#dna test

You're lined up by last name, all 21, all waiting for your destiny. You scan the others, noting the tension etched on every face. Some try to look neutral, unphased. Others have perfected the blank expression the Authority encourages.

You know yours falters. Your fingers twitch at your sides. Your heartbeat thrums too loudly. You wonder if anyone can hear it.

"Number 5728, you are matched with Number 2491" a mechanical voice calls. A boy with light brown skin and short cropped hair steps forward silently, walking to the glowing red circle where he's told to stand. He never looks up. His match follows moments later. She holds herself like glass about to shatter. Numbers blur. Matches blur. You don't realize they're getting closer to yours until you hear it:

"Number 5765...You are matched with Number 2183."

That's you. And him. Your legs carry you before you even feel them move. The red circle waits. A warm light glows beneath your feet, reading your vitals. You raise your eyes. He's already looking at you. Minho. They said he was from Sector D, the elite zone. High-performing genetics. His mother is a government official. His father a research leader. He has the kind of file that whispers perfection, the kind they put on recruitment posters and education modules. High aptitude. High compliance. Genetically clean.

He is beautiful. Sharp lines and quiet stillness. Black hair swept slightly to one side. Eyes like ink, dark, bottomless, hypnotizing. He watches you with an expression you can't read. Not indifferent. Not curious. Something else. Something you can't decipher. He's a man so perfect you can't believe he's real and paired with you.

Your hands are instructed to touch. You extend yours first. His is warm, steady. A light hum activates around you as the system scans. Your match data appears in the air above your heads.

Pairing Confirmed: 99.84% Compatibility.

Murmurs ripple down the line. It's a near-perfect score. His eyes never leave yours.

"You may proceed to Joint Housing Unit 12B," the voice says. You drop hands. He doesn’t say a word. Just turns and walks. You follow.

The Joint Housing Unit looks exactly like the simulations they showed you in school. Neutral tones. Clean angles. Blank walls. Artificial sunlight through fake windows. It smells like sterile air and lavender. The main room has two desks, one sofa, one round table, and a small kitchen. Two doors lead to two bedrooms. One of them now yours.

Minho doesn’t wait. He steps inside, surveys the space once, then heads straight to the desk. Pulls out a file. Begins reading. You stand there, holding your suitcase the government gave you, unsure if you’re supposed to speak or do anything.

"We’re scheduled for adjustment check-ins every third day of the week." he says without looking at you. His voice is smooth, low, efficient, no unnecessary words

"Right" you reply. Your voice sounds too loud in the perfect quietness. He glances at you once. Briefly. Then returns to his file.

The first night is strange. You lie in your bed, stiff under the sheet, trying to ignore the faint sound of his movement in the next room. No creaking floors. Just the occasional rustle of pages. You turn onto your side and stare at the wall. Your fingers curl under your pillow. You're restless.

At some point, the light in the hallway lowers. The system prepares the unit for sleep cycle. But you stay awake. You can't get yourself to sleep. All of it is too sudden. Less than 24 hours earlier you were still happily with your family and now you're matched yet alone.

The second morning, he's already at the table when you enter the main room. He's eating oatmeal and fruit slices, reading something on a data tablet. He doesn’t look up. You open the cabinet, pretending you don’t feel his presence like a weight in the room. Everything is quiet. Engineered that way, for simpleness.

"You don’t talk much" you finally say. He pauses his reading. Looks at you. There’s something slightly amused in his eyes.

"No" he agrees. Then adds "I listen."

"To what?" He tilts his head. "To how people fill silence."

You blink, surprised by the depth of the response. He's definitly from an elite family. He returns to his tablet. And leaves the room before you can get to sit at the table with him.

Two days later, you attend your first adjustment session together. A woman named Clara, clearly an Authority counselor, greets you with a practiced smile.

"Hello young people, today it'll just be a few evaluations. Physical, emotional, cognitive. Nothing invasive." Minho nods. You sit stiffly beside him.

"Let’s begin with physical comfort. Touch-based pairing reinforcement." She gestures for you to sit knee to knee, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. You do, it's not like you have any choice.

"Hold hands."

You expect reluctance from Minho, maybe irritation. But he takes your hand easily, with no care in the world. His grip is firm but not tight. His skin is warm. You try not to look at him, but you can’t help it. He’s already looking at you. Again.

"Describe how it feels" Clara commands.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Minho says quietly "Unfamiliar. But not unpleasant."

You exhale. "Yes. That."

"Eye contact?" Clara asks. You look at each other again. Longer this time.

Clara smiles. "Excellent. Let’s continue with the other tests"

By day five, a rhythm starts to form. You don’t talk often, but you move around each other with silent understanding. You leave tea on the table in the morning. He begins washing your dish without being asked. He works late into the night. You hear soft tapping on a data slate through the wall. Once, you walk past his room and the door is open. He’s not reading. He’s watching a projection of an old music archive. A cello piece. Something soft, aching.

He notices you. Doesn’t pause the music. Just says "I wish I could have lived at this time."

The days blur together in a quiet rhythm, breakfast, silent walks through the sterile halls, evenings filled with unspoken words. The apartment still feels too clean, too cold, too unpersonnal. But somehow, it’s less lonely when Minho is nearby. You notice the little things. How he folds the newspaper with exact precision, how his footsteps barely make a sound on the polished floor. How, when you sit near the window to read, he chooses the chair beside you instead of the usual spot across the room.

One evening, the temperature dips just below comfortable. You pull your thin sweater tighter around your arms, fingers curled into fists against the chill. Minho’s eyes catch yours briefly, then he moves to the thermostat, raising the heat by a few degrees without a word.

You pretend you don’t see, he pretends he didn't do anything. But inside, your chest loosens, the warmth coming not just from the heater but from his quiet attentiveness.

The days continue, and so does the subtle moves. At the communal center, you’re signed up for an emotional bonding session. The room is bright and clinical, with other pairs awkwardly taking part in exercises designed to forge connection. You and Minho sit side by side, hands hovering until instructed to touch.

Your fingers brush, tentative at first, then he closes the gap until your hands rest comfortably together. The silence stretches long. His thumb moves, brushing your knuckles once, gentle, tentative, a touch that sends a jolt through your nerves. You freeze, eyes wide, feeling exposed and oddly comforted at the same time. He doesn’t pull away.

On the way back to the housing unit, you can’t stop replaying the moment in your head. Back in the apartment, you find that Minho has left a cup of your favorite tea beside your book on the table. It’s a small thing, but the gesture feels enormous in a society to minimalist and clinical. When you look up, he’s standing by the door, watching you before slipping away in his room without a word.

The next day, you catch him watching you when you don’t realize it, the way you tilt your head when reading, the faint movement in your brow when you think. You want to say something, but your voice feels fragile, lacking confidence. And then, it happens. You’re moving through the apartment, toward him. When you stop in front of him you look at him with pleading wide eyes and his hand reaches out quickly, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face.

The contact is light but electric, and when you meet his eyes, you see something new: hesitation, vulnerability. He blushes faintly, like a boy caught off guard. You realize this is more than genetics, duty or forced pairing. This is Minho noticing you.

Later, he invites you to listen to music in his room. The song is soft, melancholic. It’s foreign, yet somehow it feels like it could be understood by anyone.

Sitting side by side, sharing the earbuds, you feel something fragile bloom between you, a connection that can’t be measured by DNA or protocols. For the first time, you wonder if this pairing might be more than a perfect match.

During the third week, the apartment into a place that feels increasingly real, less like a sterile exhibit and more like the space where two lives are slowly merging. The blank walls no longer feel like barriers but something to share. Minho’s silence begins to shift, just a little. He mentions things, not often, and not loudly, but enough to start lowering the walls between you.

One evening, as you sit together with your backs resting against the wall, he murmurs "I don’t like the system. But speaking against it... it’s dangerous." His voice is low, almost a confession, weighted with something unspoken. He trusts you enough to tell you something so big.

You don’t respond right away. Instead, you reach for his hand, and this time, he doesn’t pull away, doesn't flinch, just accept it.

That night, the power cuts out without warning. Darkness wraps the apartment like a soft blanket. No buzzing fluorescents. No hum of machines. Just the sound of your breathing and the quiet noise of rain against the window. As if the darkness kept you away from the outside world.

You find yourselves lying side by side in the glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. The air feels thick with something new, anticipation, vulnerability. Minho’s hand finds yours, fingers curling around yours with surprising tenderness. His voice is barely above a whisper. "I wasn’t supposed to care about how you smell. Or the way you talk when you’re tired. But I do. I do care about every single thing. Beyond the DNA match, beyond the government's pairing."

You turn toward him, searching his face in the dark. The tension in the room gets thick. Without thinking, you lean forward and press your lips to his. It’s soft, tentative, a question as much as an answer to every uncertainities in your mind. He doesn’t pull away, he kisses you back. The kiss lingers, charged and full of all the things you’ve both kept buried beneath protocol and silence. When you finally part, you rest your forehead against his.

In the pale light of morning, you catch him watching you quietly as you brush your teeth. His eyes are softer, less guarded, like he’s seeing you for the first time beyond the genetic file and the match.

That day, everything shifts. He walks with you to the small park near the apartment a rare green square where plants stubbornly grow despite the sterile cityscape. The two of you sit on a bench, the distance between you shrinking with every word. Minho tells you about his family, about the pressure to be perfect, the expectations weighed like stones on his shoulders. "I was taught how to pass genes, to have a genetically perfect heir." he admits. "No one taught me what to do when I wanted to stay...for the feelings."

You share your own fears, your own quiet rebellion against the cold machinery of the system. It’s the first time you both allow yourselves to speak freely, without scripts or measured pauses. When you finally walk back, hand in hand, the world outside feels less imposing less like a cage.

That night, you fall asleep curled against his side.

The shift is subtle, but undeniable. Minho no longer withdraws into silence after every shared moment. He doesn’t retreat to his room immediately after meals. Instead, he stays watching, listening, sometimes offering a quiet remark that leaves you blinking in surprise.

You begin spending evenings together, reading in the same space. The silences are no longer uncomfortable. You sit shoulder to shoulder on the couch, knees touching lightly. Some nights, you lean into him as you drift off, your head resting against his arm. He never moves. He stays still and silent until you wake, as if afraid any movement might push you away.

You fall asleep beside him once by accident. The next time, you do it on purpose, to test him. He doesn’t say anything, just shifts slightly to make space and lifts the blanket over you both. His body is warm and strong, his presence oddly anchoring.

It becomes routine, unspoken, natural. You sleep in the same bed now. Not for sex, not yet. But for comfort. For trust. One night, you wake up in the dark to find his arm wrapped around your waist. His breathing is slow and even. You don’t move. You just lie there enjoying the feeling, letting his warmth seep into you.

The next morning, he doesn’t apologize. He only asks "Did you sleep well?"

You nod. "I did."

And that’s enough you don't need more.

Minho begins writing, it's strange considering all the technologies available. You find him sometimes at the small desk, pen in hand, brow furrowed in concentration. He doesn’t hide it from you, but he never offers to explain, never shows you what he's writing.

One day, while tidying, you find the notebook left open on the table. You hesitate, not wanting to pry in his privacy but your curiosity wins. You read a single line: "She laughs differently when it’s real." You turn the page. "Her mouth twitch when she lies." Page after page. All about you, about small details he noticed. You close the notebook quietly, your hands trembling slightly.

That evening, you say nothing about it. Neither does he. But when he sits next to you, closer than usual, and your hands find each other under the blanket, you squeeze his fingers just once, and he squeezes back, a silent acknoledging.

Later that week, you sit at the table together, eating quietly from shared bowls while the sound of static hums on the government screen overhead. Minho doesn’t glance at the broadcast. His eyes are on you.

Then, softly: "I requested you."

You blink. "What?"

"I saw your file. During a pre-match simulation. I wasn’t supposed to. But I did. I didn’t think they’d grant it. I didn't know my family's influence was so big."

You stare at him. "Why?"

He hesitates, then looks down. "Because when I read your responses… you didn’t sound afraid to feel things."

You don’t know what to say. "You used your influence to choose? You rigged the pairing? How could you?! You think you're above everyone else? That you can choose when we have to undergo? You had no rights to do that!" Tears pool in your eyes so he wraps his arms around you and you sob into his chest. You don’t let go for a very long time

The system checks your progress every few weeks, not through words or feelings, but through hormone levels and biometric scans.

You and Minho are scheduled for a "chemical bonding review." They take your blood, measure your proximity rates, monitor how long your eyes linger on each other in a controlled room. The results come back: optimal compatibility for impregnation. A success. You barely react. So does Minho.

The words feel meaningless now. You stopped needing their approval the moment he started sitting beside you instead of across from you.At dinner, his chair scrapes closer to yours until your arms brush with each quiet movement. He no longer asks if you want the tea, he just makes it and slides it in front of you. You sip it while he reads over your shoulder.

You begin to notice how tightly he curls one foot under the other when he’s thinking. How he fiddles with the sleeves of his shirt when he’s unsure. He still doesn't say much, but you’ve learned to understand him in the silences, in the way his hand lingers at the small of your back as you pass him, in the way his breath catches when you rest your head on his chest.

You wake one morning tangled in his limbs. His arm is thrown lazily around your waist, and his breath is warm against the nape of your neck. Neither of you move. You lie still, held, listening to the rise and fall of his chest. Then he says it. Your name. Just your name, soft. You turn in his arms and he looks at you, not like a match or a partner or a checkmark on a compatibility form, but like a man trying to understand how something so quiet could feel this important.

You ask "What is this, then? What are we?"

His hand cups your face gently. His thumb brushes your cheek. He doesn’t answer right away, just think.

Then he says "If this isn’t love, tell me what else would make me want to unlearn everything I was taught… for you."

There’s no ceremony. No public declaration. No need of other people's aproval. Just two people sitting in the morning light, sharing a life that was never supposed to be theirs to decide but somehow became something real.

There’s something about this moment, this specific breath that feels more delicate than any other since your pairing. Minho has changed, subtly and steadily, over these three months. But tonight, as he watches you with unreadable eyes, something has broken open. Or maybe it has bloomed.

The room is quiet except for the gentle hum of the heater and the barely-there sound of fabric shifting as he sits up in bed beside you. His knees are bent, arms resting on them, his shirt slightly wrinkled from the day. He doesn’t look at you at first. Just…thinks.

Then finally, like it costs him something to express it, he turns his head. "Are you… happy here?"

It’s not a question he’s asked before. Not like this. Not with weight behind it. "I am now" you answer. And it’s the truth, you're happy. You're with a kind man that cares about you.

Minho nods, then glances down at the floor as though something lies there between the shadows. He exhales. "I don’t know what I’m doing. I've never been taught how to really care for my wife, how to be good for her and make her happy."

"You don’t have to" you whisper. "Just follow your instincts."

His gaze returns to yours, and this time it stays. "I want to do it right."

Your chest tightens. You sit up slowly beside him, mirroring his posture. "Then just…stay with me tonight. Nothing else. Just stay." Minho shifts, turning to face you. You feel the pull before he even moves. A pause.

Then, he reaches out, fingertips brushing against your cheek, hesitant at first. You lean into it. When he kisses you, it’s slow and sure, but tinged with something raw, comfort and a rising love. Something curious and aching. His lips fit to yours like he’s waited long enough, maybe too long, but still refuses to rush he wants to fully enjoy it.

He kisses you like you’re a riddle he wants to solve. His hands move to your waist, gentle, patient. You can feel the tension in the room and inside him, like his restraint is its own kind of desire. You tangle your fingers in the fabric of his shirt, slowly pulling it upward, revealing a sliver of his torso. He lets you, breath hitching only slightly. When you pause, he pulls it off the rest of the way himself. The dim light catches the lines of him, the curve of his collarbone, the toned softness of his abdomen. He’s beautiful. And real.

Your own shirt follows, your hands trembling slightly from the weight of the moment. But his eyes never leave yours, he looks at your face, always your face. "I don’t want to make a mistake" he says quietly.

"You won’t" you promise, placing his hand gently over your heart. He feels the beat. He nods.

When your skin touch fully for the first time, it’s startling. Not for the heat or the closeness, but for how right it feels, how natural it is. His chest pressed to yours, his hands at your back, your thighs brushing his as you pull him down onto the bed.

Minho takes his time. His hands roam your body slowly, along your waist, your ribs, the slope of your back. He maps you like he’s creating memory. Like he’s afraid of forgetting. He kisses along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, each one placed with deliberate care before removing your bra. His eyes lit up with awe. "You're so beautiful."

You arch into him without shame. You’re past hesitation now. You want him. You trust him. And he wants you too, you feel it in the way his breath catches as his palm touches your hip, the swell of your breasts. In the stuttered way he exhales when you pull his mouth back to yours. There’s no protocol for this. No sterilized instruction. Just the slow experiencing of two people who’ve been taught to feel nothing and are now learning what it means to want everything.

Later, when you're fully bare beneath him, and his hand brushes between your thighs, tentative, reverent, your whole body tenses, but not with fear. It’s the electric hum of being seen, being touched with need and hunger. He murmurs your name, voice low and uncertain. "Tell me if..."

"I’ll tell you" you say. "But I want this. And I want you."

His hand doesn’t hesitate this time. He touches you slowly, learning you by feel. He slips two fingers in your heat and curl them tentatively, trying to find your weak spot. When your breath hitches, and you grip his shoulder, grounding yourself, he knows he found it and start massaging it with each curl of his fingers.

You tilt your head back, and he kisses your throat, your pulse. He leaves few hickeys before kissing each of them. And when you’re ready, when you whisper that you are, he moves above you, bracing himself with care. He undresses slowly, his pants then boxers to reveal his hard length.

He gives himself few strokes before before pressing his tip against your entrance. The moment he enters you is quiet. So quiet it almost feels sacred. He stills. Waits. As if scared he did something wrong.

You nod, breathless. "I’m okay. I want you."

The rhythm starts slowly, an uncoordinated dance of bodies. But then it settles. You settle. Into each other. Into the motion of his hips, back and forth. Into the knowing that this isn’t just procedure, it’s choice. It’s trust. It's love.

Minho cups your face, watching you with a kind of awe, like he can’t believe he’s allowed to have this. His thumb brushes your cheek. Your name falls from his lips like a secret, like a prayer. And when the moment breaks, when your body tightens and he feels you tremble beneath him, sees the emotion break across your face, a huge orgasm crashing through you like a tsunami. He follows soon after, quiet and breathless, your names tangled between gasps and moans as he releases inside you.

After, your legs still tangled with his, skin damp and warm, you lie chest to chest in the dark. Minho doesn’t speak at first. He just holds you. Panting. Eyes closed. Then, softly "You make me feel like I wasn’t made for the system. Like I was made for you."

You kiss his shoulder. "You were." He presses his forehead to yours. "I want every night to feel like this." You close your eyes. "Then it will be, just us, no orders from the government."

"Just us."