#lino

It starts like most nights do—low lighting, soft jazz, the smell of expensive bourbon and even more expensive cologne drifting through the speakeasy’s velvet-lined walls. The kind of place that pretends not to notice you unless it wants to.

He always notices you.

Minho’s already at the bar, polishing glassware with deliberate, almost surgical focus. No smile. No greeting. He doesn’t do small talk—just glances at you when you slip onto the stool you always take, his gaze lingering for a moment too long on the bare skin above your knee before it flicks away like you imagined it.

He slides a drink toward you without asking.

Tonight it’s something amber and sharp—neat, no garnish. Not the floral bullshit you usually order to irritate him but don't actually enjoy.

“You’re learning,” you murmur, fingers curling around the glass.

“You’re predictable,” he says, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement. Approval, maybe. It’s hard to tell with him.

You take a slow sip, letting the burn settle in your chest before you speak again.

“Gonna make fun of me tonight, or just stare at my legs?”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Why can’t I do both?”

You raise an eyebrow. He’s in a mood.

Good.

You lean in a little, voice dipping low. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked me.”

Minho finally looks at you head-on, the edge of a smile ghosting across his mouth.

“If I liked you,” he says, smooth as glass, “you’d know.”

The heat that curls low in your stomach has nothing to do with the liquor.

You shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve been playing this game for weeks—weeks of drawn-out glances and sharp tongues, of letting your knee graze his thigh beneath the bar, of asking him questions you already know he won’t answer just to hear the dry curl of his voice when he tells you no.

But tonight, the rules feel different. The air feels heavier. Charged.

You blame it on the day you had. On the message you didn’t answer. On the fact that your body still remembers the way your so-called lover grabbed your wrist last night when you dared to pull away first. The apology this morning was short. Cold. Like a favor he did you.

You’re tired of favors. Of men who act like your body is borrowed space.

So maybe that’s why you’re here again. Why your dress is a little shorter than usual. Why your smile is a little sharper. Why you stare at Minho like you want him to cut you open and see what’s underneath.

“I think you like me,” you say, swirling the amber in your glass, eyes fixed on his fingers as he reaches for a bottle behind him.

He uncaps it without a word. Pours slow—like he’s buying time or maybe making you wait on purpose. The line of his jaw is clean and sharp in the bar’s dim light, a profile carved in something colder than marble.

You’ve never seen him fluster. Not once. That’s part of why you keep coming back. That composure, that razor-thin control—you want to see it slip. Just once. Just enough to know what he looks like when something matters.

But Minho doesn’t rattle. Doesn’t rise to the bait. He sets the bottle down, replaces the cap with the same care you imagine he uses with everything else—his knives, his words, his hands.

“I think you like being watched,” he says finally, without looking at you. “That’s not the same thing.”

Your lips curl. “Is that what you do? Watch me?”

He glances up, and the full weight of his gaze hits you square in the chest—dark, steady, measuring.

“Only when you want me to.”

You swallow. Hard.

There’s nothing coy about it now. No masks, no playful deflection. Just static in the air and the slow realization that this isn’t banter anymore.

It’s foreplay.

Your thighs press together instinctively beneath the bar. The liquor burns differently now—hotter, deeper.

Minho sees it—how your legs shift, how your breath stutters—but he doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t need to. The power slips over him like a second skin, smooth and effortless, like he was born to unravel people slowly and never touch them at all.

You try to hold your ground, try to find something clever to say, but the words stick to your tongue. They don’t come.

He leans forward—just slightly, just enough that you catch a whisper of his cologne, clean and sharp like crushed pepper and steel. The kind of scent that makes you ache without knowing why.

“You always drink faster when you’re upset,” he murmurs. “Didn’t think he’d blow you off again.”

Your stomach flips.

You didn’t tell him that.

Not out loud.

But you’ve mentioned him in passing before—your almost-boyfriend, your never-quite-yours. The man who texts when he’s bored and shows up when he’s drunk, who fucks you like a secret and then disappears for days. You’ve never named him. You never had to.

Minho’s too observant for that.

You look away, embarrassed, a little raw.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

Minho hums like he understands. Not kindly—accurately. Like a blade understanding the softest part of skin.

“Didn’t think you would.”

His voice is soft. Low enough that it doesn’t carry over the jazz humming through the room, but not so low that it misses the mark. It slides under your skin, settles there. Warm. Heavy.

You press the rim of your glass to your lips, but don’t drink. You’re stalling. He knows it.

“Is this where you offer comfort?” you ask, tilting your head toward him, trying to claw some of the power back with your voice. “Tell me I deserve better?”

Minho chuckles—quiet, sharp-edged. “You know you deserve better.”

He lets it hang there for a beat too long, until you can feel the unspoken part of it clawing up your spine.

You deserve better, and I could give it to you. But I won’t.

Not yet.

His fingers flex against the bar’s edge. It’s the first crack in his control tonight, the only betrayal of the restraint wound tight through every part of him. You don’t think he even notices it—but you do.

Because that’s what this has always been, hasn’t it? A standoff. A war of glances and gestures. Who can make the other want without asking.

You swirl the last inch of liquor in your glass, watching the amber catch the low light, pretending like you’re not memorizing the shape of his hand against the bar.

Minho isn’t looking at you anymore. Not directly. His eyes are focused somewhere beyond you—on a bottle that doesn’t need touching, a thought that doesn’t need voicing. But his body betrays him in small, precise ways. That flex of his hand. The stillness of his shoulders. The slow, measured breaths like he’s giving himself rules to follow.

Don’t reach for her. Don’t say her name. Don’t touch unless she begs.

You can feel it—how close he is to undoing himself. How he’s fighting it like it would cost him something if he gave in.

And that makes you reckless.

“Why haven’t you?” you murmur, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “If you’ve thought about it—which you have. Why haven’t you done anything?”

You lick your lips—subtle, involuntary—and his eyes drop to your mouth like it was the only thing in the room worth watching. Just for a second. Just long enough to make your pulse thrum in your throat.

“You’re not going to offer comfort,” you say, quieter now, more to yourself than him. “That’s not your game.”

Minho doesn’t deny it.

“I don’t comfort girls who let men treat them like that,” he murmurs, voice like slow smoke. “I fuck it out of them.”

Your breath catches.

You can’t help it.

It punches the air straight from your lungs—just for a second. Just long enough for your lashes to flutter and your grip on the glass to falter and your entire body to go still.

You should’ve known that’s where he’d take it. You should’ve seen it coming. But hearing it—feeling it—low and steady like that, like an invocation and not a threat?

It’s something else entirely.

Your thighs clench beneath the bar. Instinctive. Useless. You feel suddenly too warm in your skin, in your dress, in this damn chair. Like the room’s shrunk down to just the two of you and the weight of those words lingering in the air between them.

He said it like a fact. Like a promise. No smirk. No tilt of his head. No performance.

Just Minho—staring at you with that terrifying, surgical precision that’s never been louder than it is now.

He knows what he just did.

Knows you’re squirming. Knows you’re soaking. Knows exactly where your mind’s gone—and he hasn’t even touched you.

Your tongue darts out again, a nervous reflex.

And that’s when he leans in.

Not by much—just enough that his mouth is close enough to graze the rim of your glass if you tilted it.

“I’d start with your mouth,” he says, barely louder than the jazz, like he’s confessing something obscene to a priest. “Because I know you’d still try to be smart with it. Even while you’re choking.”

Your stomach drops.

Your fingers curl tight around the edge of the counter to ground yourself, but it’s no use. His voice is a velvet hand at your throat, gentle enough to tease, firm enough to hold

Minho doesn’t linger.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch into tension, doesn’t wait for your reply, doesn’t press a single inch further into the ache he’s just created.

He simply pulls away.

Smooth, unbothered, like he didn’t just fillet you open with nothing but words. Like your insides aren’t still ringing with the ghost of him. He reaches for a towel, wipes a nonexistent smudge from the rim of a coupe glass, and then—casually, almost bored—slides the folded slip of paper toward you across the polished marble.

Your bill.

Back to business.

It’s maddening. Unbearably normal. Like he didn’t just spit filth into your ear that made your spine arch in the seat. Like he didn’t just speak to you like he already owned your body and was only waiting for the right time to claim it.

Your hand moves on autopilot.

Fingers dip into your purse, fishing out your card, swiping it through the reader like this is any other night, like you’re not unraveling at the seams. Like you’re not trembling just slightly beneath the surface of your skin, still burning with every word he spoke to you moments ago.

The reader beeps.

Declined.

You blink.

Try again. Slower this time. Like it might make a difference.

Declined.

The air shifts.

You don’t look up. Can’t. You stare at the reader, thumb hovering over the chipped edge of your card like pressing harder might fix it. Like it wasn’t inevitable. Like you haven’t been running on fumes and stubbornness and overdraft protection for longer than you want to admit.

You exhale through your nose. Force a quiet laugh. “Sorry,” you mutter, trying for nonchalant. “Guess it’s been a week.”

Minho doesn’t move.

You finally glance up—and he’s already looking at you.

Not annoyed. Not smug. Just still. Measured.

Then he takes the bill back without a word.

Folds it in half.

Tucks it beneath the register.

“It’s okay,” he says, and his voice is different now—softer, low and careful like a hand on the back of your neck. “I’ve got it.”

You hesitate. “No, really. I can come back tomorrow—”

“I said it’s okay.”

The quiet in his tone settles over you like a coat. Warm, heavy. Weighted with something you don’t quite recognize yet.

You search his face for a catch. A smirk. A condition. But there isn’t one.

And that—that’s what undoes you more than anything else.

Because it’s not a trade. Not a tease. Not a power play.

It’s just kindness.

Uncomplicated. Unexpected.

From him of all people.

You swallow hard. Nodding feels dangerous, so you don’t.

You just sit there, small and grateful and aching in a way you didn’t expect.

“I’ll pay you back,” you say quietly. “Next time.”

Minho doesn’t respond right away. Just tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re not a charity case,” he says finally. “I know you’ll settle.”

You nod again. This time it lands.

He straightens. Pulls your empty glass away, sets it behind him.

“You staying a while?” he asks. Not teasing. Not performative. Just… offering.

And you want to say yes.

But your throat is tight and your wrist still hurts beneath your sleeve and your body feels like too much tonight—too raw, too full, too loud.

So you say, “Think I’ll head out,” and your voice sounds gentler than it should. Like you’re asking permission.

Minho nods. Doesn’t question it. Doesn’t try to stop you. Just wipes the bar in front of your empty seat like he’s already preparing for the next ghost to sit down.

You stand slowly. Adjust your bag over your shoulder, glance toward the hallway that leads to the exit.

He doesn’t say anything at first. But you feel him watching you—not your ass, not your dress, but the way you cradle your arm. The way your hand hovers over your wrist like you’re guarding something.

And then—

“Did he grab you?”

Your spine stiffens.

Like someone cracked ice down your back.

You don’t turn around right away. You just stand there, shoulders drawn tight, fingers white-knuckled around the strap of your bag.

“Excuse me?” you ask, voice sharper than you mean it to be.

Minho doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t repeat himself, either. Just waits.

You finally turn, chin lifted in that familiar tilt—the one you wear like armor, the one you’ve perfected for moments like this. When someone sees too much. When someone dares to ask.

“I don’t need you psychoanalyzing my love life,” you say flatly. “It’s none of your business.”

Minho says nothing.

Which somehow makes it worse. And for some reason, you can’t stop talking.

You huff a laugh, bitter and breathless. “Jesus. You let one card decline and suddenly you think you’re my therapist?”

Still nothing.

Just that same steady gaze. Not pitying. Not cold. Just... seeing.

And maybe that’s why it stings. Because he’s not wrong.

You fold your arms, fingers pressing hard over the bruise like you can erase it by force. “He didn’t mean to,” you finally mutter.

Minho’s voice is quiet. Even.

“But he did.”

You look away.

It’s not a fight. He’s not raising his voice. He’s not accusing you of anything. But something about the way he says it—flat, factual, calm—makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something shameful.

You shake your head. “It’s not that simple.”

His expression doesn’t change. “It never is.”

You exhale hard through your nose. Every part of you wants to run. You don’t like feeling cornered like this—especially not by someone like him. Someone who doesn’t play pretend

Someone who sees everything and speaks only when it counts.

“I’m not some broken girl who needs saving,” you snap.

“I know.”

And again—it’s not cruel. Not dismissive. Just a truth, spoken plainly.

That disarms you more than anything else.

He knows.

He knows you’re angry and proud and stubborn. He knows you want control, even when it costs you peace. He knows you’re clawing your way through something you don’t want to name yet. He knows—and still, he said nothing until you were already walking away.

You sigh. The kind of sigh that tastes like surrender.

“I’m fine,” you say. Softer now. “Okay? I’m fine.”

Minho doesn’t agree. Doesn’t argue. Just nods like he’s filing it away for later.

And then, gently:

“Text me when you’re home.”

You look at him.

Really look at him.

The dark sweep of his lashes. The slow tension in his jaw. The barest flex of his fingers against the rag he’s holding—like he’s grounding himself on the bar instead of reaching for you.

“I don’t have your number,” you say, quiet again.

He doesn’t even blink.

Just reaches for a napkin. Writes it down in clean, deliberate strokes. Slides it to you without flourish, like it’s nothing.

You take it with fingers that don’t feel like yours.

The napkin is soft, a little damp in one corner, the ink bleeding just slightly where his pen dragged too slow over cheap paper. His handwriting is neat. Precise. The kind you’d expect from him. Not a flourish in sight.

You stare at the numbers for a beat too long.

Like if you memorize them now, maybe you won’t have to admit how much you care that he gave them to you.

“I’m not going to cry in the cab,” you mutter. Not to him. Just to yourself. A warning. A promise. A lie.

Minho’s mouth twitches—too fast to call it a smile. “Good. They charge extra for that.”

You roll your eyes, but the sound that escapes you is almost a laugh.

Almost.

You fold the napkin once. Then again. Tuck it into your purse like it’s fragile, like it’s worth something, like it matters. You don’t say thank you. Can’t. The words would taste too much like gratitude and not enough like the armor you’re trying to put back on.

He doesn’t press. Just nods once—final, quiet—and goes back to polishing the same glass he’s been holding all night. Like none of this ever happened.

You walk away before you can change your mind.

Before you do something stupid, like apologize for flinching. Like ask him to say it again, that he knows you’re not broken. Like ask if he’s ever been hurt in a way that still echoes years later.

The hallway is dim. The velvet curtains at the door part with a whisper. The street outside is colder than you remembered.

You step into it anyway.

That night, lying on your side with the city leaking through the blinds in long gray stripes, you stare at your phone screen for too long.

You’ve opened a new message three times. Deleted it each time.

Minho’s number sits untouched in your contacts now. Just a string of digits and a name that feels like something you shouldn’t be allowed to keep.

Eventually, you type:

[you]: home.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Then nothing.

Then:

[bartender]: good. sleep.

You stare at it for longer than you should.

Just those two words. No punctuation. No fluff. Just simple, clean concern dressed up like a command.

You can almost hear his voice in it—low, even, with that deliberate edge that makes everything sound like a dare.

You think about typing something back. A joke. A thank you. Something to make it lighter.

But it’s too late for pretending now. And maybe—just maybe—you like that he didn’t say take care or sweet dreams or anything that would let you brush this off as ordinary.

Because it’s not.

You set the phone on your nightstand.

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep before the sun rises.

The bass is too loud.

It rattles your ribs, crawls down your spine, settles behind your eyes like a headache waiting to happen. Bodies press in on all sides—sweaty, glittered, half-drunk strangers shouting lyrics they only know the chorus to. The lights strobe fast enough to make you nauseous.

You wish you were having fun.

You should be having fun. It’s Maya’s birthday. Everyone showed up. Friends, coworkers, mutuals you forgot you still followed. You wore the good dress, the one that makes you feel like the sexiest version of yourself. You downed two shots at the bar and danced until your skin burned.

And for a while—it worked.

Until he showed up.

You feel him before you see him. Isn’t that always the way?

That weight in the room. The static against your skin. The sharp twist in your stomach that feels too close to guilt to be anything else.

You turn. And there he is.

Leaning against the bar like he owns it, drink in hand, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make a show of it. He doesn’t look at you at first. He never does. Always lets you spot him first. Lets you feel him before he lets you see him.

Your heart drops anyway.

It’s been three weeks since you told him not to text you again.

Not after the last time—not after his fingers curled too tight around your wrist and left a bloom of purple that took a week to fade. Not after he said your name like a curse when you tried to walk away. You were never his. That was the whole point. And yet… it never seemed to matter.

You turn back toward your friends. Pretend you don’t see him.

It works for ten minutes.

Then a hand slides around your waist.

“You look good tonight.”

You freeze.

His breath is warm against your ear. Familiar. Suffocating.

You force a smile, even as your whole body goes still. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he murmurs, voice syrup-smooth. “Say hi to my favorite girl?”

Your throat tightens. “I’m not your anything.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” His fingers flex at your waist. Not hard. Not yet. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve already lost something.

You shove his hand off. Step back.

“I said don’t.”

He laughs—soft and cruel. “You’ve got some nerve, walking around like that. That dress. That mouth.”

You’re not sure what breaks first—the fear or the fury.

But your hand moves before your mind can catch up, pushing at his chest, not hard enough to knock him back but enough—enough to draw a line, enough to say stop, stop, STOP.

He stumbles back half a step, but the grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens.

“Oh, she’s got teeth tonight.”

You hate that he says it like he’s proud. Like he likes it when you push back—because it means he gets to push harder.

“Don’t touch me,” you spit, louder this time. Louder than you meant it to be. Louder than the beat crashing around you.

A few heads turn. Not many. Not enough.

He laughs, cruel and close and reeking of entitlement. “Calm down, drama queen. We used to have fun, remember?”

You take a step back.

He follows.

His hand shoots out again, this time not for your waist—but for your face. Fingers clamp around your jaw, sudden and firm, yanking you forward so fast your breath lodges in your throat.

You gasp.

Pain sparks where his thumb digs in. Your hands shoot up instinctively, trying to pry him off, nails raking across his skin in desperation.

“I said don’t fucking touch me!” Your voice breaks—sharp, raw, real—and for a second, just one, the crowd parts around the two of you like the air shifted.

He leans in closer. His mouth is at your ear. “You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls, voice low and mean. “Is that it? That little bartender got you feeling brave?”

The blood drains from your face.

Because you never mentioned Minho. Not to him. Not to anyone who would repeat it.

It hits you like a punch to the chest. Not just the shock of his voice, low and poisonous in your ear—but what he said.

That little bartender.

Minho.

He knows.

You don’t know how. Don’t know who told him or what he heard or why it matters to him at all—but the fact that he said it means he’s been watching. Listening. Picking up pieces you didn’t even know you were leaving behind.

Your stomach lurches.

“I said—” you shove him with everything you have, panic fusing with rage “—get off me!”

This time, he stumbles. Actually stumbles.

His grip slips from your jaw, and you recoil like you’ve been burned, taking three steps back so fast you nearly trip. Your chest is heaving. Your eyes sting. The club feels too loud, too tight, the lights flashing like warning signs behind your eyelids.

But he recovers fast.

Too fast.

And now he’s pissed.

“You fucking slut,” he spits, voice ugly and thick with venom. “You think someone like him is gonna want you for anything more than your mouth? You think he’s any different?”

You don’t stay to hear the rest.

You turn.

You run.

You don’t care that your friends will wonder where you went, that your drink is still half-full on the table, that your heels weren’t meant for this kind of escape.

You just run.

Out through the club doors, down the street, across the crosswalk without waiting for the signal. You walk like if you stop, he’ll catch up. Like the weight of his voice will sink into your skin and stay there. Like you’ll never feel clean again if you don’t keep moving.

You’re breathing too fast. Hands shaking. Vision blurry. Heart thudding like it’s trying to break out of your chest.

You swallow around the knot rising in your throat, the panic curling its claws up your spine, pressing down hard on your ribs like punishment.

And before you even know where you’re going, your feet are taking you there.

You don’t remember making the turn. Don’t remember crossing the street. You just blink—and suddenly the neon glow of the bar bleeds into your vision, cool and low and familiar in the haze of your panic. The bar. His bar.

And he’s there.

Outside, leaning against the brick wall near the back entrance, one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding a lit cigarette between two fingers. The glow of the cherry lights his face in pulses—his cheekbone, his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw. His sleeves are rolled up, and there’s a smear of something on his forearm. 

He hasn’t seen you yet.

Not until your steps falter and the click of your heels dies out beneath the sound of his exhale.

Then—he lifts his head.

And his whole body goes still.

You must look like a disaster. Eyes wide. Breath shallow. Shoulders drawn up like a cornered animal. Your lipstick smeared, hair falling out of place, the strap of your dress slipping.

But he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t move.

Just watches you.

The silence stretches for a moment too long. Then, quietly—

“Did something happen?”

Your throat tightens at the sound of his voice.

Low. Measured. But not indifferent.

There’s something else beneath it. A thread of tension wound so tight it barely makes it to the surface. The kind of control that only comes from practice. From restraint.

He doesn’t take a step toward you.

Doesn’t reach out.

Minho can read a room better than anyone you’ve ever met, and right now, you’re a room filled with alarms—flashing, screaming, crumbling.

He sees it.

“I…” Your voice falters. “No.”

You mean yes. You mean everything.

But the syllables won’t fit in your mouth.

He nods once. Slow. Like he hears what you didn’t say.

The cigarette between his fingers burns to the filter before he drops it to the pavement and crushes it beneath the heel of his boot.

You don’t realize you’ve been swaying on your feet until your hand shoots out to brace against the wall.

Minho’s eyes flick to the motion, then back to your face. He still doesn’t move.

Instead, his voice softens—somehow quieter than before, like he’s afraid even sound might be too much for you right now.

“I’m just down the block.”

You blink at him, still catching your breath.

“My place,” he adds, nodding toward the street, toward the night that still hums like static around you. “Nothing weird. Just… quieter. Warmer. No one else there.”

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t trust him—you do, in ways you probably shouldn’t—but because your whole body still feels wrong. Like your nerves are too close to the surface, like any wrong move might set them off again.

Minho sees it.

He doesn’t rush to reassure you. Doesn’t over-explain or fumble for comfort.

Just lifts a shoulder in a light shrug and says, dryly, “I have cats.”

Of all the things he could’ve said. “Cats,” you repeat, the word catching oddly on your tongue like it doesn’t belong in a night like this. Like it’s too soft, too domestic, too absurdly normal for the way your heart is still hammering inside your ribs.

Minho nods. “Three of them.”

You raise an eyebrow—wary, trembling, but still capable of curiosity. “Three?”

“Soonie. Doongie. Dori,” he says. “They're spoiled. Judgmental. Loud as hell.” His tone doesn’t change. Still calm. Still flat. But there’s something careful behind it. Like he’s offering you a rope. Something to hold onto. Something that doesn’t smell like sweat and fear and everything you just ran from.

You nod. Just once. And somehow, that’s enough.

His apartment is small. Not cramped, not cold—just lived-in. Clean in that intentional way, like someone takes pride in it but doesn't obsess. The floors are wood, soft under your bare feet when you kick off your heels by the door. The kitchen glows faintly from the under-cabinet lights he left on, casting long amber streaks across the floor.

And the cats… the cats are waiting.

One sits perched on the back of the couch like he owns the place—which, judging by the scratch marks in the armrest, he might. Another peeks out from under the coffee table. The third appears from the hallway, tail high, meowing like you’ve personally offended him by existing.

You blink again.

“They’re boys,” Minho explains as he hangs his keys. “But they act like little old ladies. Dori’s the mouthy one.”

The meowing continues. A chorus now. You’re too stunned to respond at first. But then—Doongie, maybe?—pads up to you with those wide, judgmental eyes and headbutts your calf like it’s his god-given right.

Something inside you breaks. Not in the sharp, painful way. Not like at the club. No. This is different. This is soft. Shaky. This is the moment your body decides it’s safe enough to start crumbling. You crouch down—slow, careful—and let your fingers curl into his fur.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel it drip from your chin. Until your breath stutters. Until you fold over completely, arms wrapped around a cat who didn’t ask for this, face pressed into the warm softness of something alive and gentle.

Minho doesn’t say anything. He doesn't touch you. You feel him move quietly behind you—setting a glass of water on the coffee table, flicking off the main lights until only the soft kitchen glow remains. And then… he just sits. A few feet away. Cross-legged on the floor, still in his black button-up and rolled sleeves, watching you like you’re made of glass and still trying to figure out if the cracks were already there.

You stay curled there on the floor for a while—knees tucked beneath you, fingers knotted in soft fur, cheek pressed to Doongie’s side like it might anchor you to something solid.

The apartment is quiet, save for the occasional swish of a tail or soft thump of paws. You can feel the warmth of Minho’s presence without looking at him. He doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just stays—close enough that you don’t feel alone, far enough that you don’t feel trapped.

Eventually, your breath starts to come steadier. The shaking dulls. And when you finally lift your head, cheeks sticky with dried tears and eyes too tired to hold anything else, he’s still there—arms resting loosely over his knees, gaze steady. You wipe at your face with the back of your hand, half-laughing, half-apologizing.

“Sorry,” you murmur, voice rough. “I didn’t mean to—fall apart all over your cat.”

Minho shrugs. “He probably liked it.”

You snort, exhausted. “He’s purring.”

“Doongie’s kind of a slut for attention.”

You laugh—a real one this time, hoarse and soft—and drag your fingers through Doongie’s fur once more before sitting up straighter, wiping your cheeks with the sleeve of your dress.

Minho stands slowly, careful not to startle the moment, and disappears into the hallway without a word. A minute later, he’s back, holding a folded bundle in his arms—what looks like a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie so worn it’s probably been through a hundred washes. He sets them gently on the arm of the couch beside you.

“Shower’s through there,” he says, nodding toward the narrow hallway. “First door on the right. Towels are on the rack. The water takes a second to heat up.”

You blink up at him, the offer settling slowly over you like warmth. He doesn't say you look like a mess. Doesn’t tell you to clean yourself up. Just offers you comfort in the quietest way he knows how. You nod.

The bathroom is small, clean, and filled with that same soft golden light that seems to follow him everywhere. You peel yourself out of your dress, step under the spray, and let the steam unwind you. It’s the first time all night you feel like you’re breathing in something clean. Like maybe there’s still space in your skin for something that isn’t fear.

You stay until the water starts to run cold. When you finally step out, dressed in his clothes, skin still damp and flushed from the heat, your heart thuds with a strange, fragile kind of relief.

And then you see it.

The couch. The cushions have been cleared, a blanket folded neatly at the foot, pillow fluffed, a glass of water on the side table. One of the cats is curled up like a sentry near the armrest, blinking at you lazily as if to say it’s fine now.

You stare for a second. Because it’s not just that he made up the couch. It’s that he didn’t assume. Didn’t point you toward his bed. Didn’t insist. Didn’t press. He just knew.

You sit down slowly, tucking the blanket over your legs, body sinking into the cushions like they were waiting for you.

Minho reappears from the hallway, already dressed down—black joggers, a loose hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair damp like he rinsed off too. He gestures toward the light. “You good if I kill this?”

You nod. He flips the switch. The room dims. He doesn’t say goodnight. Doesn’t do the awkward lingering thing. He just turns, quiet as always, and heads for his bedroom.

And for a moment, you let him go.

For a moment, you think it’s fine. But the second the door clicks shut, something tightens in your chest. Your breath catches. Your pulse jumps. That same fear from earlier curls back in under your skin—not loud, not sharp. Just a whisper now. A what if. What if he comes back. What if he finds out where you went. What if this silence isn't safety at all, but the space before another breaking point.

You sit up. “Minho?”

A beat. His door opens again. The light from his room spills into the hall. He’s already halfway back into the living room when he says, “Yeah?”

Your throat works around the words. They feel small. Silly. Needful. But you say them anyway. “Can you stay?”

He pauses. Looks at you. And you can tell—he knows. Knows exactly what you mean. Knows it’s not about him. Not about company. Not about flirting or closeness or warmth. It’s about safety. It’s about knowing the world can’t get to you if he’s there. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t make a sound. Just disappears for a second, then comes back with two blankets folded under one arm and a spare pillow under the other. He drops them on the floor beside the couch, shrugs out of his hoodie, and settles down without a word.

The hoodie slips off his shoulders in one smooth motion, revealing the thin black tank top underneath—clinging just enough to map the sharp cut of his collarbones, the slope of his shoulders.

You don’t mean to stare.

But the fabric hangs loose at the chest, dipping just low enough to expose the curve of ink over his left pectoral—black lines disappearing into shadow, something abstract and intricate. Just a glimpse. Just enough to wonder what the rest of it looks like when he breathes.

Minho doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just too tired—or too gracious—to call you on it.

He lies on his back beside the couch, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped loosely over his stomach. Doongie circles once on the rug, then collapses beside him like a guard, chin resting on his forearm.

You turn onto your side. The room is still. Not quiet—still. Like the air itself is holding its breath. You don’t sleep. You can’t. Not with the phantom heat of a hand still lingering on your face. Not with the aftershocks of fear still curling around your ribs. Not with the weight of this unfamiliar kindness just a few feet away, warm and steady and unearned.

So you watch him. And eventually, he turns his head. Eyes open. Heavy-lidded but focused. A slow drag up your face. Your cheekbone. The faint shadow blooming just below your temple. His jaw ticks, subtle but sharp, and he doesn’t look away. You don’t flinch.

“Didn’t know you had a tattoo,” you whisper.

He blinks. Like the words take a second to land. “Mm.”

His gaze flicks down briefly—to where the fabric clings to his chest, then back to your face. There’s no smirk, no warning, just a shift in the air, like gravity tilting. “Wanna see it?”

The question isn’t loaded. It’s not teasing. It just is. You nod. Minho sits up slowly, one hand tugging at the hem of his tank top. The fabric slides up and over his head in one clean motion, soft and soundless. He tosses it to the side and leans back on his elbows, the muscles in his arms flexing, loose and languid.

The tattoo stretches across the left side of his chest—black ink, fine lines, bold shapes. It isn’t a compass. It’s a storm. A swirl of wind and waves, jagged mountains etched in silhouette. At its center, the faint outline of a wing—fractured and rising, like something caught between ruin and flight. The ink moves with him, flexes when he breathes, like it’s alive beneath his skin.

You stare.

Not because it’s beautiful—though it is—but because it feels right on him. Like he was born with it. Like whatever storm he came from left its mark on the inside first, and this was just its echo.

Your hand moves before you can stop it.

Slowly, like reaching for fire. Like asking for permission with the space between your fingers. When you don’t meet resistance, you touch him.

Just a single point at first—your fingertip landing lightly on the edge of the wing, where ink meets skin just beneath his collarbone. His breath hitches, subtle but real, a flicker of tension in his chest. You feel it before you hear it. Then you trace. Softly. Reverently. Down the curve of the wing, across the stormline where jagged wind spirals out into broken waves.

Your touch drags slow, deliberate, following the black lines like you’re learning a language. One that only his body speaks. Minho doesn’t move. He just watches you. The way your lashes lower, the way your lips part slightly like you’re holding your breath for him. The silence between you is thick but not heavy—dense with something neither of you are ready to name.

When your finger glides over the highest peak—inked mountain just above his heart—his head tilts back slightly, like the contact pulls something from him. His throat bobs with the swallow he doesn’t bother to hide. You pause. Right over his heart now. The skin is warm. Steady. And for a second, the storm beneath your own ribs goes quiet—like his rhythm tames yours without trying. He exhales.

His eyes flutter shut for a beat, then open again—slow, measured. He looks at you like you’ve unraveled something in him, like your touch left ink on him instead. But when his gaze drops lower, it changes. Softens. Darkens. And then his hand moves. Carefully. Cautiously. Like he’s seen too many things break when touched too fast.

He lifts it to your face, the backs of his fingers ghosting along your jaw—light enough to be mistaken for air. He doesn’t go straight for the bruise. He lingers near it, watching you, waiting for the slightest sign of retreat.

You don’t give it.

So he shifts—just slightly—until his knuckles brush the edge of the swelling beneath your eye. You flinch. Not because of the pain. Not because it hurts. Because of how gentle it is. Like he’s afraid to hurt you, like he doesn’t know how to hold something unless he’s sure it won’t shatter. Like he wants to carve your bruises from your skin and wear them instead. His fingers hover there. Still. Tense. A breath away from trembling.

“Fucker’s lucky I wasn’t there,” he murmurs.

You inhale—slow, shallow. The air catches in your throat like it’s thick with something unspoken, something too big to name. Minho’s hand starts to pull back. And maybe that’s why you speak. Maybe that’s why you reach for something else, anything else, before the room folds in too tightly.

“So,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “that tattoo.”

Minho pauses. Just for a moment. His eyes flick back to yours, and he knows what you’re doing. Of course he does. The deflection is transparent, but he lets it happen anyway—lets you steer them away from the heaviness still clinging to your skin like ash.

“What about it?” he murmurs, settling back on his elbow, the other hand now resting on his chest near the ink you traced. You mirror him slightly, folding into the edge of the couch, letting your cheek rest against the pillow, eyes fixed on the storm etched into his skin.

“The wing,” you say after a beat. “In the center. What’s it mean?”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then: “Freedom.”

You blink. “It’s broken.”

His mouth quirks—barely a smile, not quite bitter. “Yeah. It usually is.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you say nothing. Just let your gaze trace the peaks and spirals, the places where black lines blur like smoke, the edges of him carved in ink instead of bruises. His body tells a story too. You just haven’t read all the pages yet.

Minho shifts again, slowly lying back down on the floor, the side of his arm brushing the base of the couch now. You're above him on the couch, laying on your side so you can look at him.

“You can ask,” he says softly.

“About the tattoo?”

“About anything.”

You hum—soft, skeptical. The kind of sound that curls into the quiet and lingers, not quite a no, not quite a yes. You’re tired now. The real kind. The kind that settles into your limbs like gravity, like wet sand. Your eyes flutter half-shut, your voice feather-light.

“That sounds dangerous.”

Minho lets out a low exhale, something between a laugh and a sigh.

"Maybe.”

Your gaze slips to his again—his eyes open, trained on the ceiling like the answers might be there if he stares hard enough. One hand still rests loosely over his chest, the other pressed against your cheek.

You reach for it. Not with purpose. Not even with need. Just because it’s there. Because it feels like the thing to do.

Your fingertips graze his, gentle, thoughtless. And then his hand shifts—just slightly—so his pinky catches yours. Hooks. Holds.

It’s not a kiss. It’s not a confession.

But it feels like both.

You don’t speak for a while. Don’t need to.

The silence feels clean now. Like rain after smoke. Like you could fall asleep inside it without drowning.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too loud. Just lets you anchor there—your hand half-curled over his, your lashes brushing your cheek as your eyes slip closed.

But then, soft and slurred, half-dreaming:

“You have a nice voice.”

You feel his hand twitch. Just a little.

“Yeah?” he says, and it’s quieter than anything else he’s said tonight—rough around the edges like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the compliment.

You nod against the pillow. “Mhm.”

There’s a beat.

“You’ve heard me say some pretty fucked-up things.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. “Have I?”

He huffs a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Just a sound with history behind it. With edge. With weight.

“Don’t play innocent,” he murmurs. “You remember.”

You do.

Of course you do.

Words like silk and smoke, coiled tight with implication. The things he said across the bar, into your drink, into your skin without ever laying a hand on you.

You remember all of them.

But you’re tired. Softened. And the edges of those memories feel dulled now—faded by warmth and flannel and the rhythm of his breathing a few feet from your chest.

So you hum again, lashes still pressed to your cheeks. “They didn’t sound fucked-up at the time.”

Minho’s quiet for a while after that. The kind of quiet that hums.

You can feel it in the space between your bodies—how the air thickens again, but not with tension. With memory. With the weight of everything you haven’t said and the things you probably never will.

“That’s the problem,” he says eventually, voice low enough that you almost miss it. 

Your eyes open again. Just barely. The room is still steeped in shadow, but your vision finds him easy—half-lit, half-lost in the floor beside the couch. One arm tucked beneath his head, the other still tethered to yours.

You study the line of his jaw, the way it tenses and relaxes like he’s caught between restraint and regret. He’s not looking at you anymore. Just staring at the ceiling again, like maybe it’ll answer for him this time.

“You say that like you’re proud of it,” you murmur.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just exhales, rough and dry.

“No,” he says. “I say it like I don’t know how to stop.”

That hurts in a way you didn’t expect. Not because of what he said—but because of the way he said it. Like a flaw in the foundation. Like a truth carved into him long before you ever stepped foot inside that bar.

You shift a little, turning more fully toward him, cheek pressed deeper into the pillow. Your fingers are still slotted with his. His skin is warm. Callused at the tips.

“You don’t have to stop,” you say quietly. “Just don’t lie about what you mean.”

That gets him.

His gaze flicks to yours—fast, sharp. Like he wasn’t expecting that. Like no one’s ever said it to him quite like that before.

“I never lied,” he says.

You blink at him. Slow. Sleepy. “No. But you hide.”

Minho doesn’t answer. Just watches you. Face unreadable. Chest rising slow beneath the ink on his skin.

And then, almost too soft to hear:

“I don’t want to scare you.”

That makes you pause. The silence stretches thin and long between you.

“You don’t.”

Minho swallows. His thumb brushes, barely, against your knuckle.

“Not yet.”

You shake your head. Your voice is nearly gone now—nothing but a breath. “I think I’m harder to scare than you think.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I’m starting to believe that.”

The air settles again. Like the truth came in and made itself comfortable.

You close your eyes, finally letting your body sink into the couch. Letting the warmth of him—his hand, his presence, his voice—press into all the places that still feel fragile.

“Don’t stop talking,” you whisper.

He blinks. “What?”

“Your voice,” you murmur, already half gone. “It’s nice. It helps.”

And when you drift off like that—quiet, safe, held by nothing more than the sound of him—Minho stays awake long after. Eyes on the ceiling.

Still talking.

Just in case you can still hear him.

You wake to the scent of coffee and something faintly savory—garlic maybe, or eggs. The couch beneath you is warm where your body curled into it, blanket tangled around your legs. A cat is pressed to your ribs like a living paperweight, tail flicking once when you stir.

For a moment, you forget where you are. Forget what happened. Forget him.

Then the ache hits. Dull and deep, low in your chest and blooming outward. You shift to sit up, and it all comes back.

The club. The hands. The words.

The running.

And then—Minho.

His apartment is quiet now, but not empty. There’s music playing low from somewhere down the hall. You follow the sound on slow feet, dragging the blanket with you like armor.

You find him in the kitchen, barefoot in gray sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt, sleeves pushed up. He’s at the stove, spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other. There’s a pan of eggs on the burner. A second mug waiting beside the sink.

He doesn’t turn when you enter. Just glances over his shoulder and says, “Mornin’.”

His voice is rough with sleep. Deeper. It hits somewhere low in your spine.

You hover at the doorway, feeling small in his clothes—his hoodie draped over your frame, sleeves too long, the hem brushing your thighs.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Making breakfast,” he says, cutting you off with casual finality. “You still eat, right?”

You blink. “I… yeah.”

“Good.” He turns back to the pan. “Then sit.”

You do. Quietly. At the counter, fingers curling around the warm ceramic of the mug he left for you. It smells like cinnamon.

He plates the eggs. Adds toast. Pushes the dish toward you and leans back against the counter with his own. He eats without looking at you at first, fork moving in clean, efficient motions.

When he does speak again, his voice is softer.

“You don’t have to go back.”

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth.

“What?”

Minho lifts his gaze. Steady. Calm.

“I’m serious. If you don’t feel safe there…” He trails off, jaw tensing. “Stay here.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch far.

“I’ve got room,” he adds. “Cats already like you. You don’t snore.”

That last part earns the smallest smile from you. “You don’t know that.”

“I was up half the night,” he says, mouth twitching. “I’d know.”

You look down at your plate, pretending to rearrange the toast like that’ll somehow buy you time to think. But the words—stay here—they’ve already lodged themselves under your ribs. Warm. Unexpected. Real.

And terrifying.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you say finally. Quiet. Like if you speak too loud, you’ll ruin the softness of it all.

Minho sets his fork down.

The sound is soft, deliberate. When you glance up, he’s watching you again. Really watching—like he does when he’s about to say something that’ll cut deeper than you expect.

“You’re not.”

Just that. Nothing flowery. Nothing performative. Just the fact of it, laid bare on the table between you like it shouldn’t be questioned.

You want to believe him.

You almost do.

But then your fingers twitch near your coffee, and the pain in your face pulses a little sharper—pulling you back into the fragile ache of your own body. You shift to look away, to hide the swelling that’s bloomed across your cheekbone and down to your jaw.

But Minho doesn’t let you.

He moves around the counter slowly, like he’s trying not to spook you. His hand is warm when it finds your chin again—fingertips brushing along your jawline, coaxing your face toward his. Gentle. Grounded.

“Let me see.”

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb ghosts beneath your cheekbone, skimming over the darkened bloom that’s bloomed overnight. His brow furrows—not in pity, not even in anger. Just... stillness. A silence that hums with the kind of fury he’s learned how to wear like armor.

His voice is low when it comes.

“I hate that he touched you.”

You blink. Something thick swells in your throat, too full to swallow down.

“I hate that I didn’t find you first.”

That hits you harder than it should.

You try to speak—but your voice sticks somewhere behind your teeth. So you just nod, your cheek pressing into his palm like your body can answer for you.

Minho doesn’t let go—not yet. His fingers trail down to the edge of your neck, where the fabric of his hoodie pools at your collarbone. You’re not sure if he realizes how close he’s gotten. How the warmth of him wraps around you now, even without touching anything else.

“I want you to stay,” he says again, steady now. “Not because I feel bad. Not because you need help. I want you here.”

Your next breath comes too fast. Too shallow.

His thumb moves again—just a gentle stroke along your jaw.

“Say something,” he murmurs.

You breathe in once, shaky and thin. “Okay.”

The corners of his mouth pull—slow, subtle. Not quite a smile. Something quieter. Relief, maybe.

He lets your face go with that same care—like he’s afraid it’ll leave a mark if he’s not gentle enough. Then he steps back, returns to his plate, and picks up his fork again like he didn’t just hand you the softest kind of shelter.

You take another bite of your eggs.

They taste better than they should.

You don’t move in all at once.

There’s no official decision, no suitcase moment. Just the slow accumulation of things—your toothbrush beside his, a sock that somehow never made its way back into your bag, a t-shirt folded neatly at the foot of the bed that you don’t remember taking off. A rhythm forms. One that begins with his voice in the morning—low, rough, coffee-laced—and ends with the soft click of the front door when he comes home from the bar past midnight, thinking you’re asleep.

You never are.

The apartment starts to feel different. Lived-in. Yours, even if you never say it out loud. Your shoes by the door. Your laughter echoing off the tile. Your perfume clinging to his sheets like memory.

Minho doesn’t comment. Not once. He just starts making a second cup of coffee without asking. Starts keeping almond milk in the fridge. Throws your laundry in with his like it’s never been separate.

And you—you watch him fall into it as easy as breath.

He moves through the apartment like smoke. Silent, confident, present in ways you’ve never been used to. There’s no performance with him, no empty gestures. If he folds your towel, it’s because it needed folding. If he brings home your favorite tea, it’s because he remembered. And if he looks at you too long in the mirror while you brush your teeth, it’s because he wants to, not because he expects anything in return.

One night, he comes home late. The bar ran over, and the cats had started pacing like they could feel the quiet shift without him. You’re curled on the couch in one of his hoodies, a half-finished movie playing on low, just waiting for the lock to turn. When it does, and he steps inside—shoulders drawn, eyes tired, the scent of smoke and whiskey clinging to him—you don’t say anything at first.

Just watch him.

He slips off his boots. Shrugs off his jacket. Walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of water like he’s not sure how to be here yet.

Then he grabs the pack from the counter.

You sit up.

“Minho.”

He pauses. Doesn’t look at you.

You rise slowly, tugging the sleeves of the hoodie over your hands, padding barefoot to meet him.

“You said you were trying to quit.”

“I am.”

“You’re also lighting a cigarette at midnight.”

He exhales through his nose. Tired. “Rough night.”

You stop just short of the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen, bare toes curling against the tile, the silence stretching taut between you.

“Want to talk about it?” you ask softly.

“No,” he says.

Not harsh. Not clipped. Just final.

Minho pulls the cigarette from the pack with that same familiar motion—two fingers, flick of the wrist. The sound of the lighter clicks once, twice, before the flame catches. He doesn't look at you as he inhales, jaw tight, lashes low. The cherry glows in the dim.

You wrap your arms around yourself.

He leans against the counter, exhales slow, smoke curling up toward the ceiling. It swirls around the line of his jaw, catches the faint sheen of sweat at his temples, clings to him like it’s part of his skin.

You hate how good he looks like this. Angry. Quiet. Unreachable.

But you hate more that you can’t reach him.

“Was it something at the bar?”

His lips twitch. He doesn’t answer.

You step closer, voice gentler now. “You don’t have to carry it alone, you know.”

“I’m not,” he says. Still not looking at you. “I’m carrying it just fine.”

You frown.

“Minho—”

“I said I’m fine,” he snaps.

And this time, it is clipped. Sharp. The kind of sharp that cuts more than it means to. He finally looks at you then—eyes rimmed with something hot and unreadable, mouth hard.

The silence that follows is cold.

You shift your weight, wounded but trying not to show it. “Okay.”

Minho’s jaw ticks. Like he wants to take it back, but doesn’t know how. Like everything in him is fraying at the edges, and you just happened to be the softest thing close enough to get caught in it.

He curses under his breath. Stubs the cigarette out halfway through, presses the filter down into the tray until it smears.

Then, quieter: “It’s not you.”

“I know.”

He runs a hand down his face, palm dragging hard across his mouth like he’s trying to erase himself. Then he sighs and looks at you—really looks at you. The hoodie swallowed around your frame. The bare legs. The worry softening your brow.

His voice breaks a little on the next part.

“Had a guy come into the bar tonight. One of those types—smiles too wide, looks through women instead of at them. He kept cornering this girl, leaning over the counter, asking me why I gave a shit when I told him to back off.”

You say nothing. Just listen.

Minho swallows. “He called me a cockblock. Said I must’ve been jealous.” His gaze drops, eyes narrowing. “Said I looked like the kind of guy who watches.”

You don’t interrupt.

“He grabbed her arm when she tried to leave. Wouldn’t let go."

The words hang there. Not just what he’s saying—but why he’s saying it. You feel it bloom in your chest. Cold. Familiar.

You walk the last few feet.

He doesn’t stop you this time.

Your hand finds his wrist—warm, tense, still trembling slightly. You run your thumb over the bone there, grounding him.

“You’re not that kind of man.”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to be.”

That makes you pause.

He looks up. His voice is low. Bitter.

“I wanted to slam him into the bar. Make him bleed. Make him feel small. And the worst part?” A breathless laugh. “I would’ve enjoyed it.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But you didn’t.”

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

You squeeze his hand.

It’s quiet for a while. The kitchen lit only by the soft amber under the cabinets, casting warm shadows along the tile. The cats have settled somewhere in the living room. Even the city feels hushed.

He rubs his thumb over your palm absently.

Then, suddenly: “He looked at her the same way—”

He stops himself. His jaw locks.

You swallow.

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. You know.

And he knows you know.

So you step closer. Gently. Carefully. Press your forehead to his shoulder, breathing him in—smoke and soap and something like home. You pluck the cigarette from his lips and he lets you, watches as you toss it into the sink.

“Come to bed,” you murmur.

He doesn't move.

You tug on his hand again. “Please.”

Minho glances at you—eyes a little too tired, a little too dark—but he lets you guide him.

He doesn’t say much once you're in the bedroom. Just peels his shirt off and tosses it into the corner. You catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his chest again—the wing in the center of the storm, fractured, fighting to stay airborne.

You turn away to climb into bed, give him space.

But when you settle under the blanket, he’s already there. Already behind you. Warm and solid, arm slipping around your waist without hesitation. His chest to your back, his breath against your neck.

He’s quiet for a long time. And then:

“I hate that I couldn’t stop it. What happened to you.”

You close your eyes.

His fingers tighten slightly against your side. Not rough. Just firm. Just real.

“I think about it more than I should,” he murmurs. “What I’d do if I saw him again.”

You shift, just enough to feel him breathe differently—like your movement catches him off guard, like he wasn’t expecting you to respond. But you don’t turn around, not yet. You just let your voice slip into the quiet, soft and slow.

“What would you do?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then another.

His breath ghosts across your shoulder. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d scare you.”

His voice is quiet, but not gentle. Measured. Sharp at the edges like he’s spent all night filing it down.

You blink slowly into the dark, heart thudding, air thick between your bodies. You feel him behind you—warm, solid, tense. A wall at your back. A shield. A fuse.

“Tell me anyway,” you whisper.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t exhale.

And just when you think he might pretend he didn’t hear you, Minho speaks.

“I’d wait,” he says, voice low, words heavy like molasses. “Wouldn’t say anything. Wouldn’t warn him. Just watch. Let him come close. Let him think he could try again.”

Your breath catches.

His fingers curl slightly where they rest on your waist, grounding himself in the shape of you.

“Then I’d take his hand,” Minho murmurs, “the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”

A chill snakes down your spine.

Not fear.

Just something colder. Older. Like someone had finally said the thing you weren’t allowed to say out loud. That it wasn’t okay. That it would never be okay.

“And when he screamed,” Minho continues, voice almost tender now, “I wouldn’t stop. I’d make sure he understood what it feels like to lose control. To be small. Helpless. The way he made you feel.”

You turn in his arms.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Face to face now.

His jaw is clenched. Eyes storm-dark. He looks dangerous like this. Not because he’s violent. But because he’s loyal. Because he means every word and there’s no drama in his voice—just truth. Cold and clean.

You reach for him without thinking.

Your hand moves to his face, fingers threading into the hair at his temple, thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone like you’re trying to soothe something in him—or maybe in yourself. And Minho… he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t soften either. He just lets you hold him, lets your touch settle over the anger still thrumming in his bones like a warning bell that hasn’t stopped ringing.

“You wouldn’t scare me,” you whisper.

His brow twitches, just slightly. “You should be scared of a man who wants to hurt for you.”

“No.” You shake your head. “I’ve been scared before. You’re not that kind of man.”

His mouth parts. His breath hits your lips. The weight in his eyes shifts—something cracks beneath it. Not entirely. Just a fracture. A weakness. A truth.

“You don’t know what I’d do,” he murmurs.

You lean in, close enough that your breath brushes his skin when you speak.

“I don’t need to,” you whisper. “I know what you’ve already done.”

His brow furrows, but you go on—soft and steady, the words falling between you like they’ve been waiting for a place to land.

“You made space. You listened. You held me when I couldn’t hold myself. You let me have silence without asking for anything in return.” Your fingers press more firmly against his jaw, thumb brushing just below his lower lip. “That’s enough. That’s more than anyone else ever did.”

Minho’s eyes darken—not with lust—but with something thicker. Something closer to reverence. Like the weight of your trust is heavier than all the violence he ever imagined inflicting in your name.

His hand rises slowly, palm cupping your cheek with a gentleness that borders on fragile. His thumb swipes beneath your eye like he’s checking for something he missed.

“I don’t deserve that,” he says, voice raw.

“Maybe not,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his. “But you have it.”

And that’s what breaks him.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just enough to make him move.

Minho kisses you like he’s falling. Like he’s been holding himself upright for so long, he doesn’t remember what it feels like to give in. His mouth finds yours, and there’s no hesitation in it—only heat, only hunger. His tongue slides against yours with a quiet groan that vibrates in your chest.

You gasp softly when he pushes you back, his body pressing you into the mattress, weight balanced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. One hand slips under your shirt, fingers skimming up your ribs, pausing just beneath the curve of your breast.

He pulls back barely an inch, eyes flicking over your face like a question.

His breathing is uneven, but his touch isn't. His hand rests there—still beneath your shirt, just barely cradling your breast like he's not sure he deserves to hold anything so soft. So willing. His thumb strokes gently, slowly, and his eyes search yours like he's waiting for a line to cross. Or worse—waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for the hem of your shirt, dragging it up with trembling fingers. You don’t break eye contact. Don’t speak.

You just offer.

And Minho accepts.

He helps, silent, peeling it over your head with quiet reverence. He looks at you like you’re made of something rare and unrepeatable. And when his gaze drags over your chest, down the soft swell of your ribs to your stomach, he breathes your name like a confession.

His voice is wrecked when he says it—your name, cracked and reverent like he’s saying it for the first time. Like it’s a word he isn’t worthy of.

“Fuck, look at you.” His hands drag down your sides, slow and sure, palms wide and heavy like he’s trying to ground himself. He shifts over you, mouth lowering to your breast, and he moans as soon as his lips close around your nipple—no restraint, no performance. Just need. He sucks hard. Just once. Like he can’t help himself. Then he pulls back, panting, and shakes his head like he’s already losing it. “I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

You smile—lazy, wrecked, already warm all over—and tilt your head just enough for your lashes to sweep up, gaze locked on his. You reach for him, fingers trailing down his arm until your palm flattens against his chest, right over the fractured wing. “I’m not looking at you like anything,” you whisper.

Minho’s breath stutters—one of those shallow, fractured exhales that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. Not when your palm is flat against his chest, thumb grazing the tip of that wing inked over his heart. Not when your eyes look like that—half-lidded, dark, shining with something he’s not sure he deserves.

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough. “Keep lying to me.”

But he doesn’t pull away. He watches you. Watches the way your hand trails lower, slow and certain, down the cut of his abdomen. Fingertips ghosting over the faint dip of muscle, over the waistband of his pants, teasing the edge like you’re not sure yet—like he has any say in it anymore.

Minho goes still. Not because he doesn’t want it. God, he does. He’s so hard it hurts, cock straining against the fabric, already leaking for you. But there’s something in his face—tightness around the mouth, tension in his jaw. A flicker of control barely clinging to the edge. And you see it. You see all of it. So you press your lips to his collarbone—soft, reverent—and whisper, “Let me.”

Minho shudders. And then he nods. You sink down the bed a little, propping yourself on one elbow, other hand already slipping beneath his waistband. He lifts his hips to help, pants shoved just low enough to free him. His cock springs up, flushed and thick, tip slick with precome, veins standing in sharp relief.

“Jesus,” you murmur, fingers curling around the base. “You’re so hard…”

“Because of you,” he rasps. “You lying, teasing little thing—”

You give him a slow stroke, and he chokes.

You give him another stroke, tighter this time, and the sound he makes punches straight through you—low and ragged, a shattered groan caught in the back of his throat. His hips twitch, almost against his will, and you can feel the restraint vibrating through his body, every muscle tight like he’s on the verge of snapping.

“You’re shaking,” you whisper, almost teasing. “What happened to all that control?”

Minho laughs—just barely. Just a breath.

“Keep talking like that,” he mutters, “and I’ll ruin you before you even get the chance to try.”

But the way his eyes flutter shut when you twist your wrist on the upstroke says otherwise. “Hah—fuck—” He’s panting now, head tipped back, one arm holding himself up beside your head for support while the other fists the sheets like he needs something—anything—to hold onto.

You lean up, breath brushing the underside of his jaw, your voice soft and honey-sweet in his ear.

“You gonna beg for it?”

He freezes. His eyes snap open, and there’s something electric in the silence between you. His cock throbs in your hand, twitching like the idea alone nearly undid him. He turns his head slightly, lips brushing yours.

“Do you want me to?” he whispers.

You smile, smug and slow. “Wouldn’t hate it.”

He groans—deep, guttural, wrecked—and it makes your cunt clench. He looks like he could devour you whole, like he might if you ask nicely. Or if you don’t.

“I’d get on my fucking knees if you told me to,” he mutters, mouth moving along your jaw, your cheek, your throat. His hand finds your hip and grips, firm enough to bruise. “I’d crawl. I’d beg. I’d say please—is that what you want?”

You don’t answer. You just stroke him again—slow, tight, deliberate—and feel the way he shudders against you, how his whole body flinches like your hand alone is enough to wreck him.

“Mm— baby, slow down—fuck—” He buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing skin.

“I’ll give it to you,” he murmurs. “Anything. You want me desperate? Pathetic? Done. Just say it.”

You hum, soft and pleased, lips brushing his temple. “I think I like you pathetic.”

Minho groans—“Fuck, you’re evil,”—but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he sinks into it. Into you. Every stroke of your hand wrings another sound from his throat, each more desperate than the last.

You swipe your thumb over the slit, smear precum down the shaft, and his entire body jolts.

“Shit—don’t—f-fuck—”

“You gonna make a mess in my hand, baby?” you ask sweetly, tightening just a little. “Gonna come like this? Without even being inside me?”

He growls. “No.”

You blink up at him, lips parting in mock surprise. “No?”

Minho pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes absolutely wrecked. Hair messy, jaw clenched, throat flushed with effort. He’s trying so fucking hard not to lose it.

“I’m not coming until I’m inside you,” he says, voice low, dark, edged with pure hunger. “Until I’m fucking deep in that pretty cunt, feeling you squeeze me while I lose it. You think I can come just from your hand?”

He leans in, nose to yours, breath harsh. “I’d beg for the chance to do it right.”

You blink once. Then twice. Then you let go of his cock. Minho groans like it physically hurts.

“Then beg.” He stares at you. One long, heavy moment. Then he kneels back on his haunches, hands splayed on your thighs, and dips his head.

“Please.”

Just one word—but fuck, the way he says it. Voice hoarse, raw, like it’s scraped from the bottom of his chest. His lips graze the inside of your knee as he speaks again.

“Please, let me in. Let me fuck you slow. Let me feel you stretch around me.”

You exhale shakily.

He presses another kiss higher. “Let me make you come on my cock. Let me ruin you so good you forget anyone else ever touched you.”

Your thighs tremble. He reaches for your underwear, eyes flicking to yours for permission, and when you nod—barely, breathless—he tugs them down with reverence, slow enough to make you whimper.

Minho drags your underwear down your legs like it’s the last ribbon off a present, like beneath it is something he’s been waiting his whole life to unwrap. When the fabric slips past your ankles, he tosses it somewhere behind him without a glance. His gaze never leaves you. You’re already soaked.

He sees it—feels it when he runs two fingers through your folds, slow and deliberate, spreading you open with a breathless “fuck me.” His knuckles tremble.

He sees everything. Every flutter of your lashes, every twitch of your thighs, every slick sound his fingers make as they glide through you, slow and reverent. His knuckles tremble, but his touch doesn’t falter—not even a little. If anything, the way his hand moves only deepens, turns hungrier.

“Fuck me,” he breathes again. He parts you with two fingers, spreads your folds and watches your cunt clench on nothing, dripping for him, aching.

“Look at you,” he mutters, like he can’t help it. “So wet I can see my reflection. What the fuck did I do to deserve this?”

You’re panting now, back arching just slightly off the sheets, eyes half-lidded but fixed on him, on the way he looks at you like you’re something sacred and ruined all at once.

“Touch me,” you whisper. “Please.”

Minho sinks two fingers into you in one smooth stroke—slow, thick, curling just right until your breath hits the back of your throat. He groans, low and guttural, watching your cunt stretch around his fingers like it’s something holy.

“So fucking tight,” he grits out, voice wrecked. “How the fuck am I gonna fit my cock in you if you’re already this tight around my fingers?”

The question is low, more to himself than to you, but it rips through you like heat, like lightning. Your walls flutter helplessly around his fingers at the thought, and Minho groans—long, drawn out, wrecked.

“Oh, you like that,” he breathes. “You want me to stretch you open, don’t you?”

Your answer is a breathy whimper, more sound than word—your hips canting up, your fingers curling in the sheets. Minho watches you, chest rising and falling like he’s the one being touched, like you are the thing unraveling him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and then he’s lining up. His cock drags through your folds, thick and flushed, already smeared with your slick. He grinds once—slow, deliberate—letting the head catch against your clit before slipping lower. When he presses in, the stretch burns, even as your cunt welcomes him, soaking and clenching and shaking just from the promise of it.

“Jesus—ngh, fuck—you’re tight,” he growls, jaw clenched, forehead tipped against yours. “Gonna ruin me.”

He gives you an inch. Then another. Then thrusts the rest of the way in with a groan that sounds like it’s been caged in his throat for weeks.

You cry out—sharp, startled, stretched to the brim in one sudden, devastating motion.

“Minho—”

“Shh,” he pants, not stopping. His hips roll into yours, hard and deep, dragging his cock through your walls like he’s trying to etch himself into them. “You can take it. I know you can. Look at you—fuck—made for this.”

The first few thrusts are brutal. Snapping, deliberate, filthy. Your thighs tremble. Your back arches. He pins your hips down like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t keep you there. Every time he sinks back in, your breath knocks out of your lungs, and his name falls from your lips like a prayer—wrecked, endless, real.

“Just like that,” he grits, cock dragging against your walls, soaked in you. “Let me fuck it into you—let me make you feel me.”

But then— Then he slows. Not because he has to. Because he wants to. Because he wants to feel all of it. His hand slides under your thigh, hikes your leg higher around his waist, and he sinks into you again—slower this time. Deeper. His hips roll instead of snap, the rhythm shifting into something that feels closer to worship than fucking.

He fucks into you slow, deep—each thrust wringing a breathy moan from your throat, each drag of his cock carving his name deeper into the heat of you. The sweat on his skin glistens under the low light, hair clinging to his forehead, jaw tight with effort and restraint. You’re clinging to him now—arms looped around his shoulders, nails dragging across his back, body arching to meet every roll of his hips. And then he says it—low, ragged, right in your ear.

“Feel good?”

You gasp, nod, whisper-plead a breathless “Yes.”

He hums—a soft, dark thing, almost smug. He thrusts a little harder, just once, like a reward, like a test. “Yeah?” he pants. “How good? Tell me."

You try—but your voice catches. It’s just air at first, punched out of you by the deliberate grind of his hips, by the thick, aching stretch of him moving so slowly inside you you could scream. You manage a broken, breathy sound: “So—fuck—so good…”

And Minho groans. Long, low, full of grit. He kisses your jaw, your cheek, your lips—messy, hot, open-mouthed. His breath fans against your skin as he mutters, “That all you’ve got for me, baby?”

You dig your nails in—fuck him, he knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly how good he feels, the way his cock strokes that spot just right, again and again, with filthy precision. The way his hand curls around your thigh to keep you spread for him, to keep you right there

You whimper his name—soft, ruined—like it’s the only word you remember, and he groans, sharp and deep, lips dragging along the sweat-slick curve of your throat.

“God, you feel—” he pants, voice splintered, barely holding. “You feel so fucking good, baby. You’re so tight, so warm, you—fuck, you ruin me.”

Another thrust—slow, deep, devastating—and your head falls back against the pillow, mouth open in a silent cry. Minho watches your face twist, watches your chest heave, and it breaks something in him.

“I—shit—I think I’m in love with you.”

It slips out like a sin. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like he couldn’t hold it in one second longer.

Your whole body goes still beneath him—just for a moment. Like your brain’s catching up. Like his words are a second kind of penetration, sharp and unexpected. He freezes, too. Breath held. Eyes wide. The moment burns.

And then you whisper, broken and trembling: “Say it again.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate this time. “I love you.”

He moans it into your mouth, like it hurts to say, like it hurts more not to. His hand slides up your side, tender now, reverent.

“I fucking love you,” he says again, forehead pressed to yours, hips still rolling deep, slow, full of everything he never knew how to say before now.

“You hear me? You’re not just someone I fuck, you’re—god, you’re everything.”

Your lips part—words rising up like breath, like instinct—but you don’t get the chance.

Minho kisses you before you can speak.

Not soft. Not tentative. It’s all tongue and teeth, heat and hunger, the kind of kiss that steals thought and gives only feeling in return. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been starving for it—like he’s still starving, even now, with his cock buried deep inside you and your body curled so sweetly beneath his.

You gasp into him, and he drinks it down—tongue licking into your mouth, filthy and tender and real.

And then it’s all friction.

The slow roll of his hips turns urgent, dragging moans from your throat he swallows between kisses. He fucks into you like he means it now—like every thrust is a promise carved into your bones. You cling to him, helpless against the way your body arches, the way your cunt tightens around him, soaked and pulsing, every nerve on fire.

“M-Min—hah—Minho—”

He pulls back just long enough to look at you—just long enough to let you see how wrecked he is, how far gone, how in it he is with you.

“You’re mine,” he pants, voice rough and wrecked, thrusts hitting deeper now, harder, his hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. “You hear me? Say it.”

You nod, broken. “Yours—fuck, I’m yours—”

And that’s all he needed.

He groans—loud, guttural—and buries himself deeper, cock twitching as he fucks you through it. His thrusts lose rhythm, chasing his high, and you’re barely hanging on, every drag of him inside you rubbing all the right places, the sweet heat spiraling again in your belly.

You’re both so close. So close.

And when you come again—tight and soaked and shaking all around him—he feels it. Feels you flutter and pull and milk him until he can’t hold back anymore.

He buries his face in your neck, gasping your name as he spills inside you, hips stuttering, voice wrecked.

“I love you—fuck—I love you, I love you—”

It’s not gentle when he comes.

It’s everything.

And when the tremors subside, when your nails loosen from his back and your breaths sync again, he still doesn’t let you speak.

Not yet.

He just kisses you.

And kisses you.

And kisses you.

You learn something about Minho that night. That as nonchalant and unshakable as he seems—cool and composed, cigarette smoke and sharp tongues—when he gets going, he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re crying his name again. Not until your thighs tremble and your voice is wrecked and your body’s too boneless to beg for more, even though your eyes still plead with him.

You lose track of how many times.

The night runs long and slow and molten—fucking turns to touching, touching turns to laughing, and every kiss feels like a secret passed between mouths.

Now, the room is quiet again. Still.

You’re sprawled across the sheets, skin bare, limbs warm and heavy with exhaustion. The duvet’s been kicked down to your ankles, your body slick with the soft sheen of sweat, your chest rising in steady, sated waves.

Minho is gone—but only for a second.

You hear the quiet thud of the fridge door, the sound of a glass under the tap. When he returns, he’s shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and he’s holding out a glass of water like it’s some sacred offering.

“Drink,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and sex. You sit up just enough to take it, careful not to meet his eyes at first—and then you see them.

The marks. Dark smudges blooming across the sharp cut of his hips. Nail trails raked down the meat of his shoulders. A bite on his collarbone, faint and already bruising. All yours. And suddenly you feel… Shy.

You didn’t before—when his mouth was on you, when his hands were everywhere, when your back arched and you begged him not to stop. But now, in the soft quiet, with morning somewhere close on the horizon, it hits you. So you reach for the blanket, dragging it up your chest like modesty matters, like you didn’t spend the whole night unraveling beneath him.

Minho sees. Of course he sees.

And he smiles.

That slow, crooked thing. The one that doesn’t show teeth but somehow says everything.

“Oh?” he murmurs, placing the water on the nightstand before crawling back into bed. “Now you’re shy?”

You don’t answer. Just burrow into the pillow, cheeks hot. He slips beneath the duvet anyway—doesn’t give you a choice. Just tugs it down again with a smug little hum, eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to memorize the exact shade of your embarrassment.

“I like the marks,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Wish you’d left more.”

You blink at him. He just keeps going—slow, lazy kisses trailed down your arm, his body curling around yours like he can’t bear the distance. One arm loops under your waist. The other hooks over your thigh. And then he’s half on top of you, all weight and warmth and him. Clingy.

He tucks his face into your neck like it’s the only place he knows how to breathe. His nose nuzzles behind your ear, lips brushing the shell of it when he speaks again—low, slurred, thick with sleep and smugness.

“Gonna have to start wearing long sleeves to work.”

You choke on a breath, eyes fluttering open. “Because of me?”

“Mm.” He kisses your jaw. “Unless I want to get fired.”

You raise an eyebrow. "You work at a bar, not an office."

“Yeah,” Minho hums, lazy and amused. “But people tip more when I’m unmarked.”

The words slip out casual, offhand—like a throwaway comment he doesn’t mean anything by.

But your smile falters anyway.

Just a flicker. Just enough for him to see it.

You shift beneath him, eyes drifting away, teeth catching your lower lip before you can stop the twist of something sour in your gut. You don’t say anything—not right away—but your silence says enough.

Minho stills.

Then lifts his head, just barely, so he can see your face.

“Hey.”

You blink up at him, startled by the sudden seriousness in his voice.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, tone low. Honest. “Because I’ll quit.”

Your heart stutters.

“What?”

“I mean it.” His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “If you don’t like it—me working there, people flirting, whatever—I’ll quit. I don’t give a fuck about the tips.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off before you can answer.

“I only took that job to kill time. To pay rent. But you—” His brow furrows. “You’re not something I’m willing to risk for a few extra bills thrown in a jar.”

You swallow hard.

He watches you.

Your eyes search his face—his furrowed brow, the firm set of his mouth, the dark smudge of sleep still softening the corners of his eyes—and there’s no doubt. No teasing in his voice, no smirk on his lips. Just Minho. Serious. Steady. Unflinching in his honesty.

“I’d rather be yours than anyone’s favorite bartender,” he says, quieter this time.

Your throat tightens.

And for a second, you can’t speak. You can only stare, caught between the weight of his words and the way his fingers stay curled so gently around your jaw—like you might vanish if he lets go.

You whisper, “I don’t want you to quit.”

He waits.

You blink slowly, pulling in a breath thick with the scent of him, the warmth of his body still heavy across yours. “I just didn’t like the idea of someone else looking at you like I look at you.”

Minho’s expression shifts—barely, but you feel it. Something in his chest loosens. His eyes soften, flicking between yours.

“No one else gets to,” he says simply. “Not anymore.”

You exhale, shaky with something that feels suspiciously close to relief. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He leans down, brushes his lips against yours—so soft, so sure. “They can look all they want. But I go home with your marks on me. I come home to you.”

Your pulse trips. Your hand fists the sheets at your side, but he feels it. Feels the way the tension bleeds out of you when he says it like that. Like a promise.

And then he flops on top of you.

Dead weight. Limbs loose. Hair flopping messily across his forehead as he buries his face in your chest with a dramatic sigh.

You laugh, startled. “Minho!”

“Mmm,” he grunts, nuzzling between your breasts. “Too early for serious talks. Thought we were in our post-sex cuddling era.”

You squirm under the sudden weight, still giggling, breath hitching when his cheek brushes the swell of your breast. “We can’t be in our post-sex cuddling era if you suffocate me in it.”

He hums again. Doesn’t move.

Just slings an arm over your ribs like a human paperweight, sighs through his nose like he’s never been more at peace. “Shhh,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “You love it.”

You do.

You really, really do.

You let your fingers find his hair, carding gently through the tangled strands at his nape. He melts into it, chest rising and falling slow against your stomach. The silence between you stretches—soft, golden, alive with the echo of everything that came before. Of everything that now lingers.

Minho doesn’t say anything else for a while. He just breathes you in. Lets you trace lazy shapes along his spine. Lets his lips ghost across your skin every now and then, aimless, unthinking. Like he needs the taste of you to fall asleep.

Eventually, you murmur, “You’re not really gonna wear long sleeves, are you?”

He snorts into your chest. “Hell no.”

“Good,” you whisper.

He hums again, content. Almost purring.

Then, after a beat: “Might even go shirtless.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” His voice is muffled against your skin, low and lazy. “Let ‘em see everything. Let ‘em know I’m taken. Ruined. Whipped.”

You huff a laugh, warm and breathless, chest shifting beneath him. “You’re not whipped,” you tease, even though your heart trips a little at the word. The way he says it like a badge of honor, like something he wants people to know.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t even lift his head.

“Babe,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin with every syllable, “I let you suck a bruise into my neck while my dick was still inside you. I think the jury’s in.”

Your face heats instantly. “Oh my god—”

He grins, smug and sleepy and so clearly unrepentant. “Should’ve taken a picture. Hung it behind the bar.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m so serious.” He nuzzles into your sternum, exhales a satisfied sigh. “Caption it: Do not touch. Fed and fucked.”

You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “You’re insane.”

He chuckles. “I’m in love.”

The words land softer than they should, but firmer than you'd expect. Not casual—comfortable. Like truth in its final form. And you feel it, all the way down: the weight of his affection, the certainty of it, so tangled up in the ridiculous things he says that it feels like breathing.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere left for him to go. “You’re still insane,” you whisper, lips pressed to his hairline.

“And you’re stuck with me.”

The truth of it rings out between you—not heavy, not sharp. Just there. Simple. Whole. You are. He is.

His fingers drum a slow beat against your ribs. He studies you for a second longer, then tucks himself back in, face hidden against your skin, every inch of him wrapped around you like a shield.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs, already halfway there. “We can fall in love more tomorrow.”

You close your eyes.

And you do.

It’s been a few weeks.

A few golden, quiet, full-bodied weeks—where everything that once felt fragile now feels real. Whole. Yours.

Minho had asked you properly—booked out the bar for the night, turned the lights low, played your favorite song on vinyl, and gave you a private bartender show complete with one too many shirtless shaker tricks and your name carved into a lemon twist.

He cooked, too. And kissed you between courses. And pulled you into his lap to ask—not casually, not like it was assumed—if you’d be his girlfriend.

You said yes.

Of course you did.

And now you live together. Officially. Your clothes are in his drawers. His toothbrush sits next to yours. He makes you coffee and you fold his laundry and somewhere in the haze of shared spaces and soft kisses, you forgot what it felt like to flinch.

And then it happens fast.

One moment, you’re walking up the block—hands tucked into your sleeves, heart light from the texts Minho sent not even ten minutes ago.

[Minho] : hurry up[Minho] : wear that thing i like [Minho] : might be drunk by the time you get here if i keep taste-testing the menu

The bar’s glowing ahead, amber light spilling out of the windows like warmth. You’re already rehearsing the way you’ll slip onto a barstool, lean over the counter just far enough for him to grab your waist and kiss you across the spill mat—

You weren’t expecting him.

The ex.

Slurring your name like a threat. Blocking the sidewalk like a curse you thought you’d buried for good.

And for a second, it startles you. Not because you’re afraid—no, not anymore. But because how dare he.

How dare he still think he has access. How dare he act like the time you spent clawing your way out of the wreckage didn’t matter. Like the scars he left didn’t teach you how to fight.

You meet his stare.

Voice steady. “Get out of my way.”

“Oh, now you’ve got a mouth?” he slurs, taking a step forward. “What, dick that good it grew you a backbone?”

You don't flinch.

Not when he leans in, not when he sways close enough for you to smell the sour reek of alcohol clinging to his breath like bile. Not even when his voice drops lower, curling around your name like it still belongs to him.

It doesn't.

"You heard me," you say again, firmer this time. "Move."

But he doesn't. He laughs instead—ugly, mean, mouth curled in that old, familiar smirk that used to make your stomach sink.

Now it just makes you angry.

“You always thought you were better than me,” he sneers, stepping closer, invading your space like he owns it. “Acting like you're some fucking saint now, just ‘cause you got a new dick to suck—”

You move to sidestep him, but his hand shoots out—grabbing your wrist, hard.

Too hard.

You stumble back with a gasp, shoulder slamming into the brick wall of the alley beside the bar. Pain sparks up your arm, sharp and hot where his fingers dig into your skin.

"Let—go of me—"

He doesn't.

His grip tightens.

“Don’t fucking walk away from me—”

And then it happens in a blink.

A blur of dark hair, a sharp crack of movement, and suddenly your ex is off you, shoved back so fast and so hard he nearly falls into the curb. The momentum knocks him sideways, but he catches himself, stumbling back with a curse.

Minho steps between you.

Calm.

Controlled.

Lethal.

Minho’s voice is low. Measured.

“You have until the count of three.”

Your ex scoffs, bloodshot eyes narrowing. “The fuck are you gonna—”

“Three.”

No warning. No buildup.

Just violence.

Minho’s fist slams into his jaw with a sickening crack, the force of it snapping his head sideways. He stumbles—off-balance, stunned—but Minho doesn’t let up. Another punch, straight to the ribs, and you hear the breath leave his lungs in a strangled wheeze.

Your ex hits the ground hard.

But Minho’s not done.

He drops to one knee beside him—precise, deliberate—and grabs his hand.

The hand he used on you.

You freeze, breath caught in your throat.

Because you remember.

“Then I’d take his hand, the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”

And now—

Now you watch it unfold in real time.

Minho takes that wrist in both hands, pins it to the pavement, and presses down—hard—until your ex screams.

“No—no, fuck—stop—!”

Minho’s grip doesn’t waver.

He curls his fingers around one of your ex’s.

“First one,” he mutters—almost gently. Like he’s naming something, not destroying it.

Then he bends.

The crack is sharp, grotesque. It splits the air like a firework misfired—brief and brutal and final.

Your ex howls, voice cracking as he thrashes beneath Minho’s knee, but it doesn’t matter. Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

Just shifts to the next finger.

“Second.”

Another break. Another scream.

You don’t look away.

You should—maybe. A part of you knows that. But the rest of you, the part that remembers—remembers shaking hands, bruised ribs, the way your ex used to whisper apologies into your hair while you cried onto the bathroom tile—that part of you watches.

And breathes.

Minho leans closer.

Not loud. Not unhinged. Just cold.

“Third.”

Crack.

Your ex is crying now. Tears, snot, spit—he’s babbling nonsense, slurring pleads that dissolve into whimpers.

“Stop—please—I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean—”

Minho grabs the fourth finger. “You meant it every time.”

“Fourth,” he says, and the word falls like a guillotine.

He pulls.

The snap is quieter this time—deeper, more internal. A tendon giving way. A joint yanked cruelly from its socket. Your ex lets out a broken sound, not quite a scream anymore. Not loud. Just raw. Hollow. The kind of sound a man makes when he realizes no one’s coming to save him.

Minho still hasn’t raised his voice.

Hasn’t needed to.

Because this isn’t rage. It isn’t revenge.

It’s justice.

Delivered slow. Delivered steady. Delivered by the man who saw every crack in you and loved you anyway—especially because you survived them.

Minho shifts again.

“Fifth.”

“No,” your ex gasps, eyes rolling, lips slick with blood from where he must’ve bitten through them. “No—no more, I—please, please, I—”

But Minho’s hand is already there, curling around that last finger like a closing grave.

And this time, he doesn’t say anything.

He just looks at him—right in the eyes. Like he wants this to be the last thing your ex ever remembers when he reaches for something in the dark.

Then he snaps it clean.

The sound is sickening.

The scream is hoarse. Shredded. Barely human.

“Touch her again,” Minho murmurs, bending the wrist back until the guy writhes, “and I’ll break your fucking spine next.”

And finally—finally—Minho lets go.

He rises slowly, like he’s not rushing to leave the wreckage behind, like he wants your ex to feel every second of what it means to be beneath him. A shadow cast by justice. A reminder that some hands don’t heal—they answer.

He turns to you.

And all of it—the sharpness, the stillness, the steel in his spine—it bleeds away when his eyes meet yours.

He sees the shock there, the tremble hiding in your shoulders.

And he moves to you—not with fire this time, but with the same careful quiet he always gives you after storms. Hands gentle. Expression softer now, but no less certain.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

You nod—but it’s shallow. Fragile.

So he cups your face in both hands, grounding you.

“Look at me,” he says. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

And you know it's true.

Because he is here.