Welcome to Paradise

You remember the final slam of the door, a sound that had never echoed quite so loud in your apartment before. Minho’s voice, usually a calming low hum in the back of your life, had turned jagged, sharp enough to cut you. You remember calling him cruel. You remember him accusing you of never listening. And you remember the strange, awful silence that filled the air after he left, as if the very walls of your home were stunned into quiet. You hadn’t spoken since. You’d texted once, maybe twice.

“Your stuff is here. Please come get it.”
“I packed everything for you. Just let me know when.”

He’d left some shirts. A cologne you hadn’t even realized you liked until you passed by the open box and it hit you. Two books he’d meant to lend you. A hoodie you knew he wouldn’t ask for but hoped he would. You told yourself you were being strong. That he needed to know you were serious about the break up. That this wasn’t some temporary lovers spat. But somewhere deep in your chest, where the hurt hadn’t quite crusted over, you were still… waiting.

And then he knocked. You opened the door too fast. to find Minho standing there, arms crossed, hood up even though it wasn’t raining. He looked… tired. Not like he hadn’t slept, but like he hadn’t rested.

“You’ve been texting me non stop,” he said, voice flat. “Didn’t realize you were in such a rush to erase me.”

“That’s not what this is,” you answered, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t speak as he knelt down, opened a box. He laughed once. A little breath of disbelief.

"You put my shampoo in here?"

"It was in my shower."

"You could’ve just kept it."

"I didn’t want to keep anything that wasn’t mine."

He looked up at you then, and there was something bitter in the smile he gave. "Right."

You should’ve walked away. Should’ve gone to your room or the kitchen or anywhere else. But instead, you stood there, arms crossed, watching him go through memories like they were expired groceries. And then he found the hoodie. The gray one. The one you always wore when you missed him. You didn’t realize you were still wearing the matching sweatpants.

He held it up. "You wore this the night we stayed in and watched that terrible horror movie, remember?"

"Yeah."

"And you spilled wine on it and tried to pretend it was part of the design."

You smiled despite yourself. "It looked like blood splatter. Very on brand."

His laugh was quieter this time. He picked up the lighter of the two boxes and turned toward the door. You thought he was leaving. You should’ve let him leave. Instead, you said, “Do you want water or something?”

His footsteps halted. His back tensed slightly. You waited. He set the box down again.

“I’m not staying,” he said. But he didn’t leave.

You brought him water anyway. You both sat on opposite ends of the couch. It was weird. As if the couch itself didn’t remember what it had been like to hold you both at once. As if it was trying to keep you from touching.

“I’m sorry about…” you started.

“Don’t,” he said, cutting you off.

Your fingers curled into the hem of your hoodie. “Okay.”

But then it happened. He leaned over, his fingers brushing yours when you handed him the glass. A charge moved between you, electric, terrifying. You looked up, startled by the intensity in his eyes. Your breath caught. Something shifted. You don’t know who moved first. But suddenly, his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t desperate, not at first. It was hesitant, exploratory like muscle memory was kicking in but your mind hadn’t caught up. Then his hand was on your hip, and yours were fisting the front of his hoodie. His tongue swept your lower lip and then it turned hungry. The kind of kiss you hadn’t tasted since before the shouting, before the sharp words and slammed doors. Somehow, you ended up in your bedroom.

His hands were under your shirt before you remembered what this was supposed to be. You gasped his name and he paused, hovering over you, chest heaving. You should’ve told him to leave. Instead, you pulled him closer. It was softer than it should have been. Angrier, maybe, in the way he kissed your neck like he missed it. Gentler, in how he tugged off your clothes like they were breakable things. The way he praised you. The way his voice cracked when he said your name in the dark.

When it was over, you were both breathless. Your chest was pressed against his. His fingers were drawing idle patterns against your shoulder. You stared at the ceiling, your throat too tight to speak.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you said after a long silence. You didn’t sound convinced. He didn’t say anything. You told yourself it was just closure. But he stayed the night.

And when you woke up to him making coffee in your kitchen, wearing nothing but boxers and a sleepy smile, you said it was a one time thing, again. He didn’t argue. He just walked up to you, kissed your shoulder, and asked if you wanted pancakes.

You said it wouldn’t happen again. But it did. Of course it did. It wasn’t every night. Just some. He’d come over with some excuse, a hoodie he “forgot,” or his wallet, or to drop off a random coffee you’d mentioned you missed. And then one of you would kiss the other. Or maybe not. Maybe he’d just look at you and you’d know. Maybe you’d just open the door, and it would already be happening.

You told your friends it was civil. That you were handling the break up like adults. That you were proud of how mature you both were being.

They didn’t believe you.

Not when you still showed up to hangouts in his oversized shirt. Not when Minho still made you tea without asking how you liked it. Not when he picked a piece of lint from your hair like you were his. Not when you absentmindedly massaged his wrist when he said it was sore, your fingers curling around his like you hadn’t let go yet.

And it wasn’t just the little things. He still made you laugh the way only he could. Still wiped sauce from the corner of your mouth with a thumb. Still let you rest your head on his shoulder during late night movie nights at your mutual friend’s place. Still wore his hoodies when you slept at his place. You’d still shower together. He’d lather your hair, rinse you off, kiss your shoulder. After, he’d brush your hair like he used to, fingers gentle, like you’d break if he pulled too hard. Still loved you, maybe. Or maybe that’s just what you wanted to believe.

—

It was supposed to be a group thing. Drinks at a friend’s place. Light hearted, post breakup, post drama, whatever. You’d arrived separately, on purpose. You were trying to create space. You were trying not to want him. But the moment you saw Minho across the room, your resolve wavered.

He looked good, too good. Hair pushed back, lips curled in that charming, arrogant smile. You told yourself to look away, but he caught your gaze and smirked like he knew.

You tried to avoid sitting near him, but the universe had other plans. When someone left their seat, he moved in beside you like gravity. His arm draped behind your chair again, the way it always used to. Your body responded before your mind did, heart quickening, your shoulder brushing his. You laughed at something someone said. He leaned in to whisper something about how cute you looked when you snorted mid laugh. You smacked his shoulder and he grinned. Your chest swelled. You excused yourself to the bathroom. You weren’t gone long. But long enough. As you came back, you caught the tail end of the conversation. Your name was mentioned, so you slowed your steps.

"…so what’s really going on with you two?" Your friend asked curiously, knowingly.

Minho scoffed almost bitterly.

"Please. That shit’s over. I couldn’t deal with her anymore, man."

Laughter. Not from all of them. A few awkward chuckles. Someone asked something else but you didn’t hear it. You were frozen. Ice in your veins. The humiliation poured over you like cold water.

You walked back like nothing happened. You smiled like nothing cracked.You slid back into your seat, and Minho casually slipped his arm behind your chair again. Your smile didn't reach your eyes. It wasn’t even a moment later when you yawned.

“I’m beat,” you lied.

"You sure? I was gonna walk you back," Minho said, so casually, so comfortably, as if nothing cruel had slipped out of his mouth minutes before.

"I’m good," you replied, already grabbing your jacket.

He looked confused, you didn’t look back.

—

You made it home with a huff that sounded too close to a sob. The hallway light flickered, the one Minho always said he’d fix when he lived here. You never did fix it. You just let it buzz and die slowly, like most things these days.

You kicked off your shoes harder than necessary. Your coat landed somewhere near the chair but didn’t quite make it. Your apartment was dim, quiet, and smelled like the candle he always lit after your showers. It still burned on your dresser.

You turned it off.

You didn’t want to cry but your body didn’t get the memo. Your makeup remover pad came away darker than usual, mascara and eyeliner smudged by something more than the night’s wear and tear. You exhaled shakily, pressing your palms against the edge of the sink.

“Get it together,” you whispered to your reflection.

Your skin was flushed, your eyes glassy. You looked like someone trying too hard to be okay.

You went through your skincare motions like a robot, serum, moisturizer, lip balm all muscle memory. You tried not to think about the way Minho used to tease you for the number of steps, or how he’d sometimes sit on the bathroom counter, swinging his legs, asking questions like “What does that one do? Can I try?”

You tried not to think at all.

You were brushing your teeth when your phone lit up. A notification buzzed across the screen, and you glanced at it mid rinse. Toothbrush still hanging from your mouth, foam threatening to drip down your chin, your eyes widened.

You’ve got a new match!

For a second, you blinked confused. Then remembered. The dating apps.

A few days after your break-up, your best friends had rallied around you, wine glasses in hand, practically shoving your phone into your hands while screaming about “getting back out there.” It had all been laughter and half joking swipes while you were still aching and numb. You hadn’t even opened the app again since then. Not seriously.

Your mom, of all people, had said something too, which surprised you more than the friends.

"Maybe talk to someone new. Even if it's nothing serious. Sometimes… it helps just to be seen again."

You didn’t believe her at the time but here you were, blinking at the name on your phone, drool of toothpaste forgotten.

Chris.

You clicked the profile and nearly choked because he was hot.

The first picture was him grinning in golden hour sunlight, arm slung around a taller friend. The second was a gym mirror selfie, shirtless, abs sculpted like something out of a movie. Another photo with a dog, tongue out, both of them smiling. Then one more with the same dog, Chris laughing while being tackled to the grass, eyes crinkling, dimples.

You had no right to be so intrigued tonight, not with the way your heart still thudded unevenly from Minho’s words. But then another notification buzzed.

Chris: Do you believe in love at first swipe, or should I unmatch and try again?

You stared then laughed. Toothbrush still in your mouth, the sound muffled and ridiculous, but genuine. You rinsed quickly, wiped your mouth, and before you could convince yourself not to, you replied.

You: That was terrible. Try again.

The three little dots appeared almost immediately.

Chris: Harsh critic. Alright, how about… If you were a vegetable, you’d be a cute-cumber.

You: Worse. Wow.

Chris: Okay okay, last one. I’m not a photographer, but I can picture us together.

You rolled your eyes, but your grin lingered.

You: That’s it. You’re going to jail.

Chris: Worth it.

You didn’t mean to text him all night. It just… happened. The conversation flowed effortlessly, funny, flirty, with none of the heaviness that usually sat between you and anyone lately. He didn’t feel like a distraction, exactly. More like a pause. A breath of air between all the suffocating moments.

You learned that he had recently moved back to the city. Loved dogs, coffee, and night drives. He asked you questions. About your favorite meals. Whether you liked thunderstorms. If you could time travel, where would you go? Minho never asked you stuff like that, not lately.

Your phone buzzed again around 2:17 AM. This time, it wasn’t Chris.

Minho: You awake?

Minho: Can I come over?

You stared at the screen, heartbeat twisting. His name still lit up your phone in that same familiar font, like it had every day for years. His texts always came late. Especially when something was wrong. Especially when he was lonely.

Especially when he knew you’d say yes. But you didn’t open the message. You didn’t reply.

Maybe you forgot. Maybe you didn’t want to. Maybe Chris sent another message right after that made you snort laugh under your breath and it pulled you just far enough away from the spiral to leave Minho on read for once.

It was strange. Lying in bed, blanket up to your chin, grinning like an idiot at some guy you barely knew while your ex waited for a reply in the dark.

You felt guilty. But not enough to stop, not tonight.

You typed one last reply to Chris before your eyes finally began to close.

You: Fine. You get one more pun. Make it count.

Chris: You must be WiFi because I’m feeling a connection.

You fell asleep with a soft laugh and your phone still in your hand. Minho never got a reply.

—

You woke up with a faint ache behind your eyes and a strange, fluttering calm in your chest.

The ache was familiar, it lived in the space Minho used to fill, in the parts of you that curled tightly around hope even when you knew better. The flutter, though? That was new. That was Chris.

Your phone screen lit up as soon as you rolled over, and your tired eyes blinked blearily through the brightness of the early morning.

Chris: Good morning, gorgeous 🌞 I hope your dreams were as sweet as your terrible pun rating.

You stared at the message for a long beat, cheeks warming. You weren’t used to waking up to anything other than silence or Minho's rushed apologies after a bad night. You pulled the blanket tighter over your shoulders, stifling a smile.

You: They were. And I stand by my ratings, your honor.

You didn’t expect him to already be awake, but three dots appeared almost instantly.

Chris: So what I’m hearing is… I have to impress you in person?

Your heart paused then raced. You didn’t know what to say, not because you didn’t want to, but because the timing was never on your side. Because Chris was new, gentle, uncomplicated. And you were… a mess of tangled sheets and tangled feelings for someone who slept in your bed and still called himself your ex.

Chris: Want to go on a date?

You barely had time to register the blush rising in your cheeks when a sharp knock echoed through your apartment. Three soft raps. A pause. Then two more. You froze. Because you knew that knock. Minho.

Your grip tightened around the phone. Another knock. Then his voice, muted but clear through the door.

“Hey, I brought you breakfast.”

You swallowed hard. Your eyes drifted back to your phone, the still open message from Chris staring back at you like a fork in the road.

Want to go on a date?

Minho knocked again. You moved before you could think, thumb hovering over your phone, but instead of answering, you turned off the screen, threw it on your counter, and padded to the door.

He stood there in a hoodie and joggers, paper bag in one hand, iced coffee in the other. His hair was still damp from a shower, pushed back like he had actually tried.

“Hi,” he said simply, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. You didn’t return it. Still, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek like it was normal. Like this was normal.

“I brought the egg sandwich you like,” he added, lifting the bag slightly like a peace offering. You stepped aside wordlessly and let him in. He made himself at home like always. Tossed his keys onto your counter, toed off his sneakers, and opened your fridge like he had the right.

You stood there, stiff, arms crossed. When he noticed you hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, he turned. His smile faded.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, brow creasing.

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

He took a slow step toward you. “You sure?”

When you didn’t respond, he reached out, fingers brushing your chin, gently coaxing your eyes to meet his.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“I heard you.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Last night, Minho,” you said quietly, words sharper now. “When I went to the bathroom. You told them you couldn’t deal with me anymore.”

He flinched, like the words physically hit him. “Y/N…”

“You didn’t know I was there, and I get that,” you continued, stepping back, away from his touch. “But… that was cruel, Minho.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, voice low. “I just… I didn’t want to make it obvious, okay? I didn’t want them asking questions. I wasn’t ready to—”

“To admit we were still sleeping together?” you finished for him.

He sighed heavily. “To admit I didn’t know what we were anymore.”

You crossed your arms again, blinking against the burn in your eyes. Minho looked exhausted. And not just in the literal sense, though there were dark circles under his eyes that hadn’t been there a month ago. He looked emotionally drained.

“I wasn’t trying to be mean,” he said after a beat. “I was trying to protect whatever this is.”

“This?” you echoed bitterly.

“Us,” he said, softer now. “I just wanted to talk to you first before I told anyone anything. Because I don’t know how to explain it. Because I don’t even know what to call it.”

“You didn’t have to lie,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“You didn’t have to make me feel like I meant nothing.”

He looked like he’d been punched.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quiet. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear.”

You stared at him for a long time because art of you understood. The part that remembered all the times you’d struggled to define what you meant to each other even after the break up. The part that remembered that look in his eyes every time he touched you, like you were still his, even if he refused to say it out loud. But another part of you? The part that woke up smiling because of someone else? That part was tired of being in limbo. Minho reached out again, brushing his thumb across your bottom lip. He leaned in, slow and familiar, pressing a kiss to your lips like an apology. You didn’t kiss him back, but you didn’t stop him either.

When he pulled away, you looked down, eyes on the paper bag he placed on the counter.

“Eat,” he said quietly. “I know you don’t eat breakfast unless I bring it.”

You didn’t correct him. He turned to grab napkins from the drawer, his back facing you.

Your phone buzzed again, the sound was deafening. Your breath caught in your throat as you reached under your pillow and pulled it out. The screen lit up.

Chris: Hey.. is that a no?

You stared. The bubble of emotion in your throat grew so tight it almost choked you. You looked at Minho, still turned away, humming softly as he reached for your coffee. He wasn’t your boyfriend. He wasn’t even your friend. He was something in between, completely undefined and painful. You looked back down at your phone and your thumbs moved before your heart could stop them.

You: No. It doesn’t mean no.

You: Yes. I’d love to go on a date.

—

There was something almost cruel about the sunlight that morning, the way it poured through your windows so effortlessly, soft and golden, like it didn’t know you were preparing to shatter something that still felt halfway whole.

Minho was lying in your bed, shirtless, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, one arm tucked under his head. He looked entirely at ease. Like he belonged there like nothing about this moment was unusual. You, on the other hand, were anything but at ease.

You stood near the mirror, your closet wide open, one hand brushing absently through the hangers like your mind wasn’t a thousand miles away. Your body was here, in the room with Minho. But your thoughts were tangled in anticipation, in guilt, in the newness of what was coming.

Your date with Chris was in a few days.

You weren’t even sure what you were going to wear. And that’s what started it, just a stupid attempt to plan ahead and distract yourself. Something to fill the silence but it wasn’t silent.

Minho watched you. Not obviously, not in a way that demanded attention but his eyes flicked toward you every few seconds, trailing the length of your back, the curve of your shoulder, the way your hand hovered too long over a hanger without really seeing it.

“You’ve been standing there for ten minutes,” he said finally, voice still scratchy from sleep. “What are you doing?”

You swallowed hard, your reflection didn’t offer any answers.

“Just… looking,” you replied vaguely, eyes still glued to your wardrobe.

He stretched, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “What, trying to seduce me with one of your old date night dresses?”

You laughed nervously. “Hardly.”

He sat up fully now, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Need help choosing something to wear for... whatever it is you’re looking for?”

You hesitated. Just a second. But it was long enough. He stood and walked up behind you, arms looping loosely around your waist like it was second nature like he hadn’t called you too much to handle just a few days ago. You stiffened slightly. Minho didn’t notice or maybe he did, and he just didn’t care.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “You planning to break more hearts today?”

You stared at the dresses in front of you, the silence between his words and your answer stretching too long. He chuckled lightly when you didn’t respond. “What about this one?” he asked, tugging gently at a familiar hanger.

You froze. It was that dress, the one from your first anniversary. The lace one, soft ivory, delicate straps, and far too much skin. You had worn it with shaking hands and a shy smile, and Minho had looked at you like he couldn’t breathe the whole night. He held it up now, eyebrows raised. “Still fits you, I bet.”

Your breath hitched, fingers curling into the edge of your closet.

“You should try it on,” he said, smirking. “For old times’ sake.”

You turned to look at him, chest tightening. His eyes were warm, playful, unaware of the storm behind yours.

You should tell him. You had to tell him.

You couldn’t keep playing pretend. Not when you were one step away from building something new with someone who actually wanted to know you, not just have you. Your voice was barely above a whisper when you said it.

“I have a date.”

Minho blinked and his smile faltered.

“…What?”

You cleared your throat and lifted your chin a little, forcing the truth past the lump in your throat.

“I have a date with someone.”

His arms slowly dropped from your waist. He took a step back. The air in the room thickened. You turned to face him now, fully, because you owed him that even if you didn’t owe him anything.

“I was going to tell you,” you said quickly. “I just didn’t know how.”

Minho stared at you like you’d slapped him.

His jaw tensed, hand twitching slightly as he glanced away. “When?”

“When what?” you asked gently.

“When were you going to tell me? Before or after you let me crawl into your bed again?”

The words landed like a slap. You stepped back instinctively. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” he snapped, “you know what’s not fair? You letting me think—” He cut himself off, jaw clenched. “Never mind.”

“I didn’t let you think anything, Minho,” you said, more forcefully now. “We said this wasn’t anything. We said we were just—whatever this is. You said it didn’t mean anything.”

“Yeah, I know what I said,” he muttered, bitter. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t think—” He stopped again, eyes flashing. “Who is he?”

You hesitated.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t.”

“His name’s Chris,” you said finally. “We’ve been talking for a few days.”

Minho scoffed, turning around, grabbing his phone and wallet off your nightstand with too much force. You watched him with a sinking heart, the room colder than it had been moments before.

“Are you upset?” you asked softly.

He turned halfway toward you, eyes narrowed, disbelieving. “Are you seriously asking me that right now?”

“I need to know.”

“Of course I’m fucking upset!” he said, voice louder now. “You’re telling me you’ve been planning dates while I’m sleeping in your bed like some idiot who didn’t know he was being replaced.”

You stepped forward, defensive now. “You’re the one who said we weren’t anything.”

“Yeah, and you believed me?” he snapped. “After everything?”

“You made me believe you.”

He didn’t say anything else, he just grabbed his keys and left. No goodbye and no door slam.

You sat on the edge of your bed long after he left, the dress still in your hands. You looked down at it. And then slowly, almost absentmindedly, let it slip off the hanger and fall to the floor.

—

It was a rainy afternoon. The kind that painted the world gray and quiet, damp with things left unsaid. You hadn’t heard from Minho in two days.

Not since the argument, not since you chose someone else for the first time in… years. You’d spent the morning alone, curled on your couch, half ignoring your phone, half waiting for it to buzz but it didn’t. Not from him. Chris had sent a good morning text. You hadn’t replied. You couldn’t, not with your thoughts still caught in the chaos that Minho left behind. You didn’t cancel the date. But you hadn’t confirmed it either. Everything was suspended in that same space Minho always left you in.

Your doorbell rang just after three. You hadn’t ordered anything. You weren’t expecting anyone.

You rose slowly, already knowing.

Minho stood outside your door, hoodie soaked, hair pushed back by the rain. His expression was unreadable. He didn’t meet your eyes.

“Forgot my charger,” he muttered.

His voice was dull like he was trying hard not to feel anything. You stood aside to let him in. He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t even look at you. He walked in like a stranger who’d been here too many times.

He grabbed the charger off your coffee table where it had been sitting for days. You hadn’t moved it. You watched him turn toward the door, fingers closing around his things like he was already halfway gone.

Your chest tightened.

“Minho,” you said, grabbing his arm. “Can we talk?”

He stopped but he didn’t turn. He scoffed under his breath. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Your heart cracked, your fingers slipped away from his sleeve. “You can’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he said flatly.

You let out a bitter laugh. “You’re mad. And you can’t be. We’re not together.”

He laughed too but it wasn’t humor, it was pain, devastation.

“You’re right. We’re not.”

He shook his head once, and you could feel it, the door between you both slamming shut.

He turned ready to go again. Your voice cracked when you spoke.

“What was I supposed to do, Minho? Wait for you to finally decide you wanted to be with me again? Instead of just using me whenever it was convenient for you?”

That stopped him, he turned slowly back to you, eyes dark.

“Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t even try to say that.”

“Why not?” you snapped, stepping toward him. “We weren’t together, right? But you still came over. You still kissed me like I was yours. You still slept in my bed and made me breakfast and touched me like—like we hadn’t fallen apart.”

His voice was sharper now. “You did the same damn thing.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“You called me too,” he said, stepping forward. “You came over. You spent the night. You let me hold you. We didn’t just fuck, and you know it. We weren’t together, fine, but we weren’t strangers either.”

“But you never said anything!” you shouted. “Not once. You never said you wanted more. You never gave me anything to hold on to.”

He stared at you, chest heaving.

“So what?” he asked bitterly. “That gave you the green light to start texting someone else? While I was in your bed?”

“I didn’t plan for this!” you shouted back. “I didn’t want this to happen.”

“Who is he?” Minho demanded, stepping closer.

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, eyes shining. “I’m canceling the date.”

He scoffed. “Oh, so now you’re canceling it? Because I found out?”

Your mouth opened. But no words came out.

His voice was lower now, bitter. “Does he even know we were fucking while you were texting him?”

You flinched.

“Minho—”

“This whole time,” he went on, shaking his head. “This whole fucking time, you were giving pieces of yourself to someone else while pretending like I was the only one.”

“And what were you doing?” you snapped, hurt bleeding into anger. “Keeping me close so I wouldn’t move on? Feeding me crumbs of affection so I’d stay right here while you figured your shit out?”

“Don’t turn this on me.”

“Then just go,” you whispered, voice trembling. “This conversation is going nowhere.”

He stared at you, eyes narrowed, breathing uneven.

“You’re right,” he muttered. “It’s going nowhere. Because of you.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide, chest rising and falling in time with his.

“Because of me?” you echoed.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between you. His eyes flicked down to your lips.

“I wanted to tell you,” he said, voice low and rough. “But I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to scare you off. I didn’t want to ruin what we had, even if it was broken.”

Your breath hitched.

“I was waiting,” you whispered. “I just didn’t know how long I could.”

His eyes searched yours, anger, pain, desire, everything tangled. Then suddenly, without warning, he grabbed your face and kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow. It was bruising, desperate. Like he needed to feel something other than the ache in his chest.

Your back hit the wall with a thud. He pressed against you, hands on your waist, your hair, your face, like he couldn’t choose where to touch first.

Your fingers clawed at his hoodie, pulling it over his head.

He groaned against your mouth, sliding his hands beneath your shirt, pushing it up, kissing down your neck. His lips found the spot he always claimed, the curve below your jaw and you gasped. You should’ve stopped but you didn’t. Clothes came off in frantic pulls. His hands on your thighs, your hips, your ribs. Your nails dragging down his back. His mouth devouring every breath you gave him.

This was everything that had been simmering for weeks. Months even. He buried himself in you like he was trying to forget the last 48 hours like he was trying to remind you that no one else knew you the way he did.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and skin, and the sound of your breathing filled the room like an unspoken plea.

Your legs were shaking, arms braced against his chest, hair clinging to your neck. You were still moving, slow and desperate, your hips rocking into him like every thrust could silence the argument you’d just had like it could stitch together what your words had torn apart.

Minho lay beneath you, flushed and trembling, his hands gripping your waist too tight like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers if he loosened them for even a second.

He was panting, mouth parted, eyes glassy and unreadable.

You moved slowly, hips rolling with a purpose neither of you could put into words, like you were trying to say everything your mouths had been too afraid to.

“Fuck—” his voice cracked, high and broken. “I’m so mad at you.”

The words punched through the silence.

Your breath stuttered. A whimper fell from his throat, like he hated himself for saying it. You leaned down, kissing his jaw, your forehead pressed to his temple, and whispered through a quiet moan, “I know.”

He gasped, choked on the sound and pulled you down, arms wrapping tight around your back, holding you like something fragile. His mouth found your shoulder, then your throat, like he needed to feel you everywhere at once.

You didn’t know if he was trying to ruin you or remember you. You didn’t know if you were trying to disappear or stay. Every time you moved, his hands chased your skin. Every time you leaned in, he kissed you harder, messier, more desperate.

“I hate this,” he whispered against your neck, hips pushing up into yours in time with his words.

You clenched your eyes shut, breath catching. “I know.”

He held you so tightly you thought you might bruise.

“I hate you,” he said again but he kissed you like he never wanted to stop. Your lips met again, open mouthed and aching. He kissed you like he meant to fight you, like the only way he could survive the pain was to sink deeper into it.

You didn’t know what he meant anymore. His words and actions twisted together like they were at war with each other, and you were just caught in the middle.

Somewhere between the rhythm and the rage, you both came undone, tangled in a mess of moans and aching need, his name falling from your lips like it still meant home, your body collapsing against his like it didn’t know how to rest anywhere else. After, the room quickly fell quiet again. Only the sound of your breathing lingered, soft, steady, like the storm had finally passed. You lay against his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your back.

Neither of you moved for a long time. There was something sacred in the stillness.

“Do you still want to see him?”

You sat up slightly, eyes meeting his. He didn’t sound angry anymore.

You swallowed. “No. I didn’t go.”

“I know.”

He looked away, staring at the ceiling like it held answers.

“I knew the second I saw you again. You looked guilty.”

“I was.”

A long pause. Then, softly, “Why did you want to go in the first place?”

“Because what you said them really messed me up.”

He looked at you now. Your eyes were glassy, your lips trembling. And for the first time in a while, you weren’t trying to hide it. His face crumpled, guilt flashing across it like lightning.

You looked down at the sheets, your voice lower now. “And I think something in me broke a little that night. I didn’t want to move on exactly… but I wanted to remember what it felt like to be wanted. To not feel like some secret you were ashamed of.”

Minho didn’t say anything right away then he sat up, slowly, his hand finding yours beneath the blanket.

“You weren’t disposable,” he said quietly. “You’ve never been disposable.”

You didn’t look at him.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “I panicked. I didn’t want them to know we were still seeing each other because I didn’t know what we were. I wasn’t sure if you even wanted to be anything again. I thought if I told them… it would make things real. And that scared me.”

You blinked through the tears that threatened to fall.

“You made me feel like I didn’t matter.”

“I know,” he said, voice small. “And I hate that.”

Another long silence stretched between you, heavy and sharp.

“But you do,” he whispered. “You matter so much to me that I didn’t know what to do with it. So I did the dumbest thing I could.”

You laughed bitterly, wiping your face. “You really did.”

He smiled, faintly. “Yeah.”

You finally looked at him and for the first time in a long time, there was no wall between you just the echo of everything left unspoken.

“You still don’t know what you want, do you?” you asked softly.

He looked down then back at you.

“I want you.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

“You say that now,” you said, voice trembling. “But what about tomorrow?”

He leaned forward, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“Then I’ll say it tomorrow, too.”

—

You didn’t know how long you’d been lying there, skin still warm, limbs tangled beneath the sheets, Minho’s chest rising and falling beneath your cheek in a rhythm so familiar it threatened to undo you. The room smelled like him again.

You weren’t sure how it happened, this shift from chaos to quiet. From screaming to silence. From “I hate you” to his fingers stroking gently up and down your spine like you were something precious. Something his.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured suddenly.

You looked up at him, blinking. “Which part?”

“That I see you.” His hand curled around your waist, pulling you just a little closer. “I’ve always seen you. I just… I was scared. You scared me.”

You smiled faintly, sadness still lingering at the corners of your lips. “Scared of what?”

“Of how much I wanted you.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “Of what it would mean if I admitted it out loud.”

He turned slightly, his nose brushing against your temple before his lips pressed a soft, lingering kiss there. Then one to your cheek. Then your jaw. And finally, your mouth. The kiss was gentle. So unlike the way he kissed you hours earlier, frantic, needy, angry. This one tasted like something else like an apology. You smiled against his lips, and when you pulled away, and when he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his voice was low.

“Can I do that in public now?” he asked. “Kiss you?”

You blinked, heart skipping. You nodded.

He kissed you again, this time deeper, firmer, his hand cradling your jaw like he was grounding himself in the answer. Like he wanted to feel it in your mouth, not just your words.

You melted into him, smiling against his lips. There was no pressure behind the kiss. No unfinished argument. No resentment.

Then your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Once. Twice. A third time.

Minho stilled beneath you, lips just barely grazing yours now. He didn’t say anything at first. Just turned his head, eyes narrowing at the screen behind you. You didn’t have to look to know who it was. The timing was too perfect and too cruel.

You shifted to sit up slightly, but Minho reached for it before you could. Your reflexes kicked in. You moved to grab it from him, but his hand caught yours mid reach.

His eyes met yours, sharp and unreadable. You froze.

“Minho—”

He gave you a serious look that made you stop moving.

“I’m not hiding anything,” you said honestly, “but I don’t want you to see my messages with him.”

“Him,” he repeated. His jaw ticked.

You sighed. “Chris.”

His eyes darkened.

“That is hiding something,” he said sharply, phone still in his hand. You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Minho, seriously?”

“You’d want to see my messages with some girl?” he shot back. You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“Exactly,” he muttered, unlocking your phone before you could stop him.

You flopped onto your back with a frustrated groan. “Fine. You want to see? Go ahead. Scroll your heart out.”

“Why do you still have the app anyway?” he asked, frowning at your home screen.

“I haven’t touched it since before our fight,” you said, exasperated. “I was going to delete it.”

“Uh-huh.”

He opened the dating app with an exaggerated sigh and started scrolling. You rolled your eyes and settled beside him, watching as he clicked into your profile. His lips curled slightly at your pictures.

“This is the one you chose?” he muttered, tapping your mirror selfie. “I took this one. You’re literally wearing my hoodie.”

You giggled. “Yeah, I know.”

His brows lifted. “You were out here catching matches in my hoodie?”

You shrugged, grinning. “It’s a good hoodie.”

He grumbled something under his breath before moving to your messages. He didn’t need to scroll long before he landed on the thread with Chris.

The silence in the room thickened again. Minho tapped it and Opened it. His expression changed in real time.

The first thing he saw was Chris’s profile photo. a shirtless gym mirror selfie, muscles flexed, smile cocky. Minho scoffed loudly.

“Oh, come on. Seriously? This is him?”

You glanced over at your screen and stifled a laugh. “Yeah. That’s Chris.”

Minho scoffed. “Of course his name is Chris.”

You rolled your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He zoomed in on one of Chris’s shirtless gym selfies and groaned. “Oh my God, this guy—”

“Minho.”

He ignored you.

“‘Do you believe in love at first swipe, or should I unmatch and try again?’ Are you kidding me?”

You laughed into your hand. He kept scrolling, muttering curse words under his breath. “Who even says shit like this? Who sends selfies at the gym during a conversation?”

He reached the part where Chris said, "You’ve got the kind of smile that makes people fall."

Minho huffed. “Cocky fucking asshole.”

You giggled louder now, pulling the blanket over your mouth. “I told you not to look.”

His jaw ticked. His thumb hovered over the screen like he was tempted to type something or chuck the phone across the room. Instead, he threw it gently to the side, onto the mattress with an irritated thump.

You grinned. “Jealous?”

He turned toward you slowly. His expression was still sour. “Of course I’m jealous.”

You bit your lip, crawling toward him again, slipping between his legs, settling over his lap, hands on either side of his face. “But you’re the one in my bed right now.”

That softened him instantly. His hands gripped your thighs, his expression cracking with something warmer, gentler.

“And tomorrow?” he asked quietly. “Will I still be?”

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and full of something neither of you had been brave enough to say yet. When you pulled away, you rested your forehead against his.

“That depends on whether or not you kiss me in front of other people.”

He chuckled, chest rumbling beneath you. “I’ll kiss you everywhere if it means you delete that stupid app, delete your account and never text this Chris guy ever again.”

You giggled, brushing your nose against his. “Deal.”

You both lay there for a moment longer, the tension fully melted now. His fingers traced lazy lines across your back. You finally felt like you were breathing again.

Not as his ex. Just his.

//

masterlist.

❌proofread

a/n: my last post for this year! thank you for the memories in 2025. words cannot describe how grateful i am for each and everyone who reads & interacts with my posts/fics. i appreciate all of you. i hope you can all stick around for next year, i don’t know what i have planned but i know there’s a lot of unfinished fics i shall complete soon. thank you, again. ily. if anyone has plans for the new year, please be safe! <3