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PAIRING. Lee Minho x implied! fem. reader | TROPE. KCSI! au (Korean Crime Scene Investigator), angst, thriller, forced proximity, enemies to lovers, coworkers! au, slow burn, fluff, thriller, crime! au | PLAYLIST. | WORD COUNT. 11.3k ⭑ 55min read | WARNINGS. mentions of death/killing, guns, a murder takes place, talk of autopsy/torture, reader is injured, sedatives used, kidnapping, cursing
SYNOPSIS. For almost thirty years, murder after murder has been solved seamlessly by the KCSI. Homicides, poisonings, assaults. But when that three decade streak meets its match on a particular case involving a wealthy politician, hired assassinations, and paid silence, you’re forced to pair up with your know-it-all team leader, Lee Minho, wondering if this will be the first crime left unsolved.
AUG'S NOTES. so excited to release my first piece of the autumn season! hopefully i didn’t drone on forever in this, i’m a sucker for anything crime/thriller. please enjoy my beloved softie mimo and tell me what you think!! love you all, thank you for so much support<3
CASE FILE — ( 📁 )
Panicked breathing sounds from the wriggling body, taut, mouth duck-taped shut. They scream, but it’s soundless, and no one will hear them here.
The man, wielding a knife in one hand while a plastic clown mask conceals his identity, inches closer, lips drawn into a sadistically delighted smile.
This is the hunt. His favorite part of this twisted game. His twisted game.
He lets them move, if only a few centimeters, away from him. Lets them experience that fleeting chance of hope.
Except, the human body is a cruel, cruel vessel that can only travel so far before it gets exhausted. And lucky for them, he’s there to put their exhausted self to rest.
For good.
“Yeesh, I’m feeling that breakfast burrito comin’ up,” Han Jisung comments from beside you, flashlight shining on the corpse ahead, expression contorted into disgust.
“Good thing I didn’t eat when I got the call,” You mutter, the half mortified boy cringing as more members of the unit step forward, capturing photos before the scene is uprooted.
After all, Igor Hill—with a tunnel built inside just below the road—was a daily passageway for school kids, meaning each second spent here was a ticking time bomb, scrambling to collect as much evidence as possible before traversing destroys what’s currently untouched.
Left waiting, you allow other members of the scene documentation team to take charge after the coroner left before stepping in to investigate yourself, your job being collecting samples for Trace.
“And to think Bahng’s out for his kid’s ballet recital, talk about a one-eighty.”
It’s hard not to chuckle when Han brings up KCSI’s Supervisor, nodding in agreement. The world of crime isn’t to be underestimated; like some sort of double life behind a wall of periwinkle fantasy.
Evil will always exist, an explanation as to how the Korean Crime Scene Investigation team came to be in the first place.
“..Let’s just hope seeing a tutu will help burn those images from your eyes.”
Mere moments later does Jeongin pipe up, currently on his half a year mark interning and proving himself more than viable on both field and lab work.
Han, on the other hand, is still getting adjusted to the stench of a decomp, taking plentiful breaks a ways from the scene whilst the shutter of cameras lights the otherwise darkened tunnel.
“You’re on evidence today too, Miss Y/N?”
And polite as ever. The team’s sweetheart, in summary.
Your nod suffices, offering a meager smile before beckoning him by your side as Hyunjin and Seungmin step away, checking in with a lingering Minho—team leader and occasional asshole—with cleared sketches and physical evidence captured to be logged before your section steps in.
Truth be told, you had thought the man was out for you that first year on your job; always critiquing your work, triple-checking the basics he only double-checked for others. A higher standard only applying to you, and downright vicious.
In easier terms: a stark pain in the ass.
Worst part? He’s team leader, meaning there’s no way you can not run into him.
Getting warrants, finding leads. It all ties back to Lee Minho.
As for right now, hundreds of photos have been taken, all to be sent back to the lab and carefully handled by forensics for prints.
“How’s the field treating you?” Your voice cuts in, gloved hand venturing through the victim’s pockets in search of identification. An action simultaneously silencing the maelstrom of thoughts rushing through your head and calming the itch to flip that self-righteous jerk—whose eyes are currently boring into your back where he leans against the car—off.
In front of you, Jeongin’s heavy sigh expresses the words he can’t say. Glancing up while bagging lingering hairs for Trace, the quirk of his brow asks a silent: ‘Any luck?’. Responding with a miniature shake of your head, you opt for squatting to begin upon seemingly endless cargo pants pockets.
Aha.
“‘Guess our killer didn’t care too much for identification of the body.” A click of your tongue, haphazardly wetting your lips whilst lifting the retrieved wallet up to your flashlight.
Jeongin assists in snapping a photo.
“Yoon Bo-gum. Asian male, born January 17th, 2001. South Korean citizen, 182 centimeters in height.”
Jeongin whistles, sucking in a sharp breath. Sympathy paints his features while you extend the ID, the man slow to take it in hand.
“Just turned twenty-four.. damn.”
True enough, the anguish is shared. Because no matter the day, hour, minute, cruelty will exist in the most ugly of forms. Live exhibitions of foul intent taken to the next level.
“Tape on the wrists, mouth. Eyes lift uncovered.”
Speaking helps not only for your recollection, but to ward off the nausea building in the back of your throat.
No matter how many cases you work, it never feels as if you’re prepared enough to witness a homicide.
“Says the killer was a masochist,” Jeongin piques, tongue poking at his cheek in contemplation. “Either the killer knew he was gonna whack the guy, or was psycho enough he wanted the victim-“
A glance back to the ID.
“—wanted Bo-gum to see it.”
A heavy exhale through your nose staunches mortification from dizzying your head.
“Only bodily fluids found were urine, likely due to state of panic. As for cause of death, we’ll get a preliminary C.O.D from Seungmin in autopsy. But right now-“
Busying your hands with unbuttoning the victim’s jacket, all words get caught in your throat as the last button falls undone.
Suicide ruled out for certain.
“Jeongin.”
Perhaps the way you say the words, perhaps the dread in your tone—so different from the calmness you usually operate with, prompted the swift lift of his head.
One, five, ten. Nineteen, thirty-eight. Fifty, one hundred-
“I count one-hundred and forty-three stab wounds.”
The next breath is shaky—nerves on overload.
“This wasn’t just homicide. It was manic.”
“Well.. from what we’ve got, we’re looking at a lot of different pieces of evidence.” Bahng begins, placing down an envelope onto the table, photos paper-clipped to the front.
“The soil within a five foot radius of the corpse has distinct marks.” He slides a photo forward, the curves and lines of the dirt formed in a winding motion.
Christopher Bahng, resident sweetheart and the KCSI’S Supervisor. As level-headed as they come and beyond attractive while doing so.
Unlike the prickly team leader in front of you.
“A struggle.” Both him and Minho observe in unison, your gaze flickering down a second too long at the part of his lips. That puffy upper lip, the way his tongue runs across his teeth in thought.
Well, your mind battles, mouth tugging into a tight line of contemplation. It’s not that he isn’tattractive… just, his personality is ugly. Right.
“Meaning our victim was using all their willpower trying to move away from the threat before they were killed,” Your supervisor explains, slipping two more photographs from the envelope.
One featuring blood splatter, the other pictures of a portion of the victims hands, bloodied and battered — skin tinted a purple, waxy hue. Indication of a quick discovery, less time spent postmortem.
“Fiber, blood, and the surrounding area have all been swabbed and documented. A mile out, Hyunjin reported seeing tire tracks, Han’s figuring out if we can find the vehicle. The corpse should be arriving soon for the autopsy and— Seungmin’s taking care of this one.” Bahng nods, the rest of the group humming in agreement as his chaste debrief comes to a close.
“Something that was unusual, however, is this.”
The interjection drags yours and Minho’s attention to the eldest—the two of you being main investigators assigned to the case.
A last photo. Glock, 9mm, nestled in a hedge.
“Found a few miles from the scene by accident from a passerby call-in. We don’t know if it belonged to our killer, or if by some fluke it was left there.”
You spare a glance the man across from you, resisting the urge to roll your eyes at that predictable lift of his brow as if asking: “What’re you looking at?”.
Deciding against egging on his irritable attitude, you instead focus upon mulling over the details, index tapping upon the table’s smooth surface.
“Lifted any prints?” Looking to Bahng for response, he shakes his head after a moment.
“No bullets in the magazine, no gun powder residue in sight. And by the looks of the body, it wasn’t used for the murder, wasn’t even fired. Evidence is just now being transported over here. Once we get ‘em, we’ll start tests.”
Your head tips back in a sigh, thumbs feebly working to ease the ache in your temples.
Incredibly, really. Because while you’re sure you look as if you’d been through the wringer, your heart-breaker of a supervisor and annoyingly pretty team leader could’ve come from a photo shoot.
Cut that out, you internally remind.
Allowing reality to drift off, the evidence appears as a list beneath your eyelids, these muddled puzzle pieces with too many corners, patterns.
So many things to configure, with most seemingly random. A random gun without fingerprints a mile from the crime scene, foreign hair on the body, more than a hundred stab wounds. Tire tracks, motive unknown.
Well, apart from one thing.
Whatever the reason for killing Yoon Bo-gum, his killer wanted him dead.
“Could the gun have been a diversion? Or maybe accidental?”
Minho’s voice breaches your consciousness, eyes cracking open begrudgingly.
“I’ll have Jeongin locate all firearm licenses in the area. Knowing Korea, there won’t be many. ‘Could help narrow down our search.” Chris cuts in, a fond hand patting your shoulder in assurance, helping calm your mind from too much overthinking.
Since day one he’s been a sort of rock for the team, always someone to rely upon.
Nevertheless, the distraction renders you oblivious to the critical eye Minho’s fixed that lingering hand with, the tension of his shoulders loosening as Bahng’s grip releases.
Quiet, subtle.
Whether the weapon became important or not, any bits of the story unveiled would be appreciated. And with the lack of guns in general within Korea, your hope for identification burns just a hair brighter.
Little did you know how integral it really would be.
Thursday mornings consist of two things: coffee and conversation.
In summary, a much needed moment to breathe.
You and Jeongin were the first to arrive at Yoo’s Diner, a central meeting point met at enough that the waitresses knew your orders by heart, down to the amount of sugar preferred in your coffee.
At 9am, the majority of office workers have already clocked in, leaving a comfortable sort of silence to bathe in as a result. Across from you, the youngest searches through recently purchased and owned Hyundai Porter’s—the car luckily linked to be responsible for the tracks at the crime scene—on his laptop, brows furrowed into a focused sort of frown.
“Ay, just the dog I was looking for!”
Just then, the chime of the door opening paves view to an energetic-as-always Jisung, offering the waitress lingering nearby a polite bow before bounding up to your table.
The usual, tucked right by the Diner’s left corner where the checker-patterned floor has gained scrapes and stains over the years, the booth’s divot a perfect fit, perfect evidence of countless hours spent right here.
“Woof.” Like routine, Jeongin offers a sarcastic grunt in response, absentmindedly scooting the sugary-sweet coffee Jisung’s way where he slips beside him. Well, not before gasping and placing a hand over his heart like some sentimental grandmother.
Somewhere in between your pancakes and the second omelette Jisung orders—incredible, considering the animalistic manner in which he shoveled the first one down, Minho appears, the two in front of you dipping their heads in greeting as the older man sidles in beside you.
You barely notice he’s there until the glass bottle of ketchup is slid your way upon moving onto the sausages upon your plate, a habit learned over the years.
“Thanks Sungie—“
Head lifting, you’re quick to pause, momentary eye contact rendering you stuck in a permanent state of gaping for far too long.
A sharp clear of your throat and a slight nod of gratitude and you rip your head in the other direction, suddenly enraptured by the case overview in front of you.
Of the many idiotic things you’ve been witness to with Han Jisung, you’d like nothing more than to bow down to the boy this time around as he speaks up, quick to extinguish the awkward silence.
“Ah! I uh- I got the identification number for your glock and—“
A point of hesitation as he meets your hopeful expression, the dorky boy cringing a bit prior to sharing the disheartening news.
“No luck. In fact, weirdly enough, there’s no owner showing up anywhere. Not even in the database.”
Despite the initial disappointment, you catch yourself mid-grovel, blinking hastily in realization.
Perhaps a glimpse of optimism amid the helplessness.
“If it isn’t registered, then it’s illegal.”
Snapping your fingers, Han matches your determined expression with that signature dimpled-smile, reading that look in your eye true to the four years you’ve worked together.
“I’ll figure out the manufacturer, hold on.”
Frantically searching through his pockets for his phone, the eccentric boy jumps to his feet, slipping outside after dialing a number you assume to belong to the lab.
A good thing if he can locate leads, a bad thing that you’re currently left with a research-busied Jeongin and Minho who, out of the corner of your eye is.. looking up cat food brands?
Without realizing, you subtly lean in to peek at his phone, partially dumbfounded, partially bewildered.
Apparently, you weren’t as subtle as you thought. The observant eye of your team leader catching onto the emanating curiosity in seconds time.
“For my kitties.”
He nods matter-a-fact, swiping out to locate pictures in his camera roll.
A lot of pictures, all perfectly sorted into individual albums. You can’t help but be mildly impressed, nodding along as he introduces them.
“Soonie, Doongie, and Dori.” He points, chest puffing like a proud father. Your eyes catch on that miniature smile of his without intending to. Fixated.
And for a split second, you exist as colleagues, not enemies, not bearing-with-each-other, but getting along.
What you hadn’t noticed? Jisung snickering in front of you while Jeongin pitifully tries to mute his own giggles behind a computer screen, all due to a text sent to each other.
Lovebirds.
.
.
.
The honeymoon phase coming to end—a term coined by Jeongin and Jisung—the older of the two clears his throat, simultaneously breaking the benevolent atmosphere, the tension-filled rhythm you’d grown so accustomed to starting up all over again with rejuvenated tempo.
“So! I got some intel.” Clapping his hands together, you try not to startle whilst downing a glass of orange juice as if it were a shot. Some feeble placebo to clear your mind from the sight of Minho’s lips earlier.
What was with you, anyway?
“According to the hottest guy in the lab (he was talking about Hyunjin), our glock at the crime scene belongs to Glock GmbH, a company in Austria that ships out billions of these guns yearly. However, luckily for us, very few—obviously—are shipped to Seoul. The latest import was hidden in the database, a red flag and good news for us!”
The deadpan response earned coaxes the boy to get to the point soon enough.
“Ok ok! Yeesh you guys have no sense of anticipatio-“
“Jisung.”
“GenHan Therapeutics. The shipment was imported to their production building last week.”
Jeongin chokes on his coffee.
“GenHan? Like, every medicinal good you’ll find all the way to Jeju Island?” He manages, wiping at the sides of his mouth with a napkin.
Han’s nod suffices, the chaste silence giving you the opportunity to fit countless puzzle pieces together.
Hyundai Porters, illegal weapon importation. A glock not fired, a victim brutally killed.
“Jeongin, what did Changbin say Bo-gum’s job was after we screened the ID?”
Still recovering from his initial surprise, his attention shifts to the ceiling, wracking his brain to recall any ounce of Tuesday’s conversation.
Then he snaps his fingers, eyes lighting up.
“GenHan. He worked at GenHan Therapeutics.”
The corner piece of your jigsaw snaps together seamlessly, though it’s far from finished.
“Alright.” Hands clasping together, the word serves as a beckon, gathering their attention all at once. “The Hyundai Porters serve as primary delivery cars for GenHan. Deliver pharmaceuticals from store to store, but additionally pose as medicinal delivery while transporting weaponry. Namely, the glocks.”
A deep breath, struggling to measure out the marathon of words soaring through your skull.
“The glock we found was extraneous evidence, likely left by the Hyundai tire tracks Hyunjin found.”
“Bo-gum knew too much,” Minho pipes up, granted a nod in turn before you speak again.
A moment without biting each other’s heads off, significant.
“Someone had to shut Bo-gum up because he found out the truth.”
The truth being?
“GenHan Therapeutics is running an illegal weapon trade.”
While the police would usually handle raids, due to the illegal trade aligning with a homicide case, they reluctantly left the majority of investigation up to the KCSI.
Furthermore, the case was able to be authorized as legitimate given the crucial importation documents Hyunjin retrieved—substantial enough an undercover investigation was launched.
As for who got sent out? None other than you and Minho. Team leader and head investigator on the case, scheduled to head out by sunrise tomorrow morning.
And if dread was personified, you’d look like a pretty good candidate. Because no, it wasn’t that he was bad at the job, merely that you didn’t exactly want to spend a week, possibly weeks, interacting with that same acute awkwardness that bared its ugly face in the Diner, nevertheless nagging upon passing by each other in the lab.
“You ask me, I’d get in and out of there in seconds! Shut the whole thing down in a days time,” Ever the confident one, Jisung and Changbin bicker like a married couple over who could complete the operation faster.
Good to see some things hadn’t changed.
“Five in the morning and I walk into a circus.”
Lo and behold, Forensics specialist Lee Minho steps into the meeting room, grumbling while currently donning the beloved mug Jisung gifted him for his birthday reading: CRIME DAD (of which corrects as ‘DADDY’ on the bottom of the mug, a matter Minho has yet to realize and something both Han and Hyunjin laugh themselves silly about to this day).
“The ID tags work and have been tested, correct?”
Meanwhile, you’ve hastily transitioned from dread personified to a frazzled mother packing last minute—ensuring every little thing is organized perfectly while a sympathetic Chris offers his third: “everything is there, promise,” that you soak up like soup to a cold day.
First order of business: infiltration. In which the both of you will pose as Regulatory Affairs Specialists arriving for their usual pharmaceutical check-in, granted a single week to shut the whole thing down with ample evidence and simultaneously locate the culprit.
Easy, right?
Totally.
.
.
.
“Not gonna back out now, are you?”
You’re partially grateful that the drive to the facility had been occupied with your internal groveling, redirecting the attention from your snarky driver and into the depths of your mind for a good thirty minutes.
Your snarky driver who’s leant back just enough in the drivers seat, one hand on the wheel, the other resting comfortably on the center console. Whose bicep flexes when he turns the wheel ever so slightly, whose throat bobs when he swallows, lashes dust against his cheeks when he blinks just so—
Shit.
Then his voice cuts in, and it feels like seconds ago you’d been safely curled in bed, not about to uncover nasty findings at one of the most trusted companies in all of Korea.
Damn it all. Because you’d rather bite your own tongue than show a shred of fear in front of this nerve-leaching man like Lee Minho, let his ego grow a minuscule amount bigger knowing you’d had (not) been checking him out earlier.
“I never knew you talked to yourself, Minho.”
The biting retort earns his scoff, lips curving into that sneering smile that sends chills soaring up the back of your neck, making you want to curse beneath your breath.
Outside, the cracked window of yours allows September air to wash away the irritating feeling, that harsh thump of your heart in your chest calming at last as fallen leaves crackle beneath the rolling tires, decorating the windshield an intermittent flurry of crimson and orange hues when the wind picks up.
He’s impressed by you, in all honesty. The manner in which you nip back just as hard at his jeers stirring his fascination like a curious feline. Those molten brown irises flicker to you on occasion, careful to peek when you’re looking away.
Tense shoulders, tight-lipped expression. He reads body language, nonetheless yours, like an open book.
A free hand reaches forward, turning up the radio as if to drown out those worrying thoughts of yours. When you look over in response, he can tell you’ve uncovered his uncharacteristic act.
Yet, he simply offers that consistent teasing cock of his brow, smug as always.
“This isn’t just your investigation, hm? I’m here too, whether you like it or not.”
That same hand finds the top of your head to ruffle, like he would to Jeongin, to his junior.
Jerk.
You scorn the reddening of your ears, swatting at his grasp and beckoning the man’s gleeful chuckle in return as he relents at last.
Hopeless, the man is.
Though something tells you this operation might not be.
Hopeful, it could be, but not without a hair of messiness.
With the both of you adjusting your pristine lab coats, it takes but one wrong question—a bit too specific to that of law enforcement—to strike alarms. Security questioning, loose introduction.
One shared look and a moment passes where, despite your odds, mutual agreement must be met. Not for the mere sake of less headaches, but on account of your lives.
For however long this operation takes, you’ll be coworkers. Barely close to friends.
Afterwards? Sharp teasing and irritably snickering can fill the silence between the both of you as it always had.
It’s an enormous building, with reflective glass covering the mass expanse of the modern architecture. At the entryway lies a statue of the founder, Jun Gun-il, appearing almost as some sort of ominous omen, glaring down as if silently picking apart the both of you with eyes that say: “I know the truth”.
Yet squared shoulders and a tight hand clenching around your clipboard whilst stepping inside the bustling building keeps anxiety at bay. And for a moment, watching the collection of elderly, youth, and the everyday worker roaming about dispels the slightest idea of mischief, especially homicide, that could’ve occurred here.
Though you’ve learned well over the last few years that appearances are deceiving, and somewhere in here, murders are being conducted all for the sake of adding more money to an already absurd amount of funds.
One good thing about the team leader as your partner? Despite behaving like an asshole to anyone with your description, to everyone else, the man was perfect. A smooth talker, low and controlled tone. Capable of getting whatever he pleased with a mere cock of his head.
Enough that nobody thinks twice to question his authority as he places his ID forward, leaning down to grasp your own identification clipped onto a lanyard.
For half a second, your eyes meet, and the air is stolen from your lungs.
So close.
Too close.
Resisting the urge to stumble backwards, the click of his tongue and the miniature quirk of his lip before turning back to the front counter seems to utter more complacency than any sentence needed.
Arrogant.
Batting her eyes, the receptionist—a more than cheerful brunette practically preening beneath his gaze—is quick to give the both of you the go-ahead, beginning past elevator doors and into an upper floor smelling of antiseptic and echoing with the ring of cellphones.
Orders, shipments. This guise of goodness concealing an ugly truth. All for what, extra profit?
One step into GenHan’s building speaks of plentiful money to waste. Motive, whether it was a coverup or not, remains unknown.
“Floor 13.” Like this custom alarm set to drag you from your mind, Minho’s voice cuts in upon stepping into a new elevator. Spacious and glassy, a few lab workers busy themselves with tablets or a leisurely book.
A stranger’s finger reaches out to tap that same floor, those signature cat-like eyes boring in the side of your head long enough that you’re tempted to grant a him a glowering stare before noticing the words he mouths.
“Watch.”
Arrogant and insufferable, frankly.
Waiting two steps behind the worker, the both of you stay silent as a mouse whilst the entryway is used, eyes flickering instinctively to the lingering security cameras.
Natural, for a KCSI. Instincts that must be suppressed for the sake of the act.
As the underground doors slide open, that smug bastard looks to you with an expression downright insufferable.
“Got the password,” He silently mouths, subtly nodding towards the keypad with a lift of his brows before either of you step inside.
Crates upon crates line the walls, some hundreds of feet in the air. All marked distinctively using tape. According to a very helpful Changbin, he’d been tasked with brunt work on GenHan infiltration from the sidelines, logging all order of operations, past allegations, and routine maintenance.
Of those order of operations came the organization of billions of drugs.
How they did it? Tape.
With each crate marked individually, one could discern whether it fell into stimulants, depressants, opiates, or hallucinogens by four different colored tape.
Then came the enigma in the form of a fifth color. Black, found to be the indicator of weaponry.
That was the goal.
Get enough substantial evidence of who’s controlling it, nevertheless that there’s illegal weapons here in general, and the entirety of GenHan would be shut down in days time.
Seems easy enough.
“So,” Minho piques, hands shoved into his pockets against the chilled air, looking far too appealing in a lab coat for your mental wellbeing. “Locate the black-taped crates, snap pictures if possible. If not, we camp out till the floor clears out this evening.”
Managing a hasty nod, you fight the urge to observe how he looks like a (haughty)refined doctor, striding about as if this was his home territory, not a man under a false name and even falser intentions.
Per a mixture of annoyance and an act of nursing your pride, your chin lifts just a bit higher, falling into step next to him.
Sure, maybe the action is childish, but seriously, your ego is on the line.
Oblivious, you seem to miss the upward curve of his lips when he notices the action.
Burdensome.
“Is there any way I can help you two?”
Two steps from the desired black-taped crate, fortunately deserted—not to mention without cameras in sight, and the plan instantly goes to shit.
Should’ve wagered the mission to be far from easy. Still, it’s damn frustrating.
How quickly you swerve around came almost unnaturally, hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there before feigning an itch as a cover. Well, frankly, a gun that was located in your reserved hotel room until the banquet.
Ah, right.
Per GenHan’s tenth anniversary celebration, a banquet was occurring tomorrow evening. Inviting insurmountable guests and established employees alike, the event served as both horrible and crucial timing to gain intel and learn some background.
Background, as in, what rumors were circulating between the workers. A worker that could’ve been your victim, Yoon Bo-gum.
Currently, however, the rumors entail those like the man in front of you, with this boyish grin and facial gestures that appear far too young to be working for a billion dollar pharmaceutical company.
And, once proven, the source of illegal gun importation as well.
“I know, I know. I look twenty. If you’d believe it, I’m actually almost thirty-two!”
Beside you, Minho stifles a choking spell.
“The name’s Jae-ho, head of the security office. It’s been a while since GenHan has had a check with the R.A considering how well operations have been going.” He proudly taps his own GenHan ID card, black hair swept back with a bit too much hair gel.
Sharing a look, your eyes speak louder than words at a simple glance, practically rolling your eyes despite not a shred of emotion staining your features.
Yeah, right.
“I’d be more than happy to answer any of your questions-“
The movement of the desired crate by a forklift in your peripheral simultaneously grasps both of your attention, Minho patting the boy’s—man’s—shoulder and ushering a fake business card into his hand, stalking after you with a nod of gratitude.
“Yeah yeah, thanks. Keep that number. If anything goes amiss, call it.”
Just a setback, you tell yourself, watching where the crate is transported to with an eagle eye.
To your left, Minho mutter a curse beneath his breath, brows furrowed into a vexed knit.
Though, perhaps your imagination, he softens when you meet his eyes, a quiet, almost telepathically understood feeling finding its way woven within the confines of your division.
For this mission, you’ll relent.
If only a little bit.
Right now? You regroup and wait until the evening.
Never in your life had you imagined yourself as someone sharing a bagel with Lee Minho, but at 11am when lunch wasn’t available at most restaurants and the gnawing of your stomach practically eating itself became deafening, you decided against dwelling too long on the matter.
He takes one side, you take yours. Something that comes habitually in a miraculous way, like the extension of his butter knife in lathering more cream cheese on your half of the bagel without even having to ask.
As for you, you ask for a refill on his orange juice instinctively—evidence of years together even with a line of sourness keeping the majority of words at bay.
His grunted thanks, your eyes meeting his momentarily as the waitress places down the glass.
Morning light sheds twinkling rays upon his skin, caramelizing dark brown hair into gold as an irritated hand of his swipes stubborn strands from tickling his forehead.
Little things. The scrunch of his nose, furrow of his brow.
A second longer and you forget about the investigation, chewing on your lip in contemplation.
“Shut it.”
And.. now you almost suffocate on your cup of coffee, head tilting with a nonsensical expression.
“I didn’t say anything..?”
He grumbles beneath his breath, tugging the manila case folders from a cross-body bag to place on the table.
“Your eyes are too loud.”
A single bout of clarity, then right back to square one. Straight edges and a sharp tongue.
Though, before you can press your own snide remark forward, the waitress approaches, chipper and looking much more lucid than either of you right about now.
“Anything else I can get for you two? We have our latest pumpkin waffles, apple cider, or the two pancake couples order? I think you guys would love it! It has two orders of sausage, bacon, and eggs for just half the pric—“
“Apple cider. Apple cider would be great. Thanks.”
How raspy your voice comes out surprises even yourself, clambering for a solution to the utter horror staining your shared features, looking down at the wood of the table like scolded children.
Just as peppy, she jots down the request, offering you a grin as if the woman hadn’t just been responsible for the massacre of your ego in a single sentence prior to disappearing into the kitchen.
Recovering comes in the form of ignorance, pretending that the “couple” portion was a mere bluff.
Of course, the steaming apple cider serves as a painful reminder, but the embarrassment fades as fast as it came, paving way to serious conversation.
Past plentiful legal papers, the team leader retrieves at least five photos, all documenting the weaponry found in those black crates last night whilst appearing thoroughly unfazed.
The ‘bingo’ sort of feeling to the investigation. Though in all honesty, only the beginning.
An aspect you had yet to know of just yet.
Nevertheless, leaning back in the booth—similar to the feel of Yoo’s Diner but never quite as homely—a spark of accomplishment blooms in your chest, warm and bright and a rightful shift from the aching dread that had been rendering you exhausted these past couple of days.
The guns were a small start. Because while their existence had been genuinely proved and simply in need of locating, the person in charge of the operation, no less your murderer in general, remained shrouded in mystery.
Hopefully the banquet tonight would open up new leads.
Your almost-minute of eye contact with Minho seems to spread the message, earning his short nod in response before pointing out a photo.
“Gun-il isn’t involved in the brunt work enough to be primarily responsible. Most times he’s abroad. That leaves us to configure who in the GenHan building is actively involved in the murder,” Voicing the thought aloud, you’re too busy noticing the veins stretching along the top of his hand, reaching up, up into his forearm and disappearing beneath pale skin, beneath sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Involuntarily, you gulp, fighting the urge to flush crimson when his stare catches yours for a time you couldn’t count.
“Think of it like this: Gun-il acts as their chess queen. All this effort is by his pawns, serving him under the idea he’ll probably pay them more, so on and so forth.” Glaring down at the photos fortunately helps at clearing your mind, if only slightly.
“But who’s our sole pawn? Calling the shots?”
That thoroughly disgruntled expression of his makes you want to both smack him across the face and kiss his cheek all at the same time.
“That I.. don’t know. Not yet.”
Perhaps it’s you who needs to pick a struggle, but your pride would never allow such a realization. Struggling between both hating this man and hating the way you’re feeling about him. The warmth building amid a creeping autumn breeze, September nipping at your fingertips if you aren’t careful to place them in your sweater.
Or someone else’s sweater.
Whatever.
Clearing your throat helps ward off the thought.
Apple cider will do the job just fine, thanks very much.
Yet, little did you know he’d been staring at you all the same, breaking his own listlessness with a
sudden clear of his throat.
“…Is it too early to order a beer?”
“Alcoholism or being a workaholic, pick a struggle, old man.”
Prior to readying for tonight’s event and picking up his suit from the cleaners, an opportunity presents itself in the form of your recent acquaintance.
Namely, Jae-ho.
Aiding in your investigation, the man was more than happy (is everyone close to GenHan eerily cheerful or what?) to give access to security footage under the assumption you were simply “double checking honest work”.
From merely walking into the security office, you feel like you’ve become someone playing god with how many cameras span just about everywhere. All labeled and located at hundreds of corners of GenHan that it looked almost impossible to manage.
“And those?” Minho nods to a separate computer away from the wall of cameras, six boxes for camera footage reduced to a grainy blur.
“Those are camera’s I’m rewiring. Just faulty is all.”
Interest sated, Minho moves on to the matter at hand, squinting in search of the monitored floor sought after.
Nonetheless, no dice. And upon finally locating the depository sector, the crate merely appears via delivery truck to one location, then another by a random assortment of workers. Some young, some old. Yet none that look outwardly suspicious nor even aware of what they’re delivering around Seoul.
Smaller company outposts, organizing the weapons before shipping elsewhere all over the country. A fanciful operation no one will know about until the weaponry is used in a vile manner, until someone else ends up like Bo-gum. A victim to a secret they never asked to know.
As for what piques your attention, it’s this minuscule, barely noticeable cut in the recording at around 5:00am the morning the guns was hauled in. Just slight, but enough of a glitch that called for some sort of explanation, curiousity as to what was skipped in the process.
Jae-ho, peeking his head past the office’s doorway where he’d slipped out for coffee, offers a grin, head tilted.
“All good?” He asks, oblivious as ever.
Your frustration bubbles, but a tight-lipped nod keeps the urge to interrogate someone for answers at bay.
For now.
That, and the warning look from Minho to your left, seeming to sense the steam threatening to billow from your ears.
Because working on a time crunch is hell for your stress levels, and the frustration in finding barely anything to work off of three days in was beginning to ebb away at your sanity.
..Having warring feelings for your coworker turned investigation partner isn’t doing great things for your mental health either, but that’s a conversation for another time.
“Great, yeah. We have to get ready, see you at the banquet.”
Maybe Minho’s sarcasm was a language only the team spoke in, maybe Jae-ho was simply aloof by default, but understanding the concept is completely lost to you the moment he takes your hand to lead from the room.
A firm grip, though not too tight.
Warm hands, steadying.
You can hear your heartbeat in your eardrums like an amped-up stereo, nearly deafening.
The feeling, however, is chaste. Lo and behold, he’s quick to release from your grasp the moment you step outside, shoving his hands into his pockets like some pouting teen.
“Don’t think too much of it.” An unconscious focus of his searches for his keys, clicking his tongue in light scolding as if dispelling the inkling in your chest wishing for it to be something a little more, something genuine.
It hurts, if barely.
“You’d sit there stupefied between killing the guy if I hadn’t dragged you out.”
It sucked that he wasn’t wrong either.
“Now.”
Interrupting your own bout of pouting, the jingle of his keys that he aimlessly twirls around his index diverts your attention.
“I’m going to grab my suit. You wanna check into your room ‘n get all dolled up or come along? I’ll drop you off on the way to the cleaners.”
Blinking back confusion, you have to keep the judgmental look off your face in favor of digesting the fact he’s being nice to you.
Not that he wasn’t nice this morning.. but still.
It was odd for you two, though certainly not unwelcome.
Per your pride, however, you opt to be dropped off on his way, stepping into the pricey hotel—paid for by KCSI, thank goodness—with high hopes and an aim to take a small nap before getting ready.
Well, before your heart sinks to the floor as the man at the front desk hands you not two, but one keycard.
As for Minho, you can imagine his surprise walking out the door with a suit in hand only to receive a second-long call in which you say one thing:
“There’s something wrong.”
…
“Hey uh, what room did you say we’d be in again?”
This is like some fantastically horrible romcom where the two love interests are actually enemies in real life and have to pretend to enjoy each other’s presence for the sake of the show.
If it was a show, you and Minho would be in every episode. Main characters, actually.
Instead, reality is hitting like a brick.
“Hm.. Room 0801? Yeah, ‘s the one.” Chris’ voice, once a source of comfort, feels more like getting drenched in ice water right about now.
Minho, meanwhile, is already having his share of a temper tantrum, grumbling a mixture of curses and angry mumbles whilst busying himself with unpacking.
At least one of you is accepting your fate, and it’s certainly not you.
It seems your pause incited a flicker of confusion from the team supervisor.
“What, something wrong? ‘Could check in with the staff or ask Jisung, he booked it.”
Ah.
That dick.
Of course Jisung booked the room, probably having laughed himself silly requesting a single bed.
Your first night you’d been blessed with the impromptu booking of two different rooms, able to sleep safe and sound without the man you’re already spending almost every waking hour this week with beside you.
Apparently this time you aren’t that lucky.
“No,” You hastily disregard, voice taut with a mixture of irritation and gnawing exasperation. “It’s fine, we’re fine. Call you if anything comes up.”
As hasty as your excuse do you hang up, hand dropping to your side following the slump of your shoulders.
One thing after another and it doesn’t seem as if you’re getting any further from the man.
“I’m taking the bed.”
And if anything could’ve grated your nerves further, it’s those four words of his. The stink-eye you deliver him with is downright lethal, and yet he continues to fold his clothing as if sharing a room, no less sharing a bed, was a daily occurrence.
Checking the clock, however, eases your nerves a bit. Thankfully the hour gives just enough time to ready yourselves for the banquet. No necessity for small talk, no attempts at filling a silence that’s downright suffocating.
This time, you don’t try at arguing, merely grabbing your dress and slipping into the bathroom for a much needed breath of not-Minho-infested air.
An argument for another time. Only three days left in the investigation’s timeline, with the banquet being too crucial to spend hung up on a man you want nothing to do with.
Totally.
.
.
.
The same man who now stands in front of you in a slim-fit black suit, long legs framed by a perfectly ironed pair of trousers, usually unkempt pieces of chestnut hair adjusted to linger just so above his brow. Dress shoes, an expensive watch you’d hate to know the price of.
And damn does he look good.
With your eyes too busy finding anything to look at but him, it’s easy to lose sight of his own gaze, drinking you in like a man starved.
Respectfully, of course. That oftentimes cunning visage failing to unveil even a shred of emotion as he surveys the fabric upon you, unconsciously adjusting his suit’s sleeve.
Because you’re beautiful, and Minho seems to be suffering from the same predicament of fluster as yourself, merely hidden behind unwavering facades you two refuse to rid of.
Flushed ears you’re ignorant to, the clamminess of your hands he has no idea about.
“Re.. Ready to go?”
Maybe it was your imagination, but you could swear he just stuttered.
Did I just stutter? Minho internally reprimands, wanting nothing more than to cave in on himself.
What was up with him?
Perhaps the answer lies in the way he follows you out like some idiotic guard dog for a reason he himself doesn’t understand, the unconscious hand finding the small of your back to guide through the hotel lobby and past lingering eyes— the touch a matter you don’t complain of.
Perhaps it’s in the downright venomous glare granted to a leering man in the parking lot as he stands in front of the passenger door, offering a bit of modesty as you clamber in whilst clad in a dress before wrapping around to the drivers side.
Tonight, Minho looks handsome. Too handsome for his own good, for your impression of him up till now.
Tonight, you’re breathtaking. And Minho can’t wrap his head around why he feels like this.
Protective, even when he knows you’re more than capable of yourself.
Protective, because that’s how someone feels when things grow into something more than friends.
A reality he’s unwilling to face.
His behavior at the banquet is a different story entirely, and like a switch had been flicked on, the personality you’ve long since grown accustomed to bares itself in full glory.
Boastful, teasing.
And sort of refreshing, considering the backflips he’s been sending your heart into acting all caring, gentle.
“C’mon, Mr. Lee, it’s just like when you attend conferences.”
In turn, you’d decided against humbleness as well.
Play the cunning bastard, expect it back.
Nevertheless, sauntering behind him becomes as action far too easy to follow through with, acting on pure instinct as you pluck the tie from his grasp.
Each exhale tickling his neck where your hands have reached over to loop the fabric sparks goosebumps prickling along his nape, gaze meeting with his in the intricate mirror for a moment too long.
Close enough his cologne fills your nostrils, possible that your chin could weigh against his shoulder if you so desired.
The grandfather clock at the front of the banquet hall acts as a background sound, tick tick ticking all the thoughts from his head, sensibility from yours.
Tension able to be severed by a blade.
This investigation has left you far too comfortable in the presence of a man you used to avoid like the plague.
“So when we have the banquets, do you have someone do it for you then?”
A whisper, flickering orange within his irises reflecting the lick of a candle illuminating the dimmed dining hall, finding yours at last.
Minho has no problem keeping eye-contact, and beneath that unchanging face, you’re sure a shit-eating grin is stowed away.
“Hm,” A slight nod in affirmative, careful to keep the movement to a minimum where you loop the tie for the last time.
The roll of your eyes whilst tightening the tie a bit too tight for the sake of payback earns his huff of satisfaction.
And a minute longer that he can watch your expressions in the mirror.
Tonight’s lie?
Minho’s been great at tying a tie since day one.
.
.
.
“Yeah yeah, his name’s Yoon Bo-gum, I heard he works here. You wouldn’t happen to know him, would you?”
For at least two hours now, you’ve been at the same game with what feels like the same people. Swirling a glass of untouched wine, slipping around here and there in search of something, anything to work off of.
So far? Nervous glances and sheepish smiles deny any and all information about Bo-gum’s existence in general. And apart from the brunette remarking about their victim’s absence this past week and how he’s definitely fired, Minho’s only received shaken heads, phone numbers, and an itching suspicion that the last woman who just flirted with him had a ring on her finger.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
Meeting in the middle, beneath the dark red lights everything seems to blur into a sea of bodies and blank spaces, the supposed afterparty after maintaining such properness and poise amid key figures during dinner had been quick to fade, now replaced with what felt to be some high-class nightclub.
One you didn’t want to be part of, the events of today dizzying your head into a hazy stupor.
And maybe your imagination, maybe some sort of hallucination, but the highly intoxicated man once ramming into your back has abruptly stopped, currently replaced by Minho wielding his own failed-to-be-drank wine.
“You sure you aren’t drinking, sweetheart?”
Everything a blur, that internally sober part of you wants to roll your eyes, turn away and scold the stupid nickname.
The other part of you seeking a source of foundation clings to the lack of sarcasm in his words, wanting nothing more than to down your glass of wine and pretend as if your time isn’t dwindling, as if he didn’t just look at your lips like you had in the diner those days ago.
“Not on the job, you know that.” Like a compulsion, your mouth finds the ability to speak once more, wetting your lips as if it would solve the dryness of your throat.
The entrance of a woman keeps his response silent, extending a paper that Minho dreads to see a number inside of upon gingerly tapping his shoulder.
“My friend over there said this is for you,” She grins, nodding to a group of ladies in the far corner, stumbling about in too-tall heels and one too many glasses prior to rushing off in the same fashion. Clumsily, excitedly.
“Not again,” Minho grumbles beneath his breath, hesitant to unravel the crumpled paper whilst you peek over, awaiting the familiar digits overflowing from his pockets like a gluttonous carnage of fortune cookies.
It appears you had forgotten that this investigation was a maelstrom of one surprise after another.
That goes for Minho too.
Because written on the paper isn’t a number.
Yoon Bo-gum has gone missing, and I think I have a hunch about who did it.
It’s a tip.
“First thing’s first, we find that woman in the morning. It’s our last day, and if need be we can give the illegal gun trafficking portion to the Feds. Our job is to bust the murderer.”
Your back turned to Minho, he hastily works at loosening his tie, brows furrowed into a stubborn knit as you busy yourself with tugging off your heels.
Almost midnight and you’re more than happy to agree with leaving the brunt work for the morning, currently tidying up for bed.
“Whoever it is, I think it’s about time we get a break in the case,” Chuckling weakly to yourself, you disappear into the bathroom, toothbrush peeking from your lips as you prepare the couch for a likely sleepless night.
Minho’s own weary chortle earns your begrudging smile, grabbing an additional blanket to drape over the hotel’s alarm clock.
Wait.
A second take, tugging off the blanket in favor of lifting the alarm clock to your eyes.
Instantly your heart plummets to the soles of your feet.
A camera, veiled inside of a number eight.
“But that’s the thing.”
A shaky breath, lifting the flashlight of your phone to different surfaces.
The light in the main room, bathroom. Alarm clock, nightstand lamp where cameras illuminate. Not just one, almost five. Everywhere.
Hotel Vera, room 0801. Sponsored by GenHan.
“While we thought we infiltrated them, the killer been one step ahead this whole time.”
.
.
.
Despite incapacitating the cameras and even ensuring they were fully disabled with the help of a call-in, you still feel it in your bones. The paranoia, anxiety. Like a pair of eyes boring into your back, your face. Documenting it all down, figuring out your whereabouts, intent.
Having been offered a change of rooms, a portion of you scolds yourself for letting your ego make the decision of staying.
Your skin crawls, and you’re quick to tug the blanket further over yourself when the room lies shrouded in darkness, shifting against a terribly uncomfortable sleeper sofa. Eyes that refuse to close shift to Minho, lips tugging into a tight line of contemplation as your eyes bore into his back.
The last thing you want to seem like is some sort of coward, but the longer you lay here, the greater that sense of dread becomes. Invisible hands once pressing on your chest, now venturing to your throat to wrap around.
Tighter, tighter.
Until you can’t breathe, throwing off the covers to clamber into bed with your partner.
Lab partner, that is.
Fortunately, he appears asleep with each slow inhale and exhale.
Good.
Please don’t remember this is the morning.
Slipping into bed with evident hesitancy, you’re slow to curl up, forehead bumping against his back, a heavy sigh resounding.
Warm, smelling like a mix of petrichor and traces of mint you date back to the floral shop he’d searched for a boutonniere in earlier that day for the banquet.
“I’m just paranoid, sleeping like this.. helps. Y’know?”
Who you’re speaking to remains unknown to even yourself.
“The camera-thing kind of freaked me out.” You begin, forcing your voice steady. “Hope you don’t mind.”
As a matter of fact, Minho’s was wide awake the whole time, focusing on the blinds in front of him while you spoke.
And when your head rests against his back, the loosening of his tense muscles is an aspect he’d instantly deny, blame as a bout of sleepiness overtaking him.
Closing his eyes, a single thought flutters across his fading consciousness before dissipating into the abyss of slumber.
No, I don’t mind.
Oh how quickly something so good can sour. Even lemons would taste sweet on your tongue at the moment.
Bright and early the following morning, Hyunjin relayed that the tipper belonged to a Reyna Park, an American Korean receptionist who covered Floors 12 and 13, namely the floors your crates belonged inside of.
Utilizing your fake R.A positions, it would be easy for you to beckon her for questioning if need be—a liberty you’d certainly use with the lack of time remaining.
Like a harrowing countdown until jurisdiction snatched all evidence from your grasp, leaving the case to dissolve into the depths of an unsolvable ocean.
Meanwhile, Minho’s foot releases and presses upon the accelerator, navigating past cars going too slow for his liking whilst the occasional droplet of rain pelts the windshield, cloudy sky overhead acting as a dreary omen upon turning into GenHan’s parking lot.
“Reyna gave hints that Bo-gum had been brought into the security office hours before he didn’t show up for his shift—“
“And you think what was discussed there is tied into his death?”
He shrugs, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
“Like you said, we deserve a break, hm?”
That you can’t argue with.
Today acts as an off-day, with most employees vacant from the building. A piece of luck that you savor, especially while accessing the underground Floor 13 without so much as a single doubtful glance.
Directly situated behind the security office, you can merely hope that whatever was discussed there was captured by some kind of recording device.
Though you’d be a liar to admit that the thought of cameras didn’t make you queasy after last night.
“I take left, you take right. That way we can make sure the space lacks a witness before conducting the search for footage.”
Although apparently unconvinced, the cock his brow leads way for his nod of approval, a moment long glance to your thigh asking a: “got your weapon?” responded to with a short nod.
Quick footsteps patter along marble floors, aiming to reduce to volume as much as possible, whilst scouring in search of stragglers.
Empty, seemingly. All corners, all machinery unoccupied—
A shadow passes by as if a trick of the mind, hushed conversation residing from the outlet closest to the security office, reflexes kicking where a hand lingers over your weapon.
Your slow gait brings you closer and closer to the corner, breath caught in your throat the moment you see the face responsible for such mumbled whispers.
Resisting the urge to tremble, you force yourself to reach for the walkie talkie without clumsily dropping it to the floor, ensuring your voice stays as quiet as possible.
“Control, this is KCSI L/N, I have my eyes on a body and suspect by the name of Ja-“
Unable to finish your report, the crack of a bat acts as the last input into the walkie talkie.
And the world turns upside down into a labyrinth of unconsciousness.
“Hello, Lee Minho.”
On your partner’s end, he faced the brunt of the same bat you did, crumpling to the floor just as he came upon the sight of your knocked-out form.
As for where he is now lies up to his training as a KCSI to discern, blurred eyesight taking in the rectangular window allowing feeble light into the warehouse-looking room. The expanse vacant apart from the chair he’s found himself restrained to placed dead center.
“Something’s gone amiss. About time I called, hm?”
Chills scatter all the way to Minho’s ears, fingers involuntarily twitching where they’re bound behind his back.
He knows that voice, recognizes it.
Recognizes the business card dangling from a hand.
“Keep that number. If anything goes amiss, call it.”
His own words, cited from the mouth of someone he thought he could trust, use as a viable source of input in solving Bo-gum’s murder.
Jae-ho.
That snake.
The knight in this game of chess. Unpredictable attacks, forking out opponents while remaining nearly undetectable until those last few plays of the game.
Something terrible tells him that if he isn’t careful with his words, this may be his last time playing the game.
He knew the whole time, targeted them while aware of their fake identities, intentions. Monitored the situation continually through the cameras—his doing.
Head of the security office, responsible for monitoring every Floor of GenHan constantly. How had he not have pieced it together earlier?
If conversation had arisen, he’d be the first to hear it.
Rumors, accusations.
Most likely Bo-gum’s realization as well, all caught on a screen Jae-ho’s been watching the entire time.
Additionally, the reason for those “faulty” six camera’s comes to light now, existing as the viewing side to the one’s placed in your hotel room.
Full circle to the entirety of the investigation. Because out of all of GenHan, Jae-ho would be Gun-il’s most important lapdog, responsible for fabricating all the happenings, all the operations.
In summary? The one conducting all the dirty work.
“You guys were so close, I’ll give you that.”
Jae-ho clicks his tongue, haphazardly twirling the baseball bat in his grip.
“And you two are cute, really. So I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and be nice just this one. I’m in a good mood, after all.”
With a stare that could kill, three words fall from busted lips.
“Where is she?”
This brings a sadistic smile to his lips, stepping behind his chair and out of sight.
“Don’t worry, you’ll see her soon enough.”
“Oh, and Minho? Your girlfriend has a great pair of tits.”
Attempting to look back to where he speaks, he sees red just listening to the son of a bitch.
“I’m going to gut you like a fish when I get out you fucking-“
Thwack!
For a second time, everything falls into black.
“Hey.”
Your head throbs, an ache the result of the bat cracking over your skull.
Through blurry vision, your head slumps down, the strength to move evading you.
Yet, upon attempting to shift, you’re quick to learn that movement wasn’t evading you, but was something you had become deprived of, the sting of rope-burn responsible for your wince as you feebly try moving your wrists.
Bound feet, hands, torso where you’re tied to a chair just as he was.
Specifically having been brought to the same warehouse, the murderer, Jae-ho, resting out of earshot for now.
The same man you had both trusted. The same man you saw standing over the dead body of Reyna Park.
Dammit.
“Y/N.”
Your name being called, no less the voice it belonged to, offers just enough will to lift your gaze.
Across from you sits Minho, a gnarly gash decorating his usually unblemished porcelain skin. Once somewhat tidied dark hair rests currently disheveled, the unfamiliar light he’s seen in sending you into an even dizzier spiral.
Kidnapped.
Where? You can’t be sure. All you know is that this is all too much at once, too much for you to process whilst battling what you think could be a minor concussion.
“Hey hey,” He grasps your attention for a second time, that signature unbreakable gaze a source of comfort you bask in—maintaining longer eye contact in those few moments than throughout the entirety of working together.
“Breathe for me.”
Despite appearing just as adrenaline-drunken as you, he’s guiding you on how to relax, to stay as calm as a hostage can be.
And for a flickering second, you know without a doubt you would’ve kissed him senseless if you weren’t currently restrained. Out of relief, out of fear, you aren’t sure.
“We’re gonna be okay, yeah? Just keep looking at me.”
You manage a nod, lips parted as if sucking in every ounce of air bruised lungs can sustain before the words tumble from your mouth like a crack in a dam’s wall, water unable to be contained.
“It’s- It’s Jae-ho. He killed Yoon Bo-gum and then killed Reyna after she slipped-“
“I know.”
Your head tilts, voice so unlike yourself you nearly have to repeat yourself to ensure it’s truly you speaking. Hoarse, pitched.
“Y.. You do?”
Any other occasion and stuttering so profusely would’ve caused you to shrivel up like a prune.
“Yeah, we had our own little meet ‘n great before this.”
This calls for the concerned furrow of your brows, searching over him for injury, broken limbs, scrapes.
Any other occasion for Minho and he would’ve admired how cute that expression was on you.
“I’m okay, sweetheart. I’m real tough, you know that.” A peek of his true self shows through, this attempt at consoling those watery eyes of yours dissipating into withering silence as a delighted Jae-ho saunters in, first to turn towards you.
A maniacal grin stretches upon his lips, your head jerking from the grasp he uses to lift your chin.
Behind him, Minho glowers, the movement of his tied wrists going unnoticed.
“Good work, KCSI L/N,” He mocks, clicking his tongue. “Y’know, I really was impressed. Coming in here with those pretty white R.A coats, all authoritative, in charge.”
Another click of his tongue, brows arching in amusement before patting your cheek.
“But a good disguise can’t hide the stench of law enforcement, and I’m sure a smart kitty like yourself would’ve caught onto that with the cameras, hm?”
He paces back and forth, chuckling to himself here and there.
“Unfortunately, I was disappointed. Lucky for me, dear old Reyna helped me out. Shame she had to die.” Bending down to where you sit, the moment he leers close enough to your face grants the ballsy opportunity to work up a wad of spit landing straight onto his cheek, his laugh of disbelief resounding whilst wiping away your saliva.
Yet the swift change of his expression tells you shit’s going to hit the fan real fast, those crazed eyes fixed on you like a predator about to pounce.
For a second, you feel the same fear Yoon Bo-gum must have felt, freezing your soul in horror as Jae-ho’s bat-holding arm winds back, slamming over your right knee in a mind-numbing flash of white hot pain.
You can’t even hear your own scream, deaf to the sound rattling the warehouse.
Broken, certainly. And just then does Minho—using chipped wood poking from the back of his chair as a way to cut the ropes—free himself, instinctive hand slipping into his jacket pocket for the one thing everyone always misses: a pocket knife.
The same knife that finds itself plunged into the murderer’s shoulder, his own cry of pain like a sick sort of revenge that acts as the ideal diversion for Minho to shout for backup in his walkie talkie.
Reeling around, the glock Jae-ho reaches for—likely GenHan’s—is never given the chance to fire before Minho slices a clean cut along his trachea, bringing Jae-ho down upon his knees in recording time, clawing at his neck to no avail.
In your case, the nauseating throb of your leg renders each reaction slower than the last, making out Minho’s form hurrying to squat in front of you, mouthing words you think align with “you’re safe” and “it’s okay” as the approaching wail of police sirens rattles in your head like a cackling cacophony.
Then he cuts the bounds and hoists you bridal-style into his arms, ripping another cry from the depths of your chest, the hellish pain promoting your fingers to dig into his nape, shoulder with a vice-like grip.
“I know, I know,” Minho mumbles against the side of your head, wincing with each desperate sob you scream into the air as he guides you out to waiting police cars, the ambulance having yet to arrive.
Just then, a dark blue truck swerves onto the scene, an out of breath Jisung located within the drivers seat the vehicle Minho rushes towards first without a second thought—his KCSI coworker barking orders from the drivers seat to tape off the warehouse and leave the rest for the team to cover as their team leader helps angle you into the back seat with as little pain as possible.
Quite impossible, for a fractured leg.
.
“This is an emergency, what the hell are you going the speed limit for?!”
As for who Minho isn’t gentle with, it’s the frazzled Jisung who receives the majority of complaints, peeling out of GenHan on nearly two wheels and gunning it to the nearest hospital.
“Have you ever had a body in your backseat?” The boy argues, passing red lights like a madman.
“I’m not dead yet, asshat!”
Contrary to your pained state, the fiery retort manages to loosen the atmosphere if only a little bit, hand clutching the back of the passenger chair like your life depends on it.
“A mean body!” Jisung squeaks, simultaneously answering to incoming calls on his cell by the other team members.
As for a solace to the overwhelming feelings wracking you numb, sedatives pumped into your veins silences it all in one fell swoop, a peaceful sleep arriving at last.
“Mmnh..”
Expression knitting, blinding white lights permeate your vision to blurry splotches, a dull ache settling over your now-wrapped up right leg.
When your hand moves, you note the IV attached at your wrist, the beep of machinery echoing faintly.
After that the man to your left comes into view, a fluffy head of hair face down in the blanket, a chair pulled up to your bedside.
Minho.
It’d be embarrassing if someone saw how much you softened seeing him here.
“He’s been here this whole time.”
Apparently, someone did.
Good thing it was Christopher Bahng, leant against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.
“We tried getting him back to his place, but the guy insisted on staying until you woke up.”
Ah.
You want to cry.
Wobbly lips part to nod gratefully towards your supervisor, excusing himself from the room to leave you to your privacy.
Slowly, a single hand extends, carefully smoothing through his hair in a rhythm unbearably fond.
“Minho.”
His name, spoken like someone in love—unbelievably—earns a groggy groan as the man awakens, plenty unhappy about being woken up.
Cute.
Though when those eyes truly acknowledge you’re awake, you can’t help but keen watching the dilation of his pupils, the boy-ish smile you’ve only seen once in your life—aimed at his cats—now directed at you.
And like he was reading your mind, calloused hands cup your cheeks to gently usher you in for a tender kiss, sighing into the contact as if it were the breath of relief you had been searching for this whole time.
As for Jae-ho, the killing of Reyna Park and Yoon Bo-gum had been avenged in a way. Case dismissed, accomplices and case evidence still sought after.
The photos taken of the weaponry served as just enough justification for the mandatory shut down of all GenHan shipments, with the reinstatement of staff still left to question.
Jisung earned twenty dollars after winning his bet—a bet that wagered on whether you two would get together by the end of the investigation, and as for you?
You would like to say everything went back to normal in the lab apart from the pair of crutches you donned and the hefty acclamation the case brought.
That would be your first lie.
Waking up beside him served as the first change. The kiss pressed to your shoulder, the arms snaking around your waist as he mutters a sleepy “good morning” against your neck the second.
on hiatus but since i’m sick and cannot do schoolwork, i decided to come on here and read and was given such a delightful selection the moment i clicked on the app.
this was so fun to read ,, esp as someone who loves her crime shows and fictions. The details are so fun to follow along and i love how everyone had their own little quirk and their job and felt more real to the story than just names mentioned if that makes sense. i also think everyone just fits their job descriptions so much so that was so fun to follow along. looooove the details and how the story played out . It takes lots of brain juices and power to think of a crime / mystery / murder plot so wowowowow amazing job
ofc my favorite scene is when he goes crazy over someone hurting mc and the fact lee know didnt leave mc’s side at the hospital even tho chan urged him to go home😁😁😁bruh idk call me cliche but im a sucker for those scenes always always always .
a series of phone calls with increasing time zones, proving that not even distance can break true love
idol!seungmin x reader, 5k words, fluff, long-distance au (seungmin on tour), angst, one argument, suggestive themes but not graphic!! (implied masturbation, sexual intercourse)
you both knew tour was going to be a challenge. the time zones, the silence between texts, being apart for too long. the kind of distance that makes you wonder if it’s still as warm on the other side.
but real love sticks. real love dials in the middle of the night with a sleepy voice and a hotel duvet pulled up to his chin. seungmin is in australia. one hour ahead of you.
“hey, baby” seungmin whispers, the sound barely above the static. “you still awake?”
you roll onto your back, staring at your ceiling like it might answer for you. “yeah.”
“did you cry?” he asks gently. not mocking. just—curious, like he’s asking about the weather.
“a little,” you admit, voice barely holding. “why are you so hard to sleep without?”
he exhales, soft and slow. “i don’t know,” he says, “maybe i cursed you.”
“maybe,” you whisper back.
there’s silence for a while. not awkward. just full.
then, “han jisung is asleep like two feet away, and if he hears me say sappy shit he’s gonna roast me into another dimension.”
you smile a little.
“but,” seungmin adds, quieter now, “i miss you too. like. a lot.”
you close your eyes. “don’t whisper like that. it makes it worse.”
“oh? does it?” his voice dips lower, playful. “what, like this?”
“seungmin.”
“i can picture your face right now” he says with a light chuckle.
you groan into your pillow. “i hate you.”
“no you don’t.”
“no,” you sigh. “i don’t.”
“i’ll call you again tomorrow night,” he murmurs, yawn crawling into his voice. “maybe i’ll read you the hotel shampoo ingredients like poetry.”
“that’s so romantic.”
"i know. i’m basically shakespeare,” he whispers, smug and sleepy.
you let out a soft laugh. “then what’s your sonnet about tonight, romeo?”
“hm.” there's a pause. you hear the rustle of sheets as he shifts, the soft creak of the bed frame. “ode to the cotton bed sheets that smell like lavender.”
you snort. “beautiful. truly moving.”
“i try,” he hums. “for you.”
your throat tightens at that. it’s so quiet on the other end, and you can almost picture him—eyes half-lidded, phone pressed to his cheek, hair messy from the long day, the glow of the hallway light slipping through the crack under the hotel door.
“you should sleep,” you murmur.
“you should stop sounding like you’re about to cry again,” he says.
you blink fast. “sorry.”
“don’t be,” he says. “i miss you too. more than i wanna say out loud because jisung has ears like a bat.”
“tell him i said hi.”
“i will. in the morning. right now, i’m all yours.”
you smile into your pillow. “even if you’re like... thousands of miles away?”
“distance isn’t real,” he says, like it’s obvious. “you’re in my phone, in my head, and in my stupid heart.”
you murmur, fingers curling in the sheets. "i love you."
you can hear him smile. not the smug kind. the quiet one—the one he saves for you.
"i know," he whispers. "i know, baby. i love you too."
your eyes sting again.
“i wanna hear you say goodnight, before i go,” he says softly. “like i’m still right there.”
you tuck your face into your pillow, pretending he is.
you whisper, “goodnight, seungmin.”
he exhales, long and slow. “again.”
“goodnight, minnie.”
“one more time,” he murmurs, voice already halfway to sleep.
you grin, heart squeezing. “goodnight, love.”
“mmm,” he hums, already slipping under. “that one’s my favorite.”
the call doesn’t end. he never hangs up first. not when he’s on tour. not when you’re the only quiet thing that feels like home.
seungmin was always your plumber. doing it alone felt harder than it should’ve.
"okay, okay—stop. stop touching it. you're gonna break it."
"i have to touch it, kim seungmin.” you huff in frustration.
“not when you’re doing it like that.”
“how would you know? you’re in a limousine.”
on the other end of the call, there’s a soft rustling of leather seats, then a distant snort of laughter—probably changbin. then hyunjin’s unmistakable voice, teasing in the background.
you roll your eyes and crouch down by the sink again. “just walk me through it.”
you hear him sigh dramatically. “you're gonna need both of your hands. you’re holding the flashlight with your mouth, right?”
“yeah.” you say, slightly muffled
“cute,” he says, like it’s automatic.
you smile.
“okay, now reach in with your left hand—gently—and find the little hex socket.”
“the what?”
“the six-sided bolt, babe.”
you find it. “got it.”
“good. now take the wrench— the L-shaped one. the baby wrench.”
you laugh around the flashlight. “you mean the allen key?”
“i said what i said.”
you fit it into place, and it clicks. "what now?"
“turn it slowly. coax it back to life.”
“you’re stupid.”
“you’re smiling.”
he’s right. you are.
the background laughter comes again, through your phone. you take the flashlight out of your mouth and furrow your eyebrows, now glaring at the phone.
seungmin huffs. “ignore them. they’re just mad no one calls them to fix things with love and precision.”
you grin and go back to work. “why love?”
“you think i’d be guiding you through garbage disposal in a limousine if i wasn’t in love with you?”
you pause. heart full. “i love you too, minnie.”
“i know,” he murmurs. “now finish the job, so you can text me a picture when it works and i can brag to those idiots about how you’re the best mechanic alive.”
“deal,” you grin.
"and hey?"
"yeah?"
“don’t go getting too good at this independent thing without me, alright? you’ll end up not needing me anymore.”
you roll your eyes fondly. “bye, seungmin.”
“bye, love.”
your phone buzzes unexpectedly—no text, no facetime request, just a straight-up call. that never happens unless something’s wrong.
“hello?”
there’s a beat. then a shaky inhale on the other end of the line. not panicked, but definitely not seungmin’s usual snarky hello either.
“minnie?” you answer, sitting up straighter. “everything okay?”
he exhales again, this time more controlled, like he’s trying to reset himself mid-breath. “yeah, sorry, i just—sorry, this is gonna sound really dumb.”
“are you okay?” you ask again, softer this time.
“yeah. yeah, i just—” he pauses, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “we were walking into this venue, right? and i wasn’t thinking, just messing around with jeongin, and suddenly…”
he trails off.
“suddenly?” you prompt.
“i caught this scent. like perfume. i don’t know who it was, just someone walking by, but it—” he lets out a shaky breath. “it smelled so much like you.”
your heart clenches. “me?”
“yeah,” he says, voice low, almost like he’s embarrassed. “and i just—god, i didn't know i could recognize it so easily, y’know? i never paid attention to that stuff before. but it hit me so fast. like my brain was like, oh, she’s here, and i looked around like an idiot.”
you’re quiet, lips curling into something helpless and warm. “you’re so cute.”
“shut up,” he mutters, and it sounds half-defensive, half-melting. “i was just—i don’t know, kind of spiraling.”
“i should’ve given you the bottle before you left,” you murmur. “you could’ve sprayed it on your pillow or something. maybe your hoodie. made it easier.”
“okay well, actually,” he says, suddenly brisk. “i’m in a fragrance store right now.”
your eyebrows shoot up. “what?”
“i literally walked away from the guys and came in here. i don’t even know what i’m doing.”
you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. “so you called me to ask what perfume i use?”
“maybe,” he says quietly. “maybe i just wanted to hear your voice while i looked for you in a bottle.”
you bury your face in your hand. “seungmin.”
“don’t make it a thing,” he grumbles, but his voice is soft again. “just tell me what it is. i wanna spray it on my wrist or my hoodie or something, and maybe then i won’t look around every time i smell it.”
you tell him, and he repeats it back softly, twice—like he’s memorizing it.
“okay,” he says, “i found it.”
you smile into the phone. “go on then, give it a try. you gotta confirm it’s really me.”
there’s a little silence. the soft pop of the sample nozzle. then—
he gets quiet.
too quiet.
you wait, lips parted, holding your breath like the silence might break if you exhale too hard.
“minnie?” you say gently.
on the other end of the line, there’s a small rustle—like he’s pulling the test strip closer—and then a faint breath, nearly soundless.
“...yeah,” he says, but it’s barely there. hushed. careful.
“is it the right one?” you ask, smiling even though you can’t see him.
another pause.
“it feels like you’re right here.”
you chest tightens.
another rustle—probably him turning away from the counter, footsteps echoing as he walks deeper into the store.
“i need to hang up.”
you blink. “wait, what? why—”
“just—thank you,” he says, quickly, like it hurts. “seriously. thank you.”
“min—”
but the line clicks before you can finish.
your phone rings just as you're brushing your teeth, screen lighting up with minnie calling. it’s early—too early for your brain to do much thinking—but your heart wakes up faster than the rest of you.
you swipe the call and press it to your ear, foam still in your mouth.
“hi, seungmin,” you mumble around your toothbrush, voice muffled and lazy.
he doesn't answer right away. just… breathes.
low. slow. deliberate.
you pause mid-brush. “...minnie?”
“baby,” he says, and something about his voice makes your hand freeze midair. deeper than usual. lower. like he’s under the covers, talking into the pillow.
“what time is it over there?”
“past midnight.”
“shouldn’t you be sleeping?”
a quiet chuckle. “couldn’t. been thinking about you.”
your cheeks warm instantly as you flicked the light switch and made your way to your bedroom.
“earlier today, your scent,” he adds, voice dragging a little now, like he’s letting each word settle before moving on. “you really messed me up with that.”
you sit down on the edge of your bed, heart pounding. “what are you doing?”
he inhales, slow—like he’s giving you a hint without actually saying anything.
“mm… i'm in bed,” he says, voice velvety. “lights are off. window’s open a little.”
you smile, because he’s playing. “and?”
he’s silent for a beat. then—softly, “jisung’s not here.” his designated hotel roommate.
you lean back into your pillow, a little breath catching in your throat. “where is he?”
“went to see chan. they’re doing a livestream in his room.” a pause. “won’t be back for a while.”
you don’t say anything—can’t, really—but the line’s quiet in that loaded kind of way. your breath hitches just enough.
he hears it.
“you gonna keep pretending you don’t know what i’m doing?” he says, voice dipping into something firmer, smoother. “or are you gonna be good and ask me what i want you to do?”
your legs press together on instinct, pulse suddenly very loud in your ears.
“we haven’t had a call like this yet,” you whisper, your voice barely holding steady.
“i know, baby. for now just stay with me.”
distance could do terrible things to people who loved each other. it stretched silence into assumptions, turned waiting into resentment, made every little misstep feel like betrayal.
and tonight, it was doing its worst.
“i just don’t get why you didn’t say anything,” you snap, hands gripping the steering wheel. “you waited until now to bring this up?”
“because i knew you’d react like this,” seungmin fires back, voice tight, like he’s trying not to be overheard.
“like what? like i have a problem with you being honest?”
“no,” he says, “like you twist it into something about you. like you always do.”
“wow.” you pause. blink. “you’re backstage, aren’t you?”
“yes.”
“then why the hell did you call me now if you don’t even have time to talk about this properly?”
“because it’s been eating me alive and i didn’t want to go on stage feeling like this, okay?” his voice wavers. not loud. just frayed.
you exhale, eyes stinging. “i’m not your emotional dumping ground.”
you suck in a shaky breath, throat tight.
“and you could’ve talked about this without raising your voice at me,” you say, quieter now.
there’s silence on the line.
you hear him shift, maybe press his palm over the phone. muffled voices in the background—staff calling him.
“anyway,” you continue, forcing the tremble out of your voice. “i don’t want to bring you down before your show.”
he’s still silent.
“i’m sorry, seungmin. i really am.” your voice softens further. “i love you. are we good?”
a beat. then—
“yeah. we’re good.”
your heart clenches.
you wait.
just for a second.
just long enough to hope he says it back.
but he doesn’t.
the line goes dead.
you sit there, phone still pressed to your ear, staring at nothing.
it’s been hours. half a day, maybe more.
you haven’t heard from him since.
you’re at your desk, legs curled under your chair, coffee cold, unread emails glowing in tabs you haven’t touched.
your phone buzzes.
seungmin: just got back. wanna call?
you stare at the message, thumb hovering.
you: it’s past midnight over there.
a few seconds later:
seungmin: it’s alright. are you busy?
you glance around your office—empty, quiet, dim with the afternoon light pooling through the blinds. the answer’s obvious.
you: no.
the typing bubble appears. disappears. Then your screen lights up.
incoming call: seungmin
your heart skips.
you hesitate just a moment but you answer anyway.
“hey,” he says softly, voice scratchy, tired. like he’s been sitting in silence just waiting to hear you.
you don’t say anything right away.
he waits.
“you should be asleep,” you murmur.
he chuckles faintly. “couldn’t. been thinking about you.”
you exhale, shoulders dropping just a little. “me too.”
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
you rest your chin on your hand, eyes tracing the little scratches on your desk, voice still quiet. “how was the concert?”
he breathes out a small laugh. “we did well. it was great.”
“were you tired during the dance sets?” you ask gently, genuinely. “you didn’t sound winded, but i know you’ve been pushing your knee too hard.”
there’s a pause.
he says, voice low with something like awe. “yeah, it was sore. but i iced it after. chan made me”
you laugh.
then, soft again, he says, “i’m sorry.”
you close your eyes. “me too.”
and it’s not everything, not the whole conversation. but it’s enough for now.
“I love you,” you whisper, trying again.
you can hear him smiling, even through the static.
“i love you too,” he says. “so much.”
you smile back, cheeks warm and aching in the best way.
but then—softly, almost before you mean to say it.
“i don’t wanna get used to this.”
there’s a pause. the kind that makes your throat tighten.
“used to what?” he asks gently.
you swallow. “being apart from you.”
he breathes in through his nose. slowly. “you think that’s happening?”
you shrug, even though he can’t see you. “some days it’s easier. and i hate that. like… am i supposed to be okay with not hearing your voice until midnight? with seeing you through screens more than in person?”
he doesn’t answer right away. just listens.
so you go on, voice smaller now. “are we starting to miss each other less?”
and then he says it, soft but sure.
“no.”
“i’m scared i’m gonna,” you admit, a little too quietly.
he exhales. “you won’t.”
“how do you know?”
“because i’m still here,” he says. “and every time you call, every time you say my name, it still feels like the first time. i’m never gonna be something you forget how to want.”
you blink fast, throat thick.
“even if it gets easier,” he adds, “it doesn’t mean it means less. it just means we’re learning how to carry it better.”
you nod, tears prickling—but this time, they feel okay.
safe.
like love you can live inside of.
“you’re still the first thing i think about,” you whisper.
“good,” he murmurs. “same.”
you pick up and immediately the screen is sideways, showing a very blurry Jisung laughing so hard he’s bent over the hotel bed.
"hellooooo," jisung yells directly into the phone.
you blink. "uh… hi?"
the screen rights itself. seungmin appears—barefaced, hair messy, eyes way too shiny to be sober. he’s lying on his stomach, chin squished into a pillow, voice soft and dangerously sweet.
“hi, baby,” he says, all low and slurred and dangerous.
“oh no,” you whisper. “how drunk are you two?”
“not drunk,” he insists.
“he’s drunk,” jisung confirms helpfully, popping into frame again and waving.
“shut up,” seungmin mumbles, blindly swatting at him.
you snort. “what’s happening over there?”
“he has something to tell you,” jisung says smugly.
seungmin groans, burying half his face in the blanket. “jisung…”
“tell her what you told me,” jisung insists.
“han jisung, shut your entire mouth.”
“too late. he said—” jisung gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “‘if she were here right now I’d let her ruin my life.’”
a beat of silence.
then seungmin smacks him off camera with a pillow.
seungmin flips back into frame, completely disheveled and pouty. “seriously, come over sweetpea.”
“i’m in a different country.”
“weak excuse,” he grumbles, already rolling over onto his side like the call’s exhausting him.
jisung peeks in again, holding up a half-eaten macaron. “if you were here, we’d give you one of these.”
you laugh, full and warm, cheeks sore from smiling.
“save some for me then,” you say, voice soft but playful.
seungmin doesn’t hear it—he’s already buried back into the pillow, mumbling something incoherent about what the bed smells like.
but jisung hears it.
he freezes, mid-bite, eyes snapping to the screen.
you meet his gaze.
he widens his eyes, mouthing: really?
you bite back a smile and give the tiniest, most deliberate nod.
his entire face lights up, but then he clamps his mouth shut, physically slaps a hand over it, and glances at Seungmin, who’s currently face down and humming the mario kart theme into the blanket.
“oh my god,” Jisung mouths again, silently losing it.
you put a finger to your lips, shhh.
he nods rapidly, then mimes zipping his lips and throwing the key.
seungmin groans. “why is it so quiet now? what—are you guys passing notes like it’s high school?”
“no,” jisung says, biting into his macaron and struggling not to beam. “just studying. real academic vibes over here.”
seungmin rolls over again, squinting. “weirdos.”
you just smile.
“see you soon,” you whisper, quiet enough that only jisung catches it.
and he grins like he’s holding the world’s best secret. because he is.
the screen lights up with a familiar facetime ring.
you answer, already smiling. “hi.”
his face appears—dim lighting, hoodie up, hair messy like he’s been running his hands through it all night. he’s lying on his side in bed, camera slightly tilted. there’s a stillness to him tonight. the kind that feels heavier than silence.
“hey,” he says, voice low. a little tired. a little distant.
you tuck your legs underneath you on the couch. “how long’s it been now?”
he doesn’t even pause to think. “five months.”
you nod. “we’re halfway.”
“only halfway.”
your breath catches at that. you weren’t expecting him to say it like that—like it’s a sentence.
you sigh, fingers tightening around your phone. “yeah.”
for a moment, neither of you say anything.
“i know you’re tired,” you say gently.
“i’m fine,” he replies, but there’s no weight behind it. like he’s used to pretending. “it just… feels really far tonight.”
you nod slowly, throat tight. “i know. it feels far for me too.”
he looks at you for a second longer—eyes a little glassy, lips parted like he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it.
but he does.
“i miss you, sweetheart.”
your breath catches in your chest.
he rarely calls you that. only when he means it. when he’s feeling something he doesn’t know how to explain in full sentences.
you swallow hard. “soon.”
he nods, slow. “yeah. soon.”
he has no idea just how soon.
no idea that your suitcase is already packed. that your flight lands tomorrow morning. that the hotel front desk already has your name and a keycard.
and as he murmurs, “i wish i could hold your hand right now,”
you smile.
“you will,” you say softly.
you keep replaying it in your head—seungmin’s face when he saw you in the crowd. that second of shock, then the dumbest grin as he stumbled over a lyric and tried to play it off like he meant to do that. you’d almost cried. almost.
and now it’s past midnight, the concert hours behind you, and you know he’s taken his time wiping off the sweat and glitter of it all, probably still tangled in post-show chaos and crew goodbyes.
which is why, when you hear the knock at your hotel room door, your heart does that annoying fluttery thing. you don’t even hesitate—you’re off the bed in seconds, bare feet padding across the floor, and you already know who it is before you check the peephole.
you open the door.
and there he is.
hair slightly damp, hoodie pulled low over his forehead, backpack slung over one shoulder. tired eyes—but shining. always shining when they’re on you.
most of his face is hidden in the shadows of the hood, just the curve of his cheekbone catching the hallway light. you can’t really see him, not fully. but you’d know that silhouette anywhere.
you don’t even get a word out. he drops his bag, wraps his arms around you, and pulls you into him like you’re the only thing holding him up. you let out a small squeal, laughing, your arms looping around his neck just as he lifts you straight off the ground.
“seungmin—!” you giggle as he spins you in a circle, your feet kicking in the air.
“i missed you,” he breathes into your shoulder before setting you down slowly. “i missed you so bad.”
once your feet touch the carpet, you're grabbing the front of his hoodie and tugging him inside. the door swings shut behind him with a soft click, and before he can blink, you’re kissing him.
he melts immediately, like he’s been waiting all night for this because he has. his hands slide back around your waist, pulling you in tighter and you giggle into it—completely overwhelmed and completely in love.
he stumbles forward a little, still kissing you, until your back hits the wall with a muted thud. you gasp softly into his mouth, grinning now as he presses into you, and he pulls back just enough to look at you, dazed.
“what…” he breathes, his lips brushing yours, “…what are you doing here?”
you blink at him, still catching your breath, still grinning. “i wanted to come surprise you.”
he just stares at you for a beat, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re real. then he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “you’re a crazy, crazy girl, you know right?”
“you think i’d let you go out of the country for ten months and not visit you?” you say, voice light, teasing, warm. “you really thought i could go that long without seeing your dumb face?”
he doesn’t answer. just lets out this soft, wrecked little sound—half-laugh, half-sigh—as he wraps his arms around you again, tighter this time. he buries his face into your hoodie, right against your collarbone, his breath warm through the fabric. you hug him back instantly, arms wrapping under his and holding him close. he clings. like he’s cold and you’re the only source of warmth he’ll ever need.
“come on,” you murmur, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head gently. “let me see you, now.”
he shakes his head against you, just the tiniest movement. doesn’t loosen his grip. doesn’t lift his head.
“seungmin,” you whisper again, a little firmer, leaning back slightly so you can reach up and tug his hood down.
the fabric falls away. his hair’s tousled, still a little damp from a shower or maybe the rain outside, and his face is hidden—tilted down, eyes trained on the floor. he still hasn’t looked at you properly.
all he does is lift his hand up to his face. wipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. you catch the tremble in his fingers.
a sniffle.
“oh, minnie…” you whisper, your heart cracking wide open.
despite the way he towers over you, his shoulders are hunched, his head bowed low like he’s trying to disappear into himself.
you coo softly, barely a sound.
that does it.
he lets out this weak, shaky sigh like he’s been holding it in since the moment he saw you at the concert, maybe longer—and your chest seizes with it. he turns his face just slightly, burying it into your shoulder again, arms wrapping tight around your waist like he's scared you'll vanish if he lets go.
your hands are already moving—one smoothing over his back, the other stroking his hair—your body swaying with his as he starts to let out shaky, quiet gasps.
he sniffles again, shoulders still trembling, but when he finally speaks, it’s muffled into your hoodie. “the members were betting on me. on whether or not i’d cry when i saw you.”
you let out a little laugh and reach up to cup his cheeks, gently swiping away the fresh tears still clinging to his lashes. “and who said you wouldn’t cry?”
he hesitates. “me.”
you laugh again—soft and a little breathless—as your thumbs brush gently under his eyes. “of course you did,” you murmur, fingers sliding up to smooth through his damp hair.
he lets out a weak chuckle, eyes fluttering closed at your touch. he leans into your hand for a second before straightening up a bit, pulling his shoulders back like he’s trying to regain a sliver of composure.
even now, red-eyed and sniffling, there’s still something solid about him. the way he holds you, the way he stands just a bit in front of you like he’d shield you from the world if it even looked at you wrong.
seungmin's lips part, like he wants to say something but the words won’t come. instead, he just stares at you, eyes darting across your face like he’s trying to take in every inch of you he’s missed. like he’s scared you’ll be gone if he blinks too long.
“you have no idea how much i needed this,” he whispers.
you step closer, hands finding his again. “that's why i'm here.”
he shakes his head, fingers tightening around yours. “no, like—” he exhales hard, eyes shining as he glances down at your joined hands. “you don’t get it. every night, i’d come back and just... lie on the hotel bed and pretend you were next to me. i missed everything. your voice, your stupid little yawns, the way you poke me when i zone out.”
you let out a laugh, watery and soft. “i do not poke you.”
“you do,” he insists, eyes wide like it’s the most important fact in the world. “you go like this—” he imitates a dramatic jab to your side, making you laugh and swat his arm. he chuckles, bright and breathless, and then quiets.
your heart flutters and you don’t even try to hide how it shows on your face. you tug his hand and backpedal toward the bed, flopping onto it with a gentle bounce. propped up on your elbows, you tilt your head at him. “c’mere.”
seungmin shrugs off his backpack, then tugs his hoodie off by the back—grabbing it near the collar and pulling it over in one smooth, practiced motion. he holds it in front of him for a second, then slips out of the sleeves with the opposite hand.
his t-shirt clings in places and hangs loose in others, fabric soft and worn and framing the lean lines of his torso in a way that’s criminally distracting. your eyes fall on the way it shifts with every movement—subtle dips of collarbone, the slight curve of his waist.
your fingers curl slightly in the blanket beneath you as he steps closer, and your breath hitches without permission. god, you missed him. not just his face or his voice, but all of him—how he moves, how he fills the space around you like no one else can.
seungmin crawls onto the bed, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours. the mattress dips under his weight and the second he's close enough, your hands reach up instinctively—fingertips grazing his forearm, his side, like you’re checking if he’s really here.
he smells like his body wash, clean and warm with something a little woodsy. familiar. comforting. so him.
then he leans in, arms bracketing either side of your body, and your whole world narrows to just the space between you, until finally—finally—his lips brush against yours.
it’s soft. barely even a kiss at first, more like the ghost of one, like he’s still afraid he’ll break the moment if he moves too fast. but you kiss him back, and then he presses in more fully, and it’s everything. warm and slow and full of all the things you’ve both been trying not to say out loud.
he kisses you again, and again, each one a little deeper than the last—like he’s making up for every single day you were apart. one hand comes up to cradle your jaw, his thumb sweeping tender over your cheek.
“i love you so much,” he whispers, like it’s a confession. like it still stuns him just how badly he felt it.
you nod, blinking back the sudden sting behind your eyes. “i love you too.”
he exhales shakily, and then he kisses you once more—slow, full of longing—and you swear you feel the world right itself a little, just because he’s here.
he pulls away, just slightly, and rests his forehead against yours. your noses bump, and he closes his eyes, smiling so softly it barely lifts the corners of his mouth. “i was scared you’d forget about me.”
you shake your head, hand settling over his heart. “you’re impossible to forget. trust me, i tried.”
“i know,” he breathes. “me too. it was unbearable sometimes.”
you tilt your chin up and kiss the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, slow and lingering. his skin is warm under your lips, and you feel him exhale shakily, his body softening against yours like your touch is the thing holding him together.
his hands wander a little now, like he can’t help it—tracing slow lines along your back, the dip of your waist, smoothing down your arm and back up again. his hand slips beneath the shirt under your hoodie, smoothing over bare skin, and your breath catches.
you let him pull the layers of fabric over your head. let him take his time. he kisses down your neck, your chest, soft and focused, every press of his lips asking, are you sure?
and every answer you give is yes.
you wake up slowly, warm and hazy, the kind of rest that only comes after feeling completely safe. the curtains are still drawn, soft light peeking through just enough to glow against the sheets.
and then you feel it—his hand, resting on your waist. his thumb tracing little circles on your skin, like he never stopped touching you even in his sleep.
you blink your eyes open.
he’s already awake, head propped on one arm, looking at you with the calmest expression you’ve ever seen on him. the kind that makes your heart ache just a little because you know how much he doesn’t show easily.
“you’re staring,” you murmur, voice rough from sleep.
“you’re pretty when you’re confused and squinty,” he says, lips curving just barely.
you smile, still half-asleep, but it turns real fast when he leans in and kisses you—soft and unhurried, his fingers brushing your cheek like he’s still making sure you’re real.
“good morning,” you whisper.
“technically almost noon,” he teases. “but yeah. it’s good now.”
he pulls back, just enough to give you room as you sit up, blanket tugged up to cover your chest. your fingers instinctively rake through your tangled hair, and he watches you with a little too much amusement.
then he shifts, reaching over the side of the bed to dig through his bag.
“i have something for you,” he says casually.
and then he turns back around—with a box of macarons in his hand.
you gasp, grinning instantly. “you didn’t.”
he takes one out, leans in with the smuggest little grin, and holds it to your lips.
“if you were here,” he says, softly now, “you’d be eating one of these. and you are. so.”
you roll your eyes, but open your mouth anyway, taking a bite—and he watches you like he just won the lottery.
“sweet enough?” he murmurs.
you swallow, cheeks warm. “almost.”
he leans in again, brushing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“now?” he asks.
“perfect,” you whisper.
and he smiles like he never wants to be anywhere else ever again.
in which the mornings with Minho can be silly and suggestive all in one. primarily silly.
“Oh no, this isn’t good..”
Those words specifically fall from your lips in a muffled manner. Your eyes flicker up to the man you currently lie atop of, and it’s stupendously hard trying not to crack a smile.
It’s so easy to adore Minho, with the happy, barely perceptible crinkle at the corner of his eyes a telltale sign a smile hides beneath the covers.
A morning where neither wanted to rouse, too groggy from both the.. rendezvous of last night and your laziness in general.
A dangerous duo, truly.
So now, with your teeth occasionally nipping at his bottom lip, you exhibit an adamancy only found in the man before you—habits of his you’d picked up throughout the years together.
An adamancy occurring after you’d made a bet you’d never stop kissing him.
Literally.
“Mmph- you’re-“
The words are caught when he tips his head, lips puckering in a nearly comical way you’d have laughed at if it weren’t for the nonstop, sugary sweet pecks he presses to your own lips.
Silly. It’s all so silly.
And you cherish every second.
“Let me kiss you more—“ He whines like a child, the needy side of him peeking through hard to resist. In which results in you mirroring his puckered mouth while he kisses and kisses and kisses till your head is dizzied.
Ah.
Like a sixth sense, Minho’s head whips to your right where, without you even slightly noticing, Soonie stares where he’d hopped onto the mattress, evidently unimpressed.
“The adults are busy,” He mutters, pointing an accusing finger at the kitty, earning a simple flick of the tail and Minho’s narrowed eyes in response.
“Busy?” You begin sarcastically, becoming the new subject of Minho’s feigned glare.
“Mm.”
Another thing you don’t notice? His leg linking with yours until you’re physically flipped over in response to his rolling to the right, eliciting a shriek of surprise.
And in an instant do you come to notice the rather compromising position, with his chest pressing to your back, lithe, veined hands gently lifting your shirt, nosing at your neck.
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“Oh, despise. Such a big word, baby,” Minho drawled with an obnoxious smirk, the one that simultaneously made you want to rip his hair out and kiss those perfectly delectable lips of his, “If it’s any consolation, I abhor your presence as well.”
“Wonderful,” you crossed your legs, a smile creeping onto your face as you leaned backward in your chair, “So why exactly are you here?”
Minho laughed, “The same reason I presume that you’re here for. A hundred dollars to put up with you is a tempting offer.”
◦ genre: college!au, best friends to lovers!au; angst, fluff
◦ pairings: reader x minho
◦ word count: 17.4k
◦ description: lee minho crashes at your apartment four out of seven days in a week, but you’re the crashing for him.
◦ warnings: explicit language, mentions of alcohol, suggestive, slow af burn
◦ a/n: hello after 4 months of not writing !!! self-quarantine brings out the best in me (due to lack of responsibilities) & here’s the fic I’ve been working on for the past week; I hope you like it :)
one.
Lee Minho tells you that he drowned his AirPods during that one campfire social by the beach and that he can’t afford to buy a new pair because he’s a dirt poor, money-starved college student who survives solely off of Shin Ramyun and its complementary mushroom flakes.
You know this because 1) he’s mentioned it before during the ten-minute break of your three-hour-long marketing lecture and even got the professor involved in a heated discussion about Apple’s obligation to make all of their product lines waterproof for maximum customer brand loyalty, 2) the past several calls with him have been staticy and demonic sounding, and 3) he actually FaceTimed you during his grocery trip last weekend and asked whether he should buy two five-packs of Shin Ramyun or one. You said one, but you’re pretty sure Minho’s too fucking weak to pass up on that two-for-one deal.
So here you are, grocery shopping on a Friday night (because you’ll never wake up early on a Saturday morning) and listening to your best friend wail about his misfortunes through the phone as you’re slapping every watermelon you come in contact with.
it's while you're putting away groceries that you notice a small box of cookies that you hadn't put on the list. you'd meant to, but your memory isn't the best, so by the time minho was making a trip to the grocery store alone, you had already resigned yourself to getting them next time you were there.
"honey?" you hold the box up as minho looks up from where he's sitting in front of the open fridge, putting away the cold stuff. "what's this?"
he blinks at you, brows rising just a little. "you wanted those?" he turns back to the fridge, carefully moving a carton of eggs so he can slide in a tub of yogurt so it sits with the other near-empty container. "did i get the wrong kind? i thought those were the right ones--"
"they are." you shift your weight uncomfortably. "i just... i didn't put them on the list."
"so?" minho doesn't look up again, carefully putting away strawberries. "you said you wanted them. i just assumed you forgot."
when you don't respond, minho slowly looks up, watching the quiet way your shoulders are shaking now. oh. oh. he's already rising to his feet, rushing over to you, asking if he did something wrong. you always feel silly when such obvious kindness gets met with you getting overwhelmed, but minho knows enough about the way you grew up. he wraps his arms around you, pulling you in. this is far from the first time that this has happened since the two of you started living together, but it still hits hard every time something like this happens.
"stop that," he says with this playful lilt to his voice, the way he always sounds when he's trying to cheer you up in moments like these. "if you're crying, then i'm a bad boyfriend."
but you just wrap your arms around him, shutting your eyes. he listened. he remembered what you said. "it's dumb--"
"it's not dumb." he rubs circles into your back. "you'll get used to it. i promise."
you think you wouldn't mind that. "minho?" you mumble as you turn your face, just so that he can hear you clearer. "thank you for listening."
and he chuckles, curling around you once more. there's things to be done, but he'll always savor holding you like this when he can. "that's what i'm here for."
lee minho × fem!reader — soulmate au, high school au, time traveling, love at first sight, drawing closer × lovely runner, fluff/angst
summary — minho wasn't meant to see you there, falling for you before he even knew your name or why you were attached to that tube. fate was so cruel to bring you close, only to pull you away before he got to tell you those three little words he was keeping inside him. but when the same cruel destiny presented an opportunity to make things right, he wasn't going to let it slip away from him again.
warnings — mentions of illness, death, hospitals, time traveling, depression, characters are aged 18/19 for half of the story, blood (i don't want to spoil the whole plot so i'll just leave it at this)
word count — 6.7K words
soundtrack — listen here
author's note — drawing closer broke me. i have never cried so much, it was just so sad :(. i love writing high school au sm, it's a lot of fun. this layout is inspired by the lovely @starseungs <3 i hope you enjoy reading this. please reblog and comment, i'd love to hear your thoughts since this is something very different to what i've written before <33
The fan above him spun around with a loud creak, making more noise than giving him air. The environment was cold outside, with winter still clinging to the wind, making a chill run down his spine amidst his worry for his friend. Hyunjin was far too reckless for his own good—why did he never listen to Minho? He was right after all. He did that stupid skateboard stunt, and now look what happened. Minho had to bring him to the hospital because he was almost a hundred percent sure he broke his leg.
“You're not a teenager anymore, Hyunjin,” Minho chided as Hyunjin paid him no heed, too excited to ride the skateboard that he found in the dusty boxes of his garage. Once upon a time, Hyunjin was really good at skateboarding. But it had been years since then. “At least do something normal.”
“Normal is for losers.”
He shook his head, not wanting to recount the sound of the sickening crack of the skateboard followed by his friend's wail of pain. A wave of goosebumps formed over his skin as he tried to focus on something else, like how he would tell him I told you so when he saw him about how he could be as dumb as he was seven years ago and watch him roll his eyes. He gazed at the branch of the sakura tree he could see outside the window, still bare from the snowy months.
The faint smell of soap was followed by loud giggles. He turned his head to the source of the sound, eyes following on a couple young kids jumping up and down as they were surrounded by bubbles, dancing around a person sitting in a wheelchair.
That was when he saw you.
You blew another bout of the soapy spheres, the sunlight refracting through them and creating tiny, diffused rainbows. Your eyes nearly turned into crescents, crinkling at the corners as you laughed along with the children. Your smile was so contagious that he could feel the corners of his own lips tugging upward. It was like the filter of his eyes changed, and the world suddenly became more vibrant and colorful—just because of you. He didn't even notice the tube that ran along beneath your nose, the way you couldn't move your body beneath your waist, or the ill-fitting hospital gown you had on.
Minho couldn't tear his eyes away from you, not even when a nurse approached him to inform him of Hyunjin's condition. A quick snap brought him out of his trance, his ears turning red along with his cheeks. He quietly got up and shuffled behind the nurse towards the room Hyunjin was resting in.
Over the next week, Minho visited the hospital twice a day to meet Hyunjin, once in the morning before work and once in the evening after work. A couple of their other friends came every now and then, but it was mostly just Minho.
And he wanted to keep it that way.
Not to be disrespectful to his friend, but he wanted to see you without getting hounded by relentless teasing and possibly drive you away (not like he had ever spoken to you; no, this was all in his head).
There was something about you that drew Minho in, like a moth to a flame. Like he knew you from somewhere, but he couldn't put a finger on it.
The following Sunday, the day Hyunjin was being discharged, Minho was there at the hospital. He was miserably failing at operating the water cooler to quench his parched throat, his ears turning pink from the effort of trying to find out why water wasn't coming out of the faucet when he turned the knob.
“That thing has never worked,” a voice said from behind. You approached him in your wheelchair, a permanent smile on your face as you looked at him, hands folded in your lap.
“Oh…” He felt stupid.
“Here you go.” You handed him a plastic water bottle, which he gratefully took and took a few gulps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I've seen you a lot around here; are you unwell?”
“Oh? No, no—my friend—he did something stupid and broke his leg. I didn't want to leave him alone.”
You nodded your head. “That's sad. Is he okay?”
Minho nodded. “He's okay enough to talk my ear off.” He chuckled, to which you chuckled in return. A warm, fluttery feeling rose on his chest at the thought of him making you smile. “Thank you... for the water.”
“No problem. You looked like you were going to break that.”
“Was I?” His face flushed, and he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand sheepishly at your words.
“What's your name?”
“Minho. What about you?”
“Y/n.”
Y/n… He liked that. He wanted to say something more—to keep talking to you so he could hear that voice of yours that made his heart tap dance in his rib cage when a group of kids ran up to you, talking over each other in excited giggles and shrieks. You laughed along with them as they tugged at your hand.
“I'm sorry. I'll see you again later?” He nodded quickly, forgetting that Hyunjin was going to be discharged. He had no reason to come back, but you wanted him to come back, right? Or were you just being polite in front of the kids so he wouldn't be reduced to a pile of shame?
Despite his conflicting thoughts, he found himself visiting the hospital every day without fail, hoping to at least catch a glimpse of you, and was surprised to see you waiting for him near the water cooler. That set your friendship in motion, with you talking endlessly every evening about anything and everything. The invisible red string that tied him to you brought him closer and closer. You were a siren, and he was a sailor entranced by your voice.
The weather grew warmer, and spring began to show itself in the trees and in the flowers. The snow-covered roads were no longer a hassle to drive on, and Minho could finally put away his boots, opting for a more comfortable pair of shoes for work and to visit you. Like clockwork, at five in the evening, he switched off his computer, shoved his papers into his work bag, and made a beeline for his car, no longer needing a map because he already knew the way.
You were there waiting for him in your room after he checked in at the reception, eager to tell him more tales and funny stories, anecdotes of other patients, and the kids you hung out with. Sometimes, you and he would talk for hours. Sometimes, you sat in silence, sketching away in your book, while he sat beside you, reading a book.
Minho showed you pictures of his three cats, which you dawned on almost immediately, cooing at the sight of the three kitties, making his heart melt. He wished he could bring them, but he couldn't, so he showed you as many videos and photos he could since they seemed to bring you immense joy.
Some days, however, you could hardly sit up, laying down on the bed with a grimace on your face. You thought you could hide from him, but he knew you were in pain. He was in pain, seeing you like that. You didn't mention it in your endless conversation, so he assumed you didn't like to talk about it.
He never asked you why you were in the hospital in the first place, why all the happiness drained out of your face when you tried to move in your wheelchair, why that tube sat above your pretty pink lips—he didn't see all that. He only saw you.
You and your wonderful smile.
You and your ability to light up his world.
You and the way you always made his heart skip a beat.
You and your beautiful eyes that he swore held galaxies inside; he could stare at them forever.
“I can't wait for the sakuras to bloom,” you said one day, the two of you sitting in the shade of a cherry blossom outside of the hospital. “It's my favorite part of the whole year.” But while you were looking at the budding pink blossoms, he was looking at your face.
He was falling. Falling hard. You were the first thought on his mind when he woke up and the last one when he went to sleep. He dreamed of you, sweet little fantasies of spending the rest of his life with you.
He knew you better than himself, that you liked pancakes drowned in syrup and berries on top, that you loved a specific type of daisy called a gerbera daisy—a flower that looked as vibrant as you, that you hated the thunder but loved the rain, and that you were an amazing artist. Your dreams of becoming a painter and having something in the Louvre Museum in Paris, visiting the top of Tokyo Tower, and swimming at the beach. It made you so happy to talk about them that it made him happy, grinning ear to ear as you animatedly explained all the details to him.
“Whoa, we were in the same class,” Minho said, eyes wide with shock as he looked at the yearbook in your hands. You were both on the topic of school when you found out that the place you were describing felt too similar. It was only when you talked about a certain math teacher that you realized it was the same person.
Minho dug through his old school things at home and found his yearbook; the insides of the cover were scribbled with so many names of people whom he used to call friends.
It was funny how you two had crossed paths before, but he had no recollection of you. He silently cursed at his past teenage self for not knowing you—then again, fate worked in different ways.
“Yeah, I was looking through it, and I saw your face. Weird, right?” He nodded, looking at the photo of you from seven years ago. You looked almost exactly the same, except now your hair has grown out much more. How had he never noticed you?
His feelings towards you have only increased since then, to the point where they felt suffocating to bottle up inside him. Like a volcano waiting to erupt. He took one look at your face and zoned out, completely missing what you said and barely covering up when you asked him for his opinion. He had to bite his tongue every time he almost blurted out that sentence that was marinating in his brain.
I love you.
“You're down bad,” Hyunjin told him after Minho confessed to having feelings for you after he was confronted about his visits to the hospital for the past two months. “Like bad bad. I never thought I'd see you like this.”
“I like her,” Minho admitted again. “A lot. Now that I've known her, I don't think I can go back to pretending she doesn't exist.”
“Then tell her.”
He paused. “Confess… to Y/n?”
Hyunjin let out an exasperated sigh, shifting his position on the couch. “Yes, Minho, proclaim your love to the woman you love.”
“Is that a good idea?”
“If you like her so much despite her problems, then it's worth a shot, don't you think? And I have a feeling she feels the same way.”
“You think so?”
“There is only one way to find out.”
There is only one way to find out.
Hyunjin was right. Minho should confess. No harm in doing that, right? He picked out his best shirt, tucking it into his pants, and looked at his reflection in the mirror, messing with his hair for a while before he gave up and let it be. He smoothed down the wrinkles in the crisp white shirt, wondering if he was too dressed up for this. He sprayed on some cologne that you had complimented the day he wore it and gave himself a pep talk as he drove to a flower shop.
With bright red gerbera daisies in hand, he took a few deep breaths in front of the hospital entrance. The cherry blossom trees were in full bloom, ready to fall at any moment. You would love to see them, he thought, smiling to see himself. If things went the way he wanted them to, he would bring you out here and sit at a bench. Maybe get some ice cream from the cafeteria and watch the sakura trees.
Minho steeled himself and walked inside, making his way to the front desk. It was a daily routine, but today was different. His hair on the back of his neck was on end, and his heart was beating uncomfortably loudly in his chest.
“I'm here to see Y/N,” he told the receptionist. He was expecting her to tell him to go down the hallway, take the elevator up to your floor, and go to your room, as he did every day. He didn't expect the nurse to look up at him with a solemn face, a jolt of panic going through him even before she said anything.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Lee. She passed away earlier today. Her illness suddenly became worse, and her body couldn't fight it.”
His heart dropped, along with the bouquet of red flowers in his hands. “What? But—but I was here yesterday. She was fine. How—” His vision blurred with tears as the nurse once again shook her head in sorrow. His ears rang loudly, hands gripping onto the countertop hard enough to make his knuckles white, his throat closing up as he felt like the whole world was crumbling in front of him. His heart was ripped out of his chest and trampled upon as the nurse explained to him and told him about your final resting place. She handed him an envelope, sealed with a sticker of a strawberry and his name written on the front in your handwriting.
He sat in his car and cried for a long time, his forehead resting on the steering wheel as sob after sob racked through his body. His throat ached and his eyes burned, but he couldn't stop crying. The world became dull again; the happiness and light that you once brought are gone. Even after he shed his last tear, his heart squeezed dry and now hollow, he still couldn't will himself to drive away; he couldn't make himself look at the envelope sitting next to him in the passenger seat.
Minho blasted the air conditioner and closed his eyes to take a few deep breaths, but he was plagued by visions of you, and the pain in his heart increased tenfold. He didn't know how long he was sitting there in his car, but he did know that he could never tell you how much he loved you, how you made his life worth living, and how he would cherish you with his whole heart for eternity.
I love you.
Dear Minho,
If you're reading this then… I must not be there anymore. Firstly, I want to thank you for making the last few months of my life so memorable. I loved every moment I spent with you, and I wish I could've had many more—perhaps a lifetime more. Thank you for making me smile when my heart felt heavy, for making me laugh when I felt like crying, and for showing me so much more love than I deserve.
Second, I want to tell you I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not telling you the full story of me, the reasons why I'm paralyzed below my waist, and why I was so sick I could barely move sometimes. Because when you were there, I wanted to be happy. I didn't want to think about my illness or the fact that I would die and leave you alone. It was too much to bear, although I thought about it every night.
All those dreams I told you about? The biggest one I had was to be with you. This is the third thing I wanted to tell you, but I never had the chance because I was too much of a coward, which is that I like you. No, I love you. I've loved you since we were in school. I recognized you in the hospital that day, and you didn't, but I was so happy to see you again, although I wish you didn't have to see me in that state, lying on my deathbed.
I love you so much, Lee Minho. I wish we had more time together, but I cherished every moment we had. I love you, and I always will. And I hope you do too.
Forever,
Y/n.
The words in your letter were permanently etched into his brain, a painful reminder of your absence and of how oblivious he was to your reciprocated feelings. He couldn't move for a few days, lying in bed, alternating between crying and simply staring at the ceiling, memories of you playing in his head again and again like a broken record he never wanted to fix.
Minho didn't visit you until Sunday, not wanting to believe the harsh reality of you not being with him anymore. He did his best to hide any remnant of his red eyes and puffy face, dressed in the shirt you liked, and bought red gerbera daisies once again to see you. He had to look good for you.
It took him a while to find you, but there you were.
In loving memory of a loving daughter and dear friend, Y/N L/N
(25.03.1999 - 10.04.2024)
“Hey,” his voice cracked. He stubbornly tried to blink at the tears forming in his eyes. Minho bit his lip, kneeling down to place the flowers in front of the tombstone and brushing some dirt off of the granite. “I miss you.” A wobbly smile formed on his face. He could almost see your face in front of him, a teasing glint in your eyes as you poked fun at him. He sniffled, turning away to wipe his eyes. “And you never gave me the chance to tell you that... that I love you too. I was nervous, and now I'm too late. I'm sorry, Y/n.” He choked on his words and stood up. “I would do anything to get you back.”
There was a cool breeze, ruffling his hair. He thought it was you and closed his eyes, imagining it was your hands carding through his air. He felt something fall on him—cherry blossoms. The wind carried them in a delicate dance, surrounding him and you in a flurry of pink petals.
“The sakuras are blooming,” he said sadly.
But you weren't here to see it.
The drive home was silent. Minho didn't put the radio on, half focused on the idle roads and darkening horizon. The cherry blossom trees all over the city were blooming, he noticed, as his car stood idle at a red light. He believed a part of him died along with you. You were his soulmate; that's what he liked to believe. You were connected in more ways than one, with destiny pulling on your strings to get you close and then snipping the thread at the last second.
The light turned red. He changed the gear and moved forward.
It all happened too fast: the rev of another car coming in from his side at a speed double that of the limit, him noticing too late as the front crashed to his left, his head flying into the window and breaking the glass into shards that wedged into his skin.
And then everything went black.
Minho's head shot up. Was he dead? Did he die in that car crash? His head was killing him; a throb was coming from deep inside his brain, making him wince and hold his head. But there was no blood on his hands when he pulled away. How was that possible?
“Are you okay?” He looked up. Hyunjin was approaching him along with a few other people he recognized as Bang Chan, Han Jisung, and... Kim Seungmin? He hadn't spoken to the last one since high school. “I think it hit you really hard.”
“What do you mean, I was in a—” He halted in his tracks. “What are you wearing?” Minho's eyes were trained on the gray blazer he was wearing, a gold pin affixed to the lapel. Underneath was a navy blue waistcoat and a white shirt collar peeking above.
Hyunjin blinked. “What do you mean?”
“No,” he said, letting out something that was a mix of a laugh and a scoff. “Why are you wearing that? Are you pulling my leg?”
“My… uniform?”
“Yah, Minho, did you hit your head that hard?” Jisung laughed, slinging an arm over his shoulder, making him bend.
“Of course I did, I—”
His mind clicked. They were standing on a field. Not just any old field—their school play field, where they used to play soccer every day after class. There was laughter and yelling all around him. Hyunjin, Jisung, Chan, and Seungmin—even Minho himself—were wearing the same clothes. Gray blazer, white shirt, gray slacks, and the gold pin. Some were wearing the navy blue waistcoat and a tie, but it was the same thing from seven years ago.
“This isn't funny; why are we here?” This had to be some joke, courtesy of Jisung. He was a prankster, but this was taking it too far.
“Minho, are you sure you're okay? Do you need to go to the nurse?” Chan had worry written all over his face.
Minho glanced at each of them, getting more and more confused by the second. His eyes flitted down to his clothes and back up, at the other students, the school building, and back to his friends.
“Maybe he has a concussion,” Seungmin quipped. “I told those rugby guys to take it down a notch.”
Those words sounded familiar. A sense of deja vu washed over him, his hair pricking on end, and a light bulb went off in his head.
This has happened before.
“Hey, Lee Minho... You're scaring me.” Hyunjin's hand held his left bicep and shook him.
“This happened before... Why am I here? I graduated school seven years ago...” He muttered underneath his breath.
“What are you saying? I think we need to take you to the nurse.”
Minho cut Chan off. “Today, what is today's date?”
“April 10th, why?”
“The year, Seungmin.”
“2017—”
The air was knocked out of his lungs. He was in the past. Seven years in the past. He was still in his last year of high school, liked playing soccer, never wore the uniform correctly, and was still friends with Kim Seungmin.
“Y/n…”
You would be alive. If he was right and he was somehow transported back in time to when he was in school, you would be alive. You would be okay, not lying in a hospital bed, unable to move, waiting for your illness to consume you.
He had another chance.
“Y/n? You mean from our class? Why d—”
Minho leaped at Hyunjin, his eyes blazing with determination. He held his shoulders as he spoke again. “Where is she?”
“I think she was leaving?”
That was all Minho needed to know. He quickly grabbed his bag and bolted down the field onto the pavement that led to the main gate. He could hear his friends calling for him; they were undoubtedly confused by his behavior, but that didn't matter. All he had to do was make sure you were alive. He spotted a girl walking, a backpack slung over her back.
There was only one way he could find out.
“Y/n?” He called, hoping he wasn't making a fool of himself in front of someone else.
The girl turned, and his heart stopped.
It was you, a younger version of you, the one from the yearbook, looking at him with a confused tilt of your head. He could see your lips move, probably saying his name, but he couldn't hear it. There was a gust of wind, the breeze urging him to surge forward, and he did, colliding into your body and embracing you tightly. His breaths were uneven, tears forming in his eyes as he rested his chin on top of your head, his fingers brushing through your hair.
“You're okay…” He squeezed you tighter.
You were the first one to pull away; your cheeks were tinted pink. You couldn't meet his eyes. “Why did you do that? Is something wrong, Minho? Of course I'm okay.”
Minho felt something fall on his shoulder. A sakura. The cherry blossom trees were blooming, showering the two of you with a cascade of pink petals. His eyes searched yours, but he could only see bewilderment. A relieved laugh escaped him. He squatted on the ground and covered his face with his hands.
He got another chance.
Another chance with you.
He looked back up at you and felt a multitude of emotions bubble up in him, but the main one was love.
“Yeah, you're okay.”
“You're acting weird.”
“Can I walk you home?”
“Sure, but—”
“Great.”
Minho was all smiles; he couldn't stop it. His heart was beating out of his chest as he walked alongside you, gripping onto the strap of his bag, his ears turning pink every time your shoulders brushed his. He was beyond happy, relieved, and excited, all at the same time. He tried to fill the silence of the walk by asking you questions like how your day had gone, what you ate for lunch, and if he could walk home with you every day.
You were completely flustered and confused; he could see that. It must be weird for you for him to come talk out of nowhere. He remembered that you had liked him since high school, so that means this would work out. He just had to act normal and make sure he would change your fate and his, to make sure that you would be with him forever.
“This is me,” you awkwardly gestured to the house the two of you had stopped in front of.
Minho nodded, feeling a little upset that you had to go away too soon. “Right… Well, I'll see you tomorrow.”
You bit your lip. “Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow, Minho. Get home safe.”
“I will,” he grinned and waved goodbye before he set for his house, turning around one last time to see you on the porch if your house was doing a happy dance, which made him laugh, his face flushing red.
You were okay.
And so was he.
It took him a while to find his own house in the unfamiliar neighborhood he was in. He missed living in his parent's place, with his mother's home-cooked food that he hadn't eaten in ages. When was the last time he visited his mom and dad? He eagerly went up to the door and opened it, the familiar sight of the entryway making him nostalgic.
“Someone's all smiles today,” his mom said with a chuckle, watching him untie his shoes and put on his house slippers. His mother looked younger than he had last seen her, wearing a cardigan. He remembered that she said that it had shrunk in the washing machine. It was brand new now. “Did you have a good day today, sweetheart?”
“The best. I'll be in my room,” he said, almost tripping over his two feet in giddiness as he went up the stairs to his bedroom. It looked exactly the same as he used to have it. He threw his bag onto the floor and then himself onto his bed, breathing in the smell of the detergent on the bedsheets.
“This is crazy,” he said to himself. If all of this was a dream, he never wanted to wake up. Maybe he was in a coma from the car crash, but it all felt too real. He remembered this day happening before: getting hit in the head by a rugby ball, and Seungmin chiding the guys who were playing with it. This was obviously not a prank; everyone looked younger and was befuddled, looking at him like he was nuts.
He time-traveled. Actually, time traveled back to the past to save you.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He even had his old phone.
Hyunjin: Minho, you're okay, right? You were acting really weird.
Minho: Yeah, I'm fine. I think I got hurt more than I thought I did.
Hyunjin: Okay 🤨
Hyunjin: Why did you run off like that, though? You don't even talk to Y/N, and suddenly you were acting as if she were on the verge of death?
Minho : I just needed to check something.
Hyunjin: You're weird. Get some sleep and don't be late tomorrow again, or Seung's going to kill you.
Minho: I won't 🙄
He was back in 2017. He was a teenager again.
“This is so cool.”
It was something straight out of a movie. Minho felt like he was living in a fever dream, being able to relive his adolescence. Since he knew how much he could lose, he made sure to make this second chance worth it. Instead of skipping meals and eating from the vending machine, he scarfed down whatever delicious meal his mother made, making both of his parents laugh at his sudden switch in behavior.
“Eat slowly, or you'll choke,” his dad said with a chuckle when Minho piled on more food and eagerly shoved it down his throat.
He took the opportunity to join a dance class like he did when he was a kid, knowing that he regretted not doing it years later.
Instead of wasting time in class and being moody, he studied—trying to study.
Then again, he had you to help. Y/N, the wise one, teased when the two of you sat together in the library during lunch on the premise of studying, but you mostly ended up laughing so hard that the librarian kicked the two of you out.
He spent more time with his friends, doing everything he was bitter about later in life.
Months passed by like this. Minho woke up in his bed every day, was greeted by his 2PM posters on his wall, ate breakfast with his parents, and went to school. He daydreamed about you in class, much to the suspicions of his friends, and walked home with you. He had to make sure nothing happened to you that would derail his plan for the perfect future.
“Do you like Y/N?” Hyunjin asked during lunch one day, pulling a chair out in front of him with a loud scraping noise. It was autumn, and the air was much colder in the mornings than it was a few weeks ago. The cherry blossom trees were barren, awaiting spring to bloom once more.
“Good afternoon to you too, Hyune.” Minho greeted him and continued to eat his lunch.
“Don't deflect my question. Do you like her or not?”
“And if I do?”
Hyunjin's eyes went so big that Minho thought they'd fall right out of their sockets. “Seriously?”
“Why is it that interesting to you?”
“Oh, this is a golden opportunity.” Hyunjin leaned forward with his elbows on the desk.
“Why are you so interested in my love life?”
“Please, the last time you admitted to having a crush, it was on the idol singer Lee Hyori. I have a right to be curious.” Minho rolled his eyes, but he was a bit flustered. He still hadn't thought of how he would take the relationship with you to the next level. The last time he planned to confess, well, that didn't end well. “What do you like about her? She's pretty; I get that. And she's really good at art, and she's smart.”
“Have you made your point?” He raised a brow.
Hyunjin let out a frustrated sigh. “You're so mean, Lee Minho.” He hit his shoulder lightly. “I'm just saying this, okay? But I accidentally eavesdropped on a conversation her friends were having—an accident, okay? And I think I heard Y/n's name moving in the same sentence.”
Minho choked, his face turning red as he coughed, picked up his water bottle to drink some water, and took big gulps of air afterwards. “What?”
Hyunjin's words haunted him the whole day and then the next day because you weren't coming to school, nor were you answering his texts. He was trying hard to not look desperate, but he was grasping at straws.
The weekend rolled around, and he was getting worried. What if Hyunjin was right and you had moved away? But you wouldn't do that without telling him, right? The two of you were friends.
Friends.
His mother had the worst timing when she sent him to pick up some things from the store—a loud crack of thunder and the pitter-patter of raindrops began the second he stepped into the convenience store. He grabbed the things he needed as well as an umbrella, purchasing all of them at the register before standing outside underneath the umbrella.
That was when he caught the familiar sight of your form, crouching on the side of the road next to a small ball of fluff. The umbrella you were using barely covered you, as you were instead shielding a pair of kittens and cooing at them.
Minho's heart leaped into his chest, his legs moving on their own towards you and standing right next to you, covering you with his own umbrella. You looked up and then at him, a smile breaking out on your face, but this time he didn't return it.
“What happened to you? You disappeared for two days, and Hyunjin said you were moving and you weren't responding to me and—”
“Whoa, Min, breathe,” you chuckled and stood up. “What moving? I'm not moving. My friend is.”
He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. “Oh.”
You laughed. “Were you worried about me?”
“Of course I was,” he blurted out, his cheeks flushing. He cleared his throat and looked away from you, his heart dancing in his ribcage. He'd planned to do this once before, but standing in front of you, all the courage drained right out of him, and he was left as a puddle of nerves. “So why didn't you come to school then?”
“I was sick.”
“You were sick. And you were out here standing in the rain for two cats?” He shook his head. “Hold this.” He pushed the umbrella he was holding into your hands and quickly shed his jacket, putting it over your shoulder and pulling the hood over your head, using it to try and dry your hair. “You're going to get sick again.” His hands stopped at the sides of your face, his lips parting as he looked into your eyes.
“Thank you…” Your face was also turning red at the proximity between the two of you that he just noticed.
Minho swallowed the lump in his throat. Now or never. “I need to tell you something.”
“What?”
“I couldn't tell you this before because I was too scared, but now I know how much I have to lose.”
“What are you saying, Min?”
“Just let me finish, okay?” He took a deep breath, pushing a stand of wet hair out of your face. “I… I like you, Y/N. For a really long time, longer than you think.”
He waited with bated breath for your answer. “I like you too, Minho. I've liked you for a while now.”
He couldn't wait anymore. It was obviously too forward of him, but he'd been dreaming of this for way too long, and he wasn't going to let it slip through his fingers again. He pulled your face towards his and crashed his lips onto yours. You let out a muffled sound of surprise, but you reciprocated it, the umbrella falling out of your hands and onto the ground with a thud. Your arms rested on his shoulders while his drifted down to your waist, holding you in an embrace as he tenderly kissed you. Fireworks went off inside him. He could feel the thundering of your heart right above his. The two of you were soaked from the relentless rain, but he could care less.
He broke the kiss, his forehead leaning on yours as he took a few breaths. “Sorry, I just really wanted to do that.” It was a half-baked apology since he wasn't very sorry at all. His eyes were closed, taking in the intimacy of the moment.
“I liked it; don't worry. Just warn me next time, okay?”
Minho couldn’t help but tease you. "Oh, so you want a next time?” He laughed loudly when you hit his arm. “Of course there will be a next time; I plan on giving you many, many kisses.” He planted another one on your forehead to prove his point. He closed his eyes again and hugged you tightly.
Minho's head felt like it was splitting in two. Where was he? He blinked his eyes open, the white light above him causing him to groan. His clothes didn't feel wet anymore, and he was lying down with a white blanket over him. He lifted his hand up, only to see it was bandaged.
“Why—”
Memories of the car crash flooded his mind, and a flash of panic went through him. “No, no, no, no, no.” Was that really just a dream? Were you really gone? He felt tears pricking the corners of his eyes, his chest heaving up and down until—
“Thank God you're awake,” a voice said. He felt a hand brush the hair off of his forehead. The voice sounded too much like yours. But it couldn't be. All of that was in his imagination.
Then you came into focus, your face filled with worry and your eyes pink, like you'd been crying for a while.
“Y-Y/n?” He lifted his bandaged hand up to your cheek. He needed to know you were real. He let out a sob of relief when he felt the warmth of your skin beneath his palm and then your own hand covering his. “You're here…”
“Of course I'm here, silly. Where else would I be?”
He pulled you onto him, tucking your head into his chest, and kissed the top of your head as a few tears rolled down his cheek. “Thank goodness.” He held you like that for a while, taking in the comforting scent of your perfume mixed in with the smile of your shampoo. “What happened?”
“Your car crashed on your way home from work... you don't remember?”
“That happened?”
“Yeah, the doctor said you had a concussion. You weren't waking up... I was so scared.”
His heart broke at your words. “I'm never leaving you, ever. You can't get rid of me that easily.” You let out a broken laugh and clung onto him. He let out a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Minho was discharged a day later. The doctor said he might experience temporary amnesia due to his head trauma and that he'd regain his memories soon. He still couldn't believe everything that had happened. He'd managed to save you. You were here with him.
The two of you took a stroll in the park, hand in hand, underneath the cherry blossoms trees. “Hey, Y/n?” He said softly, making you turn to him with a soft hum. “I love you.”
You smiled. “I love you too, Minho.”
That was all he needed to hear. A breeze shook the branches of the trees and the sakuras fell once again. He squeezed your hand and continued to walk alongside you as the pink petals and flowers showered on him, and this time, you were by his side. Where you were meant to be.
— first paragraph and i’m already loving the setting. guys this is an overshare but i love when it’s winter in fics so this already has my heart right away
— normal is for losers… hyunjin says. if i see the “i like normal” line from minho here i’m going to sh**t myself
— oh my god. not the love at first sight scene. oh i’m already devastated and it hasn’t even fully started yet. wait am i actually ready for this
— minho not wanting his friends to visit bc he doesn’t want to be teased 😍😍😍
— guys live update: THEYRE TALKING this is their first conversation ..
— HE’S STILL VISITING EVEN THO HYUNJIN WAS DISCHARGED and him showing her pictures of his cats i’m in tears this is the best thing ever
— he looks at her with so much love oh my jesus .. and the whole spring favorite season. oh i know this is gonna come back full circle
— the invisible string theory with the class.
“Is that a good idea?”
— he’s so cute guys please please…
— SHE DIED !!?!?!??????????? when he was ready to confess. with his bouquet of flowers. oh my god
— why is this letter so devastating actually please please “i wish we had more time together” 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 who gave u the right
“the sakuras are blossoming.”
— oh this just gets even more devastating
“was still friends with seungmin”
— MY 2MIN STOP THIS WHY DID THEY STOP BEING FRIENDS
— GUYS IT’S A GOOD ENDING FUCKK thank god they’re so cute… their confession scene… i don’t even have words anymore this was so sweet
in which hyunjin comes home to you after a long day. very fluffy and soft (everyone pls act surprised) and how i missed writing for hyune;;; (blue silk shirt hyunjin makes a fleeting appearance i couldnt help myself)
this is dedicated to @hyunverse because she matches my hyunjin freak! and GO WISH HER A HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!! i love you angel :p
It’s a few minutes past midnight when Hyunjin finally returns home to you. For the past two hours, you’ve been in bed, your head buried in your book of the month. But as you hear the distinctive jingle of Hyunjin’s keys, the words on the pages blur and fade. Your heart forgets the names of the characters you’ve been reading about, leaving only two syllables lingering at the edge of your thoughts—Hyunjin.
“Angel,” he whispers as soon as his eyes land on you, his voice barely audible. There’s a palpable relief in his tone, one you recognize instantly. Perhaps you have memorized the different shades of his voice more intimately than your own.
“My love,” you reply, and you know he catches the possessiveness in this specific nickname. Outside, he’s everyone’s to admire and adore, but here, in the sanctuary of your bedroom, he’s only yours—to gaze upon, to hold and to love.
He doesn’t leave you time to fully admire his silky blue shirt and how it contrasts perfectly against his honey-dipped skin. Instead, he’s quick to lay beside you, his head nestled in the crook of your neck, his ponytail tickling your bare skin. He smells of roses and faint, familiar hints of your shampoo.
“I missed you,” he mumbles, his breath rippling across your skin like stones skipping on a river. You tighten your hold on his body, closer, not close enough. Never close enough.
“I missed you more,” you say, and a sigh long caged in your heart finally escapes at his proximity. Hyunjin’s absence always feels like a heavyweight atop your soul, bricks upon bricks that he can dispel with just one sight of his star-laden eyes.
“How was your day?” he asks, his chin settling on your chest. You smile softly, gently unraveling his ponytail as you reply, “It was nice. I finally had time to read my book. What about you?”
“It was good,” he grins, his smile widening as he adds, “It’s better now that I’m here with you.” His familiar crescent eyes unfurl like full blooms— it’s been three years and yet the sight of his smile still makes you blush like a crimson sunset.
You remain quiet, your fingers gently massaging his scalp, trailing up and down the nape of his neck. He relaxes fully in your hold, eyes closed, cheek pressed against your stomach. A lump forms in your throat at how safe he seems in your embrace, how he so willingly hands you the reins of his being.
“Baby,” you giggle faintly, “you need to get changed or you’ll end up falling asleep.”
“I don’t want to,” he shakes his head, wrapping his arms around your waist. “I feel good here.”
“You’ll feel better after a shower.”
“Only if you’re showering with me,” he grins mischievously, and you giggle, playfully bopping his nose.
“I already showered. Just go, I’ll wait for you.”
Hyunjin nods, lifting himself from above you, yet his hands linger on either side of your body, hovering like a gentle shield. “I missed you,” he whispers before his lips press softly against yours. They don’t move right away; they simply rest there, savoring the taste of one another and the sweetness that his presence infuses every instant.
Your hand finds his jaw, drawing him closer. “Missed you,” you murmur against his lips, and he smiles, pulling away slightly, his nose grazing gently against yours.
A quiet fifteen minutes unfold as you remain curled in bed, eyes closed, absorbing the sounds of Hyunjin— the water running quietly in the shower, his gentle whistling weaving through the melodies in his mind, his quiet yelp as what you assume is your shampoo falling on his feet. You trace his movements through the dim light as he emerges from the shower, a towel draped around his waist, droplets of water cascading down his v-line in a dance you’ve long memorized.
There is something profoundly intimate that curls and tightens within your heart as you simply watch him follow his nightly routine— as he applies lotion to his face, followed by his (your) favorite essence, as his fingers glide gently through his hair before he layers his black strands with his serum.
You’ve missed the serenity of witnessing Hyunjin in these moments, in his most unguarded, ordinary form, donning checkered beige pajamas that match with your own.
As soon as he’s done, he’s quick to climb into the bed, immediately bringing your body to his. There are many words lodged within your throat as you feel his heartbeat resonate within your soul— how existing with him is the joy of your life, how your house only comes alive when he’s in it.
He seems to sense your unspoken confessions as he leans back, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I feel as though a piece of my soul was written in the lines of your being,” he whispers, and your breath falters in your throat. “When I’m away, I can always feel something missing, my heart pulsating with a void.”
His thumb glides softly over your cheekbones before his warm palm cradles your face. “But when you are near, every thought in my mind quiets down. It’s like my heart recognizes you, knows you, has learned you.”
His voice is tender, flowing like honey into your ears, wrapping you in the soothing warmth of green tea late into the night. You find peace in your love for Hyunjin, you feel safe inscribing your heart with his name.
“I love you,” you murmur, before pressing your lips to his once more. Your mouth parts only to meet again, too eager to reunite like long-lost lovers, to taste his love for you once more.
It’s only a few minutes past five a.m. when you both finally fall asleep.
…
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featuring ⋆ tutor!jake, sort of classmates to lovers
warnings ⋆ pet names ( 0.5k )
note ⋆ i was studying and suddenly came up with this idea and it instantly reminded me of em so here's to her @goldenhypen
you’ve been staring at jake for a while now, instead of focusing on studying. the soft glow of sunlight on his face with that dainty golden chain around his neck makes him look a bit too attractive, you can hear your heart thumping in your ears.
“what’s wrong, pretty?” there it comes. he leans a bit closer to take a look at the question you’re supposed to be solving. “you’re supposed to use the formula of the equation of trajectory for that one, angel.”
the trajectory of your life is about to change.
because you don’t know what you’re doing. you should be studying but your eyes refuse to leave his sight, specifically fixed on his lips as he pops his lollipop back in, the warm summer winds entering your room through the windows and brushing across his face, ruffling his brown locks that glow like honey under the sun.
summer is here.
however, you don’t know if it’s the season to be blamed as your cheeks heat up when he glances at you, or if it’s the man himself.
“still stuck on that question, pretty?” he asks, the lollipop is still in his mouth, resting against the corner of his lips, you can taste the strawberry flavour on your tongue just by looking at him.
“uh, i’m trying—”
you offer a quiet and flustered response with a shaky breath, and jake couldn’t help but chuckle, cutting you off mid sentence, speaking in the softest, dreamiest voice. “it’s okay, i’ll tell you how to do it, sweetheart,”
you have no excuse for blatantly staring at his lips, but you couldn’t help it and stare in the same direction again as he takes the lollipop out of his mouth. every time he calls you by one of those pet names, you feel a flutter in your chest. when his shoulders brush against you as he leans closer, you suddenly get more conscious about everything around.
he’s explaining the solution and you’re busy looking at his lips again. the way they move when he speaks, the subtle smile as he writes the solution, you’re sure they taste like your favourite strawberry lollipop that he was eating earlier. his voice is reduced to nothing, your heart is beating faster and faster and when he finally looks up at you with only a few inches between you two— it feels like your heart has stopped.
“are you even listening to me?”
you quickly avert your eyes from his lips, focusing on anything but him. you can feel the heat radiating off your cheeks, hands fisting together on your lap out of embarrassment. it won’t be a surprise if your heart pops out of your chest. “y-yeah,”
when you don’t hear a response, you turn your eyes back to him, and he sighs, putting the pen down. you wonder if you’ve finally annoyed him, but jake pulls your chair towards him. it doesn’t down upon you how close you both are until you feel his breath on your lips.
“i might not be able to hold myself back,” he whispers, thumb brushing over your bottom lip ever so tenderly, sending shivers down your spine. “if you keep staring at my lips like that,”
AUG'S NOTES. so glad to have finally completed this!! it’s been rotting in my drafts for weeks and i just had to write a happy ending for these two grandparents 🫶🏼
PLAYLIST.
SYNOPSIS. Life can be a mess, and with you and Minho as the only two singles in your office building, an impertinent Valentine’s day leaves no choice but to make a pact.
or alternatively :
If we’re still single by twenty-five, we date each other.
Four years.
It’s been four years since you first met Lee Minho, working with him at the same company, becoming the best of friends. And yet, the same dread lay specially reserved for the same season.
The season of love, or, to most people, Valentine’s day.
.
.
.
Alarm set for 6:30AM. Work from 8:30AM to 4PM. Every day of the week, every year.
Initially, the experience was relatively enjoyable. It paid well, wasn’t too harsh on hours, and other coworkers minded their own business (at least in your case) without being a pain.
Then the loneliness set in.
It was subtle at first, a tiny pang in your heart when you returned home to a dark, cold apartment while others would be greeted by a pet, a loved one.
So when Lee Minho, a new member of the company assigned as your apprentice came along, you tend to think meeting him was, in a weird, spontaneous manner, meant to be.
And four years later, when he had grown from that apprentice-ship and became established as an employee, you still hold onto that “meant to be” philosophy.
Busied chatter fills the downstairs cafe, familiar faces alike brimming with conversation, breath coffee-stained.
Peering across the various assortment of tables, you spot him, two identical cups in each hand, wearing that bemused expression as usual.
At this point, Minho has memorized your order by heart, arriving early after his daily stop by the nearby animal shelter (whose manager knew by heart). Most morning’s you’d await a picture of the newest addition to the feline section, a photo he proudly shows off like his own trophy.
You’re genuinely surprised his residence isn’t a constantly growing cat-kingdom.
“Looking forward to it?”
Brows furrowing, you sidle to his right and dish the warm beverage into your grasp.
“Looking forward to wha— wait wait don’t say it. I want to pretend it doesn’t exist.” Hurriedly waving your hands, Minho cracks a grin.
The cursed word in question being: Valentine’s day.
You can’t say you hate it. It never did anything to you, nor did it leave you heartbroken. To put it simply, the office over the first few weeks of February was a close-resembling spinoff to Singles Inferno except, much spicier and way too inappropriate in broad daylight.
Meaning, for the past five years (four joined by Minho), merely mentioning said season of love urges impending dread and deep frowns.
“All I’m gonna say is I would not want to be a doctor over Valentines,” You wince, sipping the warm drink with a squeamish face.
Minho sighs vehemently, propping an elbow against the computer cart behind him.
“I bet you could witness more vibrators in that hospital than in an Adam and Eve,” He grumbles, watchful eyes surveying the daily crowd occupying tables and chairs in the building’s downstairs café.
Slamming a fist to your chest to correct your breathing, your eyes practically bulge from your skull, evidently caught of guard.
Leave it to Minho to make you suffocate before your shift even begins.
8am is prime time for socialization—otherwise before Mrs. Song decides to unleash her wrath on newbies. She has good intentions, sure, but let’s just say most anyone was petrified upon first meeting her.
Luckily, your department with Hyeongmi, Minho, and Felix was secluded on the far side of the building, leaving you out of the woman’s hair, free to work as you please.
Yet, Mrs. Song wasn’t the problem, not when it came down to the month of February.
Your phone’s alarm signaling to start moving momentarily wards off the thought, and either of you begin toward the elevator, flat expressions describing the sinking feeling better than words.
Back at it, again.
Because by your lunch break, you can’t fathom entering the cafeteria, not if it costs you your life.
Everywhere you look someone is making out, confessing their love, or, worst you’ve seen it all day, genuinely fucking in the bathrooms.
Perhaps you’d send Minho a text you’re making an escape by eating in the office, invite him up for some solace.
Except, it seems he had the same idea.
Scrambling through the door, you enter at the same time, heaving sighs of exasperation upon securing much needed privacy.
Making prolonged eye contact, your thoughts come spilling out.
“If I witness another make-out in the stairwell I’m ending it all.”
“Boxes of chocolates are officially ruined for me now.”
Four years and it never gets old. Same old painful memories, same old excitement for the day to come and go. And it’s not like you hate the holiday itself, you two just.. heavily dislike the immense bucketloads of PDA and office hookups that come along with it.
Not-so-gracefully flopping down onto your chairs, you practically shovel food down, gladly accepting the few rolls of gimbap Minho places onto your plate.
Customary sharing. You give him some of your food, he gives you some of his.
In those brief minutes of silence do you get the opportunity to fully comprehend your own thoughts, prior to Minho clearing his throat.
“Drinks at my place?”
Your grown loudly in agreement.
Minho : Okay, I’m leaving, follow me in thirty minutes
Glancing up, you watch your counterpart lift his brows your way and call out his departure, sifting through the doorway, cross body bag thumping against jeans.
Hyeongmi was downstairs, which, as awful as it sounded, was great not having to endure her nosiness.
This was how you stayed unbothered. He’d leave, and thirty minutes later you would too in order to (for now) avoid Mrs. Song (and Hyeongmi’s) pestering.
It couldn’t have taken the clock longer to reach 4:30PM. So by the time the beloved minute hand struck 4:29 you practically lurched from your seat, almost tasting sweet freedom before a face showed up right before you slipped through the exit.
Hyeongmi’s face.
What she’s talking about you can’t seem to understand, mind trained on escaping and escaping alone.
“C’mon now, you two are the only two in this building without a date. It’s been four years, Y/n! You need to let loose!” Hyeongmi emphasizes, dizzying your head the longer she shakes your shoulders.
“You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right? I’m telling you, it’s a sign—“
“Sorry Hyeongmi, I really have to go-“
Fastening your bag tigher across your body, you make a mad-dash as far away as possible, pretending to ignore the “use protection!” she shouted before the crisp evening breeze nipped your nose.
Use protection my butt, you grovel, ushering the scarf further above your chin as if to secure as much warmth possible.
She doesn’t know anything, not about how you took him under your wing as your apprentice the first year he joined, not about how much Minho loves cats, or how the keychain on that crossbody bag of his is a keychain you bought for him.
Simply placing it, she’s a person lead by the assumptions of others and adopting them as her own.
It irritates you.
Veering to your right, you thank his decision to house nearby, arriving at the foot of his porch after a mere ten-minute walk.
Delivering a few knocks on the townhome’s doorway, you note the paint chipping, colorful exterior worn from the sun’s rays.
Everything from the few cracks in the sidewalk to the relatively invisible stain of coffee on his doorknob lay memorized by frequency—his property second nature to you.
“Never have I hated being single this much,” You whine, slumping onto his couch after hurling your bag atop a hook in the foyer.
And despite the lack of response, you can tell Minho heard you. The faint, breathy chuckle enough evidence of his presence.
Perched on a chair he’d likely dragged from the kitchen, a feline companion occupies his lap, both comfortably relaxing on the patio, wine glass in hand.
Accordingly arranged on the countertop is another glass (you presume as yours), that you pour the vinegar-tinged substance into.
“I mean.” Slightly struggling to haul a neighboring chair to his side and simultaneously avoid splashing wine everywhere, you eventually find an equilibrium.
“It’s not like I asked to be single, I’m just too busy to consider a relationship, y’know?”
Minho absentmindedly hums, urging you to take a much-needed sip of the orchid-colored liquid.
Finally, you sigh out the last of your evening’s thoughts.
“..Hyeongmi caught me on the way out.”
Nor does this occasion need a reply either, the man’s suppressed giggle suitable enough.
“Mm.. I’ve got an idea.”
Carefully allowing the elongated glass to clink atop a translucent table, you cross and uncross your legs, welcoming the rustle of life around you into your eardrums, easing the cluttered space of your brain.
“Shoot.”
He clicks his tongue, gaze flitting to the emerging moon overhead.
“If we’re still single by twenty-five, we date each other.“
Making a surprised sound to yourself, you break into unadulterated laughter, about to call him hilarious before taking into account this is Minho you’re referring to, and the likelihood he’s joking on any matter is unlikely.
Sure it sounds cliché, but it’s Minho, why not?
…And perhaps that decision was made with a few glasses of wine in play.
“I’m in.” You grin, returning his outstretched hand by bumping your glasses before downing the remaining gulp, cheeks aglow, alcohol ridding your breath a distasteful stench.
Tipsy. Minho is charming normally, but especially when he’s tipsy.
He’s got this way of speaking that could get any unsuspecting girl reaching to unzip his pants in a second, sultry, half-lidded eyes drinking the person in front of him, talking like he has sugar lining his lips.
When Minho is tipsy, he’s tempting. You didn’t need four years to teach you that.
That, and the spare pajama set folded in his top drawer reserved solely for you on nights like this—too gone to go home.
Although, as you rise to your feet and head to the bathroom, pulling said silk pajama shirt over your head, Hyeongmi’s words reverberate again.
You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right?
Hm. Minho was always a recluse though. And with your history, obviously he’d have some liking for you.
It’s been four years, Y/n! You need to let loose!
Turning to stare at yourself in the mirror, you sulk, head hanging low.
What if you did something tonight? Something risky, something testing the limits this friendship borderlines. You’re both drunk, likely willing.
Then again, does Minho want this too? Did he ever intend to “let loose”?
Anxiety plagues you, hurriedly scurrying your pants over your legs and exiting to find Minho still seated in the same spot, appearing all the more tempting without having to do a thing.
You blame the alcohol.
Stamping forward as if you prepared a speech, you stop just behind his chair, mustering any ounce of liquid courage manageable.
“Minho.”
He grunts.
“You’re really pretty.”
Let loose. This is letting loose when it comes to Minho.
What, you thought you were gonna fuck? Yeah, that’s a funny one.
Winding himself around to see you, his lips wind into a sweet smile, urging you closer with a mere look before he reaches forward and taps your nose, dark eyes roaming your face.
“I’ve always thought you were pretty too.”
And perhaps, caught in a trance from his glittering stare, something did happen those four years you’ve been together after all.
You blame the alcohol.
The impulsive part about this “date at twenty-five” pact you had forgotten to consider was the fact both of you were twenty-four, meaning in less than a year whatever plan Lee Minho had stirred up after plenty glasses of wine would oil it’s gears into motion.
Thankfully Valentines comes and goes, and Summer creeps dangerously close, the longer hours of daylight and lingering sunshine enough to make every work-day feel extra laborious.
First day of summer, Minho texts you, asking if you want to join him on a walk.
Mind you, it’s 10AM in the morning, an hour you couldn’t fathom waking up at on the first day of summer.
You groan and flop back down, shutting off your phone and slamming the pillow over your head in a pitiful attempt at falling back asleep.
Only for your doorbell to ring twenty minutes later.
Over.
And over.
And over.
The urge to screech compels your barely-awake form, legs wobbling out of bed to feebly reach the doorway in a sleep-ridden haze.
Of course, lo and behold, Minho lies responsible, clad in running shoes, a pair of shorts, and a black nike zip-up.
He’s evidently pleased—whether from how disheveled you appear—or that he actually got you out of bed in the first place by the lingering smile tugging at his lips.
You hate to say it, but he’s annoyingly attractive, there’s no denying.
“Caught you at a bad time, hm?” He tips his head down to make eye-contact, peering through wild hair and lidded eyes at your half-alive self.
All you can manage out is a minuscule grunt, about to close the door before Minho jars his hand in, inviting himself inside much to your dismay.
Like instinct, he heads straight to your closet, surveying the chaos his insistent door-bell ringing caused before fetching a sweatshirt to pull over your head and a pair of socks from your drawer.
Though, as you wake up a tad bit more, you hurriedly keep him from putting your socks on for you as he bends down, shying away with an irritated whine.
“If this is what dating you is like I’m calling off the pact,” You mumble, stomping toward the door with Minho pushing you forwards without chance of escape.
He giggles, seeming to contain utmost glee witnessing your temper tantrum.
“Oh trust me sweetheart, the fun never ends.”
He’s hopeless too, apparently.
Lucky for you, your friend’s visits occurred sporadically, meaning the 10AM wake up calls weren’t a daily routine of headaches.
In contrast, summer passed by in a flash, and you were shoved head-first into a packed schedule for a second time as the autumn leaves shriveled into crisp browns and oranges.
Autumn was always welcomed. It meant the chilling cold was approaching, yes, but it also signified apple cider being added to the downstairs café menu and—on those especially chilly mornings—bundling your neck in the scarf Minho bought you last christmas.
As for him, he frequents pointed shoes and straight-legged pants, his fudge-colored hair perfectly complimented by pumpkin scented fragrances and dusky red backdrops.
Brisk mornings call for thinking. And as you walk, you come to the indefinite conclusion apple cider fits Minho. Sweet, but not saccharine. Warm to the touch, reminiscent with a charming aftertaste. A silhouette that comes and goes as it pleases, leaving soon enough for you to crave it back again.
Regarding summer, he was sort of like a beach day. A vacation in the midst of roaring deadlines, the comfortable lull of waves buzzing your mind into a hazy, salty escapade.
Although as December plucks each oak of its splendor, a call on Sunday morning truly marks the season of winter.
“..Y/n?” Minho murmurs, his voice groggy, hoarse. You make a sound of acknowledgment in response.
“I think I’m sick, can you drop off some meds at the door?”
Pressing your phone close to your ear, you debate on your desire to scold him, remind him each time he gets a winter cold he should dress warmer.
Of course, your lips stay shut (just like they always have for the past few years), and you reply with a “Be there soon, hang tight” before ending the call and gathering your belongings.
At the supermarket you check out seaweed soup, multivitamins, and allergy relief—things of which you hope will alleviate some of his symptoms.
Eternally grateful for the spare key you’d been given a while back, you enter the home, calling his name until an exasperated sign of life was heard (more like coughed) from the bedroom.
Inside lay Minho, a distressing array of tissues scattered in all directions, clustered beyond belief. His nose is soured pink from incessant stuffiness, lips cracked and dry. Dark circles sag beneath tired eyes, worn disposition evidence of his condition.
Quick on your feet, you scour the bathroom for a thermometer, the device’s loud beep signifying a blaring fever as you hover by his bedside.
Watching the bowl of instant soup spin aimless circles in the microwave, Minho’s call knocks you out of your daydream, worriedly padding to where he lays.
“Come here.”
You oblige, arriving to his right, about to ask the matter until his fingers link with your own, bringing the back of your hand to his jaw, resting there.
If you had been warm before, an entirely new definition to sweating has been reached at this point.
“You’re warm,” He whispers, rubbing his face against your hand like a needy cat wanting attention.
How unfair a human can be this round.
Practically bounding from the inside, you use the excuse of the microwave beeping to race off, hurriedly disappearing into the kitchen while remaining ignorant to the way Minho’s gaze follows you.
Returning with a soup platter meticulously carried between your tight grip, you sigh with relief upon sitting the steaming concoction down. Oh so slowly, a frown grows at your face upon noticing the expectant stare boring into your head.
“Yes?”
He juts out his bottom lip like a kicked puppy from your nonplussed tone, nudging the covers over himself till only those calculating eyes peek out.
“I’m not feeding you.”
Minho all but whimpers, and you suppress the urge to smother him with a pillow right then and there, hating how easily he sends goosebumps prickling the back of your neck, heat scalding your ears.
“No.”
“Y/n.”
You quite literally feel like the cruelest person in existence because why is he looking at you with that face, saying your name like that.
Grumbling beneath your breath, you begrudgingly collect a spoonful, bringing the utensil to his already pursed lips.
Spoonful by spoonful do you feed him as if he’s a dependent toddler, his satisfied hums earning a stern glare in return.
Only when he finishes eating do you get up, reprimanding him on taking his meds without much bite to your words.
“And don’t take too many of these, alright? If it gets really bad, call me again. Otherwise, try getting sleep.”
“Yes ma’am.”
And of course he has to be endearing.
Such a pain.
You’ll stop by tomorrow.
If Minho was the apple cider in autumn and beach days in the summer, he’s the prettiest of snowflakes in the midst of winter.
Memorable, fleeting. Melting in your touch.
The annual Christmas party the company hosts steadily approaches, your coworkers ringing your phone insistently with noticeable anticipation.
Though just like autumns chill, December soars past idly, reigning in a new year and a new digit added to twenty when asked your age.
Your winter premise only heightened the anxiety compiling in your gut, a feeling you hadn’t recognized until the following day—the first day back to work in January—dawned.
January 1st’s introduction means you’re both officially twenty-five, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact Minho hasn’t texted you yet or the valentines pact in itself setting you on edge.
What would it be like to date Minho? Would he kiss you, the same way male leads in K-dramas did? Hold you as you sleep, wish you goodbye with a kiss to your cheek?
The mere thought sends rivets of electricity blazing your fingertips, feeling like an utter fool for imagining such scenarios.
Now you’ve haunted yourself for worse, leaving only dread in tow.
Arriving at the office the first day back, you attempt at making yourself look as collected as possible, definitely not bothered.
Worse, the root of your troubles walks in unbothered as you’ve been trying to do for the past few hours, the room working in deplorable silence before a note wedges itself behind your keyboard, Minho slipping past in its wake.
It takes all your will-power to ignore the crumpled piece of paper as best as possible, your index itching to unravel whatever lay inside.
Noon is when you finally give in, lungs failing to produce air upon reading the contents, practically choking on nothing.
Come over to my place after work.
What is this, his way of declaring your pact officially in action? What if he calls it off, saying it was only a joke glasses of wine granted?
As Hyeongmi said before, everyone has the hots for him, so why don’t you? Why does the thought of him calling it off put you on edge?
Or maybe you do. Maybe you do have feelings for—
Woah. Stop there.
Luckily, your internal chess match went unnoticed, leaving only the buzzing of your ears and the ticking of the clock loud.
A certain fondness sat between either of you from the start, since becoming acquainted you’ve instantly clicked—sly remarks and playful teasing merely one more thing keeping you alive (minus coffee).
So when something crossing the border between friends and lovers arose, a sort of nervousness bubbled in your gut.
Minho was a shoulder to cry on for you, but was it like that?
You could rely and depend on each other whenever, but could those feelings ever turn into love?
Of course they could, and they likely would’ve if it weren’t for either of you being so work-oriented—making you even more worried.
Although, you can’t simply flee. You’re an adult.
..And Minho will find you in a heartbeat if you decide to run.
Never had you been hesitant to leave office until now, and trodding one foot in front of the other causes your legs to turn into jelly.
Minho probably isn’t this nervous. He’s probably in a great mood, treating the occasion like it’s just another casual day.
Never before was it difficult, whether difficult is referred to as placing a key in a doorway or walking inside, everything seems so.. eminent.
Like when you walk through this door, an entirely new side of Minho will show face. A romantic side of Minho.
Yet, there’s no rose petals lining the hallway, nor scented candles scattered here and there.
What is there to expect with dating in your twenties anyway?
Plus, Minho’s well, Minho. If he wanted to, he likely would’ve flat-out asked already.
Something you’re surprised about, however, is the triangular string decor swooping from the ceiling, the party hats by the sink, a single birthday candle placed in the center of a cupcake. Simple, perfect.
Although, the perfect factor came with the man responsible, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, bracing himself on the countertop with a particular glow in his irises—whether it be from the lit candle you aren’t sure—that sets your stomach into a garden of butterflies.
A surprise party. He threw you a surprise birthday party.
And it’s then as enter the kitchen, brain barely recognizing each advance forward, you realize it.
You really, really want to date him.
And you really, really don’t want to screw this up.
Staring at each other, you rise up on your toes to place a careful, feather-light peck on the smooth, flushed skin of his cheek.
Slowly, he turns his head, a conniving smirk revealing the outline of his teeth whilst investigating your breathlessness.
“Someone’s daring,” He mumured, cocking a brow amusedly.
You poke his side, groaning that he shouldn’t look too far into it before he nudges you, your frown returned with a subtle nod—directed at the forgotten cupcake.
“Well you already gave me a kiss, so wish for something else.”
“Choke,” You respond, but there’s still no bite to it. Some things never change.
Minho gently holds your hair back for you, allowing you to lean over and blow out the candle. No bite.
Your wish?
Let Minho and I go well. I like us.
Every bit of it was the truth.
Hopefully this wish of yours can come true.
Maybe.
Seated on the living room floor do you finally relax, your shoulders slumping down after hours of monstrous tension. Seems you’d forgotten he was your best friend before anything else.
“So.. how does this work?”
‘Work’ as in, the dating deadline’s here, what’s next?
He purses his lips—a habit of his—blinking rapidly.
“Like friends? Except we get the kissing and sex pass in between, right?”
You smack his shoulder. He smiles, childishly extending his pinky out to you.
Linking yours, you press the pad of your thumb against his. An unspoken gesture.
“Together?”
Through thick and thin. Your way, as it always was, always had been.
He has stars in his tawny-globes for eyes.
“Together.”
Minho’s hands are warm in the midst of frigid temperatures.
Spring isn’t too far off, but the bitter winds remain ceaseless and unrelenting, whipping your hair every which way, scattering a plethora of goosebumps along your skin.
Never had you held hands like this with someone before, nonetheless Minho, and yet, a connection lies inside the initial awkwardness. The silent assurance, whether it’s his thumb smoothing your palm or occasional squeezes, telling you he understands, that you’re not alone, or how he patiently waited by the door the entire time you were getting ready, claiming he didn’t want to dirty your place with his shoes.
It’s sort of revitalizing. Curious and inquisitive in his lingering touches, additional notes—reminders on your coffee cup, questions asking whether you want to stay over afterward, if he can give you a kiss on the cheek.
One in particular you recall:
I miss you. Scribbled in bleeding ink.
Your introduction as lovers had been a field day of trials and questions for the two of you, though when it came down to the public’s knowledge, you began debating on the “curiosity killed the cat” theory.
This morning, catching a glimpse of the company’s logo in the distance, you assign yourself as the cat. Too interested, now suffering the consequences.
Granted, you wouldn’t take back moving to relationship status, but it was a lot easier to brush off comments if you were Minho.
Hyeongmi being the main one responsible for said comments.
Morning passed by seamlessly, prioritizing work above all else, too busy typing away to for any interruptions.
..Until a midday conference.
Seated right next to each other, his fingers slowly thread with yours beneath the table, sending the man a perplexed (and slightly nervous) expression in response.
More so, the comforting casualness caused you to barely recognize Mrs. Song reaching below to fetch her fallen pen, a gasp of surprise stilling the conversation at her realization.
“Are you- Are you two holding—?”
Panicked, you smack his hand away, stomach plummeting.
Not expecting him to stubbornly grab your hand again, a miniature frown draws across his perfectly rose lips.
Pouting.
Lee Minho is pouting because you’re not letting him hold your hand.
Unbelievable.
If the situation could escalate further, the she-devil herself (Hyeongmi) throws her head down to spare a glimpse, allowing you to fully accept your demise. A demise that, one way or another, needed to happen.
This was simply an early death.
“You’re kidding! No way you guys are a thing?” The eccentric girl mouths the last words, eyebrows drawn to her hairline.
And just like that, your relationship with Minho ventured out of your pocket and into a brand new wilderness.
“So…what’s it like living everybody’s dream?”
Headed to the bathroom, Hyeongmi stops you, leaned over the mirror, carefully inspecting her plum-colored lipstick.
“What?” You pique, confusedly glancing between her and the empty stall you’re trying to nonchalantly slip into.
“I mean, the entire company’s talking about it. Tell me, are you guys actually official? Or is this all just for the attention? No offense, but-“
“I...”
Want to punch you in the face.
You keep it to yourself.
“I’m gonna go.”
Synonymously, both your bladder and your appetite completely disappeared.
Although, she doesn’t leave you alone.
You’re frantically searching for excuse after excuse, speed-walking and taking the stairs any chance available.
Unfortunately for you, she’s everywhere. At some point you’re certain a tracking device is hidden somewhere on your clothes.
Almost there. From silently pleading help with your eyes to legitimately hiding in your workplace, today couldn’t have been more of a joke.
Or so you thought.
“Y/n?”
“Yes, Hyeongmi?”
“With Minho,” She nervously fiddles with her earrings. “You don’t have to tell me but.. how’s the bedroom?”
Apparently, it can go lower.
Before you can respond to her shamelessness, a grip fastens on your shoulders, cologne distinct enough you can tell exactly who it is.
Your beach day.
“Hyeongmi, you do realize that’s rude, yeah? Let’s not cross boundaries we shouldn’t cross, got it?”
All the while Minho smiles, this cloying, “I dare you” sort of attitude no one can argue with.
Averting her attention, she speedily raises up, humorlessly laughing off the tension while excusing herself from the room.
“You okay?” He whispers, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, pressing a chaste kiss there.
Yeah, there’s no getting used to this.
“Yep,” You say, though there isn’t much sincerity it.
He knows.
“Wait for me here, let’s walk home together.”
Ah. You want to kiss him.
“Minho.”
He turns on his heel.
Kiss me.
You’re holding his collar now, the option on the tip of your tongue, his lips a hairbreadth from yours.
Close, closer.
No. Not yet.
Either way, what do you know about kissing? What if you screw up?
Not yet.
“..Okay.”
Your gaze flits down to his lips if only for a second. A small, cheeky grin adorning his face as he follows your movements.
It’s hard to focus when he leaves, because all you can think about is the possibilities. What if you had kissed him? Would he have kissed you back?
By the way looked at you, the logical response would be: yes. Most people don’t stare at someone like that without the intent to kiss them, right?
Though somehow, you can’t help but feel unprepared, a complete novice in this battlefield of love.
Where Minho took you afterward was a mystery, merely happy to be away from the confines of your desk—letting his eager hand guide you wherever he pleased.
Shielded beneath the shade of two trees, your destination, Yeouido Park, is a spectacle during the transition period of winter to spring. You’d oftentimes spend hours here, basking in the relief a break grants. A spectacle where you two first truly met.
“Alright, be honest with me.”
He spins you around till you’re face to face, carefully analyzing your facial expression.
“Are you really okay? After Hyeongmi said that, I couldn’t stop thinking..”
Oh. That careful crease in his eyebrows, sympathetic.
He’s breaking your heart.
You realize now why everyone falls in love with him.
“Of me?”
The words come out involuntarily, a step forward in the newness, paving light through the darkened abyss.
“Yeah..” He says, a little winded while doing so.
Minho cares, he always had, yet, it’s your first time hearing it aloud.
“Y/n.”
Blinking yourself back into reality, your face grows warm, not intending to deliberately space out right in front of him.
He leans forward, causing you to shrink back into your skin as a kiss is planted right atop your nose, the man wearing a satisfied grin.
“Hey- You can’t- It’s not Valentines yet—“
“And why would I wait until Valentine’s day?”
Another deeper red burns your cheeks, and you scorn the way he gets under your skin—a way that makes every insult dissolve like powder on your tongue.
He notices, but decides not to prod further, lightly bumping your hip with his own as a signal to follow.
“Tomorrow is the day, y’know,” You mumble, kicking rocks with the tip of your shoe.
“Are we gonna turn into those couples?” He asks, pretentiously puckering his lips, eyes squinted shut.
You burst out laughing.
“I would break up with you first, sorry Minho.” Said puckered lips transform into a playful scowl.
“What? No treat for valentines?”
Blinking babydoll eyes up at you, you wrinkle your nose, coming to recognize what “treat” he was implying.
Earlier you would’ve kissed instantly, but an inkling of stubbornness kept you from giving into him this time.
Sneaking behind you, he ducks down, voice low enough for only your ears to hear.
“Didn’t seem you were too against it earlier.”
And with that, he races off, entirely too happy with himself and not likely to live down your reaction. Because you can’t disagree.
Since when were Lee Minho’s lips so kissable?
Knock.
Knock.
Your attention strays from the mirror at the sound, wondering if it was simply a figment of your imagination only for the sound to ensue.
Knock. Knock.
Who would be at your door at this hour in the middle of the week?
There’s a name on your tongue, but you don’t contemplate any longer, tiptoeing to the doorway to peer through the peephole.
And the sight before you makes every ounce of suspicion worthwhile.
Minho, holding a bouquet of roses and things unknown behind his back, is reciting.
He’s staring at his shoes, bouncing back and forth on his heels nervously.
Lee Minho is nervous.
Wanting just to stand there and watch him rehearse, you finally give in after a third knock scares you out of your wits—hesitantly opening the door and trying to placate the most surprised expression possible.
His eyes round as saucers, you literally watch the gears in his head turn in real time, extending the flowers out to you.
“Happy valentines. These are uh, for you.”
And his ears are red.
You’re going to implode from how cute this is.
Attempting to stave down the alarming amount of happiness you’re experiencing, you hold the flowers in one hand, awaiting whatever lie behind his back.
Although, as the outline of a box of chocolates appears, so does… a shampoo bottle.
What.
Bathing in a long silence, you can’t help but wonder you’re genuinely hallucinating. Glancing from his face to the literal shampoo in hand, he mirrors you, confused for a reason you’re trying to figure out as well.
“Is that… a shampoo bottle?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you were running low the last time I came here.”
…
You’ve never received a valentine before, but this automatically took the cake.
Is it possible to fall in love after you’re given a shampoo bottle as a gift on valentines? Apparently so.
Nonetheless, work flashed past, barely able to register a thing between the many congratulations you received and the absence of Hyeongmi (assumed to be due to the brown-haired charmer beside you).
For now, you savor the freedom of the day, finally able to escape the pains of before and wallow in a new kind of excitement. Love.
Love delivered by Minho himself in the form of mini scraps he’s folded into hearts, slipping heart after heart onto your desk at any opportunity to the point you bump his leg beneath the table in warning.
He cheekily smirks in return, stupidly innocent face scheming with malice.
He’s getting an absolute kick out of this, and you hate to admit you enjoy it just as much.
As usual, you wait behind for him to catch up on your daily commute home—an activity you did long before any romantic feelings became involved.
That’s it. Minho’s pinpoint of romance.
Shampoo bottle, walks home, extra coffee, notes.
Minho doesn’t openly express his love, not unless he feels either adventurous or obligated. Instead, he studies. Your habits, the things you enjoy, your actions, preferences. That particular coffee order you liked, how you had ran out of shampoo.
Oh how you love him.
Though, rounding the sidewalk to your place, Minho grabs ahold of your wrist. In response, as soon as you turn your head, you’re mere centimeters from his face, simply standing there, proximity willing either of you not to move.
Initial words dying out, he slightly edges to the side, cocked in a way that has your mind racing.
Nose, cheek, but never lips.
No.
Your hands act before any other part of you, blocking his lips from yours.
“We-“
The look he’s giving you, shock.
You feel a hundred degrees hotter.
“We need to go inside,” You excuse yourself fast, the man tailing behind, grip still loosely attached to your wrist.
Quickly shutting the door behind you, it’s an immediate embarrassment flooding your frame that allows you to speak, words bursting outward in an uncontrollable cacophony.
“Minho I’m so sorry I have no idea what I was doing, I shouldn’t have done that, it was a stupid idea. I didn’t mean to offend you or anything-“
“Hey, slow down. I’m not going anywhere.”
His tone serves as the much needed breeze fanning your face, cooling you down enough to articulate sentences properly.
“I’m sorry, we’ve just never kissed on the lips and I feel like I’m gonna be horrible and kill the mood. This is stupid, I know, just.. bear with me please?”
His eyebrows furrow, forming together the equation piece by piece.
“You’ve.. You’ve never had your first kis—?”
You hush him furiously, slumping onto the couch dejectedly.
Yet, Minho doesn’t laugh nor pick fun regardless of how hilariously idiotic the occasion is. He’s quiet, concerned almost.
You add that to your long list of things you love about him.
Inhaling gradually, your focus flits to the window, collecting yourself, easing the frantic rush-hour traffic rampaging in your skull.
If you were one of those paper hearts he made, he’s pulling apart each careful fold in this very moment. Unraveling the layers till your bare self is exposed in all its anxiousness.
“I hate it. It feels like a part of that teenage youth everyone talks about is something I’ll never get to experience. I was too busy caring about school, and now I feel like I’ve missed out.”
Soaking in a quietness, you jump when he places a hand over yours, softly tracing the skin of your knuckles, glossy as he watches, carving each perfect aspect of you into memory.
“Well you may not be seventeen, but you’re never too old to learn to kiss.”
One hand cupping your jaw to garner your attention, you’re met with a glass-like visage.
Gentle.
“And I can teach you how.”
It’s always been business, you’ve always been business. Which is why, now confronting what feels to be the highest peak in your love life, you’re left a completely blank canvas. No rules, no instructions.
It’s terrifying.
“Min- Minho, I really haven’t done this before.”
You hastily pique, scooting backward in the cushions.
Curse the shakiness of your voice.
“If you don’t want to do this, tell me. We won’t.”
You quickly shake your head.
No, you want this, you’ve wanted this too badly to back out now.
“Then let’s take it slow, okay?”
It’s horrifically awkward at first, a tiny peck, then a bit longer till your arms creep over his shoulders, his fingers once holding your jaw steady now resting on your neck.
Best word to describe it? Messy.
“Breathe through your nose.”
“Minho— I’m suffocating here—“
You sputter back, quite literally heaving for breath.
Yes, it was otherworldly kissing him, and he was an insanely good kisser, but did this really require your lungs to practically burst?
“Are you teaching me how to give a blowjob or kiss?”
His smile transforms mischievously, a sneering laugh slipping past. You already know he’ll make a sly comment.
Minho winks. “We’ll get to that later.”
“I lost my urge to date you. Bye.”
“Noooo Y/n~” He whines profusely, warm hold on your waist beckoning another kiss filled with hushed giggles and incessant jeers from either party—ensuing a halfway unbuttoned shirt and quite possibly the most greedy ten minutes known to man.
Out of breath, he pulls back from your stomach, the ticklish feather-light kisses planted there earning a stifled giggle from you while he blinks upward, seeming to be focused on something.
“Minho?” You question, ignorant to how unbelievably obsessed with you he is, more than ever in this moment.
From your damp, sweaty skin to the few hairs stuck to your forehead. Your swollen lips, the way you laugh, your stomach dipping with the action. He doubts he’ll ever get tired of this.
Reaching forward as if caught in a trance, he tenderly tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, voice barely audible upon pressing his forehead against yours.
And in the seclusion of your living room, tangled up together on the sofa, it’s just the two of you existing in this world.
“I hope you know I really meant it when I said I thought you were pretty too.”
Ah. He remembers. All that time ago.
Of course he does.
Kissing you for a time you can’t remember, you begin to wonder if that birthday wish of yours had came true after all.
Your feelings for Minho had always existed somewhere inside of you. Your head, your heart. A tiny inkling into something more, a could be. Two individuals wishing, waiting to make a move.
— i love stories that center around this topic so much bc it is such a Real problem. oversharing much but it’s something i personally deal with myself and it’s honestly just so horrible. so i rly appreciate when stories center around the theme of loneliness sometimes
two identical cups in each hand, wearing that bemused expression as usual
— this is so kdrama coded idk i can just picture him with like a coat and a scarf, waiting for u and holding some cups UGHFHF so cute
— it’s funny to imagine the office being spicy and inappropriate I CANTTT i wouldn’t be able to take anyone seriously
— i also would not wanna be a doctor over valentines. i’ve heard the stories ….
— and minho putting rolls of gimbap on ur plate. guys i will always stand by sharing food as a form of love language
“You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right? I’m telling you, it’s a sign—“
— so real bc if i worked there and minho was single, i would also have the hots for him like let’s all be fr for one second guys
— YN BOUGHT THE KEYCHAIN FOR HIM i’m sorry my heart already hurts and i’m ltrly just in the first few paragraphs.
— i can picture him being especially more charming when he’s tipsy btw 😊😊😊 in his office wear too
“If this is what dating you is like, I’m calling off the pact.”
— guys i ship them
“until his fingers link with your own, bringing the back of your hand to his jaw, resting there.”
— yn is stronger than me bc i would’ve kissed him right then and there
— HE WANTS HER TO FEED HIM guys this minho is so endearing to me i think he’s my favorite
“your internal chess match went unnoticed.”
— i’m rly enjoying the way this is written. it feels like a romcom like now i want a MOVIEEE someone give me a movie version of this
And Minho will find you in a heartbeat if you decide to run.
— i’m loving this way too much i cannot stress enough how it feels like a romcom. the comedic timing and the word choice is immaculate
— sorry but the simple detail of his sleeves rolled up to his elbows is making me meowwww
— A SURPRISE BDAY PARTY 😭 wtf this is pissing me off now bc can they be like this irl. can men please take notes rn bc this minho is so perfect
Let Minho and I go well. I like us.
— guys i’m gonna start crying and i’m gonna start getting aggressive bc if this isn’t the cutest thing. cutest line. this is my favorite btw i’m claiming this line
— the smacking his hand scene bc they got caught holding hands under the table. someone tell me this fic wouldn’t be the perfect romcom. and then minho pouting bc you’re not letting him hold ur hand. I’M A GONER GUYS
cologne distinct enough you can tell exactly who it is
— HOW DOES IT FEEL TO LIVE MY DREAM
You realize now why everyone falls in love with him.
— yeah exactly
Minho, holding a bouquet of roses and things unknown behind his back, is reciting.
— he’s reciting 😭😭😭😭😭 he’d nervous and reciting and staring at his shoes. i’m so devastated rn and he gave her a shampoo bottle bc she was running low oh my god what in the DOMESTIC.
— minho studies as his form of romance … oh my god u are a genius
— IVE NEVER HAD MY FIRST KISS EITHER
And I can teach you how.
— this story just never stops flustering me. and the mention of him being a good kisser oh jesus and him being so gentle in teaching her too wtf
We’ll get to that later.
— 😊😊😊☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️😊no comment
— he remembers the pretty comment guys i’m shooting myself it’s final
august, you’ve outdone urself. this deserves 2 BILLION notes like this is perfect what the FUCKKK. i’m so sorry for my messy notes on this i was having a ride and the time of my life
sue’s final thoughts: how does it feel to live MY dream. this is actually my dream. like this is it. this is what i want. he is my dream man.
a/n: this was inspired by my minho post bc i’m a self indulgent mess
coming home to seungmin crying quietly on your couch was a surprise. he’s curled up tight, trying to take up the least amount of space as possible and stifling his huffs of breath into his fist to stay silent and your heart breaks for him.
he’s always been the strongest in your person you know. he’s the most level-headed, the first one to solve problems and act diplomatically and always able to compartmentalize his own emotions. the first to offer silent comfort and stability to those around him. he rarely ever let anyone see him shed a single tear, let alone several, and you’re almost at a loss of what to do before you shake yourself out of it. seungmin needs you.
you toe your shoes off as silently as possible before padding over to where he’s curled up. your hand drifts to his back, rubbing a few slow circles there before you climb behind him and wrap yourself around his body. you know him well enough by now that giving him a grounding touch is what he needs, even if he has a hard time asking for it. you used to hesitate, hands hovering over him like you didn’t know if they were welcome. now, your arms curl around his stomach with confidence. your heart lurches every time you feel his muscles contract with the cries he’s poorly holding back. his hands move to clutch at yours, his nails digging into your skin a bit, but you don’t mind. you would rather he let it out if that helps him, and it doesn’t hurt as much as it stings. his breath is coming out in uneven bursts, and he barely gets more in before it’s rushing out in a choked huff.
“breathe, sweetheart,” you say, keeping your voice honeyed and soft, your mouth close to his ear.
“can’t-” he starts, gulping down air like it’s water. “don’t know what to do.”
“let it out. don’t hold it in,” you soothe, squeezing his hands back. he turns a bit in your hold, keeping both of your hands gripped in his, and presses his face into your chest. you keep your breaths slow and steady, coaxing him to time his breaths to yours.
it takes a few minutes but he calms down, his grip on your hands loosening as his body relaxes against you. he’s slumped into you now, boneless and tired.
“i’m sorry,” he croaks, keeping his face buried to hide his tear streaked cheeks.
“you have nothing to be sorry for.” you say, your emotions bubbling up inside of you. “this is what i am here for. for the happy and the sad moments, okay? you’re not a burden, not to me.”
he hums into your shirt, letting go of your hands to wrap his arms around you.
“do you want to talk about it?” you ask, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
“no,” his muffled voice sounds from beneath you. “just, hold me for a bit?”
enemies to lovers - seungmin please!! thank you rin, have a great time ♡
it's absolute bullshit.
you’d swear that he’s the most annoying person you’ve ever met — you can’t stand his guts at all. he could be about 20 metres in your radius and you’d get goosebumps all over your body. you dread to go to the classes you share with him, despises how he makes you feel, so you avoid eye contact at all costs. you loathe how he always reminds the teacher of the homework everytime he knows you didn’t do it. he’s not the type to be a teacher’s pet but everytime he hears you whisper to a friend that you didn’t do the homework, he’d suddenly say — “sir, we had homework yesterday!”
he feels the same way about you. each time you walk past, he'll turn his gaze away so your eyes don't meet. then, when you're away, he'll stare at your back with a face full of disgust. you know because you've caught him doing so, in which you returned his gesture by sticking your tongue out at him.
the two of you can't stand each other — everyone knows. that's why they purposely placed the two of you in the same closet while playing a game of seven minutes in heaven. the closet door sounds a loud thud once jisung shuts it close, yelling out a quick "make up and make out!"
seungmin irritatingly grumbles beside you, plopping down on the ground. the closet is full of clothes, and reeks of jisung’s cologne. you two try to fit in the closet together, resulting into an argument.
“bloody move, damn,” he cusses, wiggling around for space.
you scoff, “you’re taking up most of the space.”
the argument continues, both bodies wriggling around for comfort. it gets to a point where someway, somehow — even you’re not sure how — seungmin topples over one of jisung’s shoes and falls on top of you.
you can feel the heaves of his breaths and his eyes boring into yours despite the darkness. both his knees are on the ground, palms as well, only chests not touching each other’s. you don’t know why but you hold your breath, staring back into his eyes.
“not so loud now, huh?” he mutters. you hate that he still doesn’t lose his sass in situations like this.
“you’re insufferable, kim seungmin.”
“yeah, maybe i am,” seungmin retorts, “but it’s only towards you.”
“huh?”
before you know it, the gap between the two of you are sealed by seungmin’s lips crashing into yours. again, you’re not sure why but you kiss back, gripping onto his sides. after a while he pulls back, earning a whimper from you.
“you’re so annoying,” he kisses, “i wish you weren’t so pretty so i could hate you in peace.”
you roll your eyes, “kim seungmin. shut up and just kiss me, damn it.”
it’s safe to say that jisung was overjoyed the moment he opened the closet door.
↳ your boyfriend seungmin takes it upon himself to make sure you've eaten, in spite of your insane workload.
GENRE: fluff, established relationship, vague college au
WARNINGS: mentions of food, not properly proofread
WORD COUNT: 800+
FAE'S NOTES: came to me in a fever dream (fever dream being me actually being swamped with work). if you spot any discrepancies re: repeating lines, missing paras, please tell me. it's probably tumblr messing up my post again hehe
you've been sitting here for six hours, although it has barely felt like six hours the entire time. not once have you moved from your spot by your desk – not even to get a snack or hit the washroom. your desk is littered with used scrap paper, miscellaneous charging wires, empty oreo packaging, and a half-empty bottle of water. still, you're too preoccupied with the 5000-word report plastered on your computer screen to notice the absolute mess you've created the past couple of hours, or the fact that your boyfriend has been peeking out at you from the hallway for the past minute, fresh from his afternoon nap.
if seungmin didn't know any better, he'd think it was a monday morning with the sheer volume of work you've practically been drowning in today, but it is in fact saturday. he'd be lying if he said he wasn't the tiniest bit upset that he wasn't able to cuddle and lounge around with you all day like you usually would on weekends, but for the most part, he's understandably concerned for your well-being.
he turns his head towards the clock hanging off the wall in your living room. 7:46pm – it's dinner time. he glances at you again, as your face inches closer towards the screen, eyes squinted for proofreading. seungmin sleepily shuffles over to you and bends down to get a quick look at whatever you're working on. "oh, you're awake?" you remark softly, although your eyes never once peel themselves from your laptop. seungmin hums in response, hands reaching to comb through your hair as he skims through your report. "almost done?"
he turns his head towards the clock hanging off the wall in your living room. 7:46pm – it's dinner time. he glances at you again, as your face inches closer towards the screen, eyes squinted for proofreading. seungmin sleepily shuffles over to you and bends down to get a quick look at whatever you're working on. "oh, you're awake?" you remark softly, although your eyes never once peel themselves from your laptop. seungmin hums in response, hands reaching to comb through your hair as he skims through your report. "almost done?"
you shake your head slowly, pushing your glasses up your nose bridge. "i've still got 1000 words left," you pout, finally looking up at your boyfriend, who is still gently playing with your hair. seungmin pouts back and leans down to give your lips a quick peck. "you're almost there," he softly assures, before leaning himself against the table, arms folded against his chest. "hungry?"
you shake your head again. "you can eat without me tonight, i'll make myself some instant noodles or something later. when i'm hungry," you proposed, as the clacking sounds from your keyboard resumes. seungmin playfully tuts in faux disappointment. "did you even have lunch?"
"do..." you pause to take a quick look at the trash strewn across your desk. "...5 packets of oreos count?"
"you know damn well they don't."
"i'm fine though."
seungmin rolls his eyes as he pushes himself off the wall. "you're gonna worry me to death one day," he mutters under his breath as he begins making a beeline for the kitchen. all you do is chuckle in response.
your boyfriend is far from being the best cook, but he definitely tries his best. you weren't paying close attention, but you did hear the clanging of pots and pans from the kitchen in the 30 minutes that followed your brief conversation. the aroma of bolognese has wafted its way over to where you are, and you have to admit, it does smell appetising. have you actually been hungry this whole time, or is gordon ramsay in your kitchen? you make a mental note to get up and make yourself some instant noodles later, once you complete another 300 words.
you hear the faint noise of seungmin trudging out of the kitchen, footsteps inching closer until he's by your side again. he sits on the chair right by you, and wordlessly places two large plates of spaghetti bolognese on the table, not before slightly cleaning up the mess you've made. he slowly slides your plate – the one with a lot more spaghetti than the other, you've noticed – over to your side of the desk. you shoot him a look of confusion upon realising. "what–"
"eat. now," seungmin pointed at your plate.
"no, not now. later! after i–"
your boyfriend always does this thing whenever he attempts to nag at you to take care of yourself, and it's surprisingly effective. he shoots you the stink eye. not an expression of malicious intent or anger, but a playful one that says 'i care about you, but it's easier to nag at you instead'. the stink eye itself never scares you – on the contrary, you actually find it incredibly adorable. you actually appreciated the sentiment more than you've ever let on: for someone like seungmin to go out of his way to cook an entire meal for you, it must only mean he really loves you.
you sigh and shut your laptop, before leaning in to plant a sloppy, slightly prolonged kiss on his cheek. "okay, i'll eat," you tell him, earning yourself the widest smile on seungmin's face. he leans in slightly – he's asking you to give him another kiss on the cheek. you oblige. he reaches out to squeeze your hand. "thank you baby," you mutter, as you begin to dig in. seungmin is still far from being the best cook, but this was one of the best meals of your life.
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college crush series .ᐟ ── bang chan ⋆ lee know ⋆ changbin ⋆ hyunjin ⋆ han ⋆ felix ⋆ seungmin ⋆ i.n
kim seungmin x gn!reader. fluff, college au. 1.1k wc.
note: #1 on the college crush series! this was from a college boyfriend seungmin drabble i whipped up from his recent bubble photo, but became headcanons instead ... and a series ... for all the members ;;; anyway that's for me to worry about and for you all to enjoy <3
2024 ⓒ starseungs on tumblr. do not steal, repost, or edit.
College Crush!Seungmin who you first met through your shared class together. He was well-known by the class as that student who always sat in the first row—the only one doing so willingly.
College Crush!Seungmin who your first thoughts were that he looked really handsome and put together, which pulled your curiosity in. He had that aura of seriousness coming off him in silent waves, though, so you opted to admire him from a distance instead.
College Crush!Seungmin who you caught staring at you with a slight tilt on his head when the professor announced you two as partners for the first subject of the semester. You could almost see the calculative glint in his eye, which you interpreted as him trying to get an initial read of you.
College Crush!Seungmin who you quickly learned to be strict when it came to punctuality, whether it be deadlines or meeting times. Initially, you thought he was being uneccessarily hot-headed about it—until you got to know him better and found out about how serious he took his studies because of a scholarship. You straightened out your act after that.
College Crush!Seungmin who has a “studies first” mindset, but was also surprisingly good at maintaining his social life. You’ve seen him have at least one conversation with all the students in your shared class, as well as getting invited to different kinds of hangouts. There’s been multiple times he’s rejected offers in favor of studying, but his reputation still remains positive.
College Crush!Seungmin who despite having all those other friends, came to you first when your subject professor announced a group work where you could choose your own members. You were dumbfounded as he stood in front of your desk, talking about his plans for the content as if grouping up with you was the most natural course of action.
College Crush!Seungmin who stuttered in embarrassment when you asked him why he chose you as a group member, his face flushing slightly as he avoided your eyes and admitted he thought of you as his first friend in class. You didn’t voice it out, but his statement made you extremely happy.
College Crush!Seungmin who evidently got frustrated whenever things don’t go as he planned with the groupwork, yet was questionably patient whenever it was you who had issues. He would never admit his blatant favoritism, even as you both felt the suspicious gazes of your groupmates. You promised yourself that day that you would keep the pride you felt at being the center of his attention a secret and take it to the grave.
College Crush!Seungmin who made you promise to keep in touch with him as much as possible since you unfortunately only had one class with him. He claims it was because he tolerated you better than the rest and thought your output quality matched well with his. You kept your mouth shut even though you clearly noticed the way he fumbled with his fingers in anxiousness while waiting for your answer.
College Crush!Seungmin who kept acting like it was a bother to tutor you, yet was always the first one to offer since he somehow keeps noticing where you struggle during your study hangouts. You wouldn’t be able to see it as you focus on applying what he just taught you, but his lips curl up into a fond smile whenever he sees you succeed in answering a question and feel proud of yourself.
College Crush!Seungmin who has nerdy interests he keeps on the downlow. You discovered his baseball card collection by accident when your pen rolled down under his bed the time he invited you over to study in his dorm room since his mom sent him tons of perishable snacks he couldn’t finish by himself before they went bad.
College Crush!Seungmin who couldn’t hide the way his eyes lit up when you asked sincere questions about his collection, eventually realizing that you showed interest in the things he liked. You quietly burned all the information he says into your brain, already plotting ways on how you could bring them up again in the future.
College Crush!Seungmin who enthusiastically makes sure that he listens to you talk about your own interests too, taking time out of his day to learn more about them in secret. Your heart fluttered way too much to hide the joy you felt when he casually referenced them in conversation.
College Crush!Seungmin who looked like an abandoned puppy when your shared professor assigned you two different partners for another task. You stayed up all night giggling to yourself while reading the non-stop trail of messages he kept sending you, expressing his disappointment at the arrangement.
College Crush!Seungmin who never thought he'd start finding doing projects boring whenever he wasn’t doing them with you. It was a pain to keep yourself from physically shaking in delight every time he calls you to keep him company as he does his schoolwork—not knowing this was his way of removing the stress he felt from constantly doing academics.
College Crush!Seungmin who started bringing you your preferred wake-up drink every day before your first class. You felt bad that he might have been spending too much money on you, but he was stubborn in not wanting you to pay him back for the drinks. Might as well enjoy the free energy you get from both him and the drink for the whole day.
College Crush!Seungmin who was the subject of your friends’ good-natured teasing—the constant coos of how you both suited each other making heat rise up to your face as he chuckled along with them, not saying anything to refute it.
College Crush!Seungmin who finally asked you out on a romantic date spontaneously after class, proposing that he'd treat you to dinner after your last study session before the semester finals. You told him that you two could split the bill like you always did whenever you two ate together, only to witness him splutter out a frantic objection. When he saw the stunned look on your face at his sudden outburst, he gathered up all his courage to genuinely convey his intentions.
College Crush!Seungmin who became your boyfriend through his wording of wanting to be your “permanent project partner.” He couldn’t believe his ears when he heard you say yes, already mentally berating himself for what he believed was cringy wording. But what he didn’t know was that you would’ve been over the moon with anything, as long as it was him.
College Boyfriend!Seungmin who thinks you’re his perfect pair, always thanking the universe for letting him meet you.
— seungmin sitting at the front… instant crush! ugh i love nerdy smart boys who love school
— the vibe rn is giving blondish brown seungmin with hair over his forehead and his thick framed black glasses and a grey hoodie. this is who i am imagining.
— this professor is the real mvp for pairing seungmin and yn 😎😎😎 the initial read. oh, i would’ve already fainted the moment i’d look into his eyes
— SCHOLAR SEUNGMIN TAKE MEEEEE. i need u and want u in my life please please please
— came to u first … when u could pick ur groupmates … oh the gods have blessed me for sure if something like that ever happens. i saved an orphanage in my past life!
— “grouping up with u was the most natural course of action” oh i’m a goner
— HIS FIRST FRIEND IN CLASS. u keep taking me
— “seungmin who made u promise to keep in touch with him bc u only shared one class” oh my god oh my GOD and the anxious fumbling w his fingers
— he learns about ur interests in secret 😭 the more i go down this list, the more impossible it is to find someone like this
— PERMANENT PROJECT PARTNER HE’S SUCH A NERD BUT HE’S MY NERD GUYS !!!!!!!
☆ㅤhwang hyunjin x afab!reader ( valentine's collab oneshots )⠀★⠀3.1k words
synopsys: even before he knew your name, hyunjin already knew your dog's. it had been difficult not to, considering that you shouted it on a daily basis in the park where he walked kkami. but he wasn't complaining: thanks to jisung he had been able to meet you, and and after a slight confusion, being able to see you again, and then again, painting your future in a lovesick red, as pure as the one in the roses that had brought you two together.
note: this is the last part!! with this oneshot our valentine's collab comes to an end. it was a pleasure to work with you, mana! i had so much fun 🤍
Before even learning your name, Hyunjin already knew your dog's. It had been hard not to when you were shouting it on a daily basis in the park next to his building, and even more so because of the name you had decided to give the poor animal. To hear such a pretty girl exclaim "Soju!" while laughing as he walked Kkami was a sight to behold. The little King Shepherd puppy you owned had never approached Hyunjin's dog before, but loved to jump and run around next to you, wagging his tail at an astonishing speed and looking at you as if you were the one who hung the stars in the sky every night. Hyunjin ended up understanding Soju perfectly, as every time he looked at you the sparkle in his eyes was the same.
It had all started when you had moved into the building across the street. Hyunjin lived in a fifth-floor apartment, and the flat he saw from his living-room window had been empty for as long as he could remember, until suddenly it hadn't been. He had seen you one afternoon after work, when he had gone down to Kkami for his evening walk, talking to the truck driver who had just dropped off what looked like a rolled-up mattress on the ground with the help of his co-worker. All he had thought about at the time, apart from the fact that you were going to be a new neighbour, was how beautiful you were, the reflections the sun created in your hair if you turned slightly, and the colours he would have to blend to get all the shades that merged into your strands.
The first time he'd heard you shout your dog's name was two days later, in the same park he was heading for when you'd first arrived in the neighbourhood, when he had just gotten there. You had run past, with your eternal smile plastered on your lips, your flashy yoga tights clinging to your skin, and Soju chasing after you amidst joyful barking. It had been quite an image. The same image he had caught himself trying to sketch that very night, instead of writing in his journal, before turning out the light to go to sleep. It was at that moment that he knew that even though you had not yet been introduced, you were already a part of his life.
And from then on he couldn't stop seeing you everywhere. It was like he had unlocked a new character, like when you noticed the presence of someone you thought was a stranger to you, then suddenly they weren't, and your day-to-day life was totally parallel, your paths coinciding but never crossing. He would come out of his room in the morning ready to make a coffee, and he would see you cooking breakfast in your pyjamas, in your kitchen. When he looked out of the window, on his stumbling way to the bathroom for his morning shower, and you were in the street, Soju hopping around you again, happy to be out for a walk. As he went downstairs to the park for a short walk with Kkami before work, you were again in your front door, Soju watching from your window as you put on your helmet, and Hyunjin watching you ride off on your bicycle.
In the morning, in his office, he couldn't stop thinking about you, neglecting his work as a art director more often than recommended to shut himself away in his personal studio, analysing colours, mixing them in his palette, remembering... All to find the perfect tones for your features. But the frustration of not succeeding could get the better of him and soured his mood, making him highly irritable until the end of the day. Then he would say goodbye to his colleagues and employees with the smile of someone who knew he was going home, when in reality all he wanted was to see you again.
He had just enough time to get to his flat, get Kkami on his leash and go out into the street again, but with a changed mood, heading for the park. And after waiting a few minutes sitting on his favourite bench, he would always see you arrive at your building, pretending to read a book he couldn't even remember the synopsis of, with your hair blowing in the wind. And you'd hurry up the stairs, eager to greet Soju, a few minutes later you'd be back on the street, ready to play with him. Because in the afternoons you never walked Soju. Every second between the trees was spent playing with him, with branches or his little red ball, or even running between passers-by.
But even though it was a habit he had developed, to include your routines in his even if you had never spoken a word to each other, he didn't have the confidence to do anything else. His friends had encouraged him to introduce himself, to strike up a conversation with you, to ask you out on a date, but he couldn't. The awkwardness gripped him, his natural shyness forming a lump in his throat, freezing his muscles as soon as he saw you appear. So he would just admire you from a distance as you played with your dog, as you danced around your living room, as you went to work... While he did nothing about it.
At least until one of his best friends asked him to stop by a florist's to pick up a bouquet of flowers he had ordered for his girlfriend. And when he walked up to, entering that little shop squeezed between two buildings, the one he had spent so many afternoons walking past on his way home, and saw you through the glass, he had to pull back suddenly, hiding from you, his cheeks flushing. He didn't know if Jisung had done it on purpose or not, but he was going to kill him anyway. He considered for a moment not going in. Surely Jisung would have time to come by and pick them up before his date, and he could go back home, regretting that he hadn't seized the moment. But he cared too much about his friend's girlfriend to deny her some nice flowers on Valentine's Day, so he gathered up his courage and secured his hand on the doorknob, opening the door.
our face lit up even before you knew who had entered, welcoming the new customer with a warm smile, but your eyes had a most excited gleam in them as you made eye contact with him, recognising him. And Hyunjin knew. He knew and his heart filled with pride, allowing himself to dream that you could feel the same way he did. And you greeted him, a soft, melodic "hello", and he greeted you back, his words certainly shakier, his curved lips mirroring yours. And for a few moments you watched each other, his eyes roaming over your features for the first time so closely, taking in the details, memorising every mole and wrinkle, those cute ones that formed at the corners of your eyes when you smiled. And he felt your gaze on his face too, his cheeks turning crimson.
"Which flowers are you interested in?" you asked, your swift hands fiddling with a discarded piece of stem from the bouquet you had just prepared.
"I... huh," he closed his eyes in a quick blink, focusing on the reason he had come in the first place, placing his hands on the counter to gain strength, "I'm here to pick up an order. Under the name of Han Jisung.”
"Oh," he could see the moment when your face fell, turning hurriedly, rummaging through the loose papers in a notebook on the cabinet behind you. "Yes, I... Yes, a dozen red roses."
"I thought they were orchids," Hyunjin uttered, before he could contain himself, frowning. "I could have sworn... I know she likes orchids."
"Well, there's a bouquet of red roses ordered under that name," you said, your shoulders still tense, your back to him. He heard you sigh before you turned around again, offering him a smile that was nowhere near as bright as the one you'd flashed when he'd arrived. "I can make you an orchid one, if you wait a while."
"Really?"
"Yeah, sure," but there was a sad tinge in your voice.
You rolled up the sleeves of the thin jumper you were wearing and disappeared into the back room. Hyunjin had not had a chance to observe the place as much as he would have liked, his attention directed entirely towards you, but he had marvelled at the magical place he found himself in. From the outside, the establishment was clean glass and old wood, but inside it was a forest straight out of a fairy tale. There were fake trees, some branches even painted on the wall, and ivy falling from the ceiling, lit in a warm, cosy light. The tables were covered with little ready-made bouquets, vases of flowers of all sizes and colours everywhere, a chaotic myriad of scents that created a soft and enchanting perfume, in a setting that should have felt overwhelming but was actually pleasant.
He was flashing a lovesick smile when you returned, holding a pot in your hands, and followed you with his eyes until you reached the table in the centre of the room, full of ribbons and laces, bits of stems and loose leaves, wrapping paper and various filler plants for the bouquets. You kept your head down, working quickly, and Hyunjin watched in amazement, admiring the way you expertly pulled out the flowers and cut the roots, preparing the stem as you thought it would look best, adding a few fresh leaves to match the white of the flowers with a refreshing green colour. By the time you had finished, laying the bouquet with heart-breaking delicacy on the wooden surface of the table, you simply whispered to him how much he had to pay for the expenses.
Hyunjin left the flower shop with a sad look on his face, your masterpiece resting in his hand as he sent a message to Han, agreeing to drop by his office to leave the bouquet. He was sad to have to give it up, the only piece that tied him to you, and after handing the flowers to his friend, scolding him for not choosing his girl's favourites, he returned home looking pained, defeated by how badly the first 一and probably only一 time you had seen each other had gone. The walk with Kkami lasted less time than usual, releasing him from the leash and letting him run wherever he wanted while he kept his gaze fixed on the entrance to the park, anxiously waiting to see you enter.
But you didn't. And while it was getting dark and he was going back into his flat, ready to pour himself some alcohol and drown himself in the sorrow, or the apparent rejection you had destined him to, you had decided to spend the night in your best friend's place. Hyunjin couldn't see the lights in your apartment on, but he couldn't see Soju either, so he realised that you weren't there, that you didn't want to be there, and that maybe you were the one who had felt rejected. Even if he was head over heels for you, even if he couldn't think of anything else, even if now that he knew what you smelled like, what you looked like up close, he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep until he had you in his arms. He'd seen the way you'd looked at him, how you'd locked eyes, how everything had disappeared around you as soon as he'd entered the shop and you'd recognised him. That connection could not be faked.
So he locked himself in his studio. And instead of mixing the colours he knew would form every shade of your skin, every strand of your hair, the kaleidoscope of your eyes, he let his heart bleed onto the canvas, a chaos of beiges and reds intermingling in the image he had conjured in his mind: the dozen red roses he had seen on the counter when he arrived, the one Han had ordered for his girlfriend. He poured out all his frustration using the brush as a channel, the colours sliding down the canvas of the frame as tears fell down his cheeks, angry, desperate, desperate... And when he finished, the smell of the paint overshadowing the memory of the perfume he remembered in your shop, he tried to grasp every word exchanged, every absence of interaction that had led you to this situation. And he understood.
Because in his eagerness to help his best friend's forgetful heart, he had forgotten to consider yours, and how his words might have been interpreted. He had lost himself in the romanticism he so adored, and had let you think the bouquet was for a date of his. He knew how it had happened, what you had thought. He knew why your smile had faded, and why you had needed to fetch the flowers from the back room when you had more in the shop, why you had put so much effort into his orchids. He knew because he would have done the same 一the sudden sadness, the time alone to avoid crying in front of someone, to give the best of you even if it was hurting like the worst wound... And he smiled, when he realised, in the middle of the night, determination warming his chest like a blanket on the coldest day of winter, that he just needed to explain it to you to start from scratch.
So he waited. The night felt like an eternity, the hours didn't go by fast enough, going to work was a misery. He hadn't seen you yet, and he already missed your silly dances in the kitchen at seven in the morning, the variety of sundresses you wore with tights and a big coat, how adorable you looked on your bike. God, he missed your voice. Even Kkami noticed his nervousness, chasing him around the flat at noon, when he had come back with the excuse to have lunch just because he wanted to find out if you were at home. He'd relaxed slightly at the sight of Soju dozing in the living room, but assumed you'd be working, so the afternoon's work hours went by pretty quickly, the certainty that he'd see you again in the park turning him into a giggling and excited mess.
He was waiting for you, once again, sitting on his bench. He hadn't bothered to bring a book, he couldn't distract himself, he wasn't capable of it anyways. While Kkami wandered around the lawn and amused himself chasing pigeons, he kept his eyes fixed on the entrance to the compound, his heart skipping a beat every time a person entered. But none of them were you, and his mood dropped as the afternoon progressed. Had you been so hurt that the possibility of seeing him made you walk Soju in a completely different place? He had been a fool. Deep down he knew it wasn't his fault, that it was just a few poorly chosen words, but it wasn't your fault either, and you were the one who was suffering the most.
And he couldn't allow it. Not when your heartbreak was avoidable, when he reciprocated your feelings so fiercely. So he got up, a high-pitched whistle spilling from between his lips to call his pet, and when he was sure the dog was following him he made his way to your building. He hooked the leash back on Kkami's harness and looked for your front door, hurrying when he saw that one of your neighbours was leaving at that very moment and racing down the hallway. He knocked on the wrong flat a couple of times once he got to the right floor, until a kindly old lady informed him that the cheerful pretty girl in the fifth lived in apartment E, and after thanking her he stopped, taking a moment to breathe.
He felt that everything was going very fast, but he was not sure if time was running out or if the accelerated rhythm of his heart had something to do with it. He seemed to be trapped in a movie, and couldn't stop smiling, starring in his own k-drama. He walked towards your door, knees trembling, clenching his hand into a fist to release the tension before pressing the doorbell, his chest rising and falling in an accelerated pace. He waited a few moments, listening to his heartbeat in his ears, swallowing saliva in agitation. Until you opened the door, the blue sundress you must have worn to work still hugging your body, Soju's curious figure at the end of the corridor, your face taking on a gesture of confusion.
"Go out with me" he blurted, his eyes wide, surprised at the way he had uttered the words, his eyebrows curving with concern at your possible response.
"I... Huh, what?"
"You, go out with me" he repeated, more confidently, feeling the material of Kkami's leash in his hand like an anchor to reality, "one dinner, one date."
"But..." you protested, looking back at the bouquet of red roses you had in the doorway, the edges of the petals already somewhat ruined, a sorrowful reminder of what had happened, "your bouquet...".
"They weren't for me," he explained, an incredulous laugh breaking through his chest, his face glowing with happiness, "they weren't for me. I was picking them up for a friend".
"They weren't for you" you repeated, looking into his eyes, the world once again disappearing around you.
"They weren't for me" he murmured, nodding, your lips curving into a reflection of the smile Hyunjin had on his lips.
"One dinner, one date" you affirmed, your cheeks taking on a reddish hue, exhaling a pain that seemed to have settled in your chest and that you were finally letting go of.
And in a catharsis of relief, found feelings at the door of your flat, and the joy of a beautiful crush, Hyunjin said goodbye, promising to pick you up the next day around eight o'clock. You closed the door slowly, leaning your back against it and smiling like a teenager. Hyunjin returned to his flat with a heart filled with happiness, and as he looked at the painting of red roses, he no longer thought of what he had felt when he painted it, but of all that was to come.
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