. It feels as natural as breathing, kissing Jisung.

Instead of replying, he's tilting his head up to catch your lips again, palms sliding down from your neck over the expanse of your back and smoothing over your ass, pulling you into him. He deepens the kiss with a soft groan that vibrates in your chest. It's a better kiss this time, slower, more certain. He explores your mouth with a newfound confidence. This is fun. So much fun. You're not sure why you never tried this before.

His thumb finds that little strip of skin between your top and your jeans, stroking it gently. And a shiver goes through you that has nothing to do with the buzz of the party. It’s a jolt, a current that runs straight down to your core, and your hips roll against his of their own accord. A low moan escapes your lips and into his mouth. 

“Booooo,” Hyunjin says from somewhere behind you. “Get a fucking room.”

Neither of you are fazed in the slightest. You feel a great chasm opening between the two of you. It’s only been about  thirty seconds of kissing Jisung and you already know you’ll never be the same without it. You mourn all the years you’ve gone without his lips on yours and you mourn for all the years that will come after this phase of kissing Jisung, because it will someday end. All your life you’ve never known anyone to keep a relationship. 

You pull back from him and he pouts, a pretty little thing that you want to bite. You hold back for now.

“Why haven’t we done this sooner?” He asks, dazed. He leans in to kiss you again, but you put a finger to his lips.

“Because you were too busy denying how much you wanted to,” you say, grinning. The power you feel is intoxicating, headier than the cheap beer, sweeter than the cherry cola on his tongue.

He just grumbles something unintelligible, nipping at the pad of your finger before leaning back into the couch, pulling you with him. His grip on your waist is firm in a way that sends another thrill through you. He’s not letting you go.

You end up making out for the rest of the party, tucked into your little corner of the couch. The weed and the alcohol fade into a distant hum, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of him. When the party eventually thins out and he walks you home, he kisses you some more at the door and you have to physically pull yourself away from him.

“Okay, okay,” you laugh as he tries to follow you inside. “Go home, Ji.”

“When can I see you again?” he asks, a desperate edge to his voice. His hair is a mess from where your hands have been tangled in it, and his lips are swollen and red.

“You see me practically every day.” You shrug, trying to play it cool, even as your heart hammers against your ribs. “And we have that paper to finish for psych.”

“Forget the paper,” he says, shaking his head. “I want to kiss you again.” He takes a step closer, his hands finding your hips. “I don't think I can stop.”

He’s looking at you with a raw, open honesty that makes your breath catch in your throat. This is not the Jisung you know. Your Jisung is goofy and sarcastic, prone to hiding behind jokes and deflecting with humor. This Jisung is… intense.

“Tomorrow,” you say, your voice a little too soft. “You can see me tomorrow.”

He seems to accept this, nodding slowly. He leans in and gives you one last, lingering kiss, a soft, gentle press of lips that feels more intimate than all the frantic kissing from before. “Okay,” he whispers against your mouth. “Tomorrow.”

He takes a few steps down the path, then he stops and turns back. The porch light casts him in a soft, golden glow, but you can see the uncertainty in the set of his shoulders. He’s a silhouette against the dark night, and for a second, he looks like the little boy you used to build pillow forts with.

“Hey,” he calls out, shoving his hands in his pockets. “This… this doesn’t change anything, right?”

You pause with your hand on the doorknob. Change anything? The idea is almost laughable. You and Jisung have been a constant in each other's lives since before you could even remember. What could a few kisses possibly change?

“Of course not,” you say, a genuine, easy smile spreading across your face. “We’re just having fun. Right?”

“Right,” he nods. “Fun. Right.”

He turns and jogs away, a spring in his step that wasn't there before. You watch him go, a warm, fuzzy feeling spreading through your chest. It’s just fun. You’ve always been good at having fun.

And fun it is. Your relationship hasn't changed much, at least not on the surface. You still hang out nearly every day, still bicker over what to eat for dinner, still fall asleep watching movies in his bed. The only difference is that now, you kiss. You kiss in the morning, before you’ve even brushed your teeth, a sleepy, soft press of lips. You kiss in the afternoon, between classes, a quick, hard peck against the brick wall of the humanities building. You kiss at night, tangled in his sheets, long, deep, and searching, until you’re both breathless and aching for more.

The line between friendship and… whatever this is… has become a blurry, beautiful mess.

You’re in his room, a month into this new arrangement. You’re supposed to be studying for a midterm, but your textbook lies forgotten on the floor, its pages crumpled. Jisung is on top of you, his weight a pleasant, grounding pressure. He's kissing a trail down your neck, his lips hot and insistent against your skin.

“You taste so good,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. His hand slips under your shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on the soft skin of your stomach.

You arch into him, a soft gasp escaping your lips. Your fingers tighten in his hair. This is the part that’s always been a little blurry. You've never crossed this line, never went beyond just making out and heavy petting. It feels like the next logical step in this "fun" you're having, but there’s a tiny, hesitant part of you that’s still a little afraid of what that step might mean.

“Jisung,” you breathe, your voice a little shaky.

He pulls back, his face hovering just above yours. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head. “Nothing’s wrong.” You reach up and cup his face, your thumb stroking his cheek. “I just… I'm on my period."

It's a lie. You don't know why you're lying. Maybe you're scared. Maybe you know that having sex with your best friend is a line you can't uncross. But he doesn't need to know that.

He blinks, processing this, then a slow, lazy smile spreads across his face. "So?"

"So?" you echo, a little thrown. "So, it's gross. Don't tell me you've done it before."

"I mean, yeah," he shrugs, "a couple of times. It's not a big deal." He leans down and kisses you, a quick, soft peck on the lips. "I don't care. Did you know it helps a lot with cramps?"

You roll your eyes, but you can't help but laugh. "Did you read that on a feminist blog or something?"

He scratches his eyebrow. "Actually, I was researching what helped with period cramps after you mentioned having really bad ones a few years ago." he says, his ears turning a shade of pink. He smiles sheepishly. "I ended up settling for some Advil."

The admission is so unexpected, so utterly Jisung, that it cuts through the haze of arousal. You let out a small, breathy laugh. "You're an idiot," you say, but there's no malice in it. You reach up and smooth the furrow in his brow. "A sweet, researched-my-cramps idiot."

He grins, relieved. "So... no on the period sex?"

You shake your head, a genuine smile on your face. "No. Nice try though."

"Damn," he says, though he doesn't sound too disappointed. He shifts, rolling off you to lie beside you. "Can I at least still touch you?"

You pretend to think about it, tapping a finger against your chin. "Hmm, I don't know. I'm a very fragile flower right now."

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Right. A fragile flower who was just trying to rip my shirt off five seconds ago."

"Was not."

"Were too."

"Was not."

"Were too."

"If I wanted your shirt off, I would have it off by now," You point out. And you would have. You’re an expert at undressing men quickly.

"I'm not that easy," Jisung protests, propping his head on his elbow to look at you comfortably. "I don't take my shirt off for just anybody."

You roll onto your side to face him, propping your own head up. The sunlight catches in his hair, turning it into a fluffy, brown halo. "Yeah, well, I'm not just anybody. And I've seen you shirtless a bijillion times anyway."

"Yeah but not during sexy sexy time." He wiggles his eyebrows at you.

"Take off your shirt, Jisung." You say, sitting up now, poking his chest with your finger. He yelps, smacking your hand away.

"I just said I'm not that easy!" He whines.

You just stare at him, raising a single eyebrow.

He holds out for approximately three seconds before he sighs dramatically and sits up, crossing his arms and grabbing the hem of his shirt. He pulls it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the floor. "There. Are you happy?"

You gap at him. "You got a tattoo? Holy shit, it's big."

He grins, unable to help it. "That's not the only thing that's bi--"

You cut him off with a look. He clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. I had it done almost two months ago now."

You trace the elegant cursive script with your eyes. It starts just under his left armpit, a single, beautifully rendered word. Blessed. The letters flow down his side, over the sensitive skin of his ribs, disappearing tantalizingly beneath the waistband of his jeans. You have an overwhelming urge to see the rest of it.

"Blessed?" You trace the letters with your fingertip, from the top down as far as you can go. The skin under your touch is warm. He shivers. "Why 'Blessed'?"

He shrugs, looking away, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "I don't know. Just felt right."

A memory suddenly rises to your mind. ""Blessed is he who has learned the causes of things""

He grins sheepishly. "Am I really that predictable?" He asks.

"Yes, you pretentious shit, quoting Virgil." You say but there is no heat in it. "You are such a dork."

He laughs, a soft, breathy sound that rumbles through his chest. You shift, laying your head on his stomach so you can get a better view of the tattoo, your fingers continuing their slow, meandering path over the ink. His skin is soft here. You can feel the muscles of his abdomen tighten slightly under your touch.

"It's about…," he beings thoughtfully, his voice vibrating through your ear. His fingers start to play with your hair, gently combing through the strands. "It's about... understanding, you know? Not just letting shit happen to you, but actually trying to figure out the why. The cause and effect."

You hum in response, your finger tracing the curve of the 's' in 'Blessed'. You can feel the slight raised texture of the healed ink against your skin.

"When I was getting it done," he continues, his voice a low, intimate murmur, "it hurt like a bitch. But it was this weird, focused pain. I could feel the needle, and I knew exactly where it was coming from and why it hurt. And for some reason, that made it... easier. Made me feel in control." He pauses. "Most of life isn't like that. Things just happen. People get sick, relationships end, you fail a test... you don't always get to know the cause."

Your finger stills. You can feel the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. He's not talking about Virgil anymore. He's talking about everything. About the anxiety that sometimes keeps him up all night, about the sheer, terrifying randomness of the world.

"I guess I just wanted a reminder," he says, and you can tell he's not really here with you, but somewhere deep inside of his head. "That even if I can't control the causes, I can at least try to learn them. To understand them. And maybe... maybe that's a kind of blessing in itself."

You press your lips against the skin of his ribs, right over the last visible letter of the word. It's a soft, gentle kiss, nothing like the frantic, demanding kisses from before. 

He lets out a shaky breath, his hand stilling in your hair. You feel his fingers tighten just a little bit, a reflexive grasp. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner and the frantic, unsteady beating of your own heart.

You assume he must be getting sex from elsewhere, because it's been two months since you first kissed him, and you still haven't gone all the way. The make-out sessions have escalated, sure. Hands wander further, clothes come off more readily. There's a fine sheen of sweat on your skin almost every night after he leaves your dorm room. But you always pull back, and he always, always, lets you.

You're starting to feel like a fraud. You preach 'fun' and 'no feelings,' but you're the one who's scared. Scared that crossing that final line will shatter everything you've built with him.

The thought of him with someone else gnaws at you. You try to brush it off. He's a college guy. Of course he's hooking up with other people. You do too, or you would be, if you could muster up the energy to go on a date instead of spending all your free time with Jisung.

You don't like feeling this way. It's an icky, possessive feeling that has no place in a 'fun' arrangement.

The thought bubbles up out of your mouth one evening while you're sprawled on your floor, 'studying' for finals. "Are you sleeping with anyone else?"

Jisung, who is highlighting a paragraph in a textbook with an almost violent concentration, freezes. The bright yellow highlighter hovers over the page. He doesn't look up.

"No," he says, a beat too late. "Are you?"

The question hangs in the air between you, charged with an unspoken electricity. You're not. You haven't even thought about it. The idea of going on a date with some random guy from your stats class feels exhausting, and deeply unappealing.

"No," you admit, picking at a loose thread on the rug. "I just... I figured you would be. We're not... exclusive."

"So?" He finally looks up, and his eyes are dark, serious. "I don't want to."

"Why not?" You press, needing to know. "I'm not putting out. A guy has needs."

A muscle in his jaw jumps. "I'm getting my needs met," he says, his voice low and a little rough. He puts down the highlighter and closes the book with a soft thud.

You sit up, genuinely intrigued. "With who?"

"With no one."

"That makes no sense, Ji, how--"

He just stares at you, a long, intense look that makes your stomach do a little flip. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

"Oh," you breathe, the realization hitting you like a physical blow. He's getting off on you. With the thought of you. The thought is so hot, so surprisingly intimate, that it makes you dizzy.

"Yeah, 'oh'," he mimics, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He leans back on his hands, stretching his long legs out. "Is that a problem?"

"No," you say, a little too quickly. "No, it's not a problem."

"Good."

He goes back to his book, but the spell is broken. You can't focus. The image of him, alone in his room, thinking of you, is burned into the back of your eyelids.

"How come?"

He glances at you. "How come I jacked off to the thought of you riding my face in the library last week?" he asks, deadpan.

You choke on your own spit. "Jisung!"

"What? You asked," he shrugs, completely unfazed.

"That's not what I was asking, I–in the library?"

"Study room C," he clarifies, as if that's the detail you were stuck on. "The chairs are surprisingly sturdy–"

"Anyway," You interrupt. "I meant, how come you haven't been fucking anyone else?"

He sucks on his teeth. "Cuz I don't want to. Besides, it's not like there's any options anyway."

You snort. "That's a bold faced lie, Han Jisung, I know for a fact that that red head from lit has been trying to get in your pants for at least a month."

Jisung blinks. “I thought she was just interested in lizards.”

“No one is actually interested in lizards,” You point out.

“I am.”

“You’re a one in a million, Ji. Maybe even a billion. Are you really just going to keep her waiting?”

He shrugs. “I was never going to sleep with her.”

Now it’s your turn to blink in surprise. “Whoa. Okay, what up?”

“What?”

“Don’t what me, you’re the one with some sort of deadly illness. A  girl’s throwing herself at you and you don’t want to have sex with her?”

“Is that so bad?”

“No…it’s just weird. And a little out of character for you.”

“Is it?” He finally looks up, looking deep into your eyes. “Would you really be okay with me sleeping with her?”

“She’s not really my type, to be honest, so you can have–”

“No,” He cuts off, sounding frustrated now. It surprises you. “I’m not asking specifically about her. Are you really okay with me sleeping with anyone?”

That takes you off guard. “Yes? Why would I not be?”

He looks at you for a long moment, before turning back, huffing a little irritated laugh. “Right. Never mind, forget it.” 

He turns back to his book, highlighting aggressively and leaving you completely and utterly confused. You don't press it. The air is too thick with things you don't want to name.

The party is in full swing, a chaotic explosion of relief and cheap alcohol. The air in the frat house is thick with the smell of spilled beer and sweat, the bass from the speakers vibrating through the soles of your feet. Finals are over. Summer is a breath away. You should be celebrating.

Instead, you're leaning against a sticky wall in the kitchen, watching Jisung from across the room. He's holding court, of course, a circle of admirers hanging on his every word. Among them is the redhead from your lit class, the lizard enthusiast. She's laughing at something he said, her hand resting on his arm.

A hot, ugly feeling coils in your stomach. Possessiveness. Jealousy. You hate it. You hate it more as you watch her latch onto Jisung’s wrist and pull him away. He goes willingly.

You push off the wall and grab a solo cup of what smells like regret and fruit punch, downing half of it in one go. The alcohol burns a path down your throat.

You spot Hyunjin by the beer pong table, a triumphant grin on his face as he sinks the last cup. He catches your eye and raises his eyebrows in a silent question. You give him a tight-lipped smile and make your way over.

“Having fun?” he asks, handing you a fresh beer.

“Peachy,” you say, taking a long sip.

His gaze drifts over to where disappeared with the redhead. “Trouble in paradise?”

“There is no paradise,” you snap, a little too harshly. “There’s just… a sandbox. And someone’s trying to play in my sandbox.”

Hyunjin laughs, a low, knowing sound. “You’re so full of shit. You like him.”

“Of course I like him, he’s my best friend.”

“You know what I mean,” he says, leaning closer. “You’ve been different with him these last few months. Softer, but also… jumpier. Like a stray cat that’s finally decided to let someone pet it but is still ready to bolt at any second.” You open your mouth to deny it, but the words die on your tongue. Because he’s right. You are a stray cat, and you’re terrified.

Before you can formulate a response, a new voice joins the conversation. “Who’s a stray cat?”

It’s Felix, all sunshine and smiles, his arm slung around Changbin’s shoulders. He looks between you and Hyunjin, his curiosity piqued.

“Her,” Hyunjin says, jerking a thumb in your direction. “She’s finally realizing she’s in love with Jisung.”

The words land like a bomb. The kitchen seems to go silent, the thumping bass of the music fading into a dull roar. Your heart hammers against your ribs. In love. The phrase is so absolute, so terrifyingly final. It’s not ‘fun.’ It’s not ‘messing around.’ It’s love.

You’re about to laugh it off, to make some cutting remark that will shut Hyunjin down, but you don’t get the chance. Because you see it. Over Hyunjin’s shoulder, you see Jisung. He’s no longer with the redhead. He’s standing at the edge of the living room, and he’s looking right at you. And you know, with a sickening certainty, that he heard.

You shove past Hyunjin, ignoring his calls of your name. You need to get out of here. You need air. You push through the throng of bodies, the sticky floor gripping your shoes, the heat of the room pressing in on you. You burst through the front door into the cool night air, stumbling down the porch steps.

The front door opens and closes behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.

“What was Hyunjin talking about?” His voice is tight, strained.

“Nothing,” you say, turning to face him. “He was just being an idiot.” You wrap your arms around yourself, a sudden chill making you shiver.

“He said you were in love with me,” he presses, taking a step closer. “Is that true?” His eyes are searching yours, desperate for an answer. And you can’t lie. Not to him. Not when he’s looking at you like that.

“No,” you say, the word coming out small and brittle. Because it’s not love. It can’t be. Love is messy and painful and ends with people crying on the bathroom floor. This is just… this is just a complication.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “Not about this.”

“I’m not lying!” you insist, your own voice rising with frustration. “Why do you even care? I saw you disappear with lizard girl."

He flinches as if you've slapped him. "Lizard girl? Her name is Sophie. And I didn't 'disappear' with her, I walked her to the door because she was too drunk to find it."

"Oh, I'm sure that's all it was," you scoff, the jealousy burning hot and irrational in your chest. "Poor, helpless Sophie."

"What the hell is your problem?" he says tightly, his usually calm demeanor shattering completely. "You say you don’t mind me sleeping with other people, but the second I so much as talk to another girl, you act like I've cheated on you!"

"Because you're supposed to be my friend!" you say harshly, your voice echoing in the quiet street. "You're not supposed to want them! You're supposed to want m—"

You cut yourself off, but it's too late. The words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. You're supposed to want me.

Jisung stares at you, his expression a confusing mix of shock, hurt, and something that looks dangerously like hope. "Want you?" he repeats, his voice dangerously low. "Is that what this is about? Your ego? You need me to want you and only you, but you won't give me anything real in return?"

"That's not what I said!"

"It's what you meant!" he shoots back, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "God, you are so selfish. You want all of my attention, all of my...want. But you won't even admit what this is. You won't give me a label. What am I supposed to do, just wait around forever until you deign to let me in?"

His words are like shards of glass, each one finding a vulnerable spot. He's right. You have been selfish. You've been taking all the comfort and affection he offers without giving anything of substance back.

"Maybe you should just go fuck Sophie then," you spit out, the words laced with a venom you didn't know you possessed. "Maybe she's not as selfish as I am."

"Maybe I will," he retorts, his jaw set. "At least with her, I know where I stand."

The silence that follows is deafening. It’s heavier and colder than the night air. You can feel the chasm between you widening, a crack in the foundation of your entire friendship that you’re not sure can ever be repaired.

He looks at you one last time, and all the anger in his eyes has been replaced by a deep, profound sadness. "You know," he says, his voice quiet and hollow. "For someone who claims to be so good at reading people, you're really fucking clueless."

And with that, he turns and walks away. He doesn't look back. He just disappears into the night, leaving you standing alone on the sidewalk, the thumping bass from the party a distant, mocking heartbeat. The warmth from the alcohol has evaporated, leaving you cold and hollow. You wrap your arms tighter around yourself, but it doesn't help. You're not sure anything will ever help again.

The next few days are a special kind of hell. Silence. That's the worst part. The constant, buzzing silence where Jisung's laughter used to be. Your phone feels heavy and useless. You stare at your text thread with him, the last message being a stupid meme he sent you two days before the party. You can't bring yourself to type anything. What would you even say? Sorry I called you selfish and told you to go fuck someone else? It sounds hollow, even in your head.

You avoid the dorm lounge, the library, the coffee shop. Anywhere you might run into him or one of the guys. You exist in a bubble of your own making, attending your final classes and then retreating to the suffocating safety of your room. The unpacked boxes in the corner of your room seem to mock you, a reminder that summer is here and you have no idea what that means anymore. Summer has always meant Jisung. It has meant lazy days by the pool and late-night drives and the two of you against the world. Now, it just means a gaping, empty void.

A week later, the sky decides to open up and weep all over the city. You’re on your way to the storage unit to finally drop off the last of your boxes when your car, an ancient and temperamental sedan Jisung affectionately named ‘The Beast,’ sputters, coughs, and dies.

Of course it does.

You’re in the middle of nowhere, on a stretch of road lined with industrial parks and warehouses. The rain is coming down in sheets, so heavy you can barely see the hood of your car. The wipers are squeaking a pathetic, rhythmic protest. You try turning the key. Nothing. Just a series of sad, clicking sounds.

Panic, cold and sharp, starts to prickle at the edges of your calm. You pull out your phone, your fingers slippery with rain. You call Hyunjin. It goes straight to voicemail. You try Felix. He picks up on the fifth ring.

“Hello?” His voice is tinny and distant.

“Lix! Thank god, my car died and I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere and it’s pouring—”

“Oh, shit, that sucks,” he says, and you can hear the muffled sounds of a crowd. “I’m at this really lame family thing, I can’t really get away. Have you tried Changbin?”

“He doesn’t have a car,” you say, your frustration mounting.

“Jisung then,” Felix says, like it’s the simplest, most obvious solution in the world.

Your stomach clenches. “I’m not calling Jisung.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end. “Oh. Right. The fight.” He sighs. “Look, I’m sorry. I really can’t leave. Maybe try a tow truck?”

“Great idea, Felix,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm you immediately regret. “Sorry. Thanks anyway.”

You hang up and let your head fall against the steering wheel. The metal is cold against your forehead. You call a roadside assistance number. The automated voice tells you the estimated wait time is two hours. Two hours. In this. You stare out at the grey, water-logged world, a proper, miserable self-pity party for one.

You feel small and helpless. Hated. You’ve made a complete mess of everything. All because you were scared of a word. Love. What a stupid, four-letter word to ruin a decade-long friendship.

You don't know how long you sit there, wallowing in a slurry of anger, guilt, and misery. Time loses its meaning, marked only by the drumming of the rain on the roof and the occasional flash of headlights from a passing car that leaves you feeling even more isolated. You’re so wrapped up in your own head, replaying the fight on a loop, that you don't even notice the pair of headlights that pull up behind you, their beams cutting through the downpour.

You jump violently when a loud rap sounds on your driver's side window. Your heart leaps into your throat. You turn, ready to scream at a serial killer or a creepy trucker, and freeze.

It’s Jisung.

He’s standing in the pouring rain, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping down the bridge of his nose. He’s wearing a thin hoodie that’s soaked through, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He’s not smiling. He’s just looking at you, his expression unreadable through the glass and the streaks of rain.

For a second, you just stare at each other. He looks exhausted, there are dark circles under his eyes that match the ones you've seen in your own reflection all week. He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod towards the lock.

You fumble with the button, your fingers clumsy and cold. The door clicks open. He pulls it, the rush of cold, wet air immediately filling the car. He doesn't get in, just stands there, half-in, half-out, creating a small, temporary shelter from the storm.

“Felix called me,” he says by way of explanation. His voice is flat, devoid of any emotion. “Said you were being an idiot.”

You don't know what to say. Thank you feels too small. Go away feels too cruel. So you just sit there, clutching the steering wheel like a lifeline, unable to meet his gaze.

“The Beast’s dead?” he asks, nodding towards the sputtering engine.

You manage a weak nod.

“Figured.” He sighs, and it’s a weary, bone-deep sound. He shivers, a full-body tremor that he tries to suppress. “Pop the hood.”

You do as he says, fumbling for the latch. He leans out, expertly propping the hood open. He vanishes for a moment into the downpour, and you watch him through the windshield as he peers at the engine, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks so out of place here, a boy of books and music and carefully chosen words, poking at the greasy guts of a dead machine. A wave of affection so strong it hurts.

He fiddles for a few minutes, yanking on a cable here, checking a connection there. He comes back to the window, shaking his head, water flying from his hair like a wet dog.

“Battery’s fried,” he says, his teeth chattering slightly. “And I think the alternator’s gone too. There’s nothing I can do out here.”

You just nod again, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak. The silence stretches, punctuated only by the drumming rain.

“Come on,” he says, breaking it. “Get your stuff. I’ll take you back.”

You should refuse. You should tell him you’ve already called a tow, that you’ll be fine, that you don’t need him. But the lie dies on your lips. Because you do. You need him.

You grab your backpack and the box from the passenger seat, your movements stiff and awkward. He opens the back door of his car for you, placing your things carefully on the seat before closing it again. You slide into the passenger side, the warmth of the car’s heater a shocking, welcome sensation. The interior smells like him—faintly of laundry detergent and that specific, clean scent you’ve never been able to place.

He gets in, not a word spoken between you. The engine hums to life, a smooth, steady purr that is the complete opposite of your dead car. He pulls back onto the road, the wipers working overtime to clear the glass. The drive is suffocatingly quiet. You keep your eyes fixed on the passenger-side window, watching the blurry city lights streak by. Every muscle in your body is tense. You can feel the heat radiating from him, just a few inches away. The space between you feels both too vast and dangerously small.

You finally pull up outside your dorm building. The rain has eased to a miserable drizzle. He puts the car in park but leaves the engine running. The silence is back, heavier than ever. This is it. The moment where you have to say something.

“I can pay you for the gas,” you blurt out, hating how formal and stupid it sounds.

He doesn’t even look at you. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Jisung, I—”

“What are your plans for the summer?” he asks, cutting you off. His tone is casual, but you can hear the tension coiled beneath it.

The question catches you off guard. “Um, I don’t know. Work at the cafe, I guess. Take a couple of summer classes.” The words feel hollow, a list of empty activities to fill the gaping hole where he used to be.

He nods slowly, finally turning to look at you. The streetlights cast shadows across his face, making his expression impossible to read. “I’m going back home for a while. Help my parents with some stuff.”

Home. He’s going home. To another city. A three-hour drive away. It’s what he does every summer, but this year it feels like a final judgment. A sentence.

“Oh,” is all you can manage. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” he says, his gaze dropping to his hands on the steering wheel. “So.”

“So.”

You should go. You should thank him, get your stuff, and just go. But you can’t. You’re rooted to the spot, trapped by the weight of all the things you haven’t said. You look at him, really look at him. At the slope of his nose, the worried line of his lips, the way he’s rubbing at a spot on the steering well with his thumb—a nervous habit you’ve seen a thousand times. Your best friend. The boy you’ve known since you were both gangly, brace-faced seventh graders. The boy whose shoulder you cried on when your first dog died, the boy who helped you sneak out for your first high school party, the boy who knows all your secrets. Except the most important one. The one you were too scared to even admit to yourself.

"Ji," Water drips from your hair onto your lap. Without looking, you reach your hand across the vast space of the center console, palm up, fingers spread. "Will you hold my hand?"

He flinches, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. His eyes flick from your outstretched hand to your face and back again, a war of emotions playing out in their depths. Anger, hurt, exhaustion, longing. He hesitates for a beat that feels like an eternity.

Then, slowly, he lifts his hand from the steering wheel and places it in yours. His palm is warm and a little damp. He doesn't lace his fingers through yours, just lets them rest there, a tentative, fragile connection. The contact sends a jolt through you, a current of warmth that chases away the chill that’s been living in your bones for a week.

You stare at your joined hands. His hand is bigger than yours, the fingers long and calloused in places from playing guitar. There's a small scar on his knuckle from when he tripped and fell trying to climb a tree to rescue your frisbee in tenth grade. You trace it with your thumb.

You take a shaky breath, the words bubbling up from a place you didn't know existed. "Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit."

He sucks in a sharp breath. You feel it more than hear it. He knows. Of course, he knows. It's Virgil. He looks at you then, really looks at you, and the anger in his eyes has finally dissipated, replaced by a profound, aching sadness.

"Maybe it will be a pleasure one day to remember even this," he translates. "Who's a pretentious little shit now?

A weak, watery laugh escapes your lips, half-sob. "Still you."

He huffs a small, humorless laugh. You take the opening with both hands. "Please don't go home."

"I have to."

"Why?"

"Because I can't do this," he says, his voice cracking. "I can't be around you and pretend it doesn't hurt."

"What hurts?"

His gaze is piercing, direct. "You know what hurts." His fingers tighten around yours, a desperate, pleading gesture. "You stand there and you tell me it's all just fun, but you jealous of a girl I was just walking to the door. You quote our poet to try and fix things after you shatter me. You're so goddamn confusing."

"I'm not confused." You snap. "I know what will happen if we do this, Jisung, I'm surprised that you don't."

"What happens? We get a happy ending? God for-fucking-bid."

"This is not a fairytale, Ji." You press. "I haven't ever seen a monogamous relationship last longer than three months. My parents have been cheating on each other for 20 years, yours are divorced, none of our friends have ever had a stable partnership."

"So what? Our failure is pre-determined because everyone else sucks?" He scoffs. "You use your parents as an excuse to not let anyone in. To not try for anything real."

"I am not using them as an excuse!" You pull your hand away from his, crossing your arms over your chest. "Why are you pushing for this so hard? Do you want to get your heart broken? Do you want to lose your best friend? Because that's what's going to happen. We're going to be miserable and then we're never going to be able to look at each other again."

"So what's the alternative?" He yells, his frustration boiling over. "We go back to being 'just friends'? We pretend this never happened? We ignore the fact that I am completely, head over heels in love with you? That I have been for ten years?"

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. Ten years. Not months. Not since you started kissing. But ten years. Since you were awkward, brace-faced teenagers.

"I can't do that," he says, his voice dropping to a pained whisper. "I can't go back to pretending. So either we try, or we don't. And if we don't... then I do have to go home. Because I can't be your friend anymore."

The finality of it hits you like a physical blow. He's not threatening you. He's stating a fact. This is the ultimatum you never saw coming. It's not about sex or labels or even love, not really. It's about survival. He can't survive being near you like this. And you're not sure you can either.

"That's bullshit, Jisung, you can't make me choose, it's not fair." You say, your eyes are welling up with tears. This is the opposite of fun. This is messy and painful and it hurts.

"It's not fair to me to be in love with someone who will never love me back but won’t let me go."

You look at him, at the raw pain etched on his face. You think about all the times he's been there for you. All the times he's picked you up when you've fallen. All the times he's held your hand and told you it would be okay. You think about the tattoo on his ribs, Blessed. A blessing to understand the causes of things.

"I do love you." You say, the words feeling foreign and strange on your tongue.

He just stares at you, his expression unreadable. "No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"You don't even know what that word means."

"If you know that, then why do you want me to say it so bad?" You say, your voice raising again. "Why are you so determined to ruin this?"

"Ruin this?" He asks, incredulous. "This is already ruined! We've been ruining it for months! We've been tiptoeing around this thing, this massive, huge thing, and we've been slowly poisoning our friendship in the process. I'm not ruining it, I'm just the only one willing to admit that it's already on fucking fire!"

You can't take it anymore. The car feels too small, the air too thick. You fumble for the door handle, shoving it open and stumbling out into the drizzling rain. The water is cold on your skin, but it’s a welcome shock to your system.

You hear the click of his door opening and closing, and then his footsteps are splashing behind you. "Where are you going?" He calls out.

"Away from you!" You yell, not turning around.

You don't get far. He catches your arm, spinning you around to face him. You're both soaked now, your hair plastered to your faces, your clothes clinging to your skin. The rain is coming down harder again, but neither of you seems to notice.

"That's the problem!" He shouts, his face inches from yours. "You can't get away from me! And I can't get away from you! We're stuck!"

You're crying now, hot tears mingling with the cold rain on your cheeks. "Then what are we supposed to do?"

And then he's kissing you.

It's not like the other kisses. It's not fun or playful or tentative. It's desperate and angry and full of all the words you haven't been able to say. His lips are cold from the rain, but they're insistent, demanding. You kiss him back with just as much force, your hands tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer. You're not thinking about the future or the past or the consequences. You're just thinking about him. About the feel of his body against yours, the taste of rain on his lips, the way he's holding you like he's afraid you're going to disappear.

Somehow, you make it back to your room. The keycard fumbles in your shaking hands, but you finally get the door open. You stumble inside, a trail of water and mud in your wake. The door slams shut behind you, cutting off the storm. You're a mess, dripping all over the floor, your clothes sopping.

He pushes you against the door, his body pinning yours, his lips finding yours again in the dim light of your room. His hands are everywhere, sliding under your wet shirt, his touch electric on your skin. You're both shaking, but it's not from the cold anymore.

"Jisung," you gasp against his mouth.

"Shut up," he murmurs, kissing you again. "Just shut up."

You don't argue. You let him silence you with his mouth, let the frantic energy of the argument transmute into a frantic, desperate need. This isn't about fun anymore. This is about claiming, about marking, about trying to bridge the chasm that has opened up between you with teeth and tongue and nails.

He rips your shirt over your head, the wet fabric catching briefly before it's discarded on the floor. His hands are on your skin, warm and firm, a stark contrast to the chill still clinging to you. He trails kisses down your neck, his teeth scraping against your pulse point, and you arch into him, a gasp tearing from your throat. Your hands fumble with the hem of his own soaked hoodie, pushing it up over his stomach, your fingers tracing the familiar, now-slick lines of his tattoo.

Blessed. The word screams in your mind. What a cruel, cosmic joke. This feels like a curse.

He shudders under your touch, lifting his arms so you can pull the hoodie and the t-shirt underneath off in one go. They land with a wet slap on the floor. He's beautiful. You've seen him shirtless a hundred times, at the pool, in your dorm, but it's never been like this. His chest is heaving, his skin glistening with rain and exertion. In the low light, the muscles in his arms and shoulders are starkly defined, a testament to the tension that's been riding him for weeks.

You want to devour him. You want to crawl inside his skin and stay there. The thought is terrifying.

He walks you backward, your bodies still pressed together, until your knees hit the edge of your bed. You fall back onto the mattress, pulling him down with you. He lands on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure. He pauses, propping himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is dripping onto your face, but you don't care. You just look at him, at the raw, open expression on his face. All the anger is gone, replaced by a desperate, aching need that mirrors your own.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice a low, rough rasp. "I need you to be sure."

You reach up, threading your fingers through the wet hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him down for another kiss. He lets you kiss him for a moment, a deep, slow kiss that feels like a surrender. Then he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

"Words," he whispers.

The fear comes back, a cold snake coiling in your gut. Words are what got you into this mess. Words are what will define whatever happens next. But looking into his eyes, seeing the vulnerability and the hope warring there, you know you can't deny him. 

"Please," you breathe, the word barely a puff of air between you. "Please fuck me, Jisung"

It's not a declaration of love. It's not a promise of forever. It's raw, it's present, and it's the truest thing you can say in this moment.

A groan rips from his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. He kisses you again, hard and deep, and this time there's no holding back. His hands make quick work of the button on your jeans, and you lift your hips to help him pull them off. The rest of your clothes follow in a frantic, desperate tangle of limbs, until you're both naked, skin to skin, the heat of your bodies chasing away the last of the chill.

He touches you with a reverence you didn't expect. His hands map every inch of your skin, his lips following in their wake. He pays attention to the places that make you gasp, the places that make you shiver. He's not in a hurry anymore. He's savoring. He's learning.

He kisses his way down your body, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire. He lingers at the hollow of your throat, the dip of your navel, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You're trembling, a fine, constant shudder running through you. You're so lost in the sensation that you almost cry out when he finally, finally puts his mouth on you.

His tongue is soft and wet and impossibly skilled. He licks and sucks and teases, building a tension in you that's almost unbearable. You bury your fingers in his hair, holding him to you, your hips arching off the bed. He's relentless, pushing you higher and higher, until you're a writhing, whimpering mess.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers. "My god, look at you."

You can't form words, can only make a desperate, pleading sound. He chuckles, a low, vibrating sound that sends a new wave of pleasure through you. He slips two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and that's it. The tension in you snaps, and you come with a cry, your body convulsing with the force of it.

He doesn't stop. He works you through your orgasm, his tongue and fingers never ceasing their movements, drawing out the pleasure until it's almost painful. Just when you think you can't take anymore, the building starts again, slower this time, deeper. It’s a different kind of tension, coiling low in your belly.

You feel a brief, sharp sting as he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. You gasp, not from pain, but from the primal, possessive thrill of it. He soothes the bite mark with his tongue, a soothing, apologetic gesture, before returning to his ministrations. He's everywhere now, his broad shoulders holding your thighs open, one hand splayed across your stomach to hold you down, the other pumping into you with a steady, insistent rhythm. He's completely focused, his entire being concentrated on this one task, on giving you this one thing. The sounds he makes are obscene, wet, hungry sounds that make your cheeks burn with a mixture of embarrassment and intense arousal.

You're lost in a haze of sensation, your mind gone blank, your body no longer your own. You're just a collection of nerve endings, all firing at once, all screaming for him. It starts in your toes, a tingling warmth that spreads up your legs, through your torso, until it engulfs you completely. You're no longer in your room, in your bed. You're adrift in a sea of pleasure, and he is your only anchor. The world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot light, and you're dimly aware of your own voice crying out his name, a broken, desperate prayer.

When you finally come back to yourself, he's kissing his way back up your body, his movements slow, deliberate. He licks the sweat from your skin, tasting the salt of your exertion. He hovers over you, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and intense. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving. You can feel the hard, hot length of him pressed against your thigh.

"You with me?" he asks, his voice a raw, husky whisper.

You can only manage a weak nod, your body still humming with the aftershocks.

He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair away from your sweat-slicked forehead. "You look so good when you come."

The words, so blunt, so Jisung, send a fresh jolt of heat through you. He kisses you then, a slow, deep kiss that tastes of you and of him and of the desperate, unspoken things between you. You can feel the desperation in him, the barely contained need. He wants you. He's wanted you for ten years. The thought is staggering.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Jisung," you breathe, a plea and a permission all in one.

"Do you know how crazy you make me?" he murmurs against your lips. "How hard it's been to keep my hands to myself?"

"Then don't," you say, your voice surprisingly steady. "Don't keep your hands to yourself."

He laughs breathlessly. "I haven't been. Did you miss the part where I've been eating you out for the last half hour?"

You wriggle your hips, brushing against his and he bucks, a choked gasp escaping him. "Must've missed the part where you actually fucked me."

"Impatient," He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against you. He pauses, looking down at you, his expression a mixture of awe and terror. "Last chance to change your mind," he says, though you both know it's a lie. There's no going back now.

"Shut up, Jisung," you whisper, echoing his own words from earlier. And you pull him down for another kiss.

He enters you in one slow, steady thrust. You're so wet, so ready for him, that he slides in easily, but the stretch is still overwhelming. He fills you completely, a deep, satisfying ache that makes you feel whole in a way you haven't in a long, long time.

"Ohh, fuck," he moans, burying his face in your neck. "You feel… fuck."

You can't speak, can only hold on to him, your nails digging into the sweat-slick planes of his back. He starts to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that's designed to unravel you. Each thrust is a question, a plea, a declaration.

You meet him thrust for thrust, your bodies moving in a perfect, primal rhythm. The room is filled with the sounds of your lovemaking—the slap of skin against skin, the wet sounds of your bodies joining, the broken moans and whispered words that are barely coherent but mean everything.

He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and he hits a spot inside you that makes you see stars. You cry out, your back arching off the bed. He takes it as encouragement, setting a harder, faster pace. One of his hands slides down your body, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing it in tight, insistent circles. The dual sensation is almost too much, a sensory overload that threatens to send you over the edge.

You'd wondered, idly, in the back of your mind, what this would be like. You knew he was experienced, had heard the whispers and seen the aftermath. A part of you, the petty, jealous part, had steeled itself for mediocrity. But this... this is something else entirely. He's attuned to your every response, every gasp and shudder, adjusting his movements to push you higher, to pull you apart. This isn't the clumsy fumbling of a college hookup. This is a masterclass, a symphony of sensation, and you're the unwilling, adoring audience. You understand now, with a clarity that's both thrilling and terrifying, why they always looked at him afterward like they'd just seen God. You're starting to feel it yourself.

He seems to know you're close, and he slows down, a torturous, deliberate withdrawal that leaves you empty and aching. He pulls out almost completely, leaving only the head of his cock inside you, then pushes back in, inch by agonizing inch. He does it again, and again, a slow, maddening tease that makes you want to scream. His thumb is still on your clit, a slow, maddening circle that keeps you balanced on the knife's edge of orgasm, never quite letting you fall.

"Look at me," he says, shuddering. "Look at me and I'll give you anything you want.”

You force your eyes open, meeting his intense, burning gaze. He's watching you, his expression a mixture of awe, possession, and a desperate, raw need that steals your breath. He's not just looking at your body, he's looking into your soul.

"Tell me what you need," he whispers. He slows to a stop, still inside you, his entire body a tense wire, waiting. He's giving you the reins.

You want to tell him to move, to fuck you hard and fast until you can't remember your own name. But the words get stuck in your throat. What you need is too big, too terrifying to say out loud. So you show him instead. You tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and you surge up to kiss him, pouring everything you can't say into the kiss.

He understands. He always understands.

He starts to move again, a slow, deep grind that sends shockwaves through you. He's hitting that spot again and again, a relentless, steady pressure that's building the tension in you to an unbearable peak. His thumb on your clit speeds up, circling faster, harder. You can feel your body tightening, coiling like a spring.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a low, encouraging rumble. "Let go for me. Come on."

The praise, the raw permission in his voice, is what finally breaks you. The spring snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you, a violent, all-consuming wave that rips a scream from your lungs. Your vision whites out, your body convulsing around him, clenching and releasing in a rhythm that's beyond your control. You're distantly aware of him groaning your name, a long, broken sound.

He rides you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm as he follows you over the edge. But at the last second, he pulls out. You have a brief, confused moment of emptiness before you see him kneeling between your legs, one hand braced on the mattress beside your head, the other working his cock in quick, tight strokes.

You watch, mesmerized, as he comes with a choked gasp, spilling over your stomach and chest. The sight is primal, shockingly intimate, and it sends a final, lingering tremor through you. He collapses beside you, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat and rain and him 

You feel him shift, and then a warm, damp cloth is gently wiping the mess from your skin. Your t-shirt, you realize dimly, that you’ve been wearing not too long ago. You're too exhausted to even be embarrassed, you just hum your appreciation. He tosses the shirt aside, then pulls you into his arms, tucking you against his chest. His heartbeat is a steady, reassuring thump against your ear.

He kisses your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. He kisses your cheeks, tasting the salt of your tears. He kisses your lips, a soft, lingering kiss that's full of a terrifying, fragile hope.

"I love you," he whispers into the darkness of your room. The words are quiet, but they land in the silence with the force of a shout. "I have always loved you."

Sleep is pulling at you, a warm, heavy blanket. You can feel the edges of your consciousness starting to blur. His arms are around you and you can feel his lips on the tip of your nose, your lips, your jaw. He's warm. He smells like rain. He's not going to leave. It's all you've wanted for a week. It's all you've ever wanted, really.

"You won't leave, will you?" The words leave your lips in a mumble, your lashes fluttering. "You won't go back home?" You're too tired to be anything but honest.

There's a pause. "If you ask me to stay," he says, "I won't leave."

You open your eyes, heavy as they are, to look at him. You want to say it. The words are right there, a phantom weight on your tongue. Stay. Please stay. I'll love you. I'll love you the way you want me to. But your body betrays you. Your eyes drift shut, your breathing evens out. Sleep claims you, pulling you down into its warm, silent depths before you can give him the answer he's waiting for.

Jisung has watched you sleep for the last ten minutes. He has memorized the gentle slope of your nose, the way your eyelashes fan out against your cheeks, the soft, even puff of your breath against his chest. He has counted the faint freckles scattered across your shoulders. He has memorized all of it, and it feels like a goodbye.

He shouldn't have said it. Not like that. Not in the aftermath, when you were soft and pliant and half-asleep. He had promised himself he wouldn't. He had sworn he'd wait, that he'd be patient, that he wouldn't pressure you. But then you were underneath him, your eyes wide and trusting, your body opening for him, and the words had just… ripped out of him. An uncontrollable truth.

If you ask me to stay, I won't leave.

He waits.

He waits for you to stir, for your eyes to flutter open, for the words to come. Stay. He can almost hear it, your sleep-roughened voice. The thought is a physical ache in his chest. He imagines the relief, the pure, unadulterated joy that would flood him, the feeling of finally, finally coming home.

But you don't stir.

The minutes tick by, each one a small death. He can hear the sound of the rain outside your window, a soft, steady rhythm against the glass. He can hear the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner of your room. He can hear the frantic, desperate beating of his own heart. He thinks about the way your body shook around him, the way you whispered his name. He thinks about the taste of your skin, the feel of your hands in his hair. He thinks about all of it, and he knows he can't stay.

And that's an answer, too.

He has loved you like a dog his entire life, all he's ever wanted was to sit by your side, to eat your scraps, to just be near you. But being your dog, your constant companion is no longer enough. He can't sit at your feet and hope for a pat on the head while you look at someone else. Not anymore.

It was selfish of him to do this. To fuck you, to push you, to demand more than you were willing to give. He can see that now, in the quiet, grey light of the morning. He has just made everything a thousand times worse. He has taken your carefully constructed world, your "fun," and he has detonated it.

He can't stay and pretend that everything is okay. He can't stay and be your friend. He can't stay and watch you fall in love with someone else. He can't do any of it. He is a coward, he knows, but it's the truth. He has to leave.

Careful, so careful, he slides his arm out from under your head. You stir, a soft sigh, and your brow furrows, but you don't wake. He eases himself off the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, trying not to disturb the mattress, trying not to break the fragile spell of your sleep. His clothes are a damp, muddy pile on the floor. He gathers them up, pulling on his jeans with a wince. The denim is cold and stiff against his skin. He doesn't bother with the shirt, just balls it up in his hand.

He stands by the bed for a long moment, just looking at you. You look so peaceful, so unguarded. It's the most vulnerable he's ever seen you. He wants to crawl back into bed with you, to pull you into his arms and never let go. He wants to wake you up and demand that you choose him, that you choose this.

Instead, he leans down and presses a soft, gentle kiss to your forehead. He turns and walks out of your room, closing the door behind him.

He doesn't look back.