#minghao headcanons

The mark was not something too special, it was one of the more common ones, your parent had the exact same one and you had always loved hearing the story of how they had both been so out of their minds when there was 30 minutes until they met, that they had just walked through the city, trying to think of anything but the watch on their wrists. 

They had bumped into each other in the park. Nothing short of divine timing. 

Nothing made you more excited about finally getting to meet him. Whoever or wherever he was. 

“Thanks for cooking dinner” Minghao said again as he looked at Mingyu, currently in the kitchen mouth full of food. 

His friend smiled at him. “Any time!” It’s always nice I get to practice my chinese cuisine with someone who knows how it should taste” 

Mingyu looked to his own wrist where the word that had been there an hour ago slowly faded away. 

“Do you ever wonder if you’ll find her?” Minghao asked with a small smile, as his hands toyed with the bracelet around his wrist. 

Mingyu just shrugged. “I hope so, but if I’m being honest I’m not really counting on it” He smiled, but it didn’t seem genuine, and those usually broad shoulders seemed to shrink a little. 

Minghao sighed as well, running a hand through his long locks. “Yeah, I know mine is rather easy, but there’s a bit of anxiety tied to it. Knowing when I meet her is not always as… easy as it sounds” 

The tall man turned towards his friend and crossed his arms in front of his chest, nodding, urging him to explain further. 

“In the beginning I didn’t really think about it, like yay I’m gonna meet her in my late 20’s, okay, I’ll just build a life for myself before that. But the older I got, the more I came to realize that even that isn’t promised. I have no idea what she’s doing, what her life is like. I have no idea if she’s safe, healthy, happy…” 

A small smile spread on his lips. “I envy you guys a lot, most of you have some sort of indicator of who they are and how they’re doing. All I have is this fucking clock, and if I one day look down and it has stopped… What do I do then?” 

To Minghao it looked like Mingyu had never had the thought, as if he suddenly reminded the man that they in fact could lose them before they ever met, this part of their soul. 

He sighed. “Never thought about it like that, I think mine is okay, I don’t think anyone would crave so much food as she is if they weren’t. I think it’s worst when she doom scrolls, damn the mark is flashing as quickly as her thumb can touch the screen” 

They both smiled. 

“I’m sure you’ll find her at some point” Minghao said as he stood from the chair, ready to help his friend with the dishes after their shared dinner. 

“You too, too bad it wasn’t Tan’s friend” Mingyu said as he pushed his friend lightly with his shoulder.

Minghao leaned back his head as he laughed. “Yeah, it was worth a shot, but I did say from the get go that would be a little too easy” 

“Ugh I don’t know if it even makes sense” You said into the phone, talking to your older brother. 

The two of you had been talking to one another for the last hour or so, him trying to convince you to fly out to see him. 

“Dude, you can work from anywhere, so you don’t even need time off, and I could show you the city when you had a break. Just imagine all the food” 

You had always been close, and even after he moved across the world you had made sure to speak on the phone or facetime a few times a week. 

You took a deep breath. “It’s just… two trips in a year, we’re all coming for christmas after all” 

If it had been possible to hear when a person rolled your eyes, you knew you would have heard it right then. 

“Just get here okay?!” he said before he hung up. 

Which now meant you had a decision to make. 

He was laying in bed, somewhat beat after a long day. He rubbed his collarbone as he had gotten a habit of doing after his injury. And like always, right before he turned off the light in his room, he looked down at his clock, but that night it didn’t just count down. It flickered. It lacked. 

In a split second he was sitting, staring down at the ticking time, that flashed from the time that was still a few months away to a time that was literal days away. Back and forth, back and forth. 

His heart was beating out of his chest, and before he could even think too hard about it, he was out the door wearing nothing but shorts and a tanktop. He didn’t even put on his shoes, but it didn’t matter, he was running instantly. 

Seungcheol didn’t live far, and he was knocking on his leader's door frantically, not really caring that it was in the middle of the night. He would most likely be up gaming anyway. 

When his brother opened the door Minghao flew right past him into the living room frantically pacing until he was able to catch up. 

“Hao…” Seungcheol said, testing the waters. But the blond only held that infamous wrist of his, covering the clock that he usually flashed to everyone proudly. 

He moved closer, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Minghao?” He said, finally able to catch his eyes. He stopped pacing and exhaled. 

With the exhale he lost all ability to stand upright, it was as if his legs started working all together, and he fell to the couch that stood behind him. 

Minghao buried his head in his hands as he shook it, silently whispering something beneath that the older one had trouble deciphering. 

Seungcheol slowly pulled his hands from his face. “What’s wrong?” his eyes were kind, as was his smile. 

“Please tell me she’s okay…” his voice trembled as the tears welled up in his eyes. It was a prayer on his lips, one of pure desperation. 

Minghao held out his wrist for the leader to see and for a few seconds he just stared at the clock, ticking away as usual. Just as he was about to open his mouth to ask what it exactly was he was looking for, the numbers shifted for a split second. 

It looked as if it was lacking, as if something was wrong and Seungcheol took a deep breath before he looked to his brother who had winced the second the numbers changed. 

“Hyung, what's wrong with her?” he asked with pleading eyes. But he had no idea so he shook his head. 

“I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out okay? I promise we’ll figure it out” and with that he pulled Minghao close, allowing him to totally lose it, and break down in his arms. 

It was known in Seventeen that if Seungcheol promised them something, it was a promise he would never break. Every time he had a chance the following days he was researching, talking to mark researchers, but most of them had never really encountered something like it. 

“I got something!” Jun had yelled out in the restaurant they were occupying one night. 

All the eyes around the table were at him as he stood up, reading from his phone: “the glitch of the clock is usually seen in moments where a single decision can impact the meeting of the two soulmates in question. If a decision is made where the clock speeds up the time, a light heat will blossom around it, if more time is added it will cool the numbers down” 

Jun looked from his phone to his best friend, who leaned back into his chair, arms hugging himself as he released a breath he didn’t know he had been holding all these days. 

The guys erupted in ecstatic screams and claps while they surrounded their friend. A single tear escaped Minghao’s eye, grateful that you were in fact, okay. 

You were seated on the plane to Seoul, sending a text to your brother that he better come pick you up, or you would be turning back home in a second. 

There was an excitement blossoming in your chest, you had missed him a lot. You had made the decision when he had finally explained just why he needed you to fly out. He had met his soulmate, and he wanted the two of you to meet before he was introduced to the whole family this upcoming Christmas. 

What you hadn’t told him was as soon as you had booked the flight, a heat blossomed on your wrist, and suddenly the clock had changed. 4 days and 22h. 

Not only were you meeting your brother's soulmate on this trip, but you would meet your own as well. 

You took a deep breath as you rubbed the numbers on your wrist. You had made a promise to yourself to cover the numbers while you were there, you wanted the meeting to be a natural occurrence of events. You kissed them once and then slipped the black band over them. 

When you arrived at the airport, your brother stood with flowers and a huge smile, ready to greet you. He had you in a tight embrace soon after. 

The two of you had quickly moved from the airport to dump your suitcase back at his apartment, luckily he hadn’t commented on the sheer size of it. 

You spend the rides catching up, and he told you in somewhat rough terms how he had met his other half. He didn’t want to spoil too much, but of course your workaholic brother would meet his soulmate while literally working. 

You met him when the three of you were out for dinner that very evening. And the two of them made perfect sense. He was the cold and calm to your brother's fire and passion. 

They moved around one another almost as if it was a dance. 

“No, so I just stepped into the practice room and that string just led straight to him,” your brother's soulmate laughed as he pulled his other half close by the neck. Slightly tucking at the long strands of hair. 

“Speaking of the practice room” your brother said as he looked at you with a raised brow. 

You stuffed the kimchi into your mouth, as you stared back at him in defiance. “Don’t even think about it” 

Just like your brother you had danced, but unlike him you had never had the guts to actually pursue it as a career, especially after he did. 

“You dance?” The man before you asked as he looked at your brother. 

“She does, and she’s really fucking good at it” he answered wile pointing to you with his chopsticks. 

“What kind of dance?” 

“Oh she does it all… ballet, ballroom, b-boying, contemporary. She’s better than me” 

You rolled your eyes at the praise. 

“Maybe we should bring her tomorrow, I’m sure Chan would love a little ballroom lesson” your brother leaned back in his chair as he laughed, genuinely and absolutely contagiously. 

“Oh I love that; yeah… you know what? Hell yeah, let’s bring her on of these days” 

“I’ll call the managers for an NDA” 

The man stood up to make a call and you looked at your brother. 

“He seems good for you,” you said and he responded with a smile. 

“He’s too good for me” the both of you laughed. “Are you okay though, it seems like your mind is somewhere else?” He took your hand and gave it a squeeze. 

“Don’t worry about me, worry about me beating your ass if you force me to dance in front of your crew” 

“Oh I would never make you dance in front of them. I want you to dance with them” 

The two hadn’t lied when they said they wanted to bring you along for a day's work. 

The building was big, so big you wondered how anyone could find their way in the corridors, because to you they made absolutely no sense. 

A signed NDA and a visitor pass later and you were on your way to the practice room. And that too was huge. 

“Who the hell needs this much space?” You asked as you looked around. 

Your brother laughed. “Well there’s 13 of them, and then all the dancers go balance it out. We take up quite a bit of space” 

You nodded as you looked around. You had chosen comfortable clothes that still somewhat showed off your personal style. 

The two soulmates introduced you to all their coworkers, and before you knew it, you were dancing along beside them, learning the choreography for some of the dances. 

It almost felt like coming home. Your muscles loosened straight away to make it possible for you to do all the twists and turns. 

A door opened and a few loud cheers broke out. And in stepped 6 people you had only heard stories of. The guys all went around, greeting every single dancer, asking questions or telling jokes that made no sense to an outsider. 

One of them stopped before you and raised a brow. “And who might you be?” Chan said in a language you didn’t really know much of. 

“Chan, say hello to my sister” your brother said as he gestured between the two of you. 

The man almost did a little jump from pure excitement, and then went off in a rant your broken Korean couldn’t quite follow. 

And before you knew it, music was blasting from the speakers and he had taken your hand, leading you to the middle of the room, and before you knew it, you were leading a dance class in ballroom dance. 

“No but she literally moved like the ocean. I’ve never seen anything like it” Chan said later that day, when the dancing around with the background dancers had stopped to make room for learning the new choreography for their upcoming comeback. 

“It was pretty god damn smooth” Mingyu noted and looked at Minghao who just sat and stared at the clock that slowly counted down. 

“You guys should come tomorrow, meet her” Hoshi said before drowning half a bottle of water in what seemed to be one sip. 

“She better stay for a while, this could end up being fucking hillarious” Chan said with a smile right before he grabbed Hoshi’s waist and spun him around just as you had taught him earlier that day. 

The room broke out in absolute laughter. 

“Yeah, maybe” Minghao said as he rubbed the numbers once, twice. 

“Dude, you do know you won’t meet her if you keep isolating yourself right?” Vernon said with serious eyes. 

He knew his friend was right so he took a breath. “Fine, I’ll join you guys” 

He could hear the music and the cheers on the other side of the door. His heart was hammering away in his chest. Two minutes was what was left, which meant when he entered he would either open the door to see you, or you would follow right behind him. 

A deep breath later and he stepped through the door, leaving the numbers behind, ready to meet you. 

Some of his brothers and all of their dancers were all cheering for Chan and the woman he was currently spinning around within the circle of people.

It had somewhat been an understatement when he had said that the woman moved like water, whoever she was, she was a natural. 

Minghao smiled to himself. And then the pieces clicked into place. He looked around the room, and sure enough, the woman, you, was the only new addition to the people in the room. 

He moved through a few people and stood in the very front, desperate to capture your eyes. Because you had to be his, you had to. 

Chan pulled you close to his chest and he couldn’t help his grimace and the small gasp he made when he saw how his friend's hand came into contact with the small of your back. 

That small sound was enough for your eyes to shoot up over the shoulder of your dance partner, and then they met his. 

Your wrist almost buzzed with warmth as your eyes met, and the two of you knew instantly what it meant. There was no need to do a double take, all you needed was to be in his arms. 

Chan spun you around and as soon as only his fingertips held you, you broke free from his grasp, did an extra spin and ran to him. 

Minghao, as if he knew exactly what you planned, took two steps forward and opened his arms. And in the next second you flew directly into them. 

His arms were around you in an instant, lifting you from the ground as you flung your legs around him. 

Gasps broke out around the two of you, but he didn’t care. They had all had you for longer than he had. So without letting you down, he left the room with you in his arms, leaving everyone behind to either wonder what had just happened, or celebrate it. 

He walked out of the room with you still in his arms, a giant smile painted on his lips. 

“Did that just happen?” you kept repeating, more to yourself than to him. 

You pulled away to actually look at him, and he loosened one of his arms, gently tucking your hair behind your ear as he kept walking. 

“Thank you for finding me sooner” he said, eyes sparkling as he looked at you as if you were his whole world. 

You hugged him once again, not really knowing what to say as the tears threatened to spill if you talked. 

You nuzzled into him, allowing yourself to feel small in his arms as he took you to who knows where. 

A door opened, and then it closed, and everything fell silent. He sat you down on a couch, and sat between your legs at the coffee table directly in front of it. 

Nothing could’ve stopped the whine you released as he pulled away from you. He laughed, and you couldn’t quite figure out if it was because he was a little embarrassed, or because he didn’t really know what to say. 

“I’m not good at english” he managed to say as he intertwined his fingers with yours. 

“I’m not good at korean” You said with a sheepish smile. 

He nodded. “We’ll figure it out” he gave your hands a gentle squeeze, and you nodded in response. 

“And mandarin might be too big of a stretch” he mumbled in the language, but you on the other hand, perked at it and answered him in his mother tongue. 

“Maybe not too big of a stretch” You said with a smile. 

Minghao fell to his knees in front of you, as he laughed quietly. “Maybe not, you are a part of my soul, so I guess it makes sense we would be able to communicate” 

He looked up at you with those beautiful eyes, they almost shone like little stars in the light of the room. You had never seen happiness like this, pure bliss, unconditional love. And to know that he was looking at you with such affection melted your heart. 

“So, you’re a dancer?” he asked. He had to bite his tongue to not ask you every question that ran through his mind. 

You laughed. “Actually I work in marketing and product development, hence the mandarin, but I’ve danced my whole life” 

Minghao made a grimace. “Then how exactly did you end up in our practice room?” He asked before moving closer to you. 

You slid your hand from his hands and felt how it felt like your heart tripled in size at the way he pouted at the loss of contact to your skin. Instead you slid them up his broad shoulders, intertwining your hands behind his head and pulling him even closer to you. 

The action had left him on his literal knees before you, and Minghao didn’t mind it one bit. 

“My brother is one of your dancers, came to meet his soulmate, and somehow stumbled upon it” 

His arms snaked around your waist as he leaned forward, slowly, teasing and testing every movement. 

“Did you now?” he said with a low tone. 

Your eyes looked from his, to his mouth and that devilish smirk he had on full display. You nodded. 

“Just promise me one thing love, don’t let my members hands run up your body like that again” 

Your head leaned back a little as you laughed, and for a second he almost lost all control over himself and kissed you up the neck. 

“Oh? Are you the jealous type?” You asked with a raised brow. 

Now he looked to your mouth, but unlike you, his eyes never left your lips, not even when he answered: “Usually no, but apparently that’s just the kind of feelings you evoke in me” 

“Yeah?” you asked as his nose came into contact with your own, sending sparks up and down your spine. 

“Yeah” he whispered with an exhale. He took a jagged breath in. 

“Can I kiss you?” he asked as he searched your eyes for any kind of hesitation or indication that what he was currently doing overstepped any kind of boundary. 

A small nod from you and he dived into your mouth as a man who had been starving his entire life. 

He was gentle and firm, teasing and generous all at the same time. You could live here for the rest of his life, breathing only when he allowed you to come up for air, warmed by his embrace. Yes, there was no doubt in your mind that the universe had managed to pick the perfect partner for you. 

The two of you had stayed in the room for about an hour, kissing, catching up and getting to know one another as well as one could in a short amount of time. 

But at one point the two of your phones refused to stop buzzing which meant it was time for the two of you to face the music. 

Which meant your brother and all of his. 

The two of you stepped back into the practice room and were met by cheers and screams, leaving the two of you somewhat embarrassed by being the center of attention. 

Your brother was there in a second pulling the both of you close to him. “Well you’re fucking welcome for dragging your ass here” he said with a smirk as he kissed your forehead. 

Minghao didn’t really mean to make a face, but he did. And he did his very best in hiding it, but you looked straight through it, so in response you leaned into him, and felt how his shoulders seemed less tense after you did so. 

He pulled you closer by the hip and snaked his arm around you possessively. 

Your brother looked between the two of you and lifted his hands. “Hey I’ll back off” he then looked to his own soulmate. “Trust me I get it. It gets better after a little while” 

Minghao sent him a thankful smile, and sheepishly whispered “sorry”. 

As your brother backed off, it meant it was his brother's turn to say hello and introduce themselves. 

Minghao couldn’t help the pride that filled his chest as he watched them all excitedly say hello and introduce himself. 

And as you looked at him with those sparks in your eyes all he could think about was how lucky he was to spend the rest of his life by your side.

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He exhaled through his nose—half sigh, half laugh—and stood. Taller than you expected. Wiry, paint-stained hoodie. Kind of beautiful in that accidental, “I haven’t slept in two days but I’m full of creative angst” kind of way.

“I was sketching your movement. Not you.”

“Oh, right. My movement.”

“No, really,” he said, holding out his sketchbook.

You reached for it, curious, and your breath hitched. It wasn’t a portrait. Not really. Just messy lines and smudges, rough outlines of limbs mid-motion. But somehow, it felt more like you than any photo ever had. Not your face. Not your body. But the way you moved. The way you felt when you were dancing. Untethered. Hungry.

It was unnerving how much he’d captured.

“I’m Minghao,” he said after a moment. “I work in the studio across the hall. Room 9.”

You nodded, slowly.

“I’m not hiring an artist,” you said, half-joking. “But… thanks for the free art.”

He grinned then—small, crooked, like he didn’t smile often but kind of liked it when he did.

“I’ll give you the sketch,” he offered, “if you let me sketch you again tomorrow.”

You blinked. “That’s your bargain?”

He shrugged. “It’s fair.”

“What if I ask for 10 sketches?”

“Then I’d say you’re greedy.”

“What if I ask for 100?”

He paused.

Then, softly—like he meant it more than you expected—he said, “Then I’ll draw 100.”

~~~~~~

You found yourself coming back earlier the next day, even though you told yourself it was just habit.

Minghao was already there, of course. He sat in the same spot, sketchbook open, eyes focused, like it was a routine you’d both been doing for years.

This time you let him in. He sat himself in the corner, placing his tote bag beside him—as if he’d already been there a hundred times before.

He didn’t say much, just lifted a hand in lazy acknowledgment and tapped his pencil twice on the paper. His way of saying go ahead.

And so, you danced.

You didn’t try to impress him—not at first. But he watched you like each movement mattered, like every toe-point and turn was worth memorizing. It was infuriating and addictive and flattering in ways you couldn’t articulate.

After an hour, when your muscles ached and your leotard clung to your spine, he finally spoke.

“That was number two.”

“Huh?”

He flipped the page. The next sketch was already forming—your leg mid-air, arm suspended like a question.

“You asked for 100.”

Your lips twitched. “You’re actually doing it?”

He glanced up. “You asked. And you didn’t seem like someone who asked for things lightly.”

The rain had been coming down since afternoon, and by the time your rehearsal ended, the studio windows were fogged and the outside world felt like a painting gone blurry. You linger longer than usual, doing slow stretches on the floor, already sore from the week but too restless to go home.

When the door creaks open, you already know who it is.

“You’re late,” you say, not bothering to look.

“I brought snacks,” Minghao replies, setting a paper bag on the bench near the mirror. “That makes me fashionably late.”

You arch a brow. “Is that a granola bar or something that will ruin my diet and make me spiral into an existential crisis at 2 a.m.?”

He pulls out a small box. “Rice cakes.”

You pause.

“…Okay, you’re forgiven.”

You sit side by side on the cool studio floor, your legs stretched out in front of you, the box of rice cake between you. He peels one open carefully and offers it like a peace treaty.

“You know,” he says after a while, “you don’t have to be here this late.”

“And you don’t have to be here at all.”

He shrugs. “Touché.”

You glance over at him. He’s in that same hoodie again—paint-stained, sleeves pushed up, sketchbook still within reach. He looks tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from a lack of sleep, but from chasing something invisible for too long.

You ask before you can stop yourself. “Why painting?”

He looks up at the ceiling. “Why breathing?”

You let out a small whine, nudging his shoulder.

He grins. “I mean it. It’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not wasting space.”

There’s a pause.

You nod, slowly. “That’s how dancing feels. When it’s good, I forget everything else.”

“And when it’s not?” You laugh, bitterly. “I remember everything I’m trying to outrun.”

He’s quiet at that. Then, he reaches for his sketchbook, flips it open, and holds it out to you.

Number 27. You’re in mid-leap, but this one’s different— your arms are wild, unbalanced, your expression vulnerable. You remember that day. You messed up your routine and nearly fell. You’d been furious.

“I wasn’t going to include this one,” he murmurs. “But there’s something real about it.”

You stare at the sketch, and for a second, you feel like crying. He sees that, too.

You don’t say thank you.

Instead, you hand him back the book and quietly say, “Draw number 100 like this.”

Minghao tilts his head. “You want the last one to be messy?”

“No,” you say. “I want it to be honest.”

He looks at you like he understands. Not just what you said, but all the things you didn’t.

It starts with a text. Or rather, the first text he ever sends you.

[minghao]: do you know the difference between ‘hot press’ and ‘cold press’ paper or am i going to cry in the aisle alone

You stare at the message, mid-bite of your late lunch, and laugh out loud. It's so aggressively him—blunt, art-related, vaguely poetic. You reply before you can second-guess it.

[you]: hot press is smooth. cold press has texture.

A pause.

[minghao]: you just saved me from an embarrassing breakdown in front of a high schooler with a sketchbook. owe you a coffee.

That’s how you find yourself at an art supply store you’ve never been to before, walking down aisles that smell like paper and graphite and wood shavings. You’re not sure if this counts as a "hangout" or a "favor," but the weird thing is… you kind of like it.

Minghao is in his element here–confident, calm, eyes scanning brushes and inks with something that borders on reverence.

“I could spend all my money in here,” he mutters, picking up a brush pen and squinting at the label.

“You do spend all your money in here,” you remind him.

He shrugs, unbothered. “Better than wasting it on therapy.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “That’s dark.”

“It’s true.”

You pick up a small watercolor palette, the kind you remember using when you were a kid.

“I used to love painting,” you say without thinking. “But I was terrible at it. Like, truly tragic.”

Minghao glances at you, then takes the palette from your hands and drops it into his basket.

“What are you doing?” “Reviving a childhood dream.” “I wasn’t being serious.” “I know.” He smirks. “But you looked happy for a second. You should do that more often.”

You’re not sure what to say to that, so you don’t say anything at all.

~~~~~~~

You end up at a park nearby, sitting cross-legged on the grass with your impromptu art supplies and two iced Americanos between you (ice americano that you bought, you just let it be on his tab—he did buy you watercolors though)

“I haven’t done this since I was ten,” you mutter, dipping the brush into water and making a blotchy flower that looks more like a melting starfish.

“It’s art,” Minghao says, watching you paint with a grin. “There’s no wrong way.”

You raise a brow. “That’s cute. Is that what you tell yourself when your rent’s due?”

He lets out a dry laugh. “That, and ‘starving artist’ is just a cute way of saying ‘life is on fire.’”

You both laugh harder than you probably should. It felt like exhaling after holding your breath all week.

At some point, your shoulder brushed his. Neither of you moved away. At some point, the conversation shifted— small things, old dreams, the kind of people you both used to be before the world became about making it. At some point, the sun began to set. And for a moment, you don’t feel like a ballerina with aching knees and pressure pressing into your spine. You just feel like a person. Sitting next to another person. Painting ugly little stars and sipping iced coffee and forgetting how hard everything usually feels.

Minghao looks over at you.

“You’re different when you’re not dancing,” he says, soft enough to get caught in the wind.

You meet his gaze, surprised. “Is that a good thing?”

He shrugs, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “It’s a real thing.”

You look away first.

But that night, when you go home and see the little paint-stained napkin he left in your bag— a quick doodle of you painting with your tongue sticking out, you smile. And you fold it carefully, like it’s already meant to be kept.

You started staying later after rehearsals. Sometimes he painted while you stretched on the floor, your legs aching in that way that hurt so good. Other times, you danced just for him—no music, no mirrors, just the rhythm of his pencil following the cadence of your breath. He painted you in color then.

“I thought you hated painting with color,” you said one night. “I did,” he said. “Then I met you.” You tried to roll your eyes. You failed.“Do you always flirt through paint?” “It’s cheaper than flowers.” “You’re terrible.” “Maybe. But you keep showing up.”

You didn’t know when it started—this thing between you. Maybe it was the first sketch. Maybe it was the short strolls in the park. Maybe it was the first time he caught you crying quietly in the hallway after a failed audition and said nothing, just handed you his hoodie and walked away.

But when he fell asleep with his head on your shoulder and paint smudged your jacket, you let it happen. When he texted you “walk?” at midnight, you got out of bed and went. And when you caught him staring at you like you were a miracle he didn’t deserve— You didn’t look away.

It happened on the rooftop. It was late, and you were both bundled in mismatched hoodies—his was too big, yours too thin. The city hummed quietly beneath your feet, neon signs flickering like tired fireflies. He had brought up two paper cups of vending machine cocoa. They tasted faintly like metal and childhood.

You were seated side by side, legs dangling off the edge. “I didn’t get the part,” you said. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But the words fell out, softer than you thought they’d be. “The solo.”

Minghao stayed quiet for a moment. “They’re idiots.” You let out a small laugh. “Thanks.” He tilted his head, gazing out at the skyline. “It’s their loss. Not yours.” You nodded, unsure of what to say. The wind wrapped around your fingers. He noticed, and without a word, took your hand and tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie.

It was quiet again, but not uncomfortable. You glanced at him. His profile was all soft lines and shadows, like someone had carved him out of a memory. His eyes were half-lidded, thoughtful.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said. Your heart tripped a little. “Okay.” “I like you,” he said softly, like the truth had been waiting at the edge of his throat all this time. “I’ve liked you for a while.” You smiled. “I was wondering when you would say that.”

Minghao looked at you—a little in shock. “What…do you mean?” “The sneaky looks at me every time I do a pirouette, the way you leave more than half the food for me even when you haven’t eaten. Sure, those might not be obvious signs, but I… I really did wish you liked me too.” He didn’t say anything—just kept looking at you. “What I’m saying is I like you too, you idiot.” “Ah,” was all he said after your biggest-yet confession.

“Really? That’s all you have to say? Ah? Dude, when a girl says she likes you back, it’s basic manners to—” Your words got cut off by a small peck on your lips.

“Thank you for liking me.” Minghao let out a small smile, intertwined his fingers with yours, and tucked them back into the huge pocket of his hoodie.

And just like that, everything felt a little easier. The cocoa didn’t taste as bad, the wind didn’t feel as cold, and his hoodie pocket was suddenly your favorite place in the world. You leaned your shoulder against his, and he didn’t pull away.

The first time you stayed over, it wasn’t planned. You were meant to drop off his scarf—left behind in the studio, again—but it was freezing outside, and he had just made instant noodles, and somehow one episode turned into three. By the time the credits rolled, it was past 2AM and you were curled up on his futon under a borrowed blanket that smelled like turpentine and dryer sheets.

You woke up first.

It was disorienting at first—your toes were cold, your leg was tangled with his, and Minghao’s arm was flopped over your waist like a sleepy seatbelt. You didn’t move. His apartment was silent, save for the soft hum of the space heater and the occasional traffic from below. Paintings lined the wall like sleepy spectators. One of them was of you—number 62, you thought. Your favorite one.

You finally shifted to sit up, and he grumbled something into the pillow. You glanced down.

“Did you say ‘don’t go’ or ‘don’t touch my toast’?” He peeked at you through one barely-open eye. “Both.” You laughed, real and messy, and his mouth curved even before his eyes fully opened.

Ten minutes later, you were making breakfast together in the world’s smallest kitchen. He claimed he “didn’t cook,” and you quickly realized he was telling the truth. He handed you an onion like it was a foreign object.

“I’m just here for moral support,” he said, sitting on the counter, feet dangling. “Oh, yeah? You’re doing amazing. Great job breathing air and all.” He raised his coffee cup in salute.

You made scrambled eggs with too much pepper and toast that was slightly burnt, and he declared it “honestly not that bad,” which you took as the highest praise. You ate on the floor because there was no table, knees bumping, sunlight warming your legs through the window.

“I could get used to this,” he said suddenly, mid-bite. You glanced up. “What, burnt toast?” He shrugged. “That, and you being here.” You let out a shy smile, bit into the toast, and nudged his knee with yours.

Later, he sat cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook open, and you lay with your head in his lap while he doodled. You asked what he was drawing. He didn’t show you.

“You’ll see when it’s finished,” he said, poking your forehead with the end of his pencil.

“Let me guess—me, looking incredibly majestic, holding a spatula?” “No.” “Me riding a dragon in my leotard?” He laughed. “I’m drawing your hands.”

You paused. “My hands?” “Yeah. You do a lot with them. Point. Gesture. Fix your hair when you’re nervous. Crack your knuckles when you’re pissed.”

You were quiet for a second. “Okay, weirdo specific much?” “It’s not weird. That’s because I watch you too much.”

You moved away from his lap and sat beside him, leaning your back on the sofa as you looked at his sketching. “Oh god, I’ve got a stalker now,” you sighed, locking his arms with yours and resting your head on his shoulder. “Your boyfriend, not a stalker,” he said, poking your head with the back of his pencil and returning to his work.

You looked up at him. He met your eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. There was something unspoken, warm, and steady between you. You closed your eyes and fell asleep in the middle of a sketch, the last thing you heard being his pencil moving—slow, soft, careful.

You fell into something soft with him. Not whirlwind, not obsessive—just everyday steady. Morning texts that said “eat something,” paint smudges on your arms from hugging him mid-work, his thumb brushing your cheek after rehearsals when you were too tired to speak. He came to your late-night showcases, sat on worn chairs with a notebook in his lap. You dragged him to early Sunday markets and pretended to argue over the ripest strawberries. Sometimes, you lay around doing nothing, legs tangled, your laugh echoing into his collarbone like it was made to land there.

That night, you were in his room. His sketchbook lay half-open on the floor, forgotten. The lamp threw warm light across the ceiling. You were curled up beside him, your head on his chest, his fingers absently tracing yours — fingertip to knuckle, again and again. His hand was cold. Yours were nervous.

You inhaled slowly. “Hey,” you said. “Mm?” You bit your cheek. “I got offered a residency. Three years.” His fingers paused. “Where?” “Berlin.” You watched his face, but it stayed unreadable. “Oh.” He nodded. “That’s… cool.” You blinked. “That’s it?” He shrugged. “I mean, you’ve been wanting something like this for ages. It’d be weird if you didn’t.” You sat up slowly, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I’m just saying,” he said, still lying down, still too calm, “you’ve been wanting this for ages.” You stared at him. “You sound like I told you I’m going to the store. Not that I’m leaving for three years.” He sat up now too, propping himself on one arm. “What do you want me to say?” “Something!” you snapped. “Anything! I tell you I’m leaving the country, and you barely blink. Is this how little I matter to you?” “That’s not fair,” he muttered. You were already getting to your feet. “No, what’s not fair is me being with someone who won’t even try. Who’s always stuck—always saying ‘someday’ and then getting weird the moment I actually move forward.” His jaw tightened. “Don’t.” “You don’t do anything, Minghao. You stay here and draw and talk about dreams like they’re too delicate to touch. At least I’m trying. At least I’m not scared.”

The silence that followed was instant, and thick.

You hadn’t planned to say that. You didn’t even know you were holding it. But now it was out there, hanging between you, awful and cold.

Minghao didn’t speak. He didn’t even look at you.

You grabbed your bag, chest tight with something worse than anger now. “I’ll let you know when I leave. You can decide if that’s worth reacting to.” And then you left. The door closed harder than you meant it to. Words echoed behind you. Ones you wished you could take back—but didn’t.

You didn’t talk to him for three days. It felt… off. Empty. Like someone had left a window open in your chest and all the warmth had slipped out. Maybe it was because you’d already woven him into the routine of your days. Or maybe it was because you couldn’t stop replaying what you said — the sharp, unkind words you threw at him like weapons when all he did was go quiet. You tried to push it away, but nothing felt right. The silence wasn’t space — it was distance. And you didn’t want to be far from him. Not like that.

So on the third night, after rehearsal, you took the long walk to his place, even though your legs ached and your throat was dry and you still didn’t know what you’d say when you saw him.

You didn’t have to knock. He opened the door before your fist landed, like he knew you’d come. He looked tired. But he stepped aside to let you in. Neither of you spoke at first.

Then you sat on the edge of his bed and said quietly, “I’m sorry.” He stood near the desk, hands in his pockets. His eyes softened, just a little. “I know,” he said. “Me too.” You chewed your lip. “I shouldn’t have said those things. About you. About… not trying. That wasn’t fair.”

Minghao walked over slowly and knelt in front of you. Took your hands. Gently. “You were angry. You wanted me to care.” “I did,” you admitted. “I wanted you to say something, anything. I felt like I was leaping into something huge and you were just... watching me go.” He looked up at you, eyes steady. “That’s not what I was doing.”

Your throat tightened.

“I didn’t want to hold you back,” he said, voice low. “But I never wanted you to think I didn’t care. I just... didn’t know how to show it without making it harder to leave.” You blinked fast. “There’s no problem between us anymore, right?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just rose to sit beside you, his hand still wrapped around yours. “Not if you stay tonight.” You looked at him, then you nodded. “I will.”

You both moved at the same time, like always — into a hug that was more relief than romance, his arms around your waist, your face tucked into the side of his neck. “I missed you,” you whispered. He pressed a kiss into your hair. “I missed you, too.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face, eyes searching his. Then, quietly, without hesitation, you kissed him. His hand came up to your cheek, warm and steady, like he was grounding you—like he was reminding you that you weren’t alone in this. When you pulled back, your foreheads rested together, and for the first time in days, everything felt quiet again— the good kind.

You smiled, just a little. “We’re okay now… right?” He nodded, barely. “Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours. “We’re okay.”

Things did not in fact feel okay. Minghao began spending time at his studio more often these days and said he didn’t have time to meet up as he had to submit a piece as soon as possible, which was surprising, really, because even though he used to swamped with work earlier he still made time to atleast see you in your studio or atleast walk home together. You were happy for him, really. But you felt that work had started to come between you. 

You both had started to talk less— have a minute conversation here and there, the kisses and hugs also began to decrease. There became a tension in your routine— conversations felt strained, it felt like walking on eggshells. And you were yet to talk about your offer in berlin. 

Your relationship started bleeding into your work.

You forgot steps more often now — the same routines your body once moved through like second nature now required second guesses. You spaced out mid-plié, gaze unfocused, fingers trembling slightly as you held onto the barre. During warm-ups, your limbs moved, but your mind was elsewhere — somewhere quieter, heavier, where Minghao's name echoed without permission.

Your teammates noticed.

Someone whispered your name during cooldown, concern written all over their face. “Are you okay? You seem... off lately.”

You offered a small smile, the kind meant to dismiss worry. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

They didn’t believe you. You could tell. But they didn’t press either — maybe out of respect, maybe out of fear of pushing too far. You were grateful for that. You didn’t think you could say it out loud yet.

But as you tied your shoes that evening, the laces slipping through your fingers twice, you made up your mind.

You couldn’t keep carrying the weight of what wasn’t being said. Not alone.

You would talk to him. Today.

Even if he was tired. Even if he didn’t want to hear it. Even if it meant finally speaking the thing you’d been swallowing for weeks now.

You needed to know where you stood — whether this was just a phase, or the beginning of the end.

So you packed your bag, heart pounding heavier with each zip, and left the studio, the cold air biting at your cheeks as you walked.

You were going to his apartment. Not to fight or cry. Just to ask — honestly, “Are we still okay?”

But things do not go as you plan, do they? You decided to go to both your favourite burger place and do some take-outs. You thought maybe, if you brought dinner and showed up with something familiar, it might be easier to talk. You wouldn’t sit across from each other like strangers at a table, wouldn’t have to look too directly at the things you were both avoiding.

But when you reach his apartment, you see him, with a woman.

You freeze, instinctively ducking behind the nearest parked car. You don’t know why — there’s no reason to hide. You trust Hao… You do. But your body moves before your thoughts catch up.

She’s standing close to him, a pretty woman with shoulder-length hair and a laugh that rings across the street. She places a hand on his arm, fingers brushing over the curve of his bicep. He doesn’t pull away.

And what’s worse is that he’s laughing too. You don’t remember the last time you saw him this carefree. Not with you.

Your chest tightens, but you can’t tell if it’s from hurt, or shame, or the sharp sting of something that feels a lot like jealousy. The burger bags in your hands feel stupid now, so do you.

You stand up quickly, ducking your head, and walk away.

You don’t call him. Don’t send a message. Don’t even check to see if he’s noticed you. You just walk until the cold settles into your coat and your fingers are numb and the ache in your chest drowns out everything else.

You throw the food away two blocks later.

That night, you lie awake and scroll through your old photos together. You keep telling yourself there’s probably an explanation — maybe she’s a gallery assistant or a client. But even so, that image of them — him smiling, her laughing keeps looping behind your eyelids.

You don’t speak to him for two days. Not out of anger because you’re not even sure what you’d be angry about. 

He texts you once, asking how rehearsal went. You type out “fine” but never send it.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re tired orr busy. But the truth is, you’re scared that if you open your mouth, everything you’ve been holding back will spill out at once and you won’t know how to stop it.

The Berlin offer sits in your bag for days, folded neatly in an envelope, its edges beginning to bend and soften from being carried around like a secret.

You finally bring it up on a Thursday night.

You’re both on his couch — a rare moment where neither of you is running off to something else. He’s sketching absentmindedly in his notebook, head down, brows slightly furrowed, while some documentary murmurs from the TV.

You take a quick breath before saying, “i decided to accept it.”

He shoots you a confused look. “The Berlin offer. I decided to take it.”

That makes him pause. You can see the way his pencil stills in his hand, “That’s great.”

“I’ll be gone forr three years, hao.”

Minghao closes his sketchbook and puts it on the teapoy in front of you. You watch him, your heart pressing against your ribs. He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together like he’s trying to anchor himself.

Finally he speaks, “three years is a long time.”

You nod. Then the silence that follows is thick.

“I want you to come with me.”

He looks at you, waiting for you to continue. “There’s this friend of my friend— he is a curator in a big gallery there. I could ask him to arrange something for you.”

You know he’s not going to accept— hao was a firm believer of reaching the heights on your own. But you still hoped that he’d say yes, say he can’t stay apart from you.

“I… i can’t. They want to give me my own show. and you know how hard i worked for this— i just can’t give up now.”

You knew it already but knowing you can’t stay apart from him and not get hurt. So you say what you think is the best for the both of you.

“I don’t want to hold you in a strained, long-distance relationship. I won’t ask you to wait for me.”

You say it like a truth. Because it is one. And because love, you’ve learned, sometimes looks like letting go before it turns into something you both begin to resent.

His head lifts slightly, and this time, his eyes find yours.

“I wouldn’t want you to,” he says. His voice is even, but not cold. “You’re meant to go.”

You blink hard.

“I still love you,” you whisper. “That hasn’t changed.”

His lips twitch in the faintest smile. “I know. I love you too.”

You reach for his hand, fingers barely brushing against his. And even that small touch feels like something unraveling.

He pulls you into a hug — arms warm and firm, chin resting on your shoulder like always. You close your eyes and try to memorize the feeling of him. His scent, the sound of his heartbeat, the quiet way he holds you like he doesn’t want to let go.

When you’re at the door, you hear him call your name.

When you turn around, Minghao is already reaching for something — a sketchbook on the shelf, one of the older ones with worn edges. He flips through it carefully, until he pulls out a single sheet tucked between the pages. 

A drawing.

You recognize it instantly — it’s you. Caught mid-spin, arms lifted above your head, eyes closed in some distant joy. You don’t remember when he sketched it, but he must’ve been watching. He always watched you like that, like you were something he didn’t want to forget.

He walks over and gently places it in your hands.

“The ninety-ninth,” he says softly.

You blink. “Ninety-ninth?”

A faint smile curves his lips, “this is the last one. Guess we couldn’t make it till the hundredth one.”

You look down at the drawing, trying hard to hold back the tears. Your fingers curl around the page.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

There’s nothing else to say, really. You press the drawing to your chest and step outside.

He doesn’t follow. He just stays by the door, watching you walk away.

You don’t look back, because you know if you do, your knees might give in.

Living in Berlin was nice. The people were kind in a quiet, polite way, and the air always smelled faintly like rain or coffee. Your days blurred between rehearsals, costume fittings, and back-to-back performances. You missed home. More than that, you missed him.

You hadn’t contacted Minghao after leaving. He didn’t come to see you at the airport the day you left. You still thought of him. When you were walking home late after a show, when you saw couples crossing the street — holding hands, when you passed someone sketching on a park bench. You wondered how he was — if he still thought of you.

It was a quiet afternoon. You were curled up on the studio couch, scrolling through your phone, when your friend Clara walked in, excited about some gallery opening she’d been invited to.

“Big deal, apparently,” she said, waving a folded pamphlet in the air. “The artist’s finally doing a public show after years. Really selective. I heard even Vogue Deutschland is covering it.” You barely glanced up, offering a tired smile. “You and your galleries.” Clara laughed and tossed the pamphlet on the cushion beside you. “Just look at it before you judge.”

You picked it up without thinking, thumbing through the folds. And then you saw it.

His name. Xu Minghao. Your heart skipped a beat. The letters blurred for a moment — your eyes trying to catch up with your thoughts. There was no picture, but you knew it was him. The world quieted around you. Even Clara’s excited rambling faded to a hum. You stared at the flyer, frozen, as something you had carefully buried began to rise again.

~~~~

You didn’t tell Clara you were going. She ended up getting sick the night before anyway, so you offered to swing by the exhibit in her place, dropping casual excuses about needing a walk and having nothing else planned. You dressed in something simple — a long coat, clean lines, ballet flats. You pulled your hair back the way he used to like it, but you pretended that wasn’t why.

The gallery was nestled on a quiet street off Kurfürstendamm. Minimalist signage, white brick walls, and warm yellow lights glowing from inside. You stepped inside. It was quiet. Soft jazz filtered through invisible speakers. There was a small crowd, polite murmurs bouncing between the whitewashed walls. People were sipping wine and leaning in to look at sketches — all black-and-white.

You moved slowly, almost afraid to look too closely. And then, near the center, you found the title piece. The 100th.

You stood in front of it for a long time. Your eyes started tearing up before you even knew it. Everything inside you — the years, the distance, the silence — began to collapse inward. There was a murmur behind you. A couple chatting softly. “…that’s the one he finished just a few months ago, right?” “Yeah. Heard he kept it unfinished for years. Said he couldn’t close the series until he was ready.”

You swallowed. Your mouth went dry. You turned your head, slow and cautious, and your heart stumbled. There he was.

Standing just across the room, half turned in conversation with the gallery owner. He hadn’t noticed you yet. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his coat, hair falling slightly into his eyes. He was laughing at something the man said — that quiet, crinkled kind of laugh you remembered too well. He looked… good. Older. Still Minghao. You didn’t know what you were feeling. Grief? Relief?

You didn’t move. Just watched him — a ghost of a thousand memories painted into one man, standing not five steps away. He laughed again, but then… he glanced up. And his eyes found yours.

His words faltered mid-sentence. He stopped. Everything around you seemed to fall silent — the murmurs, the clinking glasses, the velvet footsteps on gallery floors. It was just you, him. And the weight of all the years between. And then, he smiled — warm. Which you couldn’t help but return. And in that quiet moment — with a hundred drawings on the wall and strangers walking between you — that was enough.

many just call that term "friend group," but again, friend and minghao in the same sentence do not exist in your head at all. everyone always tells you to tolerate him, which you do (sometimes), but most times he somehow ticks you off, even if he doesn't talk to you. so, no, you can't tolerate this man.

he always runs his mouth about himself. there isn't a day when he doesn't yammer something highly about himself. now, confidence is the key, is what everyone quotes. however, minghao's confidence is on a different level. not only does he have to let people know about his superiority complex, he shows it to basically anyone.

the worst part of knowing him is the fact you grew up seeing him turn from bad to worse. you had been put into an unfortunate situation where you went to the same schools, had the same friends, and it even got to the point where you both had a crush on the same person.

and of course, the moment you two find out about liking said person, minghao just had to go off about you, not about you liking the same person, but about how his (your) crush is way out of your league and that he's the "better" option for them.

after that, nothing really happened to your crush. it just so happens that both of you stopped liking them. although ever since that, minghao doesn't talk about his love life. he always says getting a partner has no benefit to him.

you barely try to help him get a significant other. you wouldn't wish your second-worst enemy on this man; he was already horrible enough. the only few times you ever seriously tried were whenever you had friends that could most likely put up with him.

you've seen every side of him growing up other than his usual arrogant self. you've seen him pretend to be nonchalant around girls and get ecstatic when someone pays him back money they owed him from eight months ago; you've even seen him cry in his car, which was the only time you felt bad for him.

however, seeing him drunk was something you've never foreseen from him. you're at a friend's party, and since you and minghao share the same set of friends, he's also there. he's currently in the kitchen with seokmin while you're in the living room, sitting on one of the couches.

you were alone and on your phone. when unexpectedly, minghao leans his arms on top of the sofa's back, placing his head on his arms. he does nothing but stare at you. you don't pay attention, only quick glances from your hands to him. then you move to the side, keeping a distance between the two of you.

"you must be fun at parties," he quips, still keeping his eyes on you.

"at least i don't enslave myself to alcohol." his mixed scent of wine and cologne runs through your nose; it's intoxicating.

he stays silent. one of the only factors that keeps minghao is you always know how to humble him, whether it's by words or actions.

he moves closer to you, but this time, you don't move away. "do you always act like this? because for a pretty girl like you, you're using your mouth for the wrong purpose."

pretty. it's unbelievable that word came out of his mouth. it was always negative sayings from him. you were anything but pretty in his eyes. last time, you heard him call you atrocious; now, all of a sudden, he's saying nice words.

minghao's face is now extremely close to your head; his lips are basically resting on your hair. you can't move. it feels like you're covered in invisible seatbelts that prevent you from getting up. your cheeks are heating up from the proximity.

"maybe, instead of setting me up with someone that can kill my so-called ego, how about you go look for someone who can change that attitude of yours?" he drawls, basically speaking into your ear.

he continues. "unless you're too much of a coward to go even look for one. it's okay, though; someone said we look good together."

"no we don't," you retort quickly, turning your head away from him.

"typical response from you," he snarks, causing you to turn back to direct your attention to him. once your faces finally meet, your lips almost touch. you move back in shock from the contact, and a smirk forms on his mouth.

"call me when you're ready for a boyfriend." he gets up from leaning on the couch and heads off. you watch him walk down the hall and stop in front of the bathroom door. before he enters, he looks at you, and that same stupid smug expression is plastered on his face.

he's clearly waiting for you to break.

svt masterlist .ᐟ