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He’s posted at the middle of it all, a bottle of expensive liquor in one hand and a girl in the other. She’s whispering in his ear, probably promising him things people only say out loud when their inhibitions have been loosened by alcohol and the hope of being remembered. It’s a practised scene, and you can tell from the way Mingi’s eyes slide from her face to the crowd and back again that he’s already bored. He’s hunting, you realise, and the realisation leaves you faintly amused.

You’ve had classes with him before and found his intellect sharper than his reputation suggests, but he’s never bothered to speak to you directly, which is fine. You prefer it that way. You know exactly what happens to girls who mistake the man for the myth.

But tonight, for whatever reason, he looks right at you.

You don’t realise it at first; you’re half-listening to the rowers behind you, half-calculating the economic impact of the university’s new housing policy for the department group chat. There’s a lull in the noise, a momentary vacuum, and then his gaze lands like a physical thing. It takes you off guard—the pure concentration of it, as if he’s seeing you in high-definition while the rest of the house blurs into obscurity. His attention is so heavy, so absolute, that even the girl on his arm notices and goes rigid with annoyance.

Your instinct is to look away. But for some reason, you don’t. Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in your veins, maybe it’s the novelty of being the focal point in a room devoted to him, but you meet his eyes and hold them. Mingi’s mouth quirks, not into a smirk but something strange and speculative, and when he finally looks away, it feels less like defeat and more like a challenge accepted.

Within the hour, he maneuvers his way to your side of the party, the girl from before abandoned to the mercy of the crowd. He props an elbow on the countertop, leans in so dangerously close, “Didn’t think this was your scene.”

You arch an eyebrow, the response easy. “It really isn’t, my roommate dragged me out.”

He grins, all teeth and promise. “I have to thank her for bringing such a pretty girl to my party.”

You roll your eyes, annoyed but not surprised. The rest of the party moves around you in a kind of staccato blur. A game of beer pong erupts into a shouting match in the dining room; someone’s Bluetooth speaker dies mid-chorus, leading to a plaintive chorus of off-key singing. People bump into you, apologise, and then linger a beat longer than necessary to see if you’re still talking to Mingi. He doesn’t seem to notice, but you do. He asks what you’re studying, and you answer. You ask him what he wants to do after graduation, and he shrugs, but the gesture is so carefree yet careful.

“If this soccer thing doesn’t work out, I’ll intern at some start-up company,” he explained. “Or I’ll sell feet pics.”

You cringe at the image. The girl from before stalks past, her glare sharp enough to sever arteries. Mingi watches her go but his gaze falls right back to you. 

By midnight, the house dissolves into its constituent parts: the freshies, the clean-up crew, the drunk casualties. Mingi drifts away, then back again—at your side, across the kitchen, never quite out of reach. He offers you a drink at one point; you decline, still nursing the same seltzer. It doesn’t stop him. He keeps finding his way back, as if every conversation eventually leads to you.

You leave before he does. There’s no dramatic goodbye, no exchanged numbers or whispered invitations—just a passing nod, the kind that could mean anything or nothing at all. You don’t look back. By the time you’re out the door (your roommate long gone with a lacrosse player, leaving you to fend for yourself), the night already feels like it’s starting to blur at the edges. Whatever that was, if it was anything, you let it go.

Inside, though, Mingi doesn’t. He’s still watching the spot where you disappeared, gaze fixed a beat too long, like he’s waiting for you to reappear. The noise of the party swells back in around him, but he doesn’t move—drink untouched, conversation abandoned mid-thread.

A shoulder bumps into his.

“What’s with that look on your face?”

Mingi blinks, like he’s just been pulled back into the room. “What look?”

Yunho huffs a quiet laugh. “That look. You had heart eyes bro don't even play.”

Mingi scoffs, quick, automatic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His friend raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, following his line of sight to the now-empty doorway before glancing back at him. Mingi exhales through his nose, finally tearing his gaze away, dragging a hand over the back of his neck like he can shake it off. He should've definitely asked for your number.

══════════════════

Monday morning arrives with the kind of headache that has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with three consecutive all-nighters. Professor Kim’s Advanced Macroeconomic Theory is notoriously brutal, and you’ve spent the weekend buried under supply-demand graphs and inflation models. As you slide into your usual seat, you’re already mentally rehearsing your presentation on fiscal policy scheduled for next week.

Which is why, when Mingi strolls through the lecture hall doors at 8:58 AM, you momentarily forget how to function.

He shouldn’t be here. This isn’t his class, or at least it hasn’t been for the past six weeks. You’ve never seen him in this lecture hall before, despite it being nearly midterm. Yet there he is, wearing dark jeans and a simple white button down that somehow looks so irritatingly good on his frame, scanning the room with casual confidence. His eyes find yours immediately, as if it’s magnetised. The smile that follows is different from Friday night’s—smaller, more genuine, it was like he wanted to see you. Before you can process what’s happening, he’s navigating the row of seats, stepping over backpacks and laptops until he’s standing right next to you.

“This seat taken?” he asks, gesturing to the empty chair beside you.

You blink, thrown by the unexpected proximity. “I didn’t know you were in this class.”

“I’m full of surprises.” He drops into the seat, arranging his long legs in the cramped space. “So, how’d you find the party?”

The question is casual, but there’s something careful in his tone, as if your answer matters more than he’s letting on. You notice he pulled out a notebook AND a pen, this was definitely exceeding your expectations of him. Then again, what did you expect anyway? 

“It was... something,” you reply, deliberately vague. “Though I’m surprised to see you conscious before noon, much less in an 8 AM econ lecture.”

He laughs, the sound low enough not to draw attention but warm enough to settle somewhere beneath your ribs. “What, you think I spend all my mornings hungover?”

“The evidence suggested a statistical probability.”

“Maybe I’m an outlier.” He leans closer, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne—smelling faintly of citrus and cedarwood. “Or I just needed the right motivation to show up.”

Thankfully Professor Kim walks in and begins the lecture, leaving you no time to tweak out over whatever the fuck he said. You expect Mingi to lose interest, to pull out his phone, or to doze off, like half the class inevitably does when the professor starts droning on about aggregate demand curves. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes focused on the presentation slides. Ten minutes in, when he introduces a particularly convoluted model, Mingi shifts slightly toward you.

“Hey,” he leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “If the Phillips curve is supposed to show the inverse relationship between unemployment and inflation, why is he saying it’s unstable in the long run?”

The question catches you off guard—not because it’s difficult, but because it’s astute. “Because expectations adjust,” you whisper back. “Workers anticipate inflation and demand higher wages, which shifts the curve.”

He nods, considering this. “So it’s only reliable as a short-term predictor?”

“Yeah, you got it.”

Throughout the next hour, Mingi continues to ask questions—thoughtful ones that reveal he’s not just listening but actively processing. Each time he leans in, you feel a strange flutter of... something. Not just attraction, though that’s undeniably there, but surprise. Mingi, the guy who supposedly once turned the campus fountain into a bubble bath during finals week, is engaging with macroeconomic theory like it genuinely interests him.

“The Solow model assumes diminishing returns to capital,” he murmurs at one point, frowning slightly. “Doesn’t that contradict what we’re seeing with tech companies? They seem to get increasing returns the bigger they get.”

You stare at him for a beat too long. “That’s... actually a good point. The model was developed before the rise of digital economies. Network effects change the math.”

A smile spreads across his face, pleased and slightly smug, as if he’s won something. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

The comment should be annoying, but delivered in a whisper while the professor drones on about growth rates, it makes you roll your eyes and bite back a smile instead. By the time class ends, you’ve had to recalibrate your entire perception of him. He’s taken actual notes. He’s asked intelligent questions. He’s made connections between concepts that some of your study group members still struggle with. It’s disorienting, like discovering your cat can suddenly understand what you’re saying. As you pack up your laptop, he lingers, watching you with that same intense focus from the party.

“So,” he says, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I think I deserve some credit for showing up today. Maybe we could grab coffee, and you could explain more about that Phillips curve thing?”

The invitation is transparent—he doesn’t need your help understanding the Phillips curve—but there’s something almost endearing about his attempt.

“Is that your go-to line?” you ask, unable to keep the amusement from your voice. “Pretend to need academic help to get a date?”

“Only with the smart ones.” His grins unapologetically. “Is it working?”

You laugh, shaking your head as you stand. “No. Nice try, though.”

Rather than looking discouraged, his eyes light up with what can only be described as delighted challenge. He falls into step beside you as you head for the door.

“You know what this means, right?” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. “Now I have to come up with something better for Wednesday’s class.”

“Wednesday’s class?” You stop at the doorway, genuinely surprised. “You’re coming back?”

Mingi looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “Of course. I paid for this course, didn’t I? Besides,” he adds, his smile turning slightly wicked, “I’ve got a new reason to show up now.”

Before you can protest this presumptuous declaration, he’s backing away, walking backward down the hallway with that infuriating confidence.

“See you Wednesday,” he calls. “Maybe by then you’ll have reconsidered that coffee date.”

You watch him go, torn between irritation and a reluctant spark of interest. The worst part is, you already know you’ll be thinking about him for the rest of the day, analysing his questions, his attention, the way he looked at you like you were a particularly fascinating economic theory he was determined to master. Despite your best intentions, you’re already wondering what he’ll come up with on Wednesday.

══════════════════

True to his word, Mingi shows up to every single class over the next few weeks. Not just Macroeconomic Theory, but your shared Political Science workshop and even the optional Economics Department lectures that most students skip. Each time, he gravitates toward you like you’re the north to his south, sliding into adjacent seats with casual determination.

At first, you’re suspicious—waiting for the punchline, the reveal that this is some elaborate bet or another frat bro prank. The punchline never comes. Instead, he brings you coffee and snacks, asks thoughtful questions about the material, and occasionally makes you laugh with whispered commentary when Professor Kim goes on one of his tangents about his glory days at the Federal Reserve.

You find yourself slipping into a strange routine. He’ll wait for you after class, walking you to your next destination while debating fiscal multipliers or the ethics of quantitative easing. Sometimes his soccer teammates call out to him across the quad, and you watch the transformation—how he shifts into the boisterous, larger-than-life Mingi they expect, before settling back into the more thoughtful version when he returns to your side.

It’s Tuesday afternoon when everything shifts. The library is packed with students cramming for midterms, the air thick with desperation and the smell of overpriced coffee. You’ve claimed your usual table by the economics stacks when Mingi drops into the chair across from you, his expression unusually serious.

“I need to ask you something,” he says, no preamble, no charming smile.

You glance up from your notes, pen hovering. “Okay?”

He runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “I need a tutor.”

You stare at him, waiting for the joke. When it doesn’t come, you set down your pen. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve been getting the material just fine.”

“No, I haven’t.” His voice is lower now, stripped of its usual confidence. “I’ve been barely keeping up. The midterm’s in two weeks, and I’m—“ He stops, jaw tightening. “I need to pass this class with at least a B+.”

“You’ve been answering questions in class,” you counter, confused by this sudden admission. “You made that connection about endogenous growth theory that even Professor Kim said was insightful.”

Mingi’s laugh is hollow. “Yeah, after spending six hours the night before trying to understand it. Look—“ He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not as smart as you think I am. Not naturally, anyway. I have to work twice as hard just to keep up.”

You study him, searching for signs of insincerity. “Why are you telling me this now? And why me?”

“You’re the smartest person in this class. I–I don’t know who else to ask…” His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable. “I think you might actually help me without making me feel stupid about it.”

Something doesn’t add up. You’ve seen him joke around with teaching assistants, charm his way into deadline extensions. “I don’t understand–”

Mingi glances around, then lowers his voice. “I’m on an athletic scholarship. Full ride, but I have to maintain a 3.5 GPA, or I lose it.” He runs a hand over his face. “My advisor warned me last week. This class is dragging everything down. If I don’t get at least a B+ on this midterm, I’m screwed.”

The admission hangs between you, reshaping your understanding of him. You didn’t expect him to be so honest, let alone be honest with you. You knew you were more than capable of tutoring him, you’ve tutored multiple students and peers in past. A part of you wants to deny him— to encourage him to try the other capable tutors in this course but something about his vulnerability made you hold back on that decision. 

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” you ask, softer now.

“Because it’s embarrassing?” He gives a self-deprecating smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “The dumb jock stereotype exists for a reason. I’ve been fighting it since high school.” He hesitates. “And maybe I wanted you to think I was smart enough to keep up with you.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. This is a different man than the one who struts across campus with practised nonchalance, who holds court at parties with effortless charm. This Mingi looks tired and worried, seeing him like this made your heart sink a little.

“I can’t afford a professional tutor,” he continues when you don’t immediately respond. “Most of my scholarship money goes to housing and food. I can pay you a tutor fee if you have one. Please.”

You should say no. You have your own exams to study for, your own GPA to maintain. But there’s something about seeing him like this—defences down, pride set aside—that makes it difficult.

“If I do this,” you say slowly, “there would be conditions.”

Hope flickers across his face. “Name them.”

“First, you pay me. My normal rate is sixty per session but considering your situation, I can lower the cost—this is work, not charity.” You hold up a finger. “Second, you actually put in the effort. No skipping sessions, no half-assing the practice problems I give you.” Another finger joins the first. “And third, no messing around. This isn’t a backdoor way to—I don’t know—whatever it is you might be thinking.”

“You think I’m using this as an excuse to hit on you?” For the first time, genuine amusement crosses his face. “That would be a pretty elaborate scheme, even for me.”

“I’m serious, Mingi.”

“So am I.” The smile fades. “I need this scholarship. Please.”

You sigh, already second-guessing yourself. “Fine. We start tomorrow. Six pm, here. Bring your textbook, all your notes, and any practice exams you can get your hands on.”

The relief that washes over his face is so raw it makes you uncomfortable. He reaches across the table, squeezing your hand briefly. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you warn. “I’m not going to go easy on you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He stands, some of his usual confidence returning.

As you watch him walk away, shoulders straight but tension visible in the line of his neck, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve just crossed some invisible boundary. This isn’t just coffee after class or witty banter during lectures. This is entangling yourself in his future, taking partial responsibility for his success or failure. You turn back to your notes, trying to focus, but your mind keeps drifting to the look in his eyes when he admitted he needed help. The vulnerability there was real—you’re almost certain of it. Almost. As you pack up your things hours later, doubt creeps in. You’ve seen how charming he can be, how easily he navigates social situations to get what he wants. What if this is just another performance? What if you’re falling for an act designed to manipulate you into doing his academic heavy lifting? The questions follow you all the way home, lingering as you prepare for bed. You set an alarm for tomorrow and added a reminder to prepare some preliminary materials for your first tutoring session. Despite your misgivings, you’re already mapping out a study plan, identifying the concepts he seemed to struggle with most.

Surely, this little arrangement you have going on won’t be a mistake… Right?

══════════════════

You arrive at the library fifteen minutes early to set up, spreading out practice problems and your own colour-coded notes across the table. You’ve been overthinking this all day—wondering if he’ll even show up, if this whole vulnerable confession was just an elaborate ploy to get you to do his work for him. The clock hits 6:00 PM. Then 6:05. Your suspicions start to crystallise into something like disappointment.

At 6:07, Mingi rushes through the library doors, slightly out of breath. He’s carrying a tray with two coffees and a small paper bag that smells suspiciously of baked goods.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, sliding into the chair across from you. “The line at the café was insane.”

You eye the coffee sceptically. “Is this a bribe?”

He laughs, quieter than his usual boisterous sound, mindful of the library setting. “No, it’s a thank you. Here, try this.” He slides one cup toward you. “Oh, and I got those almond croissants you mentioned the other day. Though honestly, I might have also gotten them because I’m starving.”

The fact that he remembered your drink order is surprising enough. That he recalled an offhand comment you made about pastries during a five-minute conversation between classes is something else entirely.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, but you accept the cup anyway, the warmth seeping into your palms.

“S’alright, I wanted to.” He pulls out his textbook and a surprisingly organised binder of notes. “So, where do we start?”

For the next hour, you walk him through the fundamental concepts of various economic principles, expecting his attention to wander, waiting for the inevitable check of his phone or glance at the clock. It never comes. Instead, Mingi leans forward, brow furrowed in concentration, asking questions that reveal he’s been paying closer attention than you gave him credit for. 

“So if technological progress is exogenous in this model,” he questions, tapping his pencil against the page, “then what actually drives long-term growth? Since capital accumulation alone has diminishing returns, right?”

“Exactly.” You can’t help the surprise in your voice. “That’s one of the model’s main limitations. It doesn’t explain where technological progress comes from.”

He nods, making a note in the margin of his textbook. “Which is why we need endogenous growth theory.”

You stare at him. “You’ve been reading ahead.”

A hint of his usual smirk appears. “Don’t sound so shocked. I told you I’m locked in for our sessions.”

“Reading ahead is a bit more than just locking in,” you point out.

“Maybe I’m trying to impress my tutor.” He winks, but there’s something different about his teasing now—less performative.

You roll your eyes, fighting back a smile. “Focus, Mingi.”

“I am focused,” he protests, gesturing to his detailed notes. “See? I’m being a model student.”

“A model student wouldn’t have waited until three weeks before midterms to ask for help,” you counter, but there’s no bite to your words.

“True.” He stretches, his arm brushing against yours as he reaches for another practice problem. The brief contact sends an unexpected jolt through you. “But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your company on a Wednesday evening.”

You ignore the flutter in your stomach. “Haha. Very funny.”

As the session progresses, you find yourself relaxing into a rhythm with him. He’s attentive, asking thoughtful questions and working through problems with determined concentration. When he gets stuck on a particularly tricky concept about crowding-out effects, he doesn’t get frustrated—instead, he listens carefully to your explanation, his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that makes your cheeks warm.

“Like this?” he asks after reworking the problem, sliding his paper toward you.

Your fingers brush as you take it, and neither of you pulls away immediately. You study his work, acutely aware of how close he’s sitting, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the drinks between you.

“That’s...actually perfect,” you admit, surprised by the clarity of his work. “You got it exactly right.”

His smile is different from any you’ve seen before—not the practiced charm he flashes at parties or the competitive grin on the soccer field. It’s smaller, more genuine, edged with relief.

“I have a good teacher,” he says simply.

You clear your throat, suddenly finding the library too warm. “Let’s try another one.”

Two hours fly by faster than you expected. Mingi works through problem after problem, his understanding visibly improving with each explanation. When he successfully graphs a complex IS-LM model without assistance, the pride on his face is so unguarded it catches you off guard.

“See? Not just another dumb jock,” he says, but the joke doesn’t land quite right. You hear the insecurity beneath it.

“I never thought you were dumb,” you say carefully. “Unmotivated, maybe. But not dumb.”

He looks up from his notes, expression surprisingly vulnerable. “Most people don’t make that distinction.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” he agrees, studying your face. “You’re definitely not.”

The moment stretches between you, taut with something unspoken. You’re the first to break eye contact, shuffling papers with unnecessary focus.

“It’s getting late,” you say, glancing at your watch. “We should probably wrap up.”

Mingi begins gathering his things, but his movements are unhurried. “Same time Friday?”

You hesitate. You hadn’t planned on making this a regular thing, certainly not multiple times a week. But the progress he’s made in just one session is undeniable.

“You don’t have practice on Friday?”

“Not until seven.” He zips up his backpack. “Unless you’re busy.”

“No, I’m not busy.” The admission comes too quickly. “Friday works.”

As you pack up, he helps you organize your notes, handling the color-coded pages with careful precision. His fingers accidentally brush against yours again as he hands you a folder, and this time the contact lingers for a beat longer than necessary.

“Thanks for not giving up on me,” he says quietly, shouldering his bag. “Most people would have.”

The sincerity in his voice makes something twist in your chest. “You didn’t give me a reason to.”

You walk together to the library exit, the night air cool against your skin after hours in the stuffy study area. Campus is quiet, most students either out for the evening or locked away studying. Mingi pauses under a lamppost, its glow casting shadows across his features.

“I can walk you home,” he offers. “It’s dark.”

“I live in the opposite direction from you,” you point out. “It’s fine, I’ve been walking home alone for two years now.”

He grins. “Just being a gentleman.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Ouch.” He clutches his chest in mock pain. “You wound me.”

You laugh at his dramatic act. “Goodnight, Mingi.”

“Goodnight, Miss tutor.” He takes a step backward, still facing you. “Dream of fiscal multipliers.”

“That’s your homework, not mine,” you call after him.

His laughter carries on the night air as he walks away, and you stand watching him for a moment longer than necessary. It’s only when you’re halfway home that you realize you’re still smiling, the warmth in your chest having nothing to do with the coffee you shared.

You tell yourself it’s just satisfaction from a productive tutoring session. Nothing more. Certainly not the way his eyes crinkled when he finally understood a difficult concept, or how his hand felt when it accidentally brushed yours, or the genuine gratitude in his voice when he thanked you. Definitely not that.

As you unlock your apartment door, you find yourself already planning Friday’s session in your head, thinking of ways to explain concepts he struggled with, wondering if he’ll bring coffee again, if he’ll sit as close, if he’ll look at you with that same focused intensity. It’s purely academic help, you insist on yourself. Professional concern for a student who needs help. Even if you don’t quite believe it.

Your roommate is waiting when you get home, practically vibrating with curiosity. “So? How was tutoring Mingi? Did he make any moves?”

“It was just tutoring,” you say, setting down your bag. “He’s actually pretty smart, thought nothing was going on upstairs to be honest.”

Her lips thin out into a straight line, looking disappointed by your lack of gossip. “That’s it? No flirting? No rizz? Nothing?”

You think about the moment he challenged your explanation, the genuine satisfaction in his eyes when he understood a complex concept.

“Nope, nothing at all,” you deadpanned at your roommate.

As you lie in bed reviewing your day, you remember the intensity in his eyes when he thanked you. The way his smile changed when he was actually engaged with the material. The surprising depth of his questions. You wonder what other assumptions you’ve made about Song Mingi might be wrong.

══════════════════

The following Friday, you’re setting up the study materials when Mingi arrives five minutes early this time. You almost burst out in laughter seeing the way he was trying to balance two cups of coffee in his hand.

“Okay once you're done clowning me, you have to try this vanilla latte. It's really good.” He sets them down carefully on your side of the table.

You eye the offerings suspiciously. “Are you sure this isn’t supposed to be a bribe?”

“Hm? For what?” He looks genuinely confused as he takes his seat.

“I don’t know. Extra help? A better grade?” You push the coffee slightly away. “I can’t accept this, you’ve already bought me so much stuff the past couple of days.”

Mingi laughs, the sound unexpectedly warm in the sterile study room. “It’s just coffee, don’t sweat it. Consider it a thank you for the last session. I actually understood what Professor Kim was talking about yesterday.”

You hesitate before reluctantly pulling the coffee back. “Fine.”

His smiles. “If I wanted to bribe you, I’d need to do better than a coffee, doll. Consider it fuel for our session today.”

The nickname catches you off guard, heat rising unexpectedly to your cheeks. Mingi’s eyes flicker briefly to the colour spreading across your face, but he simply slides the coffee closer without comment. You accept the cup, fingers brushing his momentarily. It’s still hot, and exactly how you like it. The gesture is small but thoughtful in a way you wouldn’t have expected.

“Thank you,” you hummed, setting up your materials. “Don’t think this earns you any leniency on today’s session.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, already pulling out his completed homework—all of it done correctly, you note with surprise.

Over the next few sessions, a pattern emerges. Mingi has become significantly more punctual as your sessions progress, always bringing you coffee (though sometimes he switches it up with tea when you mention a sore throat), and always has his work prepared. The coffee becomes such a fixture that on the one day he arrives without it, you actually feel slightly disappointed.

“No liquid bribery today?” you quipped, trying to keep your tone light.

His face falls. “The line was insane, and I didn’t want to be late.” He runs a hand through his hair, slightly panicked. “I can go get some if you—“

“I was joking,” you interject quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll make it up to you next week,” he shrugs, as if that helps explains everything.

The following week, he brings not only coffee but also a small paper bag containing a blueberry muffin from your favourite bakery across town.

“Wha— Mingi, this is…” you marvelled, eyeing the bakery logo. “That place is twenty minutes from campus.”

He shrugs, focusing intently on opening his textbook. “My morning run took me that way.”

“Your morning run took you four kilometres out of your way?”

He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping. “I’m an athlete. You could say that I’ve got excellent... endurance. A little detour doesn’t bother me.”

You roll your eyes, you want to press the issue but are distracted when he pulls out the work you assigned him the previous session. He’s not only completed all the assigned questions but has tackled the bonus problems you included as an afterthought. His work shows an elegant approach to the material that makes you pause.

“This solution,” you point to his work on comparative advantage models, “where did you learn this method?”

“Oh,” he looks almost embarrassed. “I was reading this paper by Stiglitz that mentioned a similar approach, so I adapted it. Is it wrong?”

You blink at him. “You’re reading Joseph Stiglitz for fun?”

“God no, not for fun,” he says, looking uncomfortable with your scrutiny. “I was trying to understand why the models in class weren’t clicking for me. Sometimes I need to see the bigger picture.”

“You know,” you say slowly, “you might actually enjoy Behavioural Economics next semester. It challenges a lot of the classical assumptions.”

His eyes light up. “That’s the unit with Professor Ryu, right? I’ve been wanting to take that.”

“Wait, seriously?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That class is notoriously difficult.”

“So am I, apparently,” he scoffed, but there’s no bite to it. “At least according to my tutor.”

The sessions continue, and with each one, your perception of Mingi shifts. When discussing economic inequality, he brings up points about systemic barriers that show he’s thought deeply about privilege—including his own. During a session on game theory, he demonstrates an intuitive understanding of strategic thinking that surpasses most of your other students that you tutor.

“It’s like poker,” he explains when you comment on his grasp of Nash equilibrium. “Everyone thinks it’s about the cards, but it’s really about understanding people’s patterns and incentives.”

“You play?” you ask, imagining loud frat house games with red cups and shouting.

“My grandfather taught me,” he mumbled, something softer in his expression. “He was an economics professor, actually.”

The revelation hangs between you, another piece of the puzzle that is Song Mingi. You want to ask more but sense his reluctance to elaborate. Maybe another day, you hope.

══════════════════

As your midterm approaches, your sessions intensify. You meet three times in the final week, once in the campus coffee shop when the library study rooms are all booked. Mingi still insists on paying for your drinks and snacks.

“Okay hear me out, I’m applying economic concepts for when I order us coffee,” he announced before you can comment. “You’re providing a service, I’m compensating you beyond our agreed terms because the value exceeds the price.”

“That sounds suspiciously like something I said two sessions ago,” you point out.

“I told you, I pay attention,” he corrected, and something in his tone makes you look up from your notes.

He’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher—something more complex than what he shows the rest of the world. It makes your heart beat uncontrollably in your chest in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine. The night before the exam, you receive a text from him. Multiple actually.

The night before the exam, you receive a text from him: If monopolistic competition exhibits zero economic profit in the long run, why do firms bother entering the market?

You smile despite yourself and type back: Non-monetary incentives. Brand loyalty, market positioning, the satisfaction of seeing their competitors throw a bitch fit.

His response comes immediately: So spite is an economic motivator? They just like me fr.

You laugh out loud, drawing a curious look from your roommate.

“Is that Mingi?” she asks, eyebrows raised suggestively. “Just a last-minute economics question,” you answered, trying to sound casual.

“Mhmm,” she hums skeptically. “Smiling over econ, right…”

You ignore her, sending Mingi one final message: Get some sleep. Economics rewards the well-rested. His reply makes your heart do something complicated.

I will, doll. Thank you. 

On exam day, you spot him across the lecture hall. He catches your eye and gives you a small nod—no flashy smile, no charming wink, just quiet determination. For some reason, this affects you more than any of his rehearsed moves ever did that you observed in the past.

When Professor Kim calls time, you watch him hand in his exam with confidence in his posture that wasn’t there six weeks ago. As students file out, he makes his way to your seat.

“How’d it go?” you asked as you slowly gathered your things.

“I think,” he hums, “that Professor Kim might actually have to give me an A.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you scoff at his delusion, a small feeling of pride swells in your chest.

“Never,” he agrees solemnly, then ruins it with a grin. “I did crush that section on market failures. Turns out my experience with failed relationships was finally useful for something.”

You roll your eyes, slinging your tote bag over your shoulder. “And here I thought we’d made progress beyond that frat boy persona of yours.”

“Old habits,” he nudges you with his elbow, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom. “Seriously, thank you. I couldn’t have done this without your help.”

You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of how his stride has adjusted to match yours. It’s these small, unconscious accommodations that you find yourself noticing more and more lately.

“So,” he clears his throat, breaking the quiet as you cross the quad, “My frat is hosting our end-of-semester bash this weekend.” His tone is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of something else. “Saturday night, starting around nine.”

You keep your eyes focused ahead. “I’m sure half the campus is already going and planning their outfits.”

“Probably,” he agrees with a light laugh. “But I, uh, was wondering if you wanted to come?”

When you don’t immediately respond, he adds quickly, “As a thank you for helping me ace this exam. I mean, I’m pretty sure I aced it.”

You slow your pace, finally turning to look at him properly. “You’re inviting me to your party? Me?” The disbelief in your voice is unmistakable.

“Is that so hard to believe?” His expression is somewhere between amused and offended.

“Mingi, I don’t do parties.” You adjust your bag strap, uncomfortable with how this conversation is veering into territory you’ve carefully avoided. “You of all people should know that.”

He frowns, “Don’t you want to celebrate? You helped me pull off a minor academic miracle here.”

“I think you’re exaggerating your previous academic despair,” you hesitated. “Besides, I don’t think I’d fit in with your crowd.”

“My crowd?” He scoffs. “You’ve never even met my friends.”

“I’ve seen enough from a distance, I know enough.” You start walking again, faster now. “Thanks for the invitation, but I’ll pass.”

His long strides enable him to keep up with your pace. “Come on, just for an hour. You can leave if you hate it.”

“Mingi—” 

“One hour, doll” he repeats. “That’s all I’m asking. I’ll personally ensure no one spills anything on you and tries to bother you the whole night.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I know my crowd.” His smile is softer now, more genuine. “Please? I want you to see that there’s more to us—to me—than the stereotypes.”

You study his face, searching for the manipulation, But all you see is sincerity and hope. 

“Fine,” you groaned, not quite believing the words coming out of your mouth. “One hour. That’s it. I’m leaving the second someone tries to get me to play beer pong.”

His face lights up. “Deal. I’ll text you the details.”

As you part ways, you wonder what exactly you’ve just agreed to. You’ve spent nearly three years avoiding exactly this kind of social situation. Loud music, drunk students, the messy intersection of alcohol and attraction. Yet somehow, when Mingi asked, your carefully constructed refusal crumbled. 

Your roommate squeals when you tell her your weekend plans.

“You’re going to the end of sem party? With Mingi?” She clutches your arm dramatically. “This is basically getting an invite from the MET gala!”

“It’s just a thank you for the tutoring,” you explain, trying to sound casual as you sort through your closet. “I’m only staying for an hour.”

“Sure,” she drew out the word with obvious disbelief. “That’s why you’re trying on your fourth outfit.”

You drop the dress you’ve been holding up. “I just want to look appropriate.”

“Appropriate for what? Or is it for making mister Song Mingi realise what he’s been missing?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“For not looking like I’m trying too hard,” you correct her, settling on dark jeans and a simple top that manages to be both casual and flattering. “This isn’t a date.”

“Whatever you say.” She flops back on your bed. “By the way, you should know that Mingi doesn’t personally invite just anyone to these things. Especially not someone he’s been staring at across classrooms for months.”

“He hasn’t been—“ you begin, but stop when you remember all those times you felt his gaze on you in the library and the lecture hall.

“Oh honey,” your roommate giggles, “for someone so smart, you are so stupid.”

══════════════════

On the night of the party, you and your closet have declared war. What began as a gentle sifting through hangers two hours ago has devolved into a cyclone of black crop tops, frayed denim, and shoes you forgot you owned. Your roommate’s voice, pitch-perfect for the college musical she never auditioned for, belts a running commentary from the bed: “You look hot in that, but hotter in the other,” and, later, “If you don’t wear that skirt, I will.” For every option you parade, she offers a one-woman panel’s worth of praise, criticism, and lewd suggestions, but when you finally emerge from the pile in a black singlet and the aforementioned denim mini, she sits up so abruptly the bedsprings squeal.

“Yes,” she hollered, pointing both index fingers at you as if firing a pair of pistols, “That’s the one! Fuck you look good.”

You tug at the hem, self-conscious. The skirt is so short your thighs feel like they might spontaneously combust with the friction of walking, and the top is cut low enough to leave no room . The outfit is, by college standards, conservative. By your standards, the edge of a personal revolution. You pace, boots heavy and loud. You layer on a thrifted blazer, then throw it off, then drape it over one arm for insurance. You sit on the edge of the bed, stand again, cross the room to the mirror, assess your reflection from the most punishing angles. You practice smiling in a way that suggests effortless fun rather than “I’m in hell and wish I were home in the comfort of my bed.”

Your roommate paints your lips red, then wipes it off with a tissue, then reapplies in a shade closer to your natural colour.

“There,” she beams, “like you rolled out of bed looking like this.”

You try not to look at the clock, but it’s everywhere—on your phone, on the microwave, in the stomp of boots hitting the tile as you stalk the kitchenette looking for a cup to fill, then abandon. Your hands shake when you pour yourself a glass of water. You spill some on your wrist, wipe it away, then notice your palms are already slicked with sweat.

“Stop fidgeting.” Your roommate’s tone is gentle, but there’s a note of command you recognize from years of friendship.

She takes your hands in hers, holds them steady, and says, “You’re just going to a party. With a boy. Not even a date.” She squeezes your fingers and grins. “You should be more excited! There might be hook-ups, or at least drama. At the very least, there’ll be free food.”

You want to laugh, but your stomach is a tight fist. You’ve spent the last three years avoiding exactly this scenario—rowdy house parties, the unwritten social contract of collegiate fun, the humiliation of standing awkwardly in a crowd of people who all seem to know exactly how to move, talk, flirt. You’re not anti-social, not truly, but your preferred company is to be alone with your trusted circle of friends. The thought of plunging into a frat house, even for an hour, makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

And yet. There’s Mingi, the wild card. He’s never made you feel like a project, or an obligation, or a checkmark on a list of collegiate experiences. When he smiles at you, it isn’t the rehearsed, camera-ready grin you see him use on campus tour guides or in group photos. It’s something softer, quieter, reserved for moments when he thinks no one else is watching. You remember the way he said “please” when he invited you, the way his eyes didn’t leave yours even after you tried to look away. He made it sound like this party wasn’t just another party, but an extension of the strange, fragile thing growing between the two of you. You’re not sure you trust it, but you want, for once, to try.

You stall in the doorway, hand poised on the knob, running through possible disasters. Your roommate senses your hesitation, materializing at your side with a pep talk worthy of a sports movie.

“Remember,” she says softly, “you’re not obligated to like it. Just survive the hour, and if you hate it, I’ll be waiting with post-party ramen and a debrief.” She presses the blazer into your hands and shoves you gently toward the elevator.

You take the stairs instead, one flight, then another, legs trembling with anticipation. The campus is alive with spring: the air is thick with the cloying perfume of flowering trees, the distant thump of bass from speakers, the migration of students in clusters, each group moving toward its own temporary destiny. You keep your head down, hoping to avoid unnecessary conversation. You  find yourself counting steps, then counting heartbeats, and by the time you reach the block of houses that host the Greek life ecosystem, you’ve rehearsed twenty variations of how to say hello without sounding desperate. You pass a group of girls in matching pastel tank tops, their laughter ricocheting like pinballs off the sidewalk. You duck your head, wondering if they recognize you from Intro to Business Law, but they breeze past without a second glance. In the darkness, your reflection glances back at you from every window: a stranger, confident and composed, even as anxiety gnaws at your insides.

You approach the frat house, the lights already blazing, music leaking from every crack in the siding. In the front yard, a couple makes out with the desperation of people who know they’ll regret it in the morning. A boy in a toga sprints past, pursued by a girl wielding a pool noodle. The porch is a wall of bodies, some familiar, most not, and for a moment you consider walking straight past, circling the block, and returning to your dorm in defeat.

You almost do. You’re on the verge of turning around when your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a text from Mingi: Where are you? I’ll come out front.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. Before you can reply, the front door swings open and there he is—Mingi, framed in the doorway like some ridiculous cologne advertisement. He’s wearing dark jeans and a simple black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that make your mouth go inexplicably dry. His hair is styled differently tonight, swept back to reveal his forehead in a way that transforms his entire face.

He scans the yard, eyes skipping past you once before snapping back, recognition dawning. When his gaze lands on you properly, something shifts in his expression—his confident smile faltering, eyes widening slightly.

“Oh,” he says, just that one syllable hanging in the air between you. He clears his throat. “I—you—“ He stops again, seemingly unable to form a complete sentence.

You feel heat creeping up your neck, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin. “Is something wrong?” you ask, tugging self-consciously at your skirt.

The question seems to snap him out of his daze. His trademark smile returns, but there’s something different about it—something genuine that settles in your chest in a way you don’t quite name.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he finally blurts out. “You just look... different.” He takes a step closer. “Good different I mean– Like really good different.”

You duck your head, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s just a skirt and top. Nothing special.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, and the sincerity in his voice makes your blush deepen. His confidence seems to grow in direct proportion to your bashfulness, and he extends his hand to you. “Come on. Let me introduce you to some people who aren’t total disasters.”

You place your hand in his, telling yourself it’s just to be polite, but the warmth of his palm against yours sends a current up your arm. He guides you through the crowded doorway, his body naturally creating a buffer between you and the jostling partygoers. You’re fully aware of his proximity, the cologne he’s wearing, the way his hand occasionally brushes against the small of your back as he leads you deeper into the house.

The living room has been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, furniture pushed against walls to make space. The kitchen beyond is crowded with people mixing drinks and laughing over red cups. Mingi steers you away from both, toward a slightly quieter corner where a group of guys are engaged in animated conversation.

“Hey,” he calls out, and seven heads turn in perfect unison. “This is my econ tutor, the one I’ve been telling you guys about.”

You’re suddenly faced with an assembly of some of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen in one place, each with a distinctive style that somehow works in harmony with the others. They regard you with varying expressions of curiosity and amusement.

“So you’re the one who got our Mingi to actually open a textbook,” a guy with sharp features and an even sharper smile walks up to the both of you. “I’m Hongjoong. House president.”

“Co-president,” Mingi corrects, rolling his eyes.

“Pfft whatever dude,” Hongjoong waves dismissively. “This is Seonghwa—“ he gestures to a tall, elegant-looking man who offers you a polite nod, “—Yunho—“ a friendly giant with dark hair raises his cup in greeting, “—Yeosang—“ a guy with delicate features and knowing eyes gives you a small smile, “—San—“ an energetic man with dimples deep enough to drown in waves enthusiastically, “—Wooyoung—“ a mischievous-looking guy with red hair winks at you, “—and Jongho.” The last member, compact but powerful-looking, gives you a respectful bow.

“Nice to finally meet the person who’s been occupying all our friend’s time,” Wooyoung whistles.

“And thoughts,” San adds, earning him a death glare from Mingi.

You shift uncomfortably under their collective gaze, but their smiles are genuine, lacking the judgment you expected from Mingi’s inner circle.

“Don’t believe anything they tell you about me,” Mingi says, leaning close enough that you can feel his breath on your ear. “Especially Wooyoung. He’s a pathological liar.”

“Nuh uh, that’s just not true!” Wooyoung protests. “I only lie on Tuesdays and public holidays.”

The group erupts in laughter, and to your surprise, you find yourself laughing along. There’s an easy camaraderie among them that feels inclusive rather than exclusive, drawing you in despite your reservations.

“Mingi says you’re top of the econ department,” Seonghwa mentioned, his voice calm and measured. “That’s impressive.”

Before you can respond, Yunho chimes in: “He wouldn’t shut up about how you explained game theory using poker analogies. Said it was ‘revolutionary’ or some shit.”

“I did not say revolutionary,” Mingi denies, but the pink tinging his ears tells a different story.

“You did,” Jongho confirms flatly. “Multiple times. Over breakfast.”

You glance at Mingi, oddly touched that he’s spoken about your tutoring sessions to his friends. “It wasn’t anything special. He’s actually really quick to grasp concepts once they’re explained properly.”

Mingi grins at the group. “See? I told you guys I’m not just a pretty face.” He sticks his tongue out at them, more out of habit than real offence.

“No one said you were just a pretty face,” Hongjoong replies, tone even. “We said you’re a pretty face that just so happened to be a little bit stupid.”

Mingi scoffs under his breath, but he’s smiling anyway. “That’s not better.”

“It’s accurate,” Hongjoong snorted.

The banter continues, and you find yourself relaxing into it, surprised by how comfortable you feel among them. They’re not what you expected—not the stereotypical frat boys you’ve spent years avoiding. They’re smart, funny, and surprisingly thoughtful in their questions to you.

After a while, Mingi leans in again. “How are you feeling? Do you want a drink? Or maybe some air?”

You nod gratefully. “Fresh air would be nice.”

He places his hand lightly on your back again, guiding you toward a set of French doors that lead to a back deck. The night air is cool against your skin, a welcome respite from the heat of bodies packed inside. The deck is strung with fairy lights that cast a soft glow over the wooden boards, and surprisingly, it’s empty except for a few potted plants.

“The secret balcony,” Mingi explains, seeing your questioning look. “Off-limits to regular party guests. One of the perks of being house leadership.”

“So I’m not a regular party guest?” you raise an eyebrow, leaning against the railing.

“Of course not, you are far from it,” he mutters under his breath that makes your breath falter.

You both fall silent for a moment, the bass from inside creating a muted heartbeat beneath your conversation. You can’t quite decide what’s more surprising—that you’re here like this, or that it’s with Mingi of all people. You settle on not thinking too hard about either.

“Your friends are nice,” you finally break the silence. “Not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” He leans next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.

“Loud, obnoxious frat bros talking about the typical one night stand and having the collective IQ of a houseplant.”

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Oh, they can be loud and obnoxious too. But they’re also the best people I know.”

He pauses, looking out over the dimly-lit yard. “We all have our reasons for being here, you know? Hongjoong’s parents expected him to join their firm right after high school, but he wanted to go to college first. Seonghwa supports his younger siblings through school. Jongho’s on a full academic scholarship.”

You turn to look at him, surprised by this glimpse behind the fraternity façade. “And you? What’s your reason?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice has lost its usual confident edge. “My grandfather, the one I told you about, He was the first person in our family to go to college. He wanted to see me graduate more than anything.” His fingers tap against the railing, a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “He passed away during my senior year of high school.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” you say softly.

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but...” He went on. “I promised him I’d make the most of college. Not just academically, but the whole experience. The brotherhood, the leadership opportunities, all of it.”

“Is that why you’re so determined to keep your GPA up? For your scholarship?”

“Partly,” he admits. “Mainly because I don’t want to just be the party guy, you know? I want people to realise I’m capable and somewhat intelligent.” 

Without really thinking about it, you close the remaining distance just enough for your hand to brush his. It’s tentative at first, almost accidental. When he doesn’t pull away, your fingers curl lightly around his. Mingi stills. For someone who’s always in motion, always talking, always performing, the sudden quiet in him is striking. His gaze drops to where your hands are joined, like he’s trying to process it, like this—you—is the one thing he never quite learned how to anticipate.

“It’s not a bad thing,” you say softly, your thumb brushing once, unconsciously, over his knuckles. “Wanting people to see more than what meets the eye.”

His hand shifts in yours, not pulling away—settling. Grounding.

“I know what it’s like,” you add, quieter now. “Being reduced to something simple. Convenient. Even if it’s… impressive on paper.”

That earns a small huff of laughter from him, but malice behind it. Just something tired, something honest.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess we’re both victims of stereotyping huh.”

You smile faintly. “I guess we are.”

And then it hits you. The warmth. The contact. The fact that your hand is still wrapped around his. Your fingers twitch slightly, awareness crashing in all at once, and you pull back—just a little too quickly to be entirely casual. The absence of him is immediate, the cool night air slipping into the space where his warmth had been. Mingi notices. Of course he does. Something flickers across his face, it was subtle but you saw it there momentarily. A small dip at the corner of his mouth, a hesitation like he almost reaches for you again before stopping himself. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced by something lighter, easier, like he’s filing the moment away instead of questioning it. He clears his throat, glancing out in the distance. 

“Careful,” he teases. “Keep doing that and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

You scoff, grateful for the shift. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Tragic,” he sighs dramatically. “Here I was, planning our future.”

“In your dreams.”

“Bold of you to assume you’re not already there.”

You roll your eyes, but a laugh escapes you anyway, the tension dissolving into something softer, more familiar. For a moment, you simply stand together in comfortable silence, watching the party unfold below. The fairy lights cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the angles you’ve studied during countless tutoring sessions.

“Can I ask you something?” he says finally, turning to face you.

“You just did.”

He rolls his eyes. “Why did you agree to tutor me? I asked some other people in our class and they said you turned them down.”

You consider the question, surprised by his awareness of your other rejections. “Honestly? You seemed desperate. Plus you actually pay me on time.”

“Ouch,” he winces, but his smile remains. “At least you’re honest.”

“Why did you ask me?” you counter. “There are plenty of other tutors on campus.”

He looks down at his hands, suddenly serious. “You were the only one who looked at me and didn’t see what everyone else saw.”

“And what’s that?”

“You know the usual stereotypes,” He shrugs, a gesture that carries more weight than it should. “Everyone thinks they know me because they hear all about my reputation.”

Something in his tone makes you pause, recognizing a sentiment that echoes your own experience. “I get that,” you say quietly. “People are like that with me too. They think what we are at face value is what we truly are.”

“Isn’t it?” His question is gentle, not challenging.

You shake your head. “No more than you’re just a frat boy who happens to look good in a button-down.”

He raises an eyebrow as his eyes meet yours, “You think I look good?”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” you scold as you bite back a smile. “Your ego is big enough already.”

“There you go again, humbling me.” His gaze softens as he steps closer. “I like that about you. You never let me get away with anything.”

You tilt your head, crossing your arms loosely. “Yeah? I know there’s a lot of things you like about me.”

His eyebrows lift, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you continue, feigning nonchalance. “My intelligence. My work ethic. My incredible patience for difficult students—”

“—woah, woah,” he cuts in, laughing. “When did this turn into a self-evaluation?”

“You asked,” you shoot back. “I’m just being thorough.”

He steps closer, close enough now that the teasing edge softens into something warmer. “You missed a few.”

“Oh?” you raise an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”

“The way you pretend not to care,” he responded quietly. “But still show up anyway.”

Your breath catches slightly, but you recover. “That’s not a quality. That’s just… basic decency.”

“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. “And the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

You freeze. “I do not—”

“You do,” 

You swallow, your voice coming out just above a whisper. “What does that look mean, according to you?”

He studies you for a moment, like he’s debating whether to say it.

“Like you’re trying really hard not to like me.”

Your heart stumbles over itself.

“That’s a bold assumption,” you manage.

“Is it, doll?” 

There’s barely any space left between you now. You’re aware of everything. How close he was to you, the warmth radiating off him, the way his gaze drops briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. Your own breath feels too loud in your chest.

“This feels like you’re fishing for compliments again,” you say, but your voice lacks its usual bite.

“Maybe,” he admits easily. “Only from you, though.”

The honesty of it lands heavier than it should. Your fingers twitch at your side, like they remember what it felt like to hold his hand. Like they want to again.

“Mingi—” you start, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re going to say.

He leans in slightly. Not rushed. Not cocky. Careful. Like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t. Your eyes flick down to his lips for just a second—long enough for him to notice—and that’s all it takes. The air shifts, something unspoken settling between you as you both lean in, slow and almost hesitant—

“Yo! Mingi!”

The moment shatters. You both jerk back slightly as the deck door swings open. Wooyoung steps out, slightly breathless, eyes flicking between the two of you with immediate recognition—and absolutely zero subtlety.

“Oh shit,” he says, smirking. “Am I interrupting something?”

“What do you think?,” Mingi says flatly, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Tragic,” his red haired friend replies, not looking sorry in the slightest. “Hongjoong’s looking for you. Something about the DJ setup dying and you being ‘useless but still required.’”

Mingi closes his eyes briefly, exhaling. “Of course he is.”

Wooyoung gaze shifts back to you, smile softening. “Hey, you’re staying, right? It’s just getting good.”

You hesitate. And Mingi notices.

His attention snaps back to you, something apologetic in his expression. “I—give me ten minutes? I’ll come find you.”

You glance toward the house, the noise, the crowd, the overwhelming swirl of everything you’ve been holding at bay all night. Then back at him. At the almost-kiss still lingering in the space between you. By the way your chest feels too full, too tight, like you don’t quite know what to do with everything you’re suddenly feeling.

“I think…” you start, then pause, shaking your head slightly. “I should probably head out.”

His expression drops, just a fraction. “Already?”

“I stayed longer than I planned,” you say, offering a small smile. “I have an early morning.”

It’s a weak excuse. You both know it. But he doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, he nods slowly, stepping back just enough to give you space—even if he doesn’t seem to want t

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks for coming. I can walk you–”

“No need, I can see myself out,” you reply softly. “Thanks for inviting me, I had a really good time.” 

There’s a beat. Something unfinished is hanging between you.

“Get home safe,” he adds, quieter now.

“I will.”

You turn before you can overthink it. Before you can look at him again and change your mind and make your way back through the house. The music feels louder now, the lights harsher, the press of bodies more suffocating than before. By the time you step outside into the cool night air, your head is spinning. Not from the party. From him. From the way he looked at you like that. You exhale slowly, starting down the path back to your dorm, your fingers curling slightly at your sides.

Your key turns in the lock with a sharp click that echoes through the empty hallway. The walk back to your dorm passed in a blur. Your mind replaying those moments on the deck over and over, his face so close to yours, the almost-kiss that’s now branded into your memory as a question mark.

Your roommate looks up from her laptop, eyes widening when she sees you. “You’re back early! I thought—“ She pauses, taking in your expression. “What happened?”

You drop your bag and collapse onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I think I just made a huge mistake.”

“What did he do? Babe I swear if he tried anything—” She’s immediately on alert, sitting up straighter.

“No,” you shake your head, pressing your palms against your eyes. “The opposite. He was... perfect. His friends were really nice, funny too. The party wasn’t terrible. And we almost kissed, and then I—I ran away.”

“You what?” She scrambles off her bed and sits next to you. “Back up. You almost kissed him and then you left?”

“We got interrupted, and then I just... panicked.” You sit up, hugging your knees to your chest. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Your roommate studies your face, her expression softening into something you haven’t seen before—concern mixed with understanding. 

“Holy shit,” she mumbled. “You like him.”

“No,” you protest automatically, then trail off. “Maybe. Shit. I don’t know?” Your voice muffles as you bury your face in your hands. “This is so stupid. I’ve spent years avoiding guys exactly like him.”

“Except he’s not exactly like anyone, is he?” She nudges your shoulder gently. “Not if he’s got you this fucked up.”

You groan. “That’s the problem. He’s supposed to be this shallow frat boy who only cares about parties and hookups, but then he goes and talks about his grandfather and his friends and looks at me like—like—“

“Like what?” she prompts.

“Like I matter,” you cried out, wiping away the tears from your face. “Not just as a tutor or someone to boost his grade. Like he actually enjoys my company.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I’ve never seen you like this over anyone before.”

“That’s because I’ve never felt like this before,” you admit, the words coming out in a rush. “I’ve probably ruined it by running away like some character in a bad rom-com.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” she says firmly. “You got scared. Shit happens.”

“You don’t understand.” You get up, pacing the small space between your beds. “I had this whole image of him in my head…this whole narrative about who he was and what he wanted. It was so much easier when I could just dismiss him as just some guy. But he’s not, and now I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Maybe you could try, oh I don’t know, talking to him?” Your roommate suggests, her tone gently teasing you as she hands you a tissue.

“And say what? ‘Sorry I ran away when we were about to kiss, I’m just terrified because I might actually like you’?”

“That sounds like a start.”

You collapse back onto your bed with a groan. “I fucked up so bad.”

“Maybe,” she concedes, “but not irreparably.” She picks up your phone from where you dropped it and holds it out to you. “Text him.”

You stare at the phone like it might bite you. “Like now?”

“Yes, now. Before you overthink it even more than you already have.”

Your fingers hover over the screen, hesitant. “What do I even say?”

“The truth,” she says simply. “Or at least part of it.”

You take a deep breath and start typing, deleting, typing again. After what feels like an eternity, you hit send on a simple message: Sorry for leaving so abruptly. Ty for tonight.

The response comes faster than you expected, your phone buzzing in your hand almost immediately: All good. Did u get home safe?

Something in your chest loosens just slightly. He’s still talking to you, at least. You type back: Yea, made it back like 5 mins ago.

Three dots appear, disappear, appear again: Can I call you tomorrow?

Your heart does a strange little flip. “He wants to call me tomorrow,” you tell your roommate, your voice sounding strange even to your own ears.

She grins. “See? Not ruined.”

You type back a quick ‘Sure’ before you can second-guess yourself.

His response is just as quick: Good. Sleep well, doll.

Despite everything, you find yourself smiling at the nickname. Your roommate peers over your shoulder, reading the exchange.

“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” she says jokingly. “From the looks of it, so does he.”

“This is such a mess,” you sigh, but there’s less despair in it now. “I’m supposed to be the level-headed one. The one who doesn’t get caught up in... whatever this is.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why you need this,” she suggests, returning to her own bed. “When was the last time you did something just because it made you feel good, not because it was the smart, practical choice?”

You don’t have an answer for that. As you lie in bed, sleep eluding you, you replay the night in your head. The way Mingi looked at you on that deck, the warmth of his hand in yours, the honesty in his voice when he talked about wanting to be seen as more than his reputation. You think about how easily you could have stayed, how different the night might have ended if you had just stayed with him.

══════════════════

Morning arrives with harsh sunlight streaming through half-closed blinds and the persistent buzz of your alarm. The day crawls by in a strange haze. You go through the motions—catch up on any missed lecture notes, meet with your friends, grab lunch at the campus café—but everything feels slightly off-kilter. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket, conspicuously silent.

“He said he’d call,” you mutter to yourself during lunch, checking your notifications for the fifth time in an hour.

By mid-afternoon, anxiety has settled into a knot in your stomach. Was leaving the party abruptly really such a dealbreaker? Or worse—was the almost-kiss just another moment for him, easily forgotten once you walked away?

Your roommate finds you hunched over economics papers in your dorm, highlighter poised but motionless over the same paragraph you’ve been staring at for twenty minutes.

“Still nothing?” 

You shake your head, trying to appear more focused on your work than you actually are. “It’s fine. He’s probably busy with frat stuff.”

“He’s nursing a hangover,” she mused, flopping onto her bed. “Those parties don’t exactly end early.”

“Yeah, probably.” You force your attention back to your notes, determined not to care.

The sun begins to set, casting long shadows across your desk. You’ve moved on to grading papers for the professor you TA for, a task that usually requires your full concentration. Tonight, however, each essay blurs into the next as your mind wanders back to the deck, to Mingi’s face inches from yours. At 7:38 PM, your phone finally rings. You nearly knock over your coffee reaching for it, heart leaping into your throat when you see his name on the screen. Taking a deep breath, you answer with what you hope is casual nonchalance.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” His voice comes through warm and slightly hesitant. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, just grading some papers.” You lean back in your chair, trying to ignore how your pulse has quickened. “How was your day?”

“Long,” he admits with a soft laugh. “Had to deal with some post-party clean up that was... not ideal.”

“Sounds rough,” you say, picturing the chaos that must have followed after you left.

There’s a brief pause before he speaks again. “Listen, I was wondering if you’d want to grab some ice cream? There’s this place near the science building that stays open late.”

You glance at your half-finished work, then at the clock. “Now?”

“Yeah, if you’re not too busy. I just...” He hesitates. “I think we should talk. In person.”

Your stomach drops. Those words never precede anything good.

“Oh,” you manage. “Sure. I could use a break anyway.”

“Great.” The relief in his voice is palpable. “Meet you there in twenty?”

“Make it thirty,” you say, already mentally cataloguing what you’re wearing—sweatpants and an oversized university hoodie, not exactly what you’d choose for whatever conversation is coming.

After hanging up, you change quickly into jeans and a sweater that’s slightly more presentable, running a brush through your hair and dabbing on lip balm before you can question why you’re bothering. Your roommate watches with barely concealed amusement.

“Just ice cream, huh?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing your keys. “He probably just wants to clear the air so tutoring isn’t awkward.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Sure. That’s definitely it.”

The walk to the ice cream shop takes exactly twelve minutes—not that you’re counting. When you arrive, you spot Mingi immediately, leaning against the wall outside. He straightens when he sees you, his expression brightening in a way that makes your heart stutter.

“Hey,” he greets you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Thanks for coming.”

“For free ice cream? I’d be an idiot if I refused.” You aim for lightness, but your voice comes out slightly strained.

Inside, the shop is nearly empty, just a couple of students hunched over laptops in the corner. Mingi insists on paying despite your protests, and soon you’re seated at a small table by the window, a scoop of chocolate chip melting slowly in your cup. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You focus intently on your ice cream, hyperaware of his presence across from you.

“So uh,” he finally breaks the tension, setting down his spoon. “About last night.”

You look up to find him watching you, his expression more serious than you’ve ever seen it. “What about it?” you ask, playing for time.

He leans forward slightly. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t... misread things.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. “You didn’t,” you admit quietly.

Relief flickers across his face. “Then why did you leave?”

The directness of the question catches you off guard. You consider deflecting, making a joke, but something in his eyes—an earnestness you’re not used to seeing—makes you opt for honesty.

“I got scared,” you say simply.

His brow furrows. “Of me?”

“No.” You shake your head. “No this. Whatever is happening between us.” You gesture vaguely, as if that could dissolve it. “It wasn’t part of the plan.”

“The plan?” he echoes.

“My plan,” you clarify. “Graduate top of my class, get into a top-tier MBA program, no distractions.” You poke at your melting ice cream.

The words come easier than they should, like you’ve said them enough times to believe they’re ironclad. You scoop a fragile curl of choc chip into your mouth, watching it soften instantly, the chill doing nothing to settle the rest of you.

Mingi doesn’t look away. But something shifts in his expression—subtle, unreadable.

“You think this is a distraction,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the shape of the idea. There’s no bitterness in it, just a blunt apprehension that makes you want to fold in on yourself.

The words thud between you, heavier than any textbook you’ve ever carried. You set your spoon down, forced to confront the truth you’ve been working so hard to avoid: it would be much simpler if you could blame him. If the whole thing could be chalked up to a fluke in your otherwise disciplined trajectory: a blip, a party, a night on a deck that would fade with the semester. However, the real distraction is the way your mind keeps circling back to him even when he’s not there, the way your heart does that ridiculous stutter every time you see his name on your screen, the way—sitting here with him now—you feel some distant tectonic plate in your chest begin to shift. You hesitate. Then, because you’ve already started, you let it spill anyway.

“It’s not just that,” you admit. “I never planned on… this happening at all. And I definitely never thought you’d—” You stop yourself, exhaling a short, humourless breath. “Like, someone like me.”

His brow furrows slightly. “Someone like you?”

You gesture faintly, as if the words make sense on their own. “You know. You. Me. I just— I always assumed you wouldn’t go for someone like me. That you wouldn’t even look twice.”

The admission sits between you, heavier than you intended. Mingi leans back slightly, hands folding together, but not in his usual relaxed way. More like he’s trying to steady something. Then he lets out a breath—half laugh, half disbelief.

“I’ve been trying so hard to get you to notice me.” He says, shaking his head once.

You blink. “What?”

He looks at you properly now, like the answer should’ve been obvious all along. “You think I’m out of your league,” he says, almost incredulous. “I thought you were out of mine.”

That makes you go still. Before you can respond, he continues, voice softer now.

“You’re—” He stops, like the word itself isn’t enough. “You’re genuinely one of the most interesting people I’ve met. And you’re not just smart, you’re…” He exhales through his nose, like he hates how obvious it is. “You’re really fucking beautiful. And your brain? That’s honestly the most attractive part of you. I thought people were dramatic when they said intelligence was sexy, man I was so wrong.”

Your breath catches, and you hate that it does.

“I like what we are,” he adds, a little quieter. “The banter, the way you talk back to me, the way you don’t just—” He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “Fold. It’s fun. It’s different. It’s… real.”

The honesty lands clumsily, unpolished in a way that feels impossible to fake. You look down at your ice cream before it fully melts.

“That’s… not what I expected you to say,” you admit.

“Yeah,” he says, a small, self-aware smile tugging at his mouth. “Join the club.”

“I know it’s unfair to judge you based on campus gossip, but...” You take a deep breath. “I’m scared of being just another story people whisper about in bathroom stalls.”

Mingi reaches across the table, his fingers hovering near yours without quite touching. “Can I?” he asks quietly.

You nod, and his warm hand covers yours, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

“Listen to me,” he says, voice low and serious. “I won’t pretend I haven’t made mistakes. I have. But I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.” His eyes hold yours, unwavering.

“How can I know that?” you whisper, voicing the fear that’s been lodged in your chest since the moment on the deck.

“Let me prove it to you,” he says with such conviction that your throat tightens. “Not with words or promises, but with time. With consistency.” His grip on your hand tightens slightly. “I’m not asking you to trust me completely right away. I’m asking for a chance to earn that trust.”

You study his face, searching for any sign of the practiced charm you’ve seen him deploy across campus. All you find is raw sincerity that makes your heart race.

“What exactly are you suggesting?”

“Let me show you who I really am,” a small, vulnerable smile touches his lips.  “I promise I’ll put all those stupid rumours to rest. No pressure, no expectations.”

“If it doesn’t work out?” The practical part of your brain needs to know there’s an exit strategy.

“Then we go back to being tutor and student, friends if you want,” he says, though something flickers in his eyes that suggests it wouldn’t be that simple for him. “I think we at least owe ourselves the chance to find out.”

You look down at your joined hands, feeling yourself wavering on the precipice of something that terrifies and thrills you in equal measure.

“Okay,” you find yourself saying, the word slipping out before you can overthink it. “I’ll give us a chance.”

The smile that breaks across his face is nothing like his usual confident grin. It’s wider, brighter, almost boyish in its genuine delight.

“Yeah?” he asks, as if he can’t quite believe it.

“Yeah,” you confirm, a small smile forming on your own lips. “But I have conditions.”

He laughs softly, squeezing your hand. “Of course you do. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t have any.”

“We take it slow,” you say firmly. “For now, this is just between us. I’m not ready to tell everyone about us just yet.”

“Absolutely,” he agrees immediately. “What else?”

“If at any point I feel like this is becoming too much—“

“We reassess,” he finishes for you. “I understand.”

You nod, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. “One more thing.”

“Name it.”

“No more surprise coffees during tutoring,” you let out a laugh, you hope that he doesn’t take this rule too seriously. 

He clutches his chest dramatically. “Wow. Mind you, those were gifts from the heart.”

“The heart doesn’t need caffeine to function properly,” you counter.

“Debatable,” he grins, then grows serious again. “I promise to uphold all the boundaries that you have. If at any point you want outs, just say the word and we can call it off.”

There’s something in his voice—a quiet determination—that makes you believe him, despite all your carefully constructed defences.

“So,” he wonders, leaning forward slightly, “now that we’ve established the ground rules... Can I walk you home?”

“That would be nice,” you smile, finishing the last of your now-soupy ice cream.

Outside, the night air is cool against your skin. Your campus is quiet at this hour, most students either at the library or locked in their rooms studying. Mingi walks beside you, close enough that your arms occasionally brush, sending little sparks of awareness through you each time. The conversation falls into a comfortable silence as you walk side by side through the moonlit campus. Your mind races with everything that’s just happened—the confessions, the promises, the beginning of something neither of you had planned. Mingi’s hand occasionally brushes against yours, each contact sending little jolts through your system, but he doesn’t try to hold it. True to his word, he’s letting you set the pace.

“So,” he says as you approach your dormitory, “I was thinking maybe we could get dinner? Whenever you’re free… O-of course.”

The earnestness in his voice makes your heart flutter. “I’d love to.”

You stop at the entrance to your building, turning to face him. The lamplight catches in his dark eyes, making them shine with something that looks suspiciously like hope.

“Thank you,” you mumbled quietly.

His brow furrows slightly. “For what?”

“For being patient and understanding.” You shift your weight, suddenly feeling shy. 

A smile curves his lips. “I’m full of surprises.”

“I’m beginning to see that.”

There’s a moment of hesitation. A breath where you both stand looking at each other, the air between you charged with possibility. You make a decision, stepping forward before you can overthink it. Rising slightly on your toes, you press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.

“Goodnight, Mingi,” you murmur, pulling back to see his eyes wide with surprise.

“Goodnight,” he coughs out, voice slightly rougher than before.

You turn quickly, swiping your keycard and slipping through the door before you can change your mind. Once inside, you can’t resist glancing back through the glass panel. Mingi stands frozen for a moment, hand raised to the spot where your lips touched his skin. Then, when he thinks you’ve gone, a transformation takes place. The cool, confident frat president dissolves into something entirely different. He pumps his fist in the air, does a little spin, and breaks into what can only be described as a victory dance—all limbs and unbridled joy, like a kid who just got exactly what he wanted for his birthday. He runs his hands through his hair, grinning so wide it must hurt, before composing himself and walking away with an extra bounce in his step. You press your hand to your mouth, stifling a laugh. Something warm blooms in your chest at the sight of him—campus heartbreaker, fraternity president, supposed player—celebrating a simple kiss on the cheek like it’s the greatest achievement of his life.

Maybe there’s more to him than you ever allowed yourself to see.

══════════════════

The following weeks unfold in a series of moments that feel stolen from someone else’s life. Mingi keeps his promise about taking things slow, but he finds other ways to show you he’s serious.

It starts with little things. A sticky note on your economics textbook when you leave it unattended for two minutes in the library: “Study Well!.” A cup of tea waiting for you before an early morning class, with honey already added the way you mentioned you like it once in passing.

Your tutoring sessions continue, but there’s a new undercurrent to them now. You maintain professionalism—mostly—but sometimes his fingers brush yours when you’re explaining a concept, lingering just a second too long to be accidental. Sometimes you catch him watching you with a softness in his eyes that makes your chest ache in the best way.

“Focus,” you scold during one such session, tapping your pencil against his notebook. “Our midterms are in coming up soon.”

“I am focusing,” he protests, eyes never leaving your face. “Just not on economics.”

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. “Looking at me isn’t going to help boost your GPA.”

“If it means looking at the prettiest girl in the room, it’s worth it,” he shrugs and the sincerity in his voice makes heat rise to your cheeks.

Walking with him after your brain numbing study sessions become so integral to your guys’ routine. It feels a little strange at first but when Mingi’s hand tentatively finds yours, all the stress melts away at his touch.

“You know,” he says during one such walk, “keeping you secret is killing me. The guys think I’ve gone celibate or something.”

You elbow him gently. “Your reputation could use the hit.”

“True,” he laughs, squeezing your hand. “For the record, this is the longest I’ve gone without posting on social media in ages.”

Mingi has been careful about keeping your relationship private. No Instagram stories featuring your coffee dates, no posts of your study sessions that sometimes devolve into conversations about everything and nothing. Just the two of you, learning each other in private moments stolen between classes and responsibilities.

One rainy Tuesday, he shows up at your dorm with takeout from your favorite Thai place and a stack of economics flash cards he made himself.

“I figured we could multitask,” he beams, setting up the food on your desk. 

Your roommate, who’s been watching this unfold with barely concealed delight, grabs her jacket. “And that’s my cue to give you two some privacy,” she announces, winking at you on her way out.

Once she’s gone, Mingi turns to you with a sheepish smile. “Too much?”

You shake your head, oddly touched by the gesture. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just not used to anyone doing this for me.”

His expression softens. “Well that's too bad, doll, start getting used to it.”

The study session is productive—mostly. At first, the two of you really do focus, perched shoulder to shoulder with a blanket across your knees, pencils poised as you quiz each other from the stack of flash cards. For a solid twenty minutes, you run through concepts, definitions, and theoretical graphs, congratulating each other with exaggerated fist bumps for every correct answer. Mingi is sharp, more so than you expected, but he keeps getting tripped up on the same three formulas, and each time he stumbles, you make him recite them from memory until he gets it right. By the fourth round, you’re both dissolving into laughter at his increasingly creative mnemonic devices.

Eventually, the flash cards are abandoned in favor of pad thai and mango sticky rice. You eat cross-legged on the floor, passing the container back and forth, chopsticks clacking as the conversation drifts from academics to childhood memories, to music, to the merits of various ramen brands. Mingi tells you a story about getting locked in a janitor’s closet during a fraternity scavenger hunt, and you laugh so hard you nearly spill sweet chili sauce all over your leggings. He grins, watching you with open affection, and you feel your defenses slipping a little more with each shared story, each easy silence.

You mean to get back to studying, really you do, but by the time your plates are empty, you’re both sprawled out on the rug, heads tipped together, trading lazy jokes and favorite movie quotes. The stack of flash cards lies forgotten somewhere behind you. Mingi stretches his arm behind your head, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. You’re acutely aware that you said you wanted to take things slow, but now, in the soft glow of your desk lamp, with rain pattering gently against the window, slow feels less like a rule and more like a suggestion.

At some point, you roll onto your side to face him. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions, and you resist the urge to reach over and smooth it down. He catches the look in your eyes and grins, that same vulnerable curve of mouth you saw outside your dorm, and you realize you’re not even sure what you’re waiting for anymore. The next hour is a blur of tangled limbs, whispered jokes, and the kind of laughter that leaves your ribs aching. You don’t kiss—at least, not on the lips—but you end up with your head tucked against his shoulder, his hand tracing idle, feather-light circles on your back as you drift in and out of half-sleep. The textbooks are forgotten, the only thing that matters is the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath and the way it syncs perfectly with yours.

You don’t let him stay the night but you walk him to the door at midnight, both of you lingering in the hallway far longer than necessary.

“Tomorrow again?” he asks, voice low.

“Tomorrow,” you echo, smiling so hard it almost hurts.

You close the door behind him and press your forehead to the wood, equal parts giddy and terrified at how easy this is starting to feel.

That’s how it goes, week after week. Study sessions that turn into late-night conversations, walks that stretch on for hours, endless cups of tea and takeout and inside jokes that no one else would ever find funny. You find yourself looking for him everywhere: in the crowd of the dining hall, in the hush of the library at midnight, in the flicker of lamplight outside your window when you can’t sleep. Every time he appears, it feels like a secret only the two of you share. You start to notice the little ways he tries to care for you. The umbrella he brings when the forecast calls for rain, the pack of your favourite pens he leaves in your backpack before a big test, the playlist he makes for your morning runs, even though he can’t stand three-quarters of your “motivational” music. You tell yourself not to read into any of it, but you do. You’re hopelessly, helplessly reading into every tiny thing.

The night before your economics midterm, you meet up in the library’s quietest corner, both of you vibrating with nerves. He brings snacks and a fresh stack of flash cards, all hand-written in his messy scrawl, and the two of you settle in for a marathon review. For once, you manage to stay on task, quizzing each other with increasing intensity until you’re both exhausted. When the clock chimes one in the morning, you start to pack up, but Mingi hesitates, his hand hovering over the pile of books.

“You’re going to ace it,” he says, voice unexpectedly earnest.

You shake your head, smiling. “Only if you don’t distract me during the exam.”

“That’s going to be impossible,” he laughs, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “I’ll try my best.”

You snort, shouldering your bag. “I sure hope so.”

As you walk him out into the silent quad, he reaches for your hand—not tentative anymore, not asking permission, just doing it. You let him. The campus is empty, the sky ink-black and starless, and it feels like the entire world has narrowed to just the two of you, hands entwined, hearts beating a little too fast. He stops at the steps of your dorm, pulling you in for a hug that lasts a few seconds longer than normal. You memorize the feeling: the way his arms wrap around you, how he smells like detergent and the faintest hint of aftershave, the way his cheek fits perfectly against your temple. He reminds you to get some sleep, even as he lingers like he has no real intention of leaving just yet. You echo the sentiment back to him, a quiet reminder about his final. There’s a brief pause—something unspoken stretching between you—before you part with a soft, almost reluctant goodbye, the kind that feels less like an ending and more like something paused.

══════════════════

The morning of the midterm arrives with an electric tension in the air. You walk into the lecture hall, scanning the rows of nervous students until you spot Mingi. He’s hunched over his notes, frantically reviewing formulas, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. When he sees you, his face brightens momentarily before anxiety clouds his features again.

“Doll, I can’t remember anything,” he whispers as you slide into the seat beside him. “It’s all just... gone.”

You reach over and gently close his textbook. “Hey, breathe. You know this material better than you think.”

“Easy for you to say.” His voice cracks slightly. “What if I blank? What if everything we worked on just disappears the moment I see the test?”

You take his trembling hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Look at me. You’ve put in the work. You understand the concepts. Trust yourself.”

He exhales slowly, eyes locked on yours. “I just... I can’t mess this up. Not after everything.”

“You won’t,” you say with such conviction that he almost seems to believe you. “Remember what you told me about game theory? It’s not about the cards, it’s about—“

“—understanding the patterns,” he finishes, a small smile forming. “The incentives.”

“Exactly. And you’ve got this. I know you do.”

Professor Kim enters the room, silencing the anxious chatter. As she distributes the exams, Mingi gives your hand one last squeeze before letting go. You mouth “good luck” to him before turning to your own test.

The exam is challenging, even for you. Two hours of intense concentration, complex problems, and theoretical applications that make your brain ache. Occasionally, you glance at Mingi. His brow is furrowed in concentration, pencil moving steadily across the paper. No panic, no hesitation. Just focused determination that fuels your own.

When time is called, you feel drained but satisfied. Mingi looks up from his paper, meeting your eyes across the room with an expression of cautious optimism.

“How’d it go?” you ask as you both file out of the lecture hall.

“I think... I think it went okay,” he says, sounding almost surprised. “That section on monopolistic competition? I nailed it.”

“See? I told you.”

He laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky just because you were right. Again.”

Three days after the exam, your phone lights up with his name: Grades are posted, lock in.

Your fingers fly across the screen as you log into the portal. There it is: Econ1000 - Final Grade: A+. Not surprising, but satisfying nonetheless. You’re about to text him back when another message comes through: Can we meet? I’m outside your building.

Your heart races as you rush down the stairs. Mingi is pacing outside, face unreadable. When he sees you, he stops, and for a terrible moment, you think he’s failed.

“Mingi? What happened? Are you—“

His face breaks into the widest grin you’ve ever seen. “I got an A, I did it!”

Relief and joy flood through you as he picks you up in a spinning hug that lifts your feet off the ground. “I knew you could do it!” you laugh, arms wrapped around his neck.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he says, setting you down but keeping his hands on your waist. 

“Hey give yourself some credit, you did all the work,” you counter, unable to stop smiling. “I just provided occasional guidance—“

“—And motivation, patience, and belief when I had none.” His expression grows serious despite his smile. “Thank you.”

You feel your cheeks warm under his intense gaze. “You’re welcome.”

He takes a deep breath, a flicker of nervousness crossing his features—something you’ve rarely seen from him. “So, I was thinking...” he begins, his hands sliding from your waist but not completely letting go, fingers lightly brushing against yours. “Maybe we could celebrate properly? Tonight?”

“What did you have in mind?” you ask, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest.

“Dinner,” he says simply. Then adds, with uncharacteristic hesitation, “At an actual restaurant with fancy ass menus and shit.” His eyes meet yours, surprisingly earnest. “A date. Just you and me.”

The word “date” hangs between you, weighted with meaning. These weren't the standard study sessions or casual hangouts anymore. He wanted to take you out to dinner.

“A date,” you repeat, testing how the words feel.

“Yes.” He nods, watching your face carefully. “I want to take you somewhere nice. To celebrate, but also because...” He pauses, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just want to treat you to a good meal, feels like the right thing to do.”

You laugh, the tension in your chest dissolving into something warm and bright. “In that case, yes. I’d love to go to dinner with you tonight.”

The smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. “Great! I’ll pick you up at seven?”

“Seven works,” you nod, already mentally cataloguing your closet, wondering what constitutes appropriate attire for an official date with Song Mingi.

As if reading your mind, he adds, “Wear something nice. I made reservations at Stellina.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. Stellina is easily the most upscale restaurant near campus—the kind of place parents take their children when they visit, or where professors celebrate tenure. Definitely not somewhere college students typically go for casual dinners.

“Stellina?” you echo. “That’s... wow.”

“Wait, do you not like Stells?” he asks, suddenly uncertain.

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just surprised.”

“Good surprised?”

“Very good surprised.”

He beams, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’ll see you at seven, then.”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of anticipation. You text your roommate the news, which results in her immediately abandoning whatever plans she had to help you prepare. By six o’clock, your room looks like a boutique exploded—clothes strewn across both beds, makeup scattered across the desk, and your roommate critically assessing every option.

“This one,” she declares finally, holding up a simple black dress you bought for a cousin’s birthday last year but haven’t worn since. “Classic, elegant, but still says ‘I’m not trying too hard.’” You slip it on, the silky fabric settling against your skin. It’s more fitted than you remembered, hugging your curves before flaring slightly at the hem. Nothing flashy, but undeniably flattering.

“Perfect,” your roommate nods approvingly. “Now, shoes...”

By 6:55, you’re pacing nervously in front of the mirror. The dress looks good, your hair is cooperating for once, and your roommate has worked minor miracles with minimal makeup. Still, anxiety flutters in your stomach like trapped butterflies.

“What if this changes everything?” you ask, chewing your lip. “What if it’s weird or awkward or—“

“Or what if it’s amazing?” your roommate cuts in, adjusting a strand of your hair. “Stop catastrophizing and let yourself enjoy this. The man is taking you to Stellina, for god’s sake. He’s clearly serious about you.”

Before you can respond, your phone buzzes with a text: I’m outside.

Your roommate practically shoves you toward the door. “Go! And I want all the details when you get back!”

You take one last deep breath, grab your small purse, and head downstairs. The moment you step outside, you spot him immediately standing beside his car, looking almost unrecognizable in a tailored navy suit. His hair is styled away from his face, revealing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the intensity of his gaze as it lands on you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. His eyes widen slightly as they take in your appearance, moving from your face to your dress and back again with an appreciation so obvious it makes your skin warm.

“You look...” he starts, then shakes his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “I had a whole line prepared, but now I can’t remember it. You look incredible.”

“So do you,” you manage, taking in how the suit fits his broad shoulders perfectly. “I didn’t know you owned clothes like this.”

“Special occasions only,” he grins, stepping forward to offer you his arm. “Ready?”

The drive to Stellina is short but charged with a new kind of tension—anticipation mixed with awareness. Mingi keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking, and you catch yourself doing the same. When you arrive, he insists on opening your door, offering his hand to help you out of the car with an old-fashioned gallantry that would seem affected from anyone else.

Inside, the restaurant is everything you expected and more. Soft lighting from crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, the gentle clink of expensive silverware. The hostess greets Mingi by name and leads you to a quiet corner table partially secluded by a decorative screen.

“This is...” you begin, looking around at the elegant surroundings.

“Too much?” he blurted out in a panic, studying your face carefully as he pulls out your chair.

You shake your head, settling into your seat. “No, it’s beautiful. I’m just not used to... all this.”

“Neither am I,” he admits with a small laugh, taking his own seat. “I wanted tonight to be special.”

The waiter appears with menus and a wine list, addressing Mingi with practiced deference. You watch, slightly amused, as he navigates the wine selection with surprising confidence, asking questions about vintages and pairings that you wouldn’t have expected him to know.

“Since when are you a wine expert?” you ask after the waiter leaves to fetch your selection.

He grins, slightly sheepish. “I’m not. I spent an hour yesterday watching YouTube videos about how to order wine without looking like an idiot.”

The admission is so endearingly honest that you can’t help but laugh. “You’re crazy.”

“I wanted to impress you,” he shrugs, no trace of his usual bravado. “Is it working?”

“Maybe a little,” you concede, smiling.

The wine arrives—a crisp white that pairs perfectly with the appetizers Mingi suggests. As you sip and sample delicate bites of food you can barely pronounce, the initial awkwardness melts away. Conversation flows as easily as it always has between you, ranging from classes to childhood stories to dreams for the future.

“So,” he says as the waiter clears your appetizer plates, “now that we’ve conquered economics, what’s next on your academic hit list?”

“Advanced Econometrics,” you grimace slightly. “Not exactly light reading.”

“Sounds intense,” he nods. “Do you think you’ll need a tutor for that one? If so, I know a guy…”

The teasing question makes you smile. “I think I can manage. What about you? What are you taking next semester?”

He hesitates, something vulnerable flickering across his face. “Actually, I registered for that Behavioural Economics class you mentioned. And...” he pauses, “I’m thinking about adding a minor in Business Analytics.”

“Really?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That’s a pretty intensive program.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, trying to look casual but not quite succeeding, “someone made me realize I might actually be good at this stuff. When I’m not being a, what did you call it? ‘Stereotypical frat boy with the collective IQ of a houseplant?’”

You wince, remembering your harsh assessment from months ago. “I was wrong about that.”

“Not entirely,” he laughs. “I can be that guy sometimes. It’s easier, you know? To be what people expect.”

The honesty in his voice touches something deep in your chest. “You don’t have to be that with me.”

His eyes meet yours across the table, warm and sincere,  “I know.”

The main courses arrive—seared scallops for you, steak for him—momentarily pausing the conversation. As you eat, you notice how Mingi keeps finding excuses to touch you: his fingers brushing yours when reaching for the wine, his knee pressing gently against yours under the table. Each contact sends little sparks along your skin, building a current that hums just below the surface.

“Can I ask you something?” he says after a comfortable lull in conversation.

“Of course.”

“When did you start liking me?” The question is direct, curious rather than cocky. “I mean, I know you couldn’t stand me at first.”

You consider this, taking a sip of wine. “I think... it was during our third tutoring session. You spent twenty minutes arguing with me about income inequality and its effects on consumer behaviour.”

He looks surprised. “That’s what did it? An economics debate?”

“You were passionate,” you explain. “And knowledgeable. And you didn’t back down just because I disagreed. I was impressed.”

His expression softens. “For me, it was the party. That first night. When you looked at me and didn’t seem impressed at all.”

“Really? That early?”

He nods, a small smile playing at his lips. “You have no idea how refreshing that was. Everyone else was... I don’t know, wanting something from me. You just looked annoyed that I existed.”

“I wasn’t annoyed,” you correct him. “I was... intrigued.”

“Intrigued,” he repeats, smile widening. “I’ll take it.”

As dinner winds down, the restaurant gradually empties around you. Neither of you seems eager to leave, conversation flowing from topic to topic, punctuated by laughter and moments of surprising vulnerability. When the waiter discreetly brings the check, Mingi insists on paying despite your protests.

“This was my idea,” he says firmly. “My invitation, my treat.”

“At least let me cover the tip,” you argue.

He shakes his head, sliding his card into the leather folder. “Next time. You can plan the whole thing if you want.”

“Next time,” you echo, liking the sound of it more than you expected to.

Outside, the night air is cool and clear, stars visible despite the campus lights. Mingi takes your hand as you walk back to the car, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm.

“Thank you for tonight,” you say quietly. “It was perfect.”

He stops walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a streetlight. “Thank you for saying yes.”

There’s a moment where neither of you moves. Then, slowly, as if giving you time to pull away, Mingi leans in, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. The moment his lips meet yours, everything else fades away—the restaurant, the streetlight, even the nervous flutter in your chest. His kiss is gentle at first, almost reverent, like he’s been waiting for this moment and doesn’t want to rush it. Your eyes flutter closed as you lean into him, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your fingertips.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he murmurs against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.

You smile, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “What took you so long?”

Instead of answering, he kisses you again, deeper this time. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re pressed against him, the warmth of his body seeping through the thin fabric of your dress. Something shifts in the air between you—the careful restraint you’ve both been maintaining giving way to something more urgent, more honest.

Your hands slide up to tangle in his hair, messing up his carefully styled look. He makes a soft sound against your mouth that sends heat rushing through you, his fingers digging slightly into your waist as he pulls you impossibly closer. The kiss turns hungrier, months of tension finally finding release as his tongue brushes against yours, tentative at first, then with growing confidence when you respond in kind.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, pupils wide as he looks at you with undisguised want.

“I should’ve done this at the party ages ago,” he whispers, voice rough. “That night on the balcony. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”

You laugh softly, feeling dizzy and light-headed in the best way. “Better late than never.”

He grins, pressing another quick kiss to your lips like he can’t help himself. “Do you want to go somewhere more... private?” The question is careful, giving you an out if you need it.

The responsible part of your brain reminds you of early classes tomorrow, of the boundaries you set, of taking things slow. But the part of you that’s been dreaming of this moment for longer than you care to admit is already nodding.

“Your place?” you suggest, surprised by the boldness in your own voice.

His eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to agree so readily. “You sure?”

In answer, you pull him down for another kiss, letting your actions speak louder than words. When you pull away, his smile is almost dazed.

“My place it is,” he says, taking your hand and leading you back to his car with renewed purpose.

The drive to his fraternity house is charged with anticipation, the air between you electric with possibilities. His hand finds yours across the center console, thumb stroking over your knuckles in a way that seems both soothing and maddening at once. At a red light, he can’t resist leaning over to kiss you again, quick but deep enough to leave you breathless.

“If you keep doing that, we might not make it to your place,” you warn, only half-joking.

His laugh is low and warm. “Worth it.” ══════════════════

When you arrive, the house is mercifully quiet—most of his frat brothers either out or already asleep. He leads you through the common areas with your hand firmly in his, up the stairs to his room on the second floor. Once inside, he closes the door softly behind you, and suddenly the reality of where you are—in Mingi’s bedroom, alone, after the most perfect date—hits you all at once.

His room is larger than you expected, and surprisingly neat. A double bed occupies one corner, made with actual matching sheets and pillows. Bookshelves line one wall, filled not just with textbooks but novels, economics journals, and what looks like a collection of vintage records. A desk sits beneath a large window, offering the promised view of campus, lights twinkling in the distance.

“So,” you say, turning to face him, “this is where the golden boy lives.”

He pushes off from the door, crossing to stand before you. “Disappointed that there's no mattress on the floor and it’s not covered in beer pong trophies?”

“A little,” you admit with a teasing smile. “Though I do see at least one trophy.” You nod toward a shelf where a single golden cup sits next to a framed photo of Mingi with an older man, both smiling widely.

“Economics award from freshman year,” he explains, following your gaze. “That’s my grandfather, the day I got my acceptance letter.”

You move closer to examine the photo, aware of Mingi following you, the space between you shrinking with each step. When you turn to face him again, he’s so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. Something shifts in his expression—the playful fraternity president giving way to something more raw, more honest. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip.

His fingers tremble against your cheek as he exhales shakily. “I’ve never been this terrified of messing something up,” he confesses, voice cracking slightly.

“Every time I look at you, I see everything I’ve ever wanted but never thought I deserved.” His eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak. “I keep pinching myself that you’re actually here, with me. You’re not just another person to me—you’re my person.” His thumb brushes your lower lip, reverent. “I adore everything about you. The way you laugh, how you challenge me, even how you roll your eyes when I’m being ridiculous.” He swallows hard. “I’m serious about us. So serious it scares me.”

The word hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You see it in his eyes, the battle between desire and fear. Fear that he’ll scare you away, that he’ll move too fast, that you’ll retreat behind those walls he’s spent weeks carefully dismantling. Your hands, almost of their own volition, drift upward to press against his chest. Under your palm, you feel the erratic thrum of his heart, each frantic beat echoing your own.

“Mingi,” you whisper, and the sound of his name—so soft, so certain—shatters the fragile barrier he’s been holding between you. For a suspended moment, your gazes lock, electric and trembling, and then he moves with a sudden, desperate clarity.

Mingi’s restraint snaps like brittle glass. He surges forward, kissing you with an intensity that’s as bright and blinding as a detonated star—no preamble, no hesitance, just pure want. His lips crash into yours, hot and hungry, arms banding around your waist so tightly you feel like you might dissolve into him. There’s nothing tentative in the way he holds you; he’s all-in, every muscle taut with reverence and longing. The kiss is a reclamation, a promise, and the culmination of every unspoken thing that’s hung between you for weeks.

You can only cling to his shoulders, overwhelmed by the seismic shift in energy. Your breath is stolen, your senses alight, your mind gone white-noise blank. The room could be on fire and you wouldn’t notice. Mingi kisses like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets up for even a second—like you’re the last oxygen left on earth and he’s learning how to breathe. And yet, underneath the urgency, there’s a trembling tenderness, as though every pass of his mouth is asking, Is this okay? Am I too much? Do you want me, too?

You answer with your body, arching into him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, jaw tilting to deepen the kiss. His hands slide up your back, mapping the length of your spine; one finds its way into your hair, cradling your head, the other splayed possessively at your hip. He tastes like citrus and hope and the sharp, metallic shimmer of anticipation. There’s nothing careful about it—your teeth clash, your lips bruise, and when you gasp for air, he only uses the opportunity to trail kisses along your jaw, your neck, the delicate hollow at your throat. This is messy, urgent, but it’s also so fiercely sincere you’re left raw by the force of it. When he draws back, just long enough to search your face, his breathing is ragged, his eyes dark with wonder and disbelief.

“God, This might be better than the first time we kissed,” he pants, chest heaving as he regains control of his breathing. He brushes your hair away from your face, fingers gentle where his grip had been bruising. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

You shake your head, already chasing his mouth again, needing to erase the words and replace them with more—more of him, more of this. He laughs against your lips, the sound reverberating through your bones. You feel untethered, weightless, every nerve ending singing. You’re dimly aware of your back pressing up against the closed door, Mingi pinning you there in a cocoon of warmth and want. Every inch of you is alive, hypersensitive to the slide of his hands, the brush of his breath against your skin.

He kisses you again and again, in greedy, overlapping intervals, his self-control disintegrating the longer you let him. But even as the kiss turns molten, there’s nothing careless in the way he touches you—no sense of entitlement, just awe and gratitude, as though he still can’t believe you’re real, you’re here, you’re choosing him. When he finally slows, his forehead drops to yours, both of you panting, foreheads and noses pressed together, steadying yourselves against the aftershocks.

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then the line of your jaw, then your ear. “Sorry,” he whispers, not sounding sorry at all. “I got carried away for a second.”

You laugh, shaky and breathless. “It's okay, it was kinda cute.”

He smiles, teeth grazing your earlobe. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“I learned from the best.”

He laughs again, quieter this time, and it morphs into something softer, more vulnerable. “The student becomes the master now, huh?”

You step back, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies, and meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but there’s hesitation there too—a question. You answer by taking his hand and leading him toward the bed, your heart hammering against your ribs. When his legs hit the edge of the mattress, you place your palms on his chest and gently push. He sits immediately, looking up at you with such reverence that it steals your breath. For a moment, you simply stand between his parted knees, admiring how beautiful he looks like this—waiting, wanting, completely focused on you.

“Can I?” you ask softly, fingers playing with the top button of his shirt.

He nods, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Of course. Whatever you want, doll.”

You take your time undressing him, savouring each new inch of skin revealed. His breathing grows more ragged with each button you slip free, with each brush of your fingertips against his heated skin. Your hands drift lower, finding the buckle of his belt. His eyes never leave yours as you work it loose, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room. There’s something intoxicating about the way he watches you—patient yet desperate, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. When you pop the button of his pants, his hands grip the edge of the mattress, anchoring himself down.

“Lift your hips,” you instruct softly, and he complies immediately, allowing you to slide his pants down his thighs. The fabric pools around his ankles, and he kicks them away, leaving him in just his boxers.

You take a moment to admire him like this—the strong lines of his thighs, the subtle definition of muscle beneath smooth skin. Mingi has always seemed larger than life, but here, partially undressed and vulnerable before you, he’s beautifully human. When you trace a finger along the waistband of his underwear, he shivers, a small sound escaping his throat. He tries reaching for you, but you catch his wrists. 

“Not yet,” you murmur, and he immediately stills.

“‘M Sorry,” he breathes, letting his hands fall to his sides. “I’ll be good.”

Something about the way he says it—like he’s never had to wait before, like he’s never been the one following someone else’s lead—makes the heat pool low in your belly. You lean down and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, rewarding his patience.

“Lie back, let me take care of you,” you instruct, and he complies without hesitation, shifting up the bed until his head rests on the pillows. 

You take your time undressing yourself, hyperaware of his hungry gaze tracking every movement. When you finally stand before him in nothing but your underwear, he lets out the sweetest whimper that’s graced your ears.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice strained. “You’re so beautiful. I—“

He cuts himself off, holding back a moan as you climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. His hands hover uncertainly at your waist, waiting for permission.

“Go ahead, you can touch me,” you grant, and his hands are on you instantly. Feeling the warmth of his hands as they trace the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine.

You lean down to kiss him properly, deep and slow, savouring the taste of him. His lips part eagerly beneath yours, letting you set the pace, following your lead with a pliancy that’s intoxicating from someone normally so in control. You begin grinding against him for friction and he reciprocates. He groans into your mouth, mumbling curses under his breath. You felt his boner poking your ass while you both humped each other so so desperately. His bedroom is filled with the harmony of your heavy breathing, his whines, and the wet sounds of your lips crashing.

“Please,” he gasps. “I need—I want—“

“What do you want, Mingi?” you ask, pulling back slightly to watch his face.

“Need to feel you,” he says immediately, no hesitation. “Don’t want to—haah—cum in my pants like a fucking virgin.”

You giggle at his admission, you slowly reach behind you to squeeze his bulge, feeling it twitch in the palm of your hand. Mingi’s head tips back in bliss, growling at the sensation. The rawness in his voice makes your chest tight. You press soft kisses down his throat, across his collarbones, feeling his pulse race beneath your lips. His hands slide up your back, tangling in your hair, but he doesn’t push or pull—just holds on like you’re his anchor in a storm.

When you finally strip away the last barriers between you, his whole body trembles with anticipation. You wrap your fingers around his shaft, feeling the velvet skin slide beneath your touch as you position his flushed tip at your entrance. His eyes lock with yours—dark pools of need and surrender. You lower yourself with deliberate patience, savouring the stretch as his thick length fills you, watching his full lips part and his lashes flutter against flushed cheeks.

Mingi whines the second you ease down on him completely, hips trembling beneath you. His hands fist in the sheets, as if he’s physically restraining himself from thrusting up into you.

“Fuck, baby—“ he gasps, head tipping back against the pillows, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful as he struggles for control. “Feels so good around my cock, shit—“

You lean down, hushing him gently, both palms cradling his flushed face. You treat him like something precious, something to be cherished as you press your lips to his in a slow, deep kiss. Your tongue curls against his languidly, unhurried, as if you have nowhere else to be but here, joined with him in this perfect moment.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” you murmur between kisses, your voice soft and sweet and infinitely patient. Your forehead rests against his, noses brushing, sharing the same heated breath. “You’re doing so good for me.”

He moans at your praise, his entire body shuddering beneath yours. He’s all muscle and barely contained strength under you, his powerful frame completely at your mercy. You can feel how desperately he wants to move, to take control, but he surrenders to your pace instead, letting you have him exactly how you want him.

You remain still, just sitting there with him buried deep inside you, feeling the way your cunt pulses around his length. The sensation must be overwhelming for him because his eyes squeeze shut, his breathing ragged and uneven.

“Is it too much?” you cooed, reaching to brush damp strands of dark hair from his forehead, your touch gentle and soothing

He shakes his head frantically, his grip on your waist tightening. “N-no,” he whines with a soft, shattered sound. “Just—fuck, just need a s-second—feels too fuckin’ good—can’t think—“

Sweat beads at his hairline, eyes squeezed shut in some primal effort to hold himself together, chest heaving under your hands like he’s afraid his ribs will break apart from the force of it. You melt a little at the sight of him—a six foot force of raw sex appeal—now reduced to a mass of shaking limbs and shattered breath, undone and writhing beneath you. There’s something intoxicating about the way he trusts you to see him like this, about the way he lets himself be taken apart so openly, without armour or artifice. You savour it, every trembling, helpless second, and you want to draw it out forever.

You lean down, brushing your lips to his cheek in a soft, featherlight kiss. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t flinch away. Instead, he turns his head, chasing your mouth with a need so naked it nearly undoes you. You let him catch you, let him press his lips to yours—not in a kiss, exactly, but a silent plea, a lifeline. You answer by kissing him deeper, slower, letting your tongue trace the seam of his lips, coaxing him open, coaxing him back to the surface. His hands slide up your back, frantic but reverent, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you by touch and touch alone. His heart beats wild under your palm, a frantic semaphore that reads: I want you, I want you, I want you. You press another kiss to the corner of his mouth, then to his jaw, then down the delicate line where his pulse hammers beneath thin skin. He shudders, his whole body rigid and shivery. You thread your fingers through his hair, stroking the side of his face 

“Hey,” you murmur, voice as gentle as you know how to make it, “Relax, I’ve got you. Can you do that for me?” 

He nods, so obedient and desperate it makes something deep in your chest ache with tenderness. One breath, then another, and you feel the tightness in his body begin to unravel—incremental, but real. You rock your hips slowly, experimentally, watching his face for every flicker of sensation, every micro-expression. His lips part in a helpless moan, but his eyes finally flutter open, dazed and shining. He tries to say your name but it comes out as a whimper, half-beg, half-blessing.

“That’s it, baby” you praise, kissing him again, softer this time. “You’re doing so well.” 

The words seem to go straight to his core—he clings to them, drinking them down like water in the desert. You keep up a steady stream of encouragement, every whisper and touch meant to anchor him, to let him know you want him just like this: open, needy, trembling with the effort of holding back.

You draw the next movement out deliberately. The slow, aching drag of your hips, the way you squeeze around him with every tiny shift. Mingi’s hands grip your thighs like lifelines, fingers biting into your skin, but he doesn’t dare take back control—the restraint is exquisite, painful to watch. He’s at your mercy and loving it, if the way his eyes keep darting to your mouth, your chest, your hands, is any indication.

“Gonna let me do what I want, yeah?” you crooned, savoring how your voice makes him flinch with anticipation. “Keep being good for me.” 

He nods, lips trembling as he struggles to keep his composure “Fuck. Yes—pl-please, ‘m yours.”

You build your rhythm, slow and steady, each grind calculated to wring the maximum shudder from him. Sometimes you pause, letting him throb helplessly inside you, watching his jaw flex and his throat work as he swallows the urge to move. Sometimes, you bring yourself up just enough that only the tip of him is inside, and let him feel the loss, the emptiness, right before you sink down again in one slow, molten pulse. Every time you do it, Mingi’s head tips back, a sound escaping his throat that’s closer to a sob than a moan. You let the building friction wind both of you higher, but you don’t let yourself get lost in it; you want to see him come apart, to savour every second of his surrender.

You pick up the pace, just enough to make it impossible for him to stay silent. The bed frame squeaks softly beneath you, his hands finally dragging up your ribs, desperate for anything to ground him in this sinful reality. He reaches up and cups one of your tits, rolling and squeezing your nipple until it hardens against his warm touch. Your eyes shut at the sight, your body starts to falter under his grasp. Every inch of him is trembling too, his body strung tight as wire. His thrusts are growing more desperate, cockhead now slamming into your weakest spot, ripping a pornographic moan from you. 

“Please, doll,” he rasps, voice gone rough and wild. “Please, can I—?”

You lean in, your lips at his ear, your breath hot and deliberate. “You want to cum?” you hum, rocking down hard and slow, grinding your hips just the way he likes. “You want to fill me up?”

He makes a strangled sound that could be your name, or a prayer, or both. “Pleasepleaseplease,” he says again, as if the word is being pried out of him, as if he’s never begged for anything in his life.

You decide he’s earned it.

“Do it,” you cooed. “Cum for me, Mingi. Wanna feel you cum inside me.”

The effect is immediate. He bucks up into you, helpless, his face contorting with pure, blissful pleasure. His hands drag you down against him, holding you in place as he comes deep inside you, the force of it making his whole body shudder. Your juices drip down his balls and your gummy walls clamp down hard on his sensitive length, throwing into his orgasm and washing his vision white. You feel his warmth spreading in your insides, creamy ropes of cum making you feel fuller than before. You ride him through it, slow and greedy, squeezing him with your cunt until he’s wrung out and gasping, eyes rolling back as he drowns in sensation. His chest trembles under his shaky breaths as he pulls his half-hard cock out of your sticky heat, looking up at you through dampened lashes. You press your lips to his damp temple, stroking his hair until the aftershocks fade. For a moment, the world goes silent save for the hammering of both your hearts, the heat of your bodies, the sweat cooling on your skin.

All of a sudden, the equilibrium tilts.

Mingi comes back to himself by degrees, eyes still glazed but mouth already curling into a grin that’s all sharp canines and mischief. You’re still trembling, the aftershocks ricocheting through your bones, but the way he’s holding you now—possessive—is different from before. There’s a shift in the air, a gathering of purpose behind the lazy drag of his palm up your spine.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” he rasps, voice rough with spent desire, “my turn.”

Suddenly he’s moving, rolling you onto your back in a single, fluid motion. His hands are everywhere—kneading your ass, your thighs, greedy in their hunger. His body covers yours, heat and weight and muscle, and you realise that he’s been biding his time, letting you have your way only so he could give it back to you tenfold. 

“Did you really think you had all the control, doll?” he drawls, the words fiery and playful at once, goading you with the memory of your earlier dominance—all while letting you know it was only ever on loan.

His hands bracket your hips, fingers splayed and greedy, and you feel the faintest quiver in his arms as he holds himself over you, like a predator savouring the moment before the pounce. His eyes never leave yours as he takes himself in hand, his cock already hardening again. You feel the blunt head of him brushing against your sensitive folds, teasing at your entrance. He drags it slowly up and down your slit, still slick with his cum and your arousal, circling your clit with deliberate pressure that makes your hips buck involuntarily.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, eyes darkening as he continues to tease you, tapping his tip against your cunt with feather-light touches. “Look at how eager you are f’me.” You moan as he continues his torturous teasing, rubbing his hardening length against your swollen lips, gathering your shared wetness along his shaft. Your hips buck involuntarily, chasing the fullness you crave. Mingi just chuckles, keeping his movements shallow, the head of his cock just barely dipping inside before retreating. The emptiness is maddening.

“Use your words,” he commands softly, continuing the torturous tapping against your entrance. “Tell me what you need.”

“I— ohmygod... I need—,” you try to answer, but the question melts on your tongue. 

His smile is triumphant as he finally, finally pushes forward, sinking into you with one smooth thrust. He buries himself deeper, hips rolling with a languid, relentless power. Every inch of him fills you, presses you open, makes you ache. He fucks up into you with a slow, devastating grind that leaves your toes curling and your nails digging into his biceps for purchase.

“So fucking tight,” he groans, nipping at your pulse point, tongue flicking over sweat-salted skin. “So wet for me. You like being stuffed by my cock don't you?”

“Oh fuck.. yes!” You whimper, and he grips your jaw, thumb pressing into your lower lip, enticing you to be louder.

“Let me hear you,” he growls, eyes burning into yours. “Fuck—let the whole dorm hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He fucks you like he has nowhere to go and nothing else to do but ruin you, each punishing thrust deliberate and deep, perfectly tuned to hit every trembling, oversensitive sweet spot inside you, drawing out increasingly desperate sounds that seem to fuel his hunger. The room is a riot of sensation: the slap of skin on skin, the obscene squeeelch of your own arousal, the sweat that drips from his brow onto your collarbone as he leans in to bite at your shoulder.

He laces his fingers through yours, pinning your hands above your head, and the new angle is exquisite—he’s so deep you can barely breathe, so intense you can’t manage a sound. He’s watching your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure and pain, cataloguing the way your body arches and clenches around him.

“Look at you,” he pants, fucking you harder now, the headboard rattling with each thrust. “You look so pretty like this—spread out for me, fuck. This is what you wanted, right?”

You feel the weight of him first, that heavy press of Mingi’s body pinning you down against the sheets, his hips grinding slow and deliberate as he sinks deeper. Every inch of his cock stretches you wide, the burn mixing with that sweet ache that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch. Your hands claw at his back, nails digging into the scarred skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He just growls low in his throat, pushing harder, stuffing himself in until there’s no space left between you. All you can feel is him, that thick length buried deep, pulsing against your walls as he drives in again and again. a whimper escapes your lips, broken and needy, your body arching up to meet him even as the overload makes you want to pull away. Mingi notices immediately. his hand shoots up, fingers tangling rough in your hair, yanking your head forward with just enough force to make you gasp.

“Look at me,” He rasps, voice strained like he’s fighting through something sharp and brutal.

His grip tightens, holding you steady so your eyes lock onto his. Yours are wide now, pupils blowing out wide and dark, swallowing the colour until there’s just that hazy black stare reflecting back at him. He watches it happen, the way they dilate under the dim light, pulling him in like you’re lost in the haze of it all. His sounds get louder, desperate almost, grunts turning into these deep, guttural moans that vibrate through his body into yours.

“Fuck—I'm gonna lose my mind,” he groans, the word dragging out low and pained, like the pleasure is edging on torture. his free hand digs into your hip, bruising as he pulls you closer, slamming in one last time. “Your perfect cunt was made for me wasn't it?”

You nod, frantic, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming fullness. He slows, just enough to let you catch your breath, then leans in, capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that’s as much a challenge as comfort. His tongue is rough, demanding, and he swallows every helpless sound you make. 

Then, in a cruel twist of fate, he pulls out entirely, leaving you empty and clenching at nothing. Before you can beg, he’s flipping you onto your stomach, hands manhandling your hips up until you’re on your knees for him, face pressed into the pillows. He lines himself up behind you, the heat of his cock nudging at your entrance, and you whimper in anticipation.

“You're gonna let me fuck you sooo good, right baby?” he promises, voice gone dark and needy, and then he slams back into you in one brutal, beautiful stroke. The sound you make is sweet, involuntary, a sob torn from deep in your chest. He gives you no quarter, hips pistoning relentlessly, the flat of his hand coming down on your ass with a sharp crack that sends you clenching around him.

“So beautiful,” he purred, running his palm over the stinging flesh.

With every thrust he drives the point home, each one punctuated by a filthy litany—mine—until you can feel the word burning into your skin. He grabs a fistful of your hair, jerks your head back so you’re forced to arch, to present yourself to him, to let him see how utterly, beautifully ruined you are.

“Say it,” he orders, voice raw. “Tell me who you belong to.”

You gasp, barely able to form words. “You! Mingi. I’m all yours—“

He rewards you with devastating thrusts, so deep your vision starts turning white.

“That’s”—thrust!—“right”—thrust!—“all”—thrust!—“mine.”

You can feel yourself unraveling, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. He’s relentless, fucking you through your first orgasm and into a second, not stopping even when you collapse boneless onto the mattress. He kisses your spine, your shoulder blade, every vertebrae, as he keeps you pinned and takes you, over and over, until your vision blurs and you forget your own name. 

“M-mingi! M’ so close, gonna cum—“

“Gonna cum inside you again,” he promises, voice shaking with how close he is, hips stuttering. “You gonna take it for me? Gonna let me breed this perfect pussy?”

“Yesyesyes—fuck!”

The words rip something out of you. You nod, desperate, grinding back against him, greedy for his release.

“That’s my girl, c’mon cum with me baby.”

He bites down on your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and fucks you through his own climax, cock pulsing inside you as he fills you up again, so much it slicks out around the edges and paints the inside of your thighs, messy and obscene.

You collapse together, his arms locked around your waist, breath ghosting warm across your neck. He stays inside you, softening only a little, like he can’t bear to let you go yet. You lie there, bodies tangled and sticky, sweat cooling on your skin, and you feel the heat of him still throbbing inside you, a silent claim.

Neither of you moves for what feels like hours, your breathing gradually slowing to match each other’s rhythm. Mingi’s weight on top of you is heavy but comforting, his cock still nestled deep inside you despite having softened slightly. The gentle pulsing of him against your walls sends occasional aftershocks through your system, little reminders of the intensity you just shared.

“Stay like this,” you whisper when he finally stirs, your hand reaching back to keep him in place. “Just a little longer.”

He makes a soft sound of agreement, pressing his lips to the nape of your neck. “You like feeling me inside you, don’t you?” His voice is a gentle rumble against your skin. 

You nod, feeling strangely vulnerable in your admission. There’s something deeply intimate about this—more so, somehow, than the passionate sex you just had. Mingi seems to understand, adjusting his position slightly so he’s not crushing you but remains connected, his chest pressed to your back, one arm draped possessively across your waist.

“This okay?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.

“Perfect,” you sigh, melting into the mattress beneath his weight.

The room falls quiet except for your mingled breathing and the distant thrum of music from downstairs. The party continues without you, but at this moment, the world outside this room might as well not exist. Mingi nuzzles against your shoulder, pressing lazy kisses to the marks he left earlier.

“I’ve never done this before,” he confesses quietly.

“What, sex?” you tease, knowing full well that’s not what he means.

He laughs softly, the vibration traveling through both your bodies. “No, smartass.” His arm tightens around you. “This,” he clarifies, fingers drawing gentle patterns on your skin. “Having someone stay over.”

You twist your neck to look at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Wait, seriously? But you’re—you’re you. How—”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah I know…I don’t bring people here. Ever.”

“Ever?” You shift slightly to face him better, wincing as you feel him slip out of you. The loss is immediate, leaving you empty in a way that makes you want to chase the connection again. He reaches for tissues from his nightstand, cleaning you both with surprising tenderness before settling back beside you. His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable.

“Never,” he confirms, voice soft. “This room is... I don’t know. It’s mine. My space. I don’t share it with just anyone.”

The implication hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You’re not just anyone. You’re someone he wants in his private world, someone he’s letting see parts of himself that others don’t.

“But all those stories about you...” you begin, confused.

He shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. “Not saying I’ve been a saint. But those hookups? They happened elsewhere. Never here. Never in my bed.” His fingers trace your cheekbone with careful precision. “Never like this.”

Something warm blooms in your chest, spreading outward until your whole body feels flushed with it. You’ve been the exception to so many of his rules already—the girl he studied for, the one he took to Stellina, the one he waited patiently for. And now this—being the only person he’s ever brought to his most personal space.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.

“How could you?” His smile is small but genuine. “I’ve spent a lot of time making sure everyone sees exactly what they expect to see.”

You reach up, touching his face with gentle fingers. “And what am I seeing right now?”

“The real me,” he says simply. “The one who’s terrified of messing this up. The one who thinks about you constantly. The one who...” he hesitates, taking a deep breath before continuing, “the one who wants you to be his girlfriend. Officially.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. Despite everything that’s happened between you—the tutoring, the dates, the incredible sex you just had—hearing him say it out loud makes it suddenly, overwhelmingly real.

“Mingi...” you start, uncertain how to respond.

His face falls slightly, but he quickly masks it. “I’m rushing things, aren’t I?”

“No, it’s not that,” you say quickly, not wanting him to misunderstand. “It’s just—this is all happening so fast. A few months ago I couldn’t stand you, and now...”

“And now?” he prompts when you trail off, eyes searching yours.

“Now I can’t imagine not having you in my life,” you admit. The truth of it surprises even you. “I just need a little time to process everything. Can I... can I give you an answer tomorrow?”

Relief washes over his features. “It’s not a no?”

You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. “Definitely not a no.”

He pulls you closer, wrapping you in his arms like he’s afraid you might disappear. “Tomorrow it is. I can wait.”

You fall asleep like that, tangled together in his sheets, his heartbeat steady against your back, his breath warm on your neck. For the first time in years, you don’t worry about your schedule or your plans or what comes next. You just let yourself exist in this moment, with him.

═══════════════════

Sunlight streams through the gap in the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. You stir slowly, your body pleasantly sore as consciousness creeps in. For a moment, disorientation clouds your mind—this isn’t your dorm room. All of a sudden, rapid flashbacks enter your mind from the events of last night. Mingi is gone, the sheets cool where he should be. For one terrible moment, panic seizes your chest—did he regret last night? Did he change his mind about wanting you as his girlfriend?

Then you hear footsteps in the hallway, the door handle turning. You sit up, clutching the sheet to your chest, heart pounding.

Mingi backs into the room, hands full. He’s balancing a tray of coffee cups, a small box of chocolates tucked under his arm, and—your breath catches—a bouquet of lilies and hydrangeas cradled against his chest. He hasn’t noticed you’re awake yet, too focused on not dropping anything as he nudges the door closed with his foot.

When he turns and sees you watching him, his face breaks into a smile so bright it rivals the sunlight streaming through the windows.

“Morning,” he says, suddenly looking shy. “I was hoping to be back before you woke up.”

“What’s all this?” you ask, unable to keep the smile from your voice.

He approaches the bed, carefully setting down the coffee cups on the nightstand. “Well, I figured your answer might depend on how convincing my case was.” He hands you the flowers, the stargazer lilies’ pink-speckled petals unfurling beside clusters of blue hydrangeas that catch the morning light. “These reminded me of you.”

You bury your nose in the blooms, inhaling their sweet fragrance. “They’re perfect.”

“There’s more,” he says, offering you the box of chocolates. “Your favourite, right? The ones with the salted caramel centers?”

You blink in surprise. “How did you know?”

“You mentioned it once, when we were studying for the midterm. Said they were your stress food.”

The fact that he remembered such a small detail makes your heart swell. He passes you one of the coffee cups, the rich aroma of your preferred brew wafting up as you take it.

“And this…” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small envelope. “This is the most important part.”

You set the coffee aside and take the card with trembling fingers. The envelope is simple, your name written on the front in his familiar handwriting. Inside is a handmade card, decorated with what appears to be hand-drawn economic graphs and formulas. You open it, and a laugh bubbles up from your chest as you read the message:

According to my cost-benefit analysis, being with you yields the highest returns on investment. Our relationship has increasing marginal utility—the more time I spend with you, the more valuable each moment becomes. Will you be my girlfriend and help me maximize our happiness and love function?

It’s nerdy and sweet and so perfectly him that tears spring to your eyes. When you look up, he’s watching you nervously, waiting for your response.

“Soooo?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You set the card aside carefully and reach for him, pulling him down until he’s sitting beside you on the bed. “You're so stupid,” you say, cupping his face in your hands. “Of course I'll be your girlfriend”

The relief and joy that wash over his features are almost painful to witness. He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s somehow both gentle and fierce, like he’s trying to pour every emotion he’s feeling into this one perfect moment.

When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if he’s committing this to memory.

“You know,” you say, threading your fingers through his hair, “for someone who was failing economics a few weeks ago, that was a pretty impressive application of the principles.”

He laughs, the sound vibrating through both of you. “What can I say? I had an excellent tutor.”

“Damn right you did,” you tease, pulling him in for another kiss.

Outside, the campus is waking up. Students are heading to class, professors are preparing lectures, life is continuing as it always has. But in this room, wrapped in each other’s arms, you and Mingi have created something new—a world that belongs just to the two of you, built on unexpected connections, shattered assumptions, and the courage to see beyond the surface. As his lips find yours again, more insistent this time, you let yourself sink into the certainty that some economic theories are universal: the most valuable things are often the ones you never saw coming, and the greatest returns come from the investments you make not with your head, but with your heart.

The heat between you was unmistakable, and what you assumed at first would be a fling between two people working together constantly became much more. You had been dating quietly for six months, the only people aware of the relationship being the other members and their managers. Your best friend knew too, but she respected how quietly you and Yunho wanted to keep things and never alluded to it in front of anyone. It was hard at first working together and being together like that, hard to know where the line was, but you found a rhythm.

Now, you stood watching the core eight members slamming out some of their hardest choreography, you and the other dancers waiting in the wings for the cue in the music so you could spring out and launch into your steps. This choreography is some of the hardest yet, but you love the feeling when you nail it, seeing the group perfectly in sync and in time. The look on Yunho’s face when you accomplish something difficult, the pride behind his eyes even though he can’t reach for you like he wants in the moment.

When you all finish the dance, the lead choreographer claps once before saying, “Good. Much better. We need to work on tightening up things in the bridge section, let’s run it again.”

Everyone pulls themselves back into their starting positions and waits. The music begins again, and the members begin their routine. Your thighs were burning from pushing through the choreography again and again, but you want to get it right and you know how for tour every moment needs to be perfectly locked up. Part of your individual choreography is some of the most difficult you’ve ever done, pushing you to develop new skills in the studio. As one of the physically strongest but lightest girls, you were tasked with climbing up a pyramid of bodies. Once at the top, you would maneuver a prop sword into Mingi’s hands and be ready to brace tightly with the other dancers to receive a falling Wooyoung who would tip back in an almost gymnast-like maneuver off a raised platform.

It was a tough position to get right, everyone’s grounding needed to be firm, and for you to make it to the top swiftly and safely not only did the angles need to be right, but each spot where you made a foothold needed to be in a consistent place for you to spring up without looking.

The eight members started into the chorus, their dancing sharp and clean. You and the other back up dancers began your sequence, making your way behind them with calculated movements, and you watched as the pyramid came together. Your job is to come from the background, using two of the dancers’ thighs on the bottom as your initial steps up, and then available secured hands would push you up higher, ostensibly raising you at least fifteen feet in the air.

The back beat of the song that you had perfectly memorized shifts, and at your cue you move forward, your feet perfectly finding purchase on the first step, then the second. As you are lifted above the other dancers and you move for the hilt of the prop sword that is concealed behind the back of another dancer, the hands under your right foot falter, breaking. You reach for purchase on something but find nothing but air, your leg shoots down, your balance rocks on your other foot as you feel the dancers beneath you try to respond to the fact that something isn’t solid in their foundation, they just don’t know what yet. In a matter of moments, you’re falling.

You feel the gasp leave you, and before you can blink your back connects sharp and flat with the wood of the practice room floor, the back of your head sharply connecting a moment later. Pain lances up your back and radiates through your skull and you hear the choked sound leave your lips.

There’s chaos around you as the dancers quickly dismount out of the pyramid, the music cuts off, someone’s shouting but with the way you were winded and trying to get air back in your lungs you don’t really know who. Air floods your lungs and you sputter, you can hear the fevered questions of the other dancers asking if you’re okay, if you’re hurt, but you can’t move, the sharp pain grounding you to the spot.

Yunho’s above you then, his face close, his fingers soft on your jaw. “y/n,” you can see panic in his eyes, but he stays calm, “can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” you try to nod but he holds your face steady so you can’t.

“Don’t move,” he cautions, “just stay very still,”

“Yunho,” you inhale sharply.

“Does something hurt?” his thumb runs along your jaw.

“My back,” you admit and hot tears spring up in your eyes, blurring your vision. You blink them away, feeling them run down your temples into your hairline.

“Okay,” he nods and glances over you, before tightening his hands to lock your neck in place.

“Yunho,” you find yourself repeating, looking to find his eyes again but unable to move. Fear curling in your stomach. Could you feel your legs? You weren’t sure.

“I’m right here,” he says to you, and you see Mingi and San appear at Yunho’s side. Yunho turns from you, eyes connecting with someone past your eyeline, “Call an ambulance, now.” His voice firm and commanding.

“They’re already on the way,” one of their managers responds.

One the dancers, a close friend of yours, collapses on her knees next to you, “I’m so, so sorry y/n, it’s all my fault,” she says, hysterical, “I couldn’t hold you, my hand slipped,”

You are about to say something but San cuts you both off, “Give her some breathing room, I’m sure she’s fine, and it was an accident, but back up,”

Yunho looks grateful, and turns his attention back to you, sliding a little closer but careful not to jostle you in any way. “You’re doing great,” Yunho says, giving you a comforting smile, “everything’s going to be fine, I just want to be careful, okay? You fell pretty hard.”

“My back though,” the pain still sharp in your lower spine, panic bubbling, “I don’t know if – what if it’s bad?”

Yunho shakes his head, “No way, don’t worry, I’m right here.”

Mingi settles on your opposite side and looks down warmly, “Doing okay, tiny?”

The nickname makes you laugh, just a little, and you’re grateful for Mingi’s extreme calm in the face of your panic and Yunho’s nerves and intense focus. “Yeah,” you breathe.

“Her back is in pain,” Yunho tells him, glancing over to his best friend, “I don’t want her to move in case something’s broken,”

Mingi nods, and you though you can’t see anyone else you can feel the rest of the buzzing around you. Back injuries were nothing to take lightly, you knew that. As dancers doing risky moves, especially when it involved heights, you all knew that. Yunho locks his eyes back on yours and you feel his finger stroking a soft line on your face while he keeps you steady.

A sharp prick of pain from your calf makes you yelp slightly and Yunho for a split second looks frantic until he realizes it was just Mingi, pinching your calf deliberately. “Well, you can still feel your legs,” Mingi says in an attempt to be lighthearted, “so don’t panic just yet.”

The levity diffuses the tension, and you sigh. Yunho murmurs to you, “how’s the pain, sweetheart?”

“It’s okay,” you tell him, and it’s true, the radiating pain has dulled a bit, “but my head is throbbing,”

“You hit your head?” he questions.

“Yeah,” you fight the urge to nod.

“Don’t move, okay,” he instructs, and he gently moves one hand off your face to reach to the back of your head. Without moving your neck in the slightest, you feel his fingers softly sink into your hair and when they connect on the spot on the back of your head that made contact with the wooden floor your hiss slightly at the pain. Yunho pulls back, seeing blood on his fingertips and his jaw tightens. You hear a few gasps from the people crowded around you and you watch as Mingi swallows tightly, his eyes watching his best friend carefully.

Yunho wipes his fingers on the knee of his sweatpants and his hand comes back to support your neck, “It’s fine,” he says to you, but you can see the nervous tension in his neck and jaw.

Before you can say anything, the elevator dings and Yunho sighs above you in relief.

“It’s the EMTs!” Wooyoung’s voice comes from across the room.

“Move, move!” you hear Hongjoong say as he clears the path to you.

The next minute is a flurry, Yunho’s hands leave you and a neck brace takes its place, a back board is under you, questions fly - what happened, how did you fall, are you in pain, rate that pain on a scale from one to ten, do you know what day it is, who’s the president, what’s your name?

All you can see above you are strangers’ faces, masked EMTs shuffling you and lifting you up from the floor. Panic floods your chest, “Yunho?”

“Here!” he’s just ahead, finally back in your eyeline and walking with you and the EMTs towards the elevator, “I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

“Okay,” you manage, biting back the panic. In all your years dancing you had never been injured, not really. Muscle strain, fatigue, cramps, that was all second nature, but you had never truly hurt yourself. Your head throbs, your back still flaring with discomfort and occasionally sharp pangs of pain.

Before you know it, you’re loaded into the ambulance, and you have another moment of blind panic but Yunho climbs in after you, taking a seat by your head and smoothing a hand down over your shoulder, eyes never leaving you. The EMTs work over you, checking your vitals and hooking you up to an IV of fluids. They check to see if you’re responsive to feeling in your legs and feet, which thankfully you are, and in minutes you’re at the closest hospital in Seoul.

It doesn’t occur to you that Yunho won’t be able to come with you, so when the doctors and nurses take over and move to wheel you into the back through the swinging double doors of the ER, you find yourself pleading with the nurse, “Please let him come with me, I don’t want to be alone, I have a hard time with hospitals,”

“I’m so sorry,” she shakes her head, “friends and family can’t come back,”

“It’s fine,” Yunho says, and they slow the gurney for just a moment so he can help calm you down, “I’ll be right out here and as soon as they’re done their tests, they are going to come get me, right?” he checks with the nurse.

“Yes,” she nods to both of you, “as soon as you’re in a room we’ll come get him,”

“See?” Yunho looks back to you, “It’s okay, I’m just going to wait. I’ll let everyone know you’re here safe, okay?”

“Okay,” your grip on the gurney under your fingertips loosens, “okay, I’m okay,”

“Let’s go,” one of the other nurses prompts and as they unlock the wheels to keep moving Yunho meets your eyes, “I love you,” he says, firm and sure, but you have already moved and disappeared through the doors before you can find the words to say it back.

In the waiting room, Yunho sinks into his fear. He had seen you fall, in fact he always found himself looking up in the mirror to make sure you made it securely to the top of the pyramid, but the moment he watched the surprise register on your face, and you disappeared from his eyeline he froze. Dancing doesn’t seem like a dangerous profession from the outside, but the risk of injury is always there, and sometimes those injuries can be career ending and life altering. A fall like that could be innocuous, but it could also be just the right angle to break something, tear something, knock you unconscious.

The image of you slipping out of view plays on a loop in his brain, the striking stab of panic he felt when he rounded the other dancers and saw you lying flat out, legs unmoving, struggling to regain your breath. The deep fear he felt when you said it was your back that hurt, the looks on the other members faces paling as they realized how serious it could be.

His eyes are shut tight, knee bouncing nervously, the images looping as he lets the din of the hospital waiting room become white noise around him, but he sits up straight when a hand claps on his shoulder. Mingi is there, taking the seat next to him and moving closely into his line of vision. “Hyung,” he murmurs, “how is she?”

Yunho sighs and leans back in his chair and when he looks up he sees that all the members are there. They’re almost all wearing masks, bucket hats pulled low or hoodies up over their faces, but at the sight of them all in the same room here for him, tears bubble up and he can’t help it.

“I don’t know,” he admits, “I couldn’t go with her, but they’re running tests.”

Wooyoung takes the seat on the opposite side of him and puts an arm across his back but doesn’t say anything. They all find seats then, ready to wait it out with him. “She’s going to be fine,” Mingi says with confidence, “she was awake, alert, and I know she was in pain, but she could feel it.”

It’s the most logical thing anyone’s said this entire time and Yunho exhales, “You’re right,”

“I know,” Mingi smiles at him, taking his friend’s hand.

“If it’s her back,” Yunho starts, but shakes his head, “fuck, I mean this could be her career,”

“It’s not.” Wooyoung says from beside him.

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t, but let’s be a little optimistic here. For y/n.”

“How long do you think until you know?” Seonghwa asks from across the chairs.

“I have no idea,” Yunho says, raking his free hand across his face and willing away the emotion, “they just told me they would get me when they put her in a room,”

They’re quiet for a bit longer, before Yunho realizes his mistake. In front of everyone he had come for you, frantic and so obviously displaying something more than friendship. He had called you sweetheart. He had also publicly said he loved you and if anyone had recognized him, it was only a matter of time before that made it onto Twitter. It wasn’t that KQ banned dating, not at all, but for the good of the group you had all agreed at minimum to be discreet. That combined with the idea that you might receive hate had made up Yunho’s mind a long time ago to remain private with his heart.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath and leans back in his chair, and the other members look to him expectantly, “everyone knows now,”

Hongjoong makes a dismissive sound with his tongue against his teeth, “That’s not important at all, and you did exactly what any of us would have done if we were in your position,”

There are murmured agreements across them all and Yunho nods.

“We’ll figure it out,” Seonghwa assures him, “as long as she’s okay, it’s okay.”

Yunho grips Mingi’s hand a little tighter, “Thank you guys for being here,”

And they wait. It is several hours before the nurse finally comes to get him, but when she says the words “Are you y/n’s partner?” he stands immediately.

“Is she okay?” he manages, and the others stand with him, everyone nervous to see how you are.

“She’s fine,” the nurse says warmly.

“Oh,” Yunho breaths, dropping a hand on his chest and feeling Mingi nudge his shoulder, “what about her back? She was in a lot of pain,”

The nurse pauses, “Are you her husband?”

“Ah, no,” Yunho clears his throat, “boyfriend.”

“Then I can’t tell you myself,” she says but gestures for you to follow, “but she’s up and asking for you, so she can fill you in.”

Yunho turns back to the members, but San waves him away, “We’ll come see her in a bit, go see how she’s doing and text us,”

“Okay,” he agrees, buzzing with sudden energy and nerves, ready to get back to your side.

As the nurse leads you down the hall he says, “But you did say she was fine right? I shouldn’t be worried?”

“I promise,” the nurse replies warmly, “how long have you guys been dating?”

Yunho counts quickly in his head, “six months, but we’ve been friends for a long time,”

She leads him around a corner and up the next corridor, “Ah, friends first. That makes sense, I can always tell the good relationships. I see a lot of couples come through here, you get to know which ones have a fighting chance.”

Yunho smiles, “Glad to hear it,”

“Mhm,” the nurse starts to slow her steps as she approaches the room ahead, “go on, she’s right through there.”

Despite what the nurse said, he doesn’t feel the deep relief flood him until he crosses through the door and makes it to the other side of the curtain. He sees you then, sitting up in bed, eyes on the TV which is playing quietly.

“You are okay,” he breathes, his shoulders finally dropping the tension that has been holding him for hours.

“I’m okay,” you reach for him immediately, “everything’s fine,”

He crosses the room quickly, sitting on the edge of the bed as close as he can to you, quickly intertwining your fingers and leaning in to kiss you. “What did the doctors say? Your back?”

“Is fine,” you say, “I have a couple of cracked ribs which was causing the pain, but they will heal, it’s nothing serious,”

He drops forehead against yours, “I was so worried,”

“I know,” you murmur, “but ribs will heal,”

He clears his throat and swallows back the relieved tears that spring up in his eyes, and he stays pressed against you, “thank god,”

“The doctors said you did the right thing stabilizing my neck,” you lean back to regard him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips as you do, “they were very impressed.”

He laughs, a little shaky, “Good,” he manages and then remembers, “your head? You were bleeding,”

“Ah,” you touch the back of your head softly, “it’s okay, just a couple stitches,”

“Stitches,” his brow furrows and he reaches around you, his fingers dipping into your hair and running along the raised line on your scalp, “it must hurt,”

“Not too bad,” you shake your head, “I don’t even have a concussion, pretty lucky,”

“Lucky,” he huffs, kissing your forehead, “if you were lucky, you wouldn’t have fallen at all,”

“Things happen,” you murmur, “but I’m okay, I just feel so silly they had to call an ambulance,”

“If they didn’t, I was going to drive you to the hospital myself,” he replies.

“With what car?” you joke.

“I would have taken one of the vans,” he says, “obviously,”

“Ah, obviously,”

He sits back a moment and fishes his phone out of the pockets of his sweats, “Let me text the members,”

“Thank Mingi for me,” you smooth your hand over his thigh, “he really helped calm me down.”

Yunho smiled at that, “You can tell him yourself, they’re all here. I’m letting them know they can come back,”

“Oh my god,” a blush heats your cheeks, “they came all the way here and I’m fine, I’m really fine. I’m so embarrassed,”

“Hey,” he takes your hands in his, “they came for us both, I was freaking out.”

“You were? You seemed so calm,”

“Oh my god, not at all,” he says, fully relaxed now that he knows you’re not too hurt, “I was losing my mind, I saw you fall and I,” he shifts, “I never wanted you up there in the first place, but seeing you fall? It was awful,”

You squeeze his hands, “I’m sorry I scared you,”

He smiles and brings one of your hands up to press a kiss to the back of it, “As long as you’re okay now,”

There’s a pause between you, and Yunho is looking at you in a way you’ve never seen before. You look down at your clasped hands and replay the moment they separated you at the hospital, “Did you mean what you said?” you murmur.

“What?” he replies, confused.

You meet his eyes, “Before, when they took me back for tests. Did you mean what you said?”

It dawns on him, and he smiles, “Of course I did,”

You lean forwards, and despite the dull pain in your ribs you pull him forwards, your faces inches apart, “can you tell me again?”

“Hmm,” he hums, teasing, “does my girl want to hear me say it again?”

“Yunho,” you whine, nudging him, “don’t play,”

He kisses you, hands against your face, emotion evident in the way he presses his lips to yours, breath warm on you but barely pulling away, tongue against yours. When he breaks away, his forehead presses against yours again, his eyes shut and you can hear the emotion in his voice that he had been playfully concealing a moment before, “I love you. So much,”

“I love you too,” you murmur back, and you hear him exhale a sigh of relief.

A chorus of romantic oohs and ahhs break you away from Yunho, his ears going red instantly. The seven other members are just inside the door, grins on their faces as they watch Yunho die of embarrassment.

“Hi guys,” you wave, hiding your own blush behind your hands.

“No wonder he was so worried!” Wooyoung jests.

“Then golden retriever, hopelessly in love,” San chips in.

Yunho groans and tosses an arm over his face. You can’t help but laugh, but the sensation burns your ribs and you hiss, clutching your side. Yunho’s face sobers again, and he reaches for you, “What’s wrong, what hurts?”

You bat his hand away softly, “I’m fine, you guys just can’t make me laugh like that yet,”

“Ribs?” Yeosang asks.

“Yeah,” you sigh and groan at the pain, “I’m going to have to avoid you comedians all together,”

“How long will it take to heal?” Jongho asks.

“At least a few weeks, but it’s not too bad,” you reply, “I’m just going to have to take it easy at practice,”

Yunho shakes his head, “you’re not coming back to practice.”

You raise an eyebrow, “I’m not what?”

“You can’t be serious,” Yunho presses, and you can hear a couple of the guys murmuring amongst themselves in response to Yunho’s firm stance, “Someone else can do that stunt, you can just,”

“Yunho,” you interrupt, “I’m going to let my ribs heal just fine, but when they do, I have a job to do. So yes, I’ll be back at practice soon to keep up with things, and when I’m well enough, I’ll be back up on the pyramid. Don’t press this.”

Yunho opens his mouth to protest but shuts it again before saying, “I don’t like it,”

“And I don’t like when you overwork yourself and barely sleep, but I’m not telling you what to do,”

“Mm, she’s right,” Mingi pitches in and Yunho shoots him a look.

“I,” Yunho flounders, “I know, I just,”

“I get it,” you squeeze his hand, “but relax. I’m okay, everything’s fine, and next time I just have to practice not falling on my ass.”

The guys are laughing, and Yunho lets out an exasperated sigh, “Fine, fine, just promise me you’ll let yourself heal before you try it again, I don’t want you to make it worse, okay?”

“I promise,” you loop your pinky finger with his.

He smiles, and you lean back against the bedding to look up at the others, “Thank you so much for coming,”

“Ah we couldn’t leave him alone,” Seonghwa says.

“He was going to wear a hole in the floor pacing,” Wooyoung teases and Yunho’s ears go red again.

“You are good friends,” you sigh and then catch Mingi’s eye, “but thank you for helping me stay calm,”

“Me?” Mingi looks surprised.

“You really helped,” you tell him, “You’re pretty good under pressure.”

“Oh,” he takes in your words and then nods, “yeah, yeah, I am, aren’t I?”

You laugh again, squinting at the pain in your chest and Yunho squeezes your fingers softly before turning to the guys, “Okay, I think y/n needs a little recovery time, but then we’ll be back to the dorms.”

Everyone nods, starting to wish you good health and saying goodbye, and Hongjoong pauses to catch Yunho’s eye, “You’ll need to call the manager,”

“Already?” Yunho asks and you look between them in confusion.

“Mm,” Hongjoong nods, “better sooner rather than later.”

“Okay,” Yunho agrees and Hongjoong bids you goodbye before disappearing out the door.

“What’s that about?” you ask.

Yunho turns back to you and smooths his hands down your blanket covered legs, “I made a bit of scene when you got hurt,” he admits, ears still pink, “so everybody knows about us,”

“Oh,” you bite your lip softly, “is that… okay?”

“It’s about time,” he says, “I know we wanted to keep things between us for a while, but I don’t want to pretend with you anymore,”

“Me either,” you sigh, chest tender.

“Then I’ll see what they want, it might still just be an internal announcement but if we have to go public,” he breathes, “we will.”

“We always knew it would happen eventually,” you remind him, “and I know you want to be careful, but it would be nice to not worry so much about every move we make.”

He considers it and nods, “Okay, I’ll call.”

You watch as he stands, shifting nervously from foot to foot, pacing, as he talks to his manager. In the end it would need to be a public announcement. He had been spotted getting into the ambulance with you at KQ, and then again at the hospital, so it was more than simple to put two and two together. The press statement would be short and perfunctory – the relationship was private and fans should respect Yunho’s wishes to keep his personal life personal. It acknowledged you as a dancer who has worked with KQ and with Ateez for 3 years, and noted that your injury was thankfully not as serious as it could have been. You would recover and accompany tour as planned.

When Yunho gets off the call, he takes his place at your side again and sighs, “was that okay?”

“Fine,” you confirm, “short and sweet. I’m sure your fans will speculate, and some might post, but let’s not worry about it, let’s just go home.”

He softens, taking your hand again, “We should talk to your doctor before you leave. I want to know what your recovery care looks like,”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” you shake your head, “just rest and more rest.”

“I still want to ask. You can stay with me at the dorms, and I’ll make sure you don’t have to worry about anything,” he says.

The words make you melt, his eyes are soft and earnest and even though you don’t want to admit you want him to take care of you, especially with his schedule and his lifestyle, you can’t help but want it. “You’ll be so busy,” you say, lightly protesting.

“I won’t,” he says, sure, “I’ll make time.”

“Baby,” you sigh, but the way the air in your lungs moves with your sigh causes a spike of pain to run across your broken ribs and you squeeze your eyes tight, breathing shallow and quick.

His hands smooth down your legs, “Relax,” his voice drops soft and low, “try to steady your breathing,”

“I’m trying,” you say through clenched teeth.

He takes your hand in his and shuffles closer, laying your palm flat against the center of his chest. You can feel the steady thump of his heart under your fingers, and he takes a deep breath, letting his lungs and chest expand under your hand. “Like this,” he prompts, “breathe with me,”

You meet one inhale and exhale but revert back to your safe shallow breaths a moment later, “Yun it hurts,”

“I know,” he soothes, “but you have to try again, okay?”

As the pain starts to fade, you match your breathing with his, relaxing into it as best you can and mentally noting to never sigh, cough, laugh, or do anything that will bother your ribs again. As you start to find your breath again, your eyes opening and hands unclenching from the sheets, you meet Yunho’s eyes. His gaze is soft but studying, keeping a close eye on you and trying to gauge your comfort as you steady yourself.

“Okay?” He asks and you nod in response. He stands, “I’m going to get a nurse to tell us what we need to do and figure out when you can get discharged, and then I’m taking you home. Okay?”

“Yeah,” you manage, leaning back against the pillows and trying not to push your ribs too far.

When Yunho and the nurse return, she explains what the next few weeks of your life will be like. Yunho listens attentively as she describes how you need to manage your pain levels but still exercise your lungs to avoid long term effects. The risk of things like pneumonia are much higher risk so you need to stay healthy and maintain good nutrition and water intake, and while you may have trouble sleeping you should not take sleeping pills to avoid any undue stress on your lungs. Yunho takes it all in, and when the nurse asks if you have a good support system for the next couple of weeks to get you through the hardest parts, Yunho answers immediately that you’ll be with him.

It takes some time for you to be discharged, and by the time you make it out front and into one of the vans to take you back to the dorms it’s deep into the evening. When you get inside the house, it’s quiet. Yunho takes your various medications and lines them up on the kitchen island with his hastily written notes on the scheduled times to take them and if you should take them with or without food. You drop your coat on the available chair and start to move to tie up your hair when you realize raising your arms above your chest in any way lances pain up your side.

“Hey, hey,” Yunho reaches to pull your hands down softly, “easy.” He reaches for a pill bottle and pops one of the pain management pills out, passing it to you with a glass of water. He watches you take it, gestures for you to drink more water, and once satisfied he sets the glass back down and snags the hair tie off your wrist.

“Thank you,” you murmur as he starts to pull your hair up into a loose low ponytail, “I don’t know what I would do without you,”

“I love you,” he says again, “I’ll always take care of you.”

“I love you too,” you turn, leaning against him and pressing a kiss to his throat, all you can reach at this angle.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes against you, “let me take you to bed,”

“Mm,” you hum, nodding against him, “I really need a shower though, I never got to after practice.”

“I think I might have to help you with that,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice, “I can wash your hair and, you know, any hard-to-reach places.”

“Yunho,” you roll your eyes and nudge him in the chest, “I can barely breathe let alone have sex,”

“I’m kidding,” he kisses the top of your head before drawing you back to the bathroom, “I just want to help,”

He warms up the shower, testing the heat before helping peel off your clothes. He holds your forearms as you step over the lip of the bath and into the warm spray. Pulling off his own clothes, he jumps in behind you, finding you again and stepping close to hold you. You weren’t in any danger of falling, just extremely sore, but he still kept his hands out for you, fingers ghosting over you as if you could trip at any moment.

You’re both quiet after the long day, comforted just by being near each other. He drops a warm kiss to your shoulder before reaching past you for the body wash, tipping some into a washcloth and then starting to smooth it over your body. When he finishes your arms, he sweeps the cloth over your stomach and pauses, taking in just how bruised your upper back and sides are. You hiss as he gently moves the cloth up and he murmurs, “Okay?”

“Mhm,” you tip your head back against his chest and breath soft and steady through your nose.

He finishes and then gently maneuvers you to wash your hair, leaning your head back softly into the warm water. From this angle you can see his face, and he’s so focused on doing everything right, not hurting you, his fingers gentle and easy against you. When it’s time to wash the suds out of your hair, he presses a hand to your lower stomach to slide you back into the water, careful not to touch anywhere near your bruising.

“Doing okay?” He checks again.

“I’m good,” you confirm, “the water’s nice actually,”

“Good,” he kisses your temple and lets you soak up the warmth a little longer. He takes care of washing his hair and body quickly, keeping a close eye on you as he does. When the water starts to run tepid, he turns the spicket off, reaches around the shower door for a towel, and gently wraps it around you, patting you dry, before pulling a towel around his own hips.

“Let’s go to bed,” again he keeps his hands on yours as you step out of the shower, but quickly after, he darts out of the room for a change of clothes for you since the dorm isn’t exactly private. When he returns, he has a pair of his gray sweatpants and a baggy long sleeved t-shirt. He dresses you, making sure you barely have to lift your arms, directing you with soft comments and listening to your responses for any sign of pain.

He brings you to his room, which San has smartly left vacant for you both for which he is eternally grateful. He eases you into bed, fluttering around you to get anything you might need within arm’s reach before climbing in on the opposite side as slowly as he can to avoid jostling you unnecessarily. He settles next to you, turning on his side and propping himself up on an elbow, “Are you in any pain?”

“I think I’m okay for now,” you tell him, resting a palm against his cheek, “thank you so much for everything. I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t there,”

He angles his head to kiss your palm and murmurs, “I love you,”

You’re sure you’ll never get tired of those words, and you close your eyes, smiling softly before returning them.

“If you can’t sleep, or if you need anything tonight just wake me up,” he says, sliding back down in the sheets next to you and taking your hand. Normally he would wrap himself around you tight like a human blanket but knowing you can barely breathe without pain he gives you space, opting just to wrap his hand around yours.

“I will,” you assure him, knowing full well you would never disturb the precious little sleep he’s going to get anyways.

“I mean it,” he presses.

“I know, Yun,” you murmur, “don’t worry anymore, let’s just try and sleep.”

He makes a pleasant hum of agreement and you let your eyes fall closed, his thumb stroking against your palm, the sound of his steady breathing carrying you towards sleep. As you hug the edge of dreaming, you feel him shifting in the covers next to you, sliding lower in the bed. You feel his lips against your shoulder, his thumb still softly massaging your palm, and you drift.

The saying ‘I hope your pillow is cold on both sides’ is supposed to be endearing, but now it feels more like…quite the opposite.

No heat from another person beside you, no heat coming in from your windows, just cold under your satin sheets.

You’re freezing, you don’t even want to come from under the covers to check your phone, check the date. You probably shouldn’t, it would only add to the despair.

But you do it anyway, because it’s your routine, a routine that maybe you should change because it’s Valentine’s Day, V-day, Love Day.

The day you’ve been trying to ignore in all of your adult life, but it’s evidence of it everywhere. Filters on Instagram, restaurants running themed promotions, the god damn dog being walked outside your window has on a V-Day sweater, even.

You roll your eyes, because what the fuck? Go back under your sheets, groan under your pillow, wish it could smother you itself.

But ma’am, it’s an inanimate object.

You eventually force yourself from under the covers, put on your slippers, and shuffle to the kitchen. Ironic as you look down and notice you’re wearing pink and red themed pjs.

You look in your empty pantry, empty fridge, and there’s nothing but bread to make toast. Just everything, empty.

It’s a holiday you try not to put stock in, but everything around you just reminds you of how lonely times can get.

Just one throw blanket on the couch instead of two, just one toothbrush in the holder, just one profile on your streaming services, one pair of slippers.

Have I finally made it to the age where I want consistent company?

Your home is your domain, it’s done up the way you like it, you’ve made it utterly you, but a piece of you sometimes wants to share that with someone.

Not just for one day, but for multiple days.

You grab your small watering can to water the numerous plants placed around the house, occupy your mind with watering everything else but yourself.

You make it to the big one by the window, the light shining through the curtains, it’s the best spot in the apartment, the prettiest light catches here.

He made sure of that when he placed it.

You see something cherry red peeking out the soil, you mistake it for a ladybug or some other small bug from afar. You definitely didn’t put your glasses or contacts on.

Without looking into it further, you pour water over the plant, notice no movement from the red thing sitting there.

Oh no, is it dead??? Did I just kill a ladybug on Valentine’s Day???? Luck is out the door, ain’t it?

You reach for the tip of what you think is a dead ladybug, but it’s not. The texture is not smooth, there are no spots when looking closer at it, and there are no legs.

Kay,’ not a bug. Then wtf is it?

You pull it completely out the damp soil, almost tear it. It’s a cherry red envelope, closed with a little pink heart sticker.

You hesitate, you think it’s a cruel prank being pulled. Maybe when you bought the plant that’s always been underneath the soil?

There’s no name on the outside, no address, nothing but a cute little sticker. It must be lost. Every odd scenario running through your head besides the practical one.

The light shining from the window almost makes it see through, you can tell there is a card inside. You open it gently, the paper is on its last leg due to drowning it in water.

It opens easily for you, as if it knew you’d find it in the most chaotic way. There’s more paper folded up inside, black ink bleeding through.

You uncrinkle it, and the fresh bleed is what gives it away that this envelope was not buried under the soil when you bought it.

It was just placed there, recently, just for you.

Your heart stops for a beat. Wait a damn minute.

You look around your apartment, taking note of the door, the windows, any shadows in the hallway leading to your room.

Everything looks the same, everything is in its usual spot, but someone was definitely here.

The edges are soft, the sticker is peeling slightly, paper breaking even more under your thumb.

When did he–?

Your heart is outside your body, the realization creeping up your spine. He was in your apartment, he knows where the spare key is, knows you water your plants every morning, knows you’d find this note on this day when you’re lonely and wearing ridiculous pjs.

The loneliness from earlier doesn't feel the same.

He always wrote legibly in the beginning, and it got a little messier towards the end. It’s something you’ve recognized since knowing him.

Since being knee high to towering over you now.

You automatically know it’s a prank, it has to be. You’d never think anything different.

It creates a smile on your face, still, at least the two of you can make some fun out of this otherwise depressing day.

You read it aloud, reading it outloud helps you imagine his voice, and that makes everything ten times better in your world.

“it’s cold, i know ur squinting reading this, so i wrote this in all caps. IT’S C-O-L-D. pls check ur closet for the scarf and earmuffs i left. remember when i said dont give up on me yet when studying for finals? meet me at the science library @ 12.”

You reread it, laugh to yourself, the damp letter that’s slowly falling apart in your hands. He knows you well, too well sometimes.

You have no idea what he has in store at the damn library, no clue why he didn’t just text you and say ‘let’s hang.’

You go to set the card in the windowsill in hopes it’ll dry out, you actually go to check your closet expecting something ridiculous, but it really is new earmuffs and a scarf.

Folded nicely in the deepest corner of your closet, like he intentionally tried to hide them. Must’ve noticed the tears and rips in your old ones.

You read the brand, same brand he wears, also smells like him. That cashmere scent he is always sporting is strong, makes your heart flutter at the mindfulness of it all.

You also noticed there’s a key to your front door underneath once you pick it up. He seriously made a spare key of my spare key, sneaky bastard.

You set the clothes out on your unmade bed, shuffle to the bathroom to get ready. You grab your lonely toothbrush, do your hair, and finally change out the pjs that’s giving you an eyesore.

You put the earmuffs and scarf on, layers on top of layers because you refuse to freeze. You look in the mirror, think he has nice taste, it’s your favorite colors after all. Favorite scent.

He wouldn’t have to buy me this if we just decided to hang at my house! He’s so random, I swear.

You turn off the lights and head towards your front door, grabbing your phone, keys, and wallet. The simple things that actually determine how your day is about to go.

You check your phone before putting your mittens on. It’s 11:30, you’re cutting it a tad close because you have to catch the subway to the library.

He can wait a few. Can’t believe he’s dragging me out in this weather.

You brace for the wind as you walk out your door and walk toward the station, you feel like your eyelids are about to freeze shut, and snowflakes hanging from your coat.

Once you’re out of the way of the wind, you whip out your phone to send a text, you’re that intrigued and annoyed.

you: this better be good or we’re not friends for like ten business days

yunyun: at least it’s not 20 like last time

You roll your eyes and take note of how fast he responded. He normally takes forever to respond, like you’re one of his many hookups since college.

As you’re waiting, you notice how your ears and neck aren’t cold, you hate when he’s right. You’re damn sure not going to let him know.

Matter of fact, I’m going to say my ears and neck are numb and got frostbite.

You get out of your thoughts as you hear the train coming up the tracks, and prepare to scramble for a seat, it seems everyone is on the thing today.

By the time you get off, you check your phone again, you’re right on time, 12 on the dot. The wind gusts are strong and blow your hood off.

You rush down the block to get to the library entrance, to get to some central heating, because you’re over it at this point.

You look up to see your favorite, unfavorite person in the world. He doesn’t notice you yet as he fidgets. His nose and cheeks are red, rubbing the back of his neck and looking at the ground.

He really waited for me out in the cold instead of the lobby.

After doing one more glance at the ground, he finally looks up at you with a smile, and you return it. You always adored how his smile puffed out his cheeks, he looks goofy in the cutest way.

Then his face changes, furrowing his brows as he strides over to you quickly. “Why the hell do you not have your hood on!?”

He pulls it back over for you. “It blew off, chill! The dramatics.”

“It’s cold out here.”

“Says the guy who was standing in it for who knows how long.” You tease him, the easiest thing for you to do, second nature. “Why did you pull me out in this, anyway?”

“Just wanted to do something fun, geez, c’mon.” He pulls you by your coat sleeve and leads you inside, the heat finally hitting your face, your whole body unthawing.

Yunho lets go of your coat as you follow him through the familiar library, making you nostalgic for your college days, even if it’s only been about two years.

It’s still dusty, carpet still has coffee stains that’ll never come out, couples studying instead of being on a date, midterm season.

“Soooo Yun, are we here to live in your glory days again? Likeeee?”

He glances back at you, doesn’t say anything, and continues walking. The man lowkey walks fast, and you have to put a little pep in your step.

Staring at other things makes you almost bump into his back. Notice he stopped at the private room you both called WD40 because the door squeaks like no other.

You two would book the room all the time, might as well write your names on the wall in permanent ink, seems like you can’t leave it alone.

He glances at you again, his face finally not as red as earlier. He’s a bit quieter than usual, he’s normally an auctioneer, but not right now.

He seems a little more tense, his shoulders haven’t relaxed since walking into the building. He didn’t make his jokes about the computers not working or his past hookup spots.

Just nothing, and that’s not the best friend you know. It makes you worry.

He’s terrible at keeping secrets. This is too strange.

The door clicks open, something taped to the chair that’s the same cherry red you saw in your apartment. It catches your eye immediately.

You have no clue what he’s playing at when he stands at the door and gestures to the chair. “Go grab it.”

He’s trying his best to be nonchalant about it, but his body shows otherwise. Deep down, he’s nervous and scared shitless, and you have no clue as to why.

You go to gently untape the envelope from the back of the chair. You turn to him, “Yunho, what the heck is this?”

“Can you just open it?”

You roll your eyes, you know how he likes games, but why a game on v-day and in your undergrad library?

You open it, you open this one with a little more intent since it’s not crumpling from water damage. His eyes don’t leave you.

“You want me to read it?”

“Did Sherlock Holmes ever solve a crime by not reading?”

“You’re shitting me right now, really, oh my gosh?????” The sarcasm is thick between the two of you, always has been, never see that changing.

“Read the damn thing even if it’s at a kindergarten level. I know the literacy rates are low nowadays.”

“Fuck you.” You grin as you unfold it, that same handwriting clear as day. You begin to read it outloud, wanna see if you can get a reaction from him.

“remember when i found u sleeping here after studying all night? u just finished crying ur eyes out about the boy who didnt know 2+2. u told me not to give up on you yet, seems like everyone was leaving ur world at the time. i’d take a look underneath the table if i were u :)”

Tears prickle at your eyes a bit, but you don’t let them flow. He pretends he’s looking away when you glance back at him, but you know he’s watching.

You listen to the instructions and look under the table. The Pocky he’d brought you that same night is taped to it, a small pick-me-up when you felt like your world was crashing around you.

It was so so small, but meant everything—

Means everything to you.

You don’t know why he’s doing this, you’re done trying to guess it. “Why are you being strange? What is this for?”

Yunho shrugs his shoulders with a slight smirk on his face as he stands in the doorway with his arms crossed, “It’s V-day. Can’t I do something nice for my best friend?”

“You’re never this nice.”

“Yes, I am!” He fake gasps, “How dare you!”

“Anywayssss–what’s next? Or did you only bring me here for the Pocky?” You whisper the next words, “Thanks, by the way, for then and now.”

He doesn’t respond right away, you’re still holding the Pocky, and you look down at it, notice it’s the same flavor from that night.

How does he remember the flavor, hell I barely remembered or didn’t wanna remember, but he did. 

You look at him, he’s looking away again, rubbing his neck. You see him a bit differently for once, something softer in his expression, but before you can dive deeper, he’s perking back up.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and gives you coordinates to a place that reads, 15h 34m, +26° 44’ “We’re not on an expedition, Yunho.”

He deadpans as he looks at you. “You have a phone gps that will take the coordinates and tell you where to go, duh.”

“Why couldn’t you just put the address?”

“That ruins the fun!”

“Fine, whatever, let’s go.” You huff as you enter the coordinates into the phone, it’s not too far from the library, but that does mean you have to walk in the cold once more.

You begin walking as Yunho moves you to the side of him, away from the street. He always did it subtly when walking along the street.

He’s quiet again. You glance up at him, he’s staring ahead with his hands in his pockets, tense.

The V-day decor haunts you on the walk there, flower vendors for last-minute shoppers, hearts on business windows, just love in the air. It’s just background noise.

Your phone buzzes, you’re expecting another name like your mom asking if you ate for the day, but it’s Jongho.

The guy from work who’s been trying to take you out for the longest.

Choi Jongho: happy valentine’s day! still down for drinks later?

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You were going to say yes earlier this week, or let’s say you thought you were.

You glance up at Yunho, he’s not looking at you. His eyes flicked to your phone screen for half a second before he looked away. His jaw is tense, hands shoved deeper into his pockets.

Hmmm.

You notice the shift between you, it feels wrong, not natural, and you can’t stand it. You don’t know if you’ll even see Jongho later, he’s a nice guy, you’ve considered it.

Never felt an urgency to see what Jongho’s about, though, and right now, walking while Yunho won’t look at you, you definitely don’t have that feeling.

You pocket your phone again without responding to the text, like your body is in autopilot.

“So,” you try to pull him back. “The coordinates thing is very, very extra, by the way. Did you have to Google how those work or—?”

“Probably.”

That’s it, just one word, so finite, no laugh, no ‘I spent an hour on Reddit figuring it out,’ nothing!

You look at him, he’s walking faster than before, you’re struggling to keep up the pace.

Does he care? If so, why?

You wonder if he’s being a protective friend, although he’s never been the one to be overbearing in your past relationships. He trusted your judgement always.

Maybe he thinks Jongho is a jerk? Doesn’t want this scavenger hunt to be interrupted?

Why, why, why.

“Yunho—” You stop yourself, you don’t know if you’re scared of the answer, if there even is one. So many possibilities running through your mind.

The silence just feels even heavier, like snow is piling up on your shoulders as you walk.

Yunho breaks it. “You should go.” His voice comes out tight, a little strained. “If you wanna.”

You stop in your tracks, look up at him. “Go where?” You know what he means, but you need to hear him say it, to mean it.

His expression is just off, wrong, his eyes are dark, and you can see the clench in his jaw. “Drinks. With–”

He doesn’t finish, can’t even utter the name. Your mittens are off, thumbs already moving.

you: no thxs, busy today.

sent.

You stare at your phone, confused, wondering what really triggered you to do that when you were planning to say yes before. But leaving Yunho feels impossible right now.

Choosing him like you’ve been doing for years and never clearly realized it.

I still don’t know why he’s upset, or why it matters so much, but I’m not gonna go.

You slide the phone back in your pocket once more, neither of you speaks.

You walk the rest of the way in near silence. Your breath fogs in the cold air, his does too. He fogs up his glasses in the process, but neither fills the space with a laugh or words.

You both have no clue what to say.

The energy from the library, the teasing, the mystery, the fun, it’s gone. Poof. Being replaced with something that feels like standing on a tightrope that’s about to snap.

You begin to see where your location is as you hear kids playing and see couples walking on strolls despite the weather.

You see the bench on the corner, the ice cream truck that’s always parked near the entrance. You pull out the gps again, then look up ahead, and your stomach flutters. You’re at the park.

The park.

You continue to look at where the gps is leading you by the exact coordinates.

To the spot where you’d drag blankets during sophomore year, where he’d bring hot chocolate in the most unconventional container that would go cold anyway. Where you learned what Alphecca looked like.

The small hill where the flowers and trees hold your secrets.

But it’s cold out, and those secrets seem to be dying out.

The grass is dead now, brittle under your shoes, the sky is in overcast with no stars in sight. You stop at the top and look around.

Seeing the city in the distance, couples laughing together, kids throwing woodchips. The air is harsh against your face, but you lean into it.

Yunho is looking at you and hasn’t moved his line of direction since.

“Where—” you begin, but then you see it.

Tucked under the edge of the bench, the one with your initials carved in the back from summer junior year, there’s another red envelope.

Your hands shake as you pick it up, not from the cold. You open this one slower, more cautious. Yunho is standing a few feet away from you.

This folded note has lines with dots in the margins, your initials scribbled, a little smiley face in the corner. You start reading the opening lines.

Your heart immediately flutters.

“you asked me once if anyone still loves like that. enough to make someone eternal–”

You smile at the first two sentences.

“you told me about the crown in the stars, how ariadne got hers. u wanted that too. i remembered, dont give up on me yet.”

Your heart gets tugged on even more. This is so sweet, so thoughtful.

This note is a bit longer as you continue to read it.

“i think about that night on this hill. junior year, midterms weeks. you were crying over a test you thought you failed—”

Your breath catches, a puff of air evident in the sky. “and i brought you here bc u said the library made you feel like u were suffocating. i pointed out alphecca. u said the stars didnt care about ur gpa.”

You’re smiling even bigger now. You remember that night so clearly, the way he made you laugh, how you felt safe just being in his presence.

“you told me you felt like you were drowning. that everyone expected you to be fine all the time and you didnt know how to ask for help.”

You smile falters just a bit. You said that and remember say it, but that was—

The cold air stings, but you barely feel it. You didn’t post about that night, didn’t text anyone after. It was just private.

“ –i told u the stars were older than any test score. that failing one exam wouldnt erase you.” That’s exactly what he said, word for word.

Your chest tightens, reread to make sure nothing was misread. This isn’t paraphrased, nor is it a general memory someone could’ve pieced together from stories.

It’s exact, it’s what he said when no one else was listening.

You glance in the margin again, there’s another note scribbled there, super small and slanted.

“(i wanted to hold ur hand that night. i didnt think i was allowed to)”

You burn holes into those words. I wanted to hold your hand.

The closeness of it makes your throat tight. It’s not just remembering a nice moment. It’s someone confessing their thoughts, feelings, what they wanted to do but didn’t.

Your fingertips trace the ink.

You look up at Yunho, he’s already watching you. His fingers pressing into his temples, his rings catching the light as his hands shake.

His face has gone pale, but his cheeks are still red, and when his eyes meet yours, they look terrified. Like he’s been waiting for this moment and dreading it at the same time.

He opens his mouth, closes it, then looks away.

Only two people were on that hill. You and him.

You try to rationalize, come up with a different theory. Maybe you’d told someone else? But no, you didn’t, and you know that.

And Yunho wouldn’t tell someone else about it…would he? Why would he give someone else that story to use?

Unless.

The pieces are forming a puzzle, and you don’t want to see the final picture.

Now your heart is pounding for a totally different reason.

You force yourself to keep reading, there’s more.

“you asked me if i thought you’d ever figure it out. figure out what you wanted to do with your life. i said yes without hesitation.”

There’s another margin note, it’s messier, like it was added at the last minute.

“(i knew even then. i think i’ve always known)”

Known what?

Your eyes skim down to the bottom of the note, “don’t give up on me yet.”

That phrase has been present in every note, below it, coordinates to another location. They show an address you don’t need to map.

amity ln.

You know that corner, it has a broken streetlight. Where it rained last spring, the kind that soaks through your jacket no matter how waterproof it is.

You’d both been laughing, because you two were never the type to check the forecast before heading out. You’d said something along the lines of the universe hating you, not being in your favor ever.

That’s when he stopped walking, just stopped, right there on the corner. Water streaming down his face, glasses completely useless. He’d looked at you like he was drowning in more than just rain.

Like he was about to say something that would change everything, and then he didn’t. You’d pulled him under a bus stop awning, the moment passed, and you never asked.

But you remember the look, it’s seared into your mind now. Your chest is caving in and you can’t control it.

You don’t look at him, you can’t. If you look at him now, you’ll ask, and if you ask he’ll answer, and if he answers…

You start walking.

Not toward the park entrance, but to the street, Amity. You hear him behind you, his footsteps are moving quickly, trying to keep up.

The cold really bites at your face, but your legs are moving, and your mind is trying to make sense of what you’re doing.

Please let me be wrong.

You don't remember walking there. Just footsteps behind you. His, too close. Then you're standing in front of Amity Lane.

The broken streetlight's still there. Same fractured glow on the wet pavement, slush everywhere because February can't commit to snow or rain. The corner looks exactly like it did.

Red envelope taped to the light post.

Your initials in his handwriting.

Oh, fuck.

Yunho's gone completely still behind you. Close enough, you could reach back.

Don't. Don't think about that.

His breathing is uneven. You turn around, and he looks wrecked.

Hair everywhere from the wind, glasses fogged up and crooked, eyes red like he's been crying or trying really hard not to. His jaw keeps clenching. And his hands, he's adjusting his rings. One, then the other, then back. Over and over.

He won't look at you, but you're looking at him.

"I'm sorry."

Oh no no no

His voice is so quiet a car driving past almost drowns it out. "For what?" Wrong question. You know for what. You know.

His hand goes to the back of his neck, fingers digging in. "For—for doing it like this. I didn't—I couldn't—"

He stops, adjusts his rings again, stares at his hands.

God, his hands are so pretty, I can't even—

FOCUS.

"I didn't know how else to—" He swallows. "To tell you."

And there it is.

Your heart is beating so hard, everything's clicking into place and you're actively trying to un-click it. The notes. The memories. The way he's been looking at you all morning.

"This isn't a prank." Your voice comes out flat and dead.

"It's you."

He finally looks at you, the answer's written all over his face, and it's killing him.

"It's—yeah. It's me." His voice cracks. "It's—I—"

"It's always been me."

Silence, just traffic and your heartbeat and the sound of your world ending.

"Since—" He drags a hand down his face. "God, since high school? Maybe—I don't even—I don't know anymore, I just—"

He's not making sense, he's breaking apart in real time.

"I didn't tell you because you're—you're my best friend and I couldn't—" His voice breaks completely. "I couldn't lose that. Lose you."

Oh my god.

"Every time I thought about saying something I'd just—I'd imagine you looking at me different. Like I ruined it. Like I made it weird and you'd start—you'd pull away and I—"

He stops. Swallows. Starts again.

"I couldn't. I couldn't risk it."

His glasses are completely fogged. He takes them off, rubs the bridge of his nose with shaking fingers.

"So why now?" Your voice barely makes it out.

"Because yesterday I saw you on your phone and you were smiling and I thought—" His laugh is broken, hollow. "I thought maybe you were texting him. Jongho. And then this morning you got that text about drinks and you looked—you looked like you wanted to say yes."

Well shit.

"And I just panicked, because I realized I was gonna lose you anyway. Not because I told you but because I didn't. Because I was too scared and someone else wasn't and—"

His voice cracks. "I'm so tired of pretending I'm not in love with you."

No. Wait.

Wait wait wait—

"I almost told you that night," he says, quieter now. "Right here. In the rain. We were laughing, and then you looked at me, and I thought if I said it and you didn't—if you didn't feel the same, I'd lose even that. The way you looked at me."

Your eyes are burning, but you're not crying. I’m not.

"So I thought if I could just show you. Remind you of all the times I was there, all the moments that mattered, maybe you'd—"

"The notes," you say.

"Yeah." He still won't look at you. "I kept writing 'don't give up on me yet' because I was scared you'd just walk away." 

You're frozen, every word landing like a punch, he's been carrying this for years.

All this time. It's been him. The whole time. And I—

The thought won't finish. It catches, snags, dies. 

Because if it's been him, then the way you always text him first when something good happens.

The way you'd rather crash on his couch than sleep in your own bed.

This morning. Standing outside the library in the cold, the pocky thing. The way you've replayed that memory over and over without understanding why.

The park, the stars. Every single time he showed up and you let him, wanted him to, without question.

Jongho's text, the way you said no without even thinking about it.

No no no.

Because that would mean…Oh god, you absolute idiot.

Every time you thought about moving on, you called him, every time someone else looked at you, you compared them to.

"In love with you."

The words echo in your head and you can't breathe because you thought you just loved him safely. Thought what you had was too important to name. 

Thought if you never said it out loud it wouldn't be real, wouldn't be dangerous, wouldn't be something you could lose.

But it's been there, growing, rooting so deep you didn't even notice until he ripped it out into the open.

I've been in love with him too. I've been in love with him too.

How did I not—

"You thought I'd—" Your voice comes out strangled. "Yunho, I—"

The words are stuck. You can't, you can't do this.

You can't stand here and watch him think you're about to walk away, so you close the gap.

You kiss him and it's a mess. His glasses dig into your cheek and your noses bump and you don't care. Your fingers grip his coat, pulling him closer.

His hands find your face, shaking, desperate.

When you break apart you're both breathing hard, cold air between you. His eyes are still closed and you can feel him trembling.

He laughs, broken, disbelieving. "Don't give up on me yet?"

You kiss him again, softer this time. It's your answer under the broken streetlight on Amity Lane, where it almost happened before, it finally does.

You don't remember deciding to go back to his place.

Just his hand in yours the entire subway ride. You took your mittens off because you needed to feel his skin and now your fingers are freezing but you don't care.

Are we—? Is this—?

Every time the train jolts he steadies you, hand at your waist. And it's stupid but your chest does that thump thump thing again, and you're trying not to think about it too hard because if you think about it you'll spiral.

Oh my god, I kissed him. Under the streetlight.

He said he's been in love with me since high school and I just—

You glance at him, he's staring at your joined hands. His thumb keeps twitching, not circles or anything romantic just nervous energy he can't contain and it's so him you want to cry.

Don't cry on the subway. Do not cry on the subway.

When you reach his building he fumbles with his keys, drops them.

"Sorry, I—" He bends down, picks them up, tries again.

You just stand there watching him struggle with the lock like an idiot because what are you supposed to do? Help? Say something?

What do you even say after???

The door finally clicks and you follow him inside.

His apartment is warm, always tidy. You've been here a thousand times but it feels different now. He helps you out of your coat and his fingers brush your shoulders and you both freeze.

"Sorry," he says.

"Stop apologizing."

"Sorry—I mean—" He stops. Laughs. Runs a hand through his hair. "God, I don't know what I'm doing."

"Me neither."

That seems to help. His shoulders drop a little and you're just standing there. In his doorway. Like you haven't been here a million times before.

Why is this so weird? It's not weird. It's definitely weird.

You reach up and fix his glasses because they're still crooked from the kiss and your hands are steadier than you expected. He goes completely still, eyes locked on yours, and for a second neither of you breathes.

"Do you want—" His voice cracks. He clears his throat. "Juice? Water? I can—"

"Yunho." He stops.

"I'm okay. Are you okay?"

He laughs again, breathless and a little broken. "I don't know. Are you actually here?"

"I'm here."

His hand comes up like he's going to touch your face, hesitates halfway, then does it anyway. Palm against your cheek. Thumb under your eye, his hand is still shaking so bad.

"Yeah," he whispers. "You are."

Then he drops his hand and disappears into his room. No warning, no explanation, just gone.

You stand there listening to him rummage around. Drawers opening and closing, something hits the floor, he swears under his breath.

What is he—?

When he comes back he's holding a shoebox.

Old and beat-up. The kind that used to hold his basketball sneakers in high school, you remember because he wore them until they literally fell apart and you made fun of him for it.

He sets it on the coffee table. "I, uh." He swallows. "I wrote you letters. A lot of them. I just—I never sent them."

Your brain stalls."What?"

"You don't have to read them," he says quickly. "I just thought—I don't know. I wanted you to know it wasn't just today. It's been—" He stops. "A long time."

Letters? How many is "a lot"?

You move to the couch and sit. Stare at the box as it might explode.

It's worn, edges soft from being opened over and over. The lid's dented like he's gripped it too hard too many times.

You lift the lid, and there are dozens. Envelopes, folded notebook paper, napkins, receipts, whatever he had on hand, apparently. Some are sealed, some aren't. 

The dates span years. One from high school, sophomore year of college, and last spring. Your hands are shaking when you pull one out at random.

Last spring.

"i dont know how to tell u this, so im writing it down instead. maybe one day ill be brave enough (i wont be)"

You can't breathe, another one.

"you fell asleep on my arm bc you had horrible cramps. i didnt move for hours. my arm went completely numb and i didnt even care."

Another.

"you said you didnt believe in soulmates, but i think ive been trying to prove you wrong since we were sixteen."

Your vision blurs and you're trying not to cry. You set the letters down carefully because your hands won't stop shaking and you look up at him.

He's watching you, waiting for it to be too much, waiting for you to leave.

"You've been—" Your voice breaks. "God, Yunho, you've been doing this the whole time and I didn't—"

"You couldn't have known."

"But I should've—"

"No." He shakes his head. "I didn't let you."

You cross the space between you. You're kissing him and his hands find your waist and pull you closer and you end up half in his lap, fingers in his hair.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, his eyes are wide. Lips red and parted and oh so gorgeous, like he’s pleading. 

We're really doing this. "Don't stop," you whisper.

His hands tighten on your hips. "Are you—are you sure?"

"I'm so fucking positive."

He stands, pulling you with him, and you follow him down the hall.

You make it to his room, and the door clicks shut behind you. He kisses you, backing you toward the bed until your knees hit the mattress.

But you press a hand to his chest, stopping him. His eyes open, confused and worried, like he’s done something wrong.

“Sit,” you say softly.

He blinks, “what?”

“Sit down, Yun.”

He sits immediately, sinks onto the edge of the bed without question, looking up at you. His hands hover at his sides, uncertain of what to do with them.

“You can touch me,” you tell him, stepping between his knees.

“I just—I’m gonna wake up and hate myself.”

His hands find your hips gently, his fingers tremble against your jeans. You cup his face, tilt his chin up so he has to look at you. “If you wake up, I’m gonna haunt you anyway soooo.”

He exhales, and you lean down to kiss again. You pull back just enough to reach for the hem of his shirt. He lifts his arms without you having to ask, and you pull it over his head, tossing it behind you.

For a moment, you just look at him, the lean lines, the way his chest rises and falls, his long limbs, the redness creeping up his neck.

“You’re staring,” he mutters, trying to sound normal about it. Eye’s still locked on yours.

You smile, drag a finger down his chest. “You stood in the cold for me. I think that earns you a little attention.”

His eyes widen. “You–”

“Shh,” you cut in and work his belt loose. “I’m appreciating the view.”

He helps you with his pants, lifting his hips so you can slide them down, and he’s sitting in just his boxers, looking up at you.

When you start undressing your layers, his hands hover like he wants to help. You guide them to your shirt, and he pulls it over your head slowly.

“You’re so—I’ve thought about this so many times, and it’s—you’re—”

You kiss him so he stops, and he makes a broken sound against your mouth. His hands are all over your skin. When you’re finally down to just your underwear, he presses his forehead to your stomach, breathing hard.

“I love you,” he whispers against your skin. “I love you so much.”

You tug at his hair gently, “Show me, please.”

He kisses your stomach, you giggle as it tickles, and the space between your breasts, every touch leaves you aching. You push him back onto the bed, his eyes never leaving yours.

When you climb onto his lap, straddling his hips, he goes to grip your thighs. “You good?” You ask, rolling your hips, and he gasps.

“Yeah, I—” His head tips back, exposing his throat, his adam’s apple. “Fuck, yes.”

You take your time as you trail your hands over his chest and shoulders. You like watching the way his breath catches and the way his fingers grip your skin, the way he bites his lip trying to hold himself together.

“Please,” he breathes.

“Let me—”

He nods, and when you reach between you to touch him, he buries his face in your neck. “Is this okay?” you ask, even though you can feel how much he wants this.

“Yes. Yes, please I—” he can’t even finish the sentence, holds you tighter, hands sliding up your back.

You learn what makes him gasp, what makes his grip tighten, what makes him say your name. He's so vulnerable for you, every reaction clear on his face. 

When you shift to slide your underwear off, he helps you, and when you finally sink down his reaction is overwhelming. He buries his face in your shoulder and makes sounds that make your heart flutter.

"Oh my god," he chokes out. "Goodness gracious, I–"

You stay still so you both can adjust, he's trembling beneath you.

Fuck, I love you.

You start to move slowly, and he follows, wait is this too much? No, he's matching you perfectly, his hands are all over, but every touch asks for permission. 

You lean down to kiss him, and he kisses you back so desperately that you can feel the years of want between the two of you.

"You feel—" he starts, then loses it, a breathless laugh catching in his throat. "I'm sorry. I can't get a full sentence out."

"That's okay," you lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth. "You don't have to."

His head tips back again, and when you kiss along his jaw, he lets out a sound that's half gasp, half a laugh. Like he's almost embarrassed.

You pull back just enough. "You okay?"

He nods, but his eyes are glassy and his hands won't stop shaking where they're gripping your hips. "Yeah. Yeah, I just—"

He's overwhelmed.

You slow down, stop. His eyes snap open.

"Don't—" His voice cracks. "Please don't stop."

"I'm not." You brush his hair back from his forehead. It's damp with sweat and sticking up and he looks destroyed already. "Just checkin’."

"I'm good," he breathes. "I'm so—good, you have no idea."

Actually, I think I do.

Because he's looking at you like you’re the crown in the stars he’s been trying to earn. Like every letter was a breadcrumb back to this exact constellation. 

Years. He waited years.

The thought hits you sideways and you have to kiss him again just to ground yourself. He makes a sound against your mouth and his hips shift up.

You start moving again, slower this time, and his hands slide up, god his hands are everywhere, my favs.

"You're so—" He tries, fails, tries again. "I don't know how to—you're everything."

He wrote you letters he never sent.

He planned an entire scavenger hunt just to tell you.

"Yunho," you whisper, and his eyes focus on you. Waiting, always waiting for whatever you need.

You lean down and kiss him. His hands come up to cup your face and when you pull back his eyes are wet.

"Are you crying?"

"No." He laughs, breathless. "Maybe. Shut up."

"Little bit."

"Sorry."

"Stop apologizing." You roll your hips and he gasps, fingers tightening on your waist. "You're allowed to feel things."

"I'm feeling everything," he chokes out. "I can't—I don't know how to. It’s so loud."

You pick up the pace and he follows you as his head tips back against the pillow again and you watch his face.

"Look at me," you say. Perfect, he’s so perfect.

Then his hips shift up to meet yours, you both gasp, and you lose the thought. Just sensation. The weight of him beneath you, the sounds he's making.

"I love you," he says again, "I love you, I love you."

"I know." Your voice breaks. "I know, I—"

Say it back. You should say it back.

What if you say it wrong? What if it's not enough after everything?

"Hey." His hand cups your face, thumb under your eye. "You don't have to say it yet."

How does he—?

"I can wait," he whispers. "I've waited this long."

That undoes you completely.

You kiss him so hard you both lose your breath and your teeth hit his. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, and you're moving together now, no rhythm.

He's saying your name between kisses, and you're trying not to cry because this is Yunho.

Your Yunho.

Who's been in love with you since you were kids and never said a word because he didn't want to lose you.

"I'm close," he gasps against your mouth.  “I'm sorry, I can't—"

"What did I say about apologizing!" You're breathless. Shaking. "Just—"

His whole body goes still beneath you, and buries his face in your neck. You feel him trembling, feel the way his hands grip you. 

"I love you," he whispers into your skin. "I love you so much."

God, you..."I love you too." It comes out quiet, but it's there.

He pulls back, those big, pretty eyes wide and wet and so full. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You're crying. "I love you. I'm sorry it took me so long to—"

He kisses you, and when he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard. Foreheads pressed together. 

"Hey there," he whispers.

You laugh, broken and wet. "Hey."

"Can we just—" He swallows. "Can we stay like this for a second?"

Duh, of course we can.

You nod, and he pulls you down against his chest. His heartbeat is racing beneath your ear. His fingers trace patterns on your back.

"I can't believe this is real," he murmurs into your hair.

"You and me both."

You tilt your head up to look at him. His glasses are somewhere on the floor. His hair's a mess. He smiles and pulls you closer.

–

You wake up to sunlight filtering through curtains and the weight of an arm draped across your waist.

For a second, you lie there. Processing. 

The events of yesterday crash back in waves, the scavenger hunt, the park, the confession, the oh my god we had sex part that your brain is still trying to categorize as "things that actually happened in real life."

Yunho's still asleep. You can feel his breath against the back of your neck. His fingers are loosely curled against your stomach.

This actually happened.

You should probably freak out. Do the whole "what does this mean"  morning after spiral. Panic about how this changes everything. But instead, you just feel warm.

Safe, like the cold side of the pillow wasn’t supposed to last this long. 

Yunho shifts behind you, mumbling something into your hair. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer, and you feel him wake up in stages.

The slight hitch in his breathing, the way he goes very still, the soft "oh" against your shoulder when he remembers.

His voice is rough with sleep, muffled against your skin. "You didn’t run away, impressive work."

"Where else would I be?"

"I don't know. I thought maybe I dreamed it." He presses a kiss to your shoulder blade. Then another. "Thought I'd wake up and you'd be gone and I'd have to pretend yesterday didn't happen."

You turn in his arms to face him, he's squinting at you without his glasses and he looks so soft it makes your chest ache.

"I'm not going anywhere," you say.

He smiles, small and disbelieving, and cups your face with one hand. "Okay."

You lie there for a while, just looking at each other. His thumb traces your cheekbone. His cheeks puff when he smiles, dimples cutting in deeper on one side. You noticed it freshman year, memorized and never admitted to it, but now you’re allowed to stare without pretending it doesn’t make your heart ache. 

"I'm starving," you finally admit.

What if I'm bad at this?

What if I'm a terrible girlfriend and he realizes he's been in love with an IDEA of me and not the actual disaster human who forgets to text back and leaves dishes in the sink—

He's still looking at you like the stars.

Okay, we're fine.

He laughs. "Yeah?"

"Scavenger hunts and emotional devastation really work up an appetite."

"We could—" He hesitates. "We could go get breakfast? If you want. There's that place you like with the—"

"Those special waffles?"

"Yeah." He's watching your face. "We could do that. If you want."

He's nervous like this is a first date and not the morning after we finally got our shit together.

"I want to get breakfast with you."

His whole face lights up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But you're buying. You owe me after putting me through emotional hell yesterday."

He laughs, pressing his forehead against yours. "Fair. That's fair."

"And I'm getting extra strawberries."

"Whatever you want."

"And whipped cream."

"Done."

"And—"

He kisses you. "I'll buy you the whole menu if you want. Just—" Another kiss. "Just don't give up on me yet."

You freeze and pull back to look at him.

He's grinning now, that stupid grin. "Did you just—"

"I've been waiting to use that in context," he admits. "Thought it would be romantic."

"You're an idiot."

"Your idiot."

"Yeah," you whisper. "My idiot."

He kisses you again, and you lose a few minutes to the taste of him and the overwhelming reality that you get to have this now. That you get to keep him.

"Breakfast," you manage.

"Right. Breakfast." He doesn't move.

"Yunho."

"I know. I just—" He cups your face, looking at you like he's trying to ingrain this into his brain. "I really love you."

I’m going to cry again.

"I love you too," you whisper. "Now feed me before I change my mind."

He laughs and kisses your forehead and rolls out of bed to find his glasses, and you lie there for a second, watching him move around his room in the morning light, and think.

You're allowed to be happy, you absolute disaster.

You're allowed to—

He glances back at you, still shirtless, glasses slightly crooked, smiling.

Yeah, okay. I can do this. 

♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ ♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ

BONUS CONTENT [YUNHO POV]

୨ৎlove letter

march 23

okay so i'm writing this at 2am which is probably a bad sign but whatever. you're never going to see this anyway. i'll shove it in the drawer with the other six (seven? i lost count) letters i've written and been too chickenshit to send.

i don't even know where to start. that's a lie. i know exactly where to start but i don't know how to say it without sounding completely pathetic.

you chew the inside of your cheek when you’re lying. not big lies. little ones. “i’m not tired.” “i’m fine.” “it didn’t bother me.” you always do it twice before you say the sentence.

you hum the same notes when you’re scrolling. they’re wrong every time. i’ve tried to figure out what song it is. it’s not a real song. it’s just you.

you pretend you don’t like physical touch but you fall asleep on my shoulder every single time we watch something past 10pm. you say it’s because you’re tired. it’s not.

you read the last page of books first when you’re anxious. you told me that once and then made me swear not to judge you. i don’t. i just think about how badly i want to know what you’re going to do before you do it.

you say you don’t believe in soulmates but you still look up at the sky when you see the first star. every time.

i don’t think you realize how obvious you are. i don’t think you realize how obvious i’ve been.

your sense of direction is terrible. i know it stresses you out. i know you hate asking for help. but i love that you ask me. that you grab my arm when you think we're lost and look up at me like i have all the answers.

i don't. i'm just as lost as you are. just in a different way.

i'm not the guy who says this stuff out loud. i'm not smooth. i'm not confident. i'm not the guy who makes grand gestures or knows what to say.

i'm just stuck. completely stuck on you and i don't know how to be anything else.

i've tried. i've tried to be happy when you date other people. tried to be the supportive best friend who listens and doesn't leave the room when it gets too hard. tried to move on.

but i can't.

i can't watch you fall for someone else and pretend it doesn't kill me. can't keep acting like this is fine.

it's not fine. i'm not fine.

i've been in love with you for so long i don't remember what it felt like before. and i know you don't feel the same way. i know i'm just your friend. the guy you call when you can't sleep or when you need help with directions or when you just want someone to sit with you and not talk.

maybe that's enough. maybe it has to be.

but god i wish i was braver. wish i could tell you this to your face. wish i could risk everything just to know if there's even a chance.

anyway. it's 2:55 now and i have work in five hours and i'm still writing this like it matters. like you're ever going to read it.

you won't, but maybe someday i'll be brave enough to tell you for real. maybe someday i won't be so terrified of ruining everything.

maybe someday you'll look at me the way i've been looking at you.

don't give up on me yet.

— y

(god that sounds so dramatic. i'm leaving it though. it's 2am and i'm allowed to be dramatic.)

୨ৎtext exchanges

12:26am> did you eat

i typed it. deleted it. tyyped it again. i know she hates when people ask that, so i rephrased.

12:26am>did u survive dinner

she sent a picture of half a granola bar and said, “thriving.” i sent skull emojis and offered to drop food off. i was already in my car.

11:11pm>make a wish 

i've been sending that for years, i never tell her what mine is, i don’t need to. she knows now.

my love>  you’ve been like this the whole time haven’t you

i stared at that text for a full minute, because “the whole time” doesn’t even begin to cover it.

i typed: yeah. sorry.

because loving her quietly for years feels like something i should apologize for.

my love> don’t be.

and for the first time, i didn’t feel stupid about it.

୨ৎmusic playlist: wd40 door

wave to earth – bad i can't stop replaying it. the way she said my name today when she was distracted, just yunho like it was nothing. my phone's still in my hand. screen's too bright. i should sleep. i'm not gonna sleep. i know how long it takes her to text back. 3 minutes if she's busy. 30 seconds if she's not.i know her breathing changes when she's about to fall asleep on my couch. i know she touches her neck when she's nervous. i know too much. way too much. this song is so slow it makes my chest hurt. if i just don't say anything maybe it'll stop. 

mau narrator voice: it will not stop.

sza – garden she laughed at his joke. his. not mine. i was sitting right there and she was texting someone. i don't know who, i didn't look, i'm not that guy except i kind of am because my stomach did this thing. this ugly jealous thing. and i smiled. i smiled like "oh that's funny" and i wanted to throw my phone into the moon. the bass in this song sits wrong. like something heavy. lie to me, lie to me, yeah. i don't even want her to lie. i want her to look at me the way she looks at literally anyone else when they're funny. i came home and laid face-down on my bed for 20 minutes. mingi asked if i was okay. i said yeah. i'm such a liar. i'm not the chill best friend. i'm actively losing my shit on a daily basis and no one knows.

beverly – again okay so this song. this fucking song. it starts quiet, right? like you could still back out. like you could still just not say it. keep it in. stay safe. but then it builds and it's like my heart is louder than the street noise, louder than the train, louder than every single reason i have to keep my mouth shut. i listened to this on the way to buy the cards. i listened to it again while i was writing the last one. it's the streetlight song. it's the what if i just song. the moment right before i decide that losing her because i stayed quiet would be worse than losing her because i told the truth. i'm gonna do it. i'm gonna tell her. oh my god i'm gonna throw up.

josh makazo & jean seizure – sights where do i put my hands. no seriously where the fuck do i put my hands. i've looked at her a thousand times, across the table, across the couch, in the driver's seat while she picks the music, in my peripheral vision while pretending to watch movies. but now she's in front of me and i'm allowed to touch her and my brain is just. gone. static. i can hear myself breathing. that's embarrassing. she says my name and it doesn't sound like teasing. this song builds, it leans in, and that's what i'm doing. i'm leaning in. slow. trying not to rush. trying not to fuck this up. just me finally putting my hands on her after years of keeping them to myself. my mouth is so dry. i'm terrified. i'm doing it anyway.

"Why are you looking at me like that? Is there something on my face?" you asked Jongho, who couldn't stop staring at you.

He blinked, "Huh?"

"You keep looking at me," you giggle, holding your niece as she continues to babble.

"No, I wasn't," he coughed, awkwardly.

"You literally were," a grin spread across your face. "Am I really that pretty?"

Jongho rolled his eyes, "Don't even start."

You laughed softly before turning your attention back to the baby. A few minutes later, her energy slowly disappeared until she eventually curled up against your chest, and you gently rubbed her back instinctively.

Somehow, Jongho's chest suddenly felt strangely tight. He found himself imagining a baby with your smile, a little version of you. He even imagined you holding a child that belonged to both of you.

By the time dinner finally ended, he was still thinking about it. The drive home was unusually quiet, but you assumed he was just tired and didn't think much of it.

After unlocking the front door of your house, you decided to ask him, "Are you okay?"

Jongho sighed, "I'm fine."

You narrowed your eyes, "Jongho."

"What?" he glanced at you.

"What happened back there?" Your voice was gentle. You noticed him hesitating for a moment, until he finally admitted it.

"You were really good with her," he murmured, his voice was low.

"My niece?" you chuckled. You leaned against the dining table, shrugging playfully. "I guess I'm naturally gifted at melting hearts, babies just know it."

He laughed softly, "Clearly, but watching you like that, it made me think," he stopped for a second. "When's it our turn to have that kind of joy? that kind of love?"

You looked at him with an eyebrow raised in suspicion, "Our turn? Are you saying that the baby fever has finally gotten to you?"

Jongho's cheeks flushed a hint of pink, "Maybe? I thought I'd been hiding it better, but yeah—I want it.. I want a baby with you.. our little one to love."

Your smile softened as you reached over and took his hand, gently stroking your thumb over his, "That's really sweet, honey, kind of surprising coming from a guy who thought babies were loud."

He nudged you gently, "Well, I'm full of surprises, besides, I guess you could say I'm a little jealous of all those babies stealing your attention."

"I love that you want this, but how about we just take a little more time? I want to savor us, our weird late-night talks, your warm hugs, before we add a new chapter in our lives," you looked up at him.

Jongho pouted in response, "So you want to keep me waiting so you can keep stealing my hugs?"

"Absolutely," you teased with a mischievous smirk. "And maybe I like to keep you all to myself a little longer."

He laughed, "Fine, I'll wait, but only if you kiss me?"

You immediately pressed your lips to his, standing on your tiptoes as your arms found their way around his shoulders. He returned the kiss without hesitation, pulling you a little closer by the waist, craving for something more.

You pulled away softly, "Okay, let's stop this before I change my mind about this whole baby thing."

He hummed in response, "Right, right, sorry about that."

The vast city lights seemed to swallow you whole as you walked aimlessly around Tokyo. In comparison to your hometown, this was a whole new beast. The crowd of people seemed to disguise you just enough to hide the fact you were alone, but you had never felt lonelier until now. 

You watched as friends clung to one another as they stumbled from club to club. Couples holding each other tight as they window shopped. You clutched the strap of your bag to recreate the feeling. It didn’t work. 

You’ve been in Japan for three days. The trip was supposed to be a distraction from the busy life waiting for you back home. But alas, it only gave you more time to think about it. And no matter what you did, you couldn’t get him off your mind. 

The hotel was comfortable enough. Some mid-luxury franchise with a decent bar. Still, nothing compared to the feeling of falling asleep beside him. 

Let’s stop thinking about this. 

You trekked on, pushing past what seemed like millions of people. Suddenly, your phone buzzed. 

And kept buzzing.

Unknown Caller…

Normally, you’d send it to voicemail. If it were someone important, they’d leave a message. 

But something deep within you told you to answer it.

“Hello?” 

The line was quiet on the other end, but you heard the faint sound of someone clearing their throat. 

“Please don’t hang up.” 

The sound of his voice shook you to your core. Your phone nearly slipped from your hand as you glanced at the screen, just to make sure you weren’t hallucinating. 

“Jongho?” you asked, your voice shaking a little. You hated to admit it, but the sound of his voice melted something inside you. 

“The one and only, Princess,” he answered. You could hear the small smile in his voice. “Since when did you change your number? I had to ask, like, four of your friends to get this one.” 

“What?” You stifled a laugh. Of course, your friends would give him a hard time. 

“Yeah. Sana finally gave it to me after an hour-long lecture about treating you right,” he said. 

Both of you went quiet for a moment. Unsaid questions hung in the air, like you both knew the conversation had to be had eventually. You let out a long sigh. 

“So,” you paused. “Why are you calling me?” 

You could hear the gears working in his brain. Like he was trying to find the best answer to not piss you off. After all, you two weren’t on the best of terms. 

“Well, I just landed in Japan…” he trailed off. 

The world around you went quiet. The man you hadn’t seen in months just so happened to be in the same place as you. Hundreds of miles away from home. The thought made you dizzy. 

“What?” 

He chuckled lightly; you could hear the anxiety bubbling inside him. 

“Uh, yeah. I had some work to do overseas. And I had seen on your Instagram that you landed here. And… I couldn’t get you off my mind, so one thing led to another and—” 

“So you flew to Tokyo,” you finished for him. You were always good at finishing his sentences. Your eyes trailed up as you made your way to the hotel lobby. Your heart was thudding violently in your chest. 

“Well, when you put it that way, I sound crazy.” 

It was your turn to laugh. 

“Maybe you are.”

“Yeah, but only for you.” He shot back. 

His words hung heavy in the air as the memories of your past played in your head. Your time together was good, great even. Jongho always treated you right. That's what scared you the most. 

When your friends started asking when you’d get married. Saying things like “he’ll be able to take care of you,” and “You won’t need anyone else.” That's when you felt the need to run. Not because you didn’t want to be with him, but because you didn’t know how to be with him without losing yourself in the process. 

Being alone on this trip helped you realize that maybe you need his help to find yourself. That maybe Jongho, or your love, was never the problem. 

“Y/N?” his voice called, pulling you out of your trance. You stopped in the hallway outside your hotel room. 

“Jongho,” you responded, your voice barely a whisper. 

“Do you have plans tonight?” he asked. You couldn’t help but shudder. 

“No.” 

“Can I come see you? Even for just a moment?”

An hour later, Jongho was standing in front of you outside the hotel. His gaze locked with yours, so intense it felt like he was scared to look away. He was convinced that if he did, you’d disappear again. He’d never let that happen. 

You hugged him before you could think properly. Suddenly forgetting every mantra you’ve taught yourself to get over him. His arms felt like home. Jongho wasted no time wrapping you in his embrace, holding you so tight his muscles trembled slightly. 

“You actually came…” You mumbled into his chest. He laughed, gummy smile gleaming in the late night. 

“I can’t let you get away that easily,” he admitted. “You’re not something I can just give up on.” 

You sighed. 

“Even when I walked out so easily?” You asked; it sounded like you were trying to convince him to leave this time. He just shook his head. 

“You’re scared. I am too. But that doesn’t mean I’m going just to let you go.” 

“So what are you saying, Jongho?” You pressed on, finally meeting his eyes. They sparkled with adoration, like you were the one true precious thing on this earth. And to him, you were. 

“I’m saying that no matter what happens. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Your heart fluttered at his words; the familiar ache you tried so hard to get over consumed you as he held you in his arms.

Being lost in Japan was supposed to help you move on.