#mingyu ff

Chan, standing awkwardly in front of him, didn’t have to say it out loud — Mingyu could see it in his eyes. The pity. The faint flicker of concern. The quiet acknowledgement that his boss, Kim Mingyu— once the golden boy of cinema, was now a man backed into a corner. Desperation clung to him like a scent he couldn’t wash off.

In his head, numbers marched in a relentless parade: overdue production costs, personal loans, the rent for the studio, the next wire transfer for his sister’s tuition in London. His parents’ medical bills from the high-end hospital that insisted on charging per minute of consultation. Even the bills from The Wild Club, that neon-lit sanctuary two blocks away where he drowned his thoughts in bass and whiskey. Every figure was a reminder, he couldn’t afford another failure.

He finally looked up, eyes dark and sharp, his voice low but threaded with disbelief.

“Are you sure it was discussed? Writer Ji would never reject my offer.”

The words came out like a dare not just to Chan, but to the universe itself. Because if you really had turned him down, then maybe this was more than bad luck. Maybe fate itself was ready to watch him burn.

Mingyu leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning under the shift of his weight. His eyes narrowed on Chan as if he could will a different answer out of him.

“Then what exactly did she say, Chan? Word for word.”

Chan shifted on his feet, clearly stalling, glancing briefly at the floor before meeting Mingyu’s gaze again. His hesitation was enough to set Mingyu’s teeth on edge.

Finally, Chan cleared his throat, his voice lowered this time, almost cautious.

“Her assistant… mentioned something. Slipped, actually. Said something about… writer’s block? Depression?”

The words hit him like a glass of ice water. Mingyu’s posture snapped upright, his hand stilling mid-tap on the desk.

“What?”

It didn’t make sense. You? The most graceful, composed, and untouchable person in the industry? The one whose scripts could rip open a heart with a single line?

He searched Chan’s face for any sign of exaggeration, but found only an uncomfortable truth lingering there.

“Are you certain about this?”

Chan let out a long breath, his fingers rising to scratch the back of his head in a nervous habit.

“Her assistant said it, but didn’t elaborate. Just… let it slip.”

The office fell into a heavy silence. Outside, the muffled hum of the city seeped through the glass windows, but Mingyu barely heard it. All he could think about was that one word, depression, and how it didn’t belong in the same sentence as your name. Not in his mind. Not in his world.

Mingyu remembered the first time he met you.

It was during the chaos of his final year, after he had all but confessed to his lecturer — who would listen about his struggle to finish his graduation project. His supposed screenwriter, Boo Seungkwan, had decided to take a semester off, leaving Mingyu stranded with nothing but a half-baked script he had written in a drunken haze one sleepless night.

Four knocks came at the door that afternoon, sharp, deliberate, and rhythmic. The kind of beat you did not forget once you heard it. When the door creaked open, you stepped in, your head ducked politely.

"You’re looking for me, sir?" you asked, cautious, as if making sure it was not Hansol playing one of his infamous pranks.

Your lecturer’s voice broke the momentary silence.

"Have a seat, Y/n. This is Kim Mingyu. He is one of your seniors and currently working on his final project."

Mingyu barely registered the formal introduction. He was too busy watching you, curious about the way you carried yourself. You were quiet, composed, and yet there was an alertness in your eyes that suggested you saw more than you let on.

That was the day your lecturer handed him the script you had written for your writing project. It was a single bound copy, plain on the outside but sharp as glass on the inside. You sat there as he flipped through the first few pages, and by the time he reached the midpoint he knew without question that you were the best choice he had ever made in his life.

His final project, fueled by your words, went on to receive the highest score in his year, a win so decisive it made the faculty take notice.

When the results came in, Mingyu found you outside the lecture hall, still half in disbelief.

"Debut with me," he said, his grin reckless and his confidence absolute. "I’ll make sure you become the best writer in the future."

It was not a question. It was a promise. And it was one you did not yet realize would change both your careers forever.

*

Mingyu had seen it one night.

He was slouched on the couch in your small apartment studio, a half-empty can of beer in his hand, while you sat at your desk with your back hunched over the keyboard. The glow from your laptop lit up your face in sharp angles, the room otherwise swallowed by shadows. You called it your ritual, claiming the words only ever came when the air was cold and the lights were dimmed.

He had watched silently as you typed, your fingers moving with an urgency that was almost feverish. You were writing Earth is Flat, though at the time neither of you could have predicted it would be the story that would launch you onto the international stage. That it would be the script to earn you awards, acclaim, and offers from studios all over the world. To him, back then, it was simply a night with you, the sound of tapping keys, and the occasional sip of beer.

A groan broke from your throat as you stretched your arms high above your head, then flexed your fingers with a wince. Mingyu chuckled quietly, pushing himself up from the couch. He walked over and set a fresh can of beer on the desk beside you with a soft thud.

"It’s impressive how you do this," he murmured, leaning against the edge of the desk, eyes on the endless stream of words scrolling across your screen.

You turned slightly, one brow raised.

"Do what?"

"How is it possible for you to write so much in such a short time?" His voice carried a mix of awe and curiosity, though underneath it was something quieter, almost reverent.

To him, the sight of you writing wasn’t just impressive. It was magic.

Mingyu had only been joking when he said it at his graduation party.

"Let’s write something," he tossed out casually between drinks, not expecting you to take him seriously.

But the next morning, his phone buzzed with a message from you. Attached was a photo of a messy but brilliant mind map scribbled across your notebook: What’s true? What’s false? What do we believe? What do we laugh at but some people swear is real?

He stared at it for a long moment, blinking through the remnants of his hangover, before typing back a single line.

"What is this?"

Your reply came almost instantly.

"Come to my place tonight. I’ll let you read the draft."

And he did. He showed up at your apartment in sweatpants and a faded denim jacket thrown over a plain t-shirt, carrying a plastic bag of canned beer like a peace offering. He knocked in that steady rhythm you always remembered, and you opened the door with a script already in hand.

You placed the draft into his palms before he could even step inside. Across the cover, the title was scrawled in your neat handwriting: Earth is Flat.

Inside, he found a world unlike anything he had ever imagined. A young boy named Jinyoung, lost and fragile, drawn into a cult that preached the Earth was flat. The pages pulled him deeper, introducing Jang Kiyong, a mysterious figure written as the guardian sent by God, destined to pull them back from the brink of destruction — to save them from what the cult ominously called Earth Break.

Mingyu sank onto your couch with the script in one hand and a can of beer in the other. The words gripped him, unsettling and magnetic. Halfway through, he glanced up at you across the room. You were leaning against your desk, arms crossed, waiting for his reaction.

"Y/n," he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief, "this isn’t just writing. This is… something else."

And you only smiled, the kind of smile that told him you had known all along what you had created.

The movie that had once been nothing but an idea between the two of you brought you both to sit side by side at your very first award show. It was surreal—Mingyu receiving recognition as a breakthrough director, you being honored as the best newcomer screenwriter. The applause, the flashes, the whispers of industry people around you— it all felt like a dream neither of you had prepared for. Mingyu signed his first big studio contract that night, while you—quietly, almost unnoticed—were still finishing your final semester at university.

“Romance? I can write romance,” you told him one evening, seated together again, this time in Mingyu’s sleek new apartment—the one he bought from the earnings of your first indie hit. The place still smelled faintly of fresh paint and ambition. “But won’t it be too common, then?” you asked, fiddling with the edge of your notebook.

“Romance will never be too common from you,” Mingyu replied, his voice firm, his gaze steady, carrying the kind of encouragement that had the power to ignite you.

You exhaled, half in doubt, half in surrender. “What kind of romance?”

Mingyu leaned back against the couch, a smile tugging at his lips while his mind worked faster than his words. He wanted something layered—slow burn, emotional, maybe even tragic. “Romeo and Juliet?” he suggested with a mock seriousness.

You laughed under your breath. “Really?”

He rolled his eyes dramatically, grabbing one of the cushions and tossing it at you. “C’mon. What’s wrong with a man falling head over heels for a woman’s beauty? Love at first sight is still love.”

You shook your head, but you couldn’t help smiling. The banter, the challenge, the spark—it was exactly what pushed your pen to move. And from that playful exchange came Mingyu’s biggest cinematic triumph.

The film was called Fair Woman—a reimagining of romance that turned into an elegant, biting critique of society’s obsession with beauty standards. A story that began with a laugh on Mingyu’s couch went on to soar through the industry, cementing both of your names as artists unafraid to blend tenderness with truth.

*

Mingyu stood in front of your door, staring at the number for a moment as though confirming it was still the same. He hadn’t planned to come, but his car somehow carried him here anyway. Curiosity and something softer gnawed at him, wondering if you still lived in the same unit he once helped you get five years ago.

It was winter then, the night he had stepped inside after his premiere tour. He remembered the sharp bite of the cold air the second he entered your previous one. The heater had broken, and your small apartment felt more like an icebox. You stood there, rolling out dough with your sleeves pushed up, stubbornly focused on making homemade ravioli you had just learned from a short cooking course. You revealed it was part of your “observation for a scene,” though the way you tried to make the folds perfect gave away how much you actually enjoyed it.

“How could you live in this kind of house, Y/n?” Mingyu frowned, his tall frame leaning against the counter, arms crossed as his eyes swept the chilly room.

You only shrugged, brushing flour from your hands. “US got you a bit smug, huh?” you teased, your lips quirking into a grin.

Mingyu bit his lip, clearly not amused. “I care, Y/n. How could I let my good friend live in a place like this? You’ll get sick.”

You paused mid-fold, arching a brow at him. “So, I’m just a good friend? Even after ten years of writing for you?”

Mingyu groaned, facepalming dramatically before lowering his hand to reveal the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. “That wasn’t the point.” He reached into his pocket and immediately pulled out his phone. “I’ll look for a new unit for you.”

“Pay it too!” you shot back, half-joking but half-hopeful.

“First year and deposit,” Mingyu replied without hesitation, his voice serious before his finger pointed straight at you in mock threat. “But you owe me that thriller script. Don’t think I’ll forget.”

“Kim Mingyu?”

A voice calling his name made him turn, and his breath caught. There you were—a figure he hadn’t seen in over 2 years.

For a moment, Mingyu simply stared, his tall frame frozen as if time had stilled. The last time your face had graced the public eye was after the tragic plane crash that took both of your parents. He hadn’t been able to attend the funeral, tied down overseas, and the guilt had gnawed at him every day since. He hadn’t seen you in person either—not once, not even a glimpse.

Just yesterday, he had pulled up an old photo of you on the internet. He told himself it was curiosity, but deep down, he knew it was longing. For a decade, you’d been a constant—your apartment had been his second home, your late-night conversations his sanctuary, your presence a comfort he never acknowledged until it was gone.

And then, seeing that photo had twisted something inside him. You looked hollow. Grief weighed heavily in your eyes, your smile missing, your aura dimmed. He remembered Chan muttering that you’d been “depressing” lately, and it only burned the thought deeper in his mind.

How bad had it gotten?

“Ji Y/n…” he whispered, your name tumbling out like an old habit he hadn’t shaken, heavy with both relief and remorse.

But then—unexpectedly—you smiled. Brightly. As if you hadn’t been carrying grief at all. As if you hadn’t been broken in ways he feared. The brightness caught him off guard, making him wonder whether you were masking the pain or if you had found a way to survive without him.

You walked closer, your steps steady, your voice light when you said, “You’re in Seoul.”

Mingyu instinctively stepped back, nervous energy prickling through his veins. He nodded stiffly, one hand flying to scratch the back of his head like he always did when words failed him.

“Yeah… I was about to ring the bell.”

Then he noticed. The dress you wore was yellow, a color he had never seen on you before. It was bright, almost radiant, and for a moment he wondered if it was the dress that made you glow, or if it was you. Your hair was longer now, cascading past your shoulders, and your skin looked plump and healthy. You looked happy—so far from what Chan or even your assistant had said about you.

Mingyu’s chest tightened. He had braced himself for shadows under your eyes, for traces of grief carved into your face, but instead he was met with a version of you he didn’t recognize. Or maybe, he thought, he was seeing you in a way he never had before.

“Fancy seeing you here. Let’s get inside,” you said lightly, as if his presence wasn’t shaking you both to the core. You tapped in the password and pushed the door open, stepping aside so he could follow.

Mingyu hesitated on the threshold. The moment he crossed into your home, he realized he wasn’t just entering your apartment. He was stepping into your world— the world he had stopped being part of.

*

“You didn’t call.”

Your words hit him harder than you intended. Mingyu froze, turning toward you as you stood behind the kitchen counter, pulling out groceries one by one. Fresh fruits and vegetables rolled across the counter, their colors bright against the polished surface. He blinked. You eat fresh food now?

Mingyu nodded slowly, his voice quieter than usual. “I… changed my phone and couldn’t find your number. I did try to contact you through your assistant.”

You glanced at him briefly, a faint smile tugging at your lips—polite, but not quite warm. “Yeah, a month ago. I thought you were going to call me yourself. I didn’t even know who Lee Chan was until he introduced himself as your assistant.”

He cleared his throat, searching for composure. “He’s new. I recruited him a year ago. Graduated from our school too.”

You finally looked up, meeting his gaze. There was no tension in your face, just calm detachment, as if you’d long accepted his absence. “That’s amazing,” you said softly.

Mingyu watched you quietly, his eyes following the easy rhythm of your movements—the way you unpacked groceries, arranged them neatly, and brushed stray hair from your face. There was a kind of peace in the way you moved, something that felt foreign to him. You seemed lighter, calmer… unreachable.

You must have noticed his gaze lingering because your hands stilled. Slowly, you looked up, meeting his eyes with a small tilt of your head.

“Have a seat, Mingyu,” you said, voice steady but soft, the faintest trace of amusement in your tone. “It’s not your first time here, is it?”

The familiarity in your words hit him like a quiet ache. Of course it wasn’t. He used to know every inch of this place—the sound of your kettle, the corner where you always left your drafts, the creak of the floor near your bedroom door. But now, standing here, everything felt different. Even you felt different.

He sat down on one of the stools, the faint scrape of the chair legs against the floor filling the silence. You were already by the counter, moving with quiet ease as you prepared coffee from a sleek machine sitting neatly beside the sink.

Mingyu couldn’t help but stare. You used to hate coffee machines. You’d always insisted they were unnecessary.

“It’s simple, Mingyu,” you once said, waving a packet of instant coffee at him. “You buy it, you make it. No complicated steps needed.”

And yet, here you were—grinding beans, tamping them neatly, your fingers drumming softly against the counter as you waited for the espresso to brew. The air filled with the rich, bitter aroma that used to belong to him, the smell of late nights and deadlines.

When the machine finally let out a soft hiss, you smiled and poured the shot into a small cup, sliding it toward him with practiced ease. “Two shots for Mr. Director.”

Mingyu couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips, a mix of nostalgia and disbelief flickering through his eyes. “Thanks,” he murmured, wrapping his hands around the warm cup.

It felt strangely intimate—like the warmth in his palms came not from the coffee, but from being here again, in a place that had changed, yet still carried your quiet traces.

The two of you sat together on the stools, face to face. The silence hung comfortably at first, then stretched—filled only by the faint hum of the coffee machine cooling down. Neither of you spoke, both choosing to sip quietly, the steam curling between you like a fragile bridge.

When your eyes finally met, you raised a brow. Mingyu lifted his cup slightly, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “This is good,” he said.

You smiled back, soft and polite. “How are you, Mingyu?”

It was a simple question, yet it hit him like something heavier. The same question he had been wanting to ask you since the moment he saw you.

“I’m great, as you see…” He tried for nonchalance, but the hesitation in his voice betrayed him. “Still me.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him with quiet amusement. “I can tell. Do you like it? Living in L.A.?”

Mingyu nodded, lips pressing together before he answered. “Yeah… but everything’s expensive there.”

You smiled faintly. “Rice too?”

That made him laugh—a short, quiet sound that broke the air between you. “Especially rice. I remember not eating any grains for months.”

Your brows furrowed. “That’s horrible,” you said, your tone somewhere between genuine concern and teasing disbelief. He looked at you then, longer than necessary.

“You…”

The word lingered on Mingyu’s tongue, fragile and uncertain. He stopped there, his gaze fixed somewhere between your eyes and the rim of his cup. You waited, patient, curious—but when the silence stretched too long, he chuckled softly, breaking it before it could suffocate him.

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head as if scolding himself. What’s wrong with you, Kim Mingyu? The confident director who could command a set of hundreds, charm investors, and pitch impossible dreams—gone. Reduced to a man who couldn’t even string together a simple how are you in front of you.

You tilted your head slightly, lips curling in amusement. “What?”

“Nothing,” he muttered, smiling, though his pulse said otherwise. The tension in the air was so familiar—comfortable, electric, and utterly unbearable all at once.

You leaned slightly forward, elbows resting on the counter, your eyes still fixed on him. “What?” you asked again, a little softer this time, the corners of your lips lifting as if you already knew the answer.

Mingyu shook his head, still smiling, still pretending he wasn’t crumbling inside. But you didn’t look away. You just waited, patient as ever—the same way you used to wait for him to find the right words for a scene.

“Come on,” you said, voice low but teasing. “You don’t usually run out of words, Director Kim.”

He exhaled a small laugh, defeated. “Yeah… not when it’s about scripts.”

“Then what is this about?” you asked, half-joking but half-curious.

His hand tightened slightly around the cup, knuckles whitening before he finally spoke. “You. It’s about you.”

Your smile faltered, but you didn’t look away. The air shifted—quiet, heavier now, like the pause before a confession.

Mingyu hesitated again, his voice dropping. “I heard… things. That you weren’t doing well.” His eyes softened, searching yours. “But seeing you now… I don’t know, Y/n. You look different. Happier. And I can’t tell if I’m relieved or just late.”

You blinked slowly, the words settling between you like something fragile.

Then you smiled again—small, sincere, but distant.

“I am happy.”

Mingyu nodded, his gaze shifting to yours. “I’m glad, Y/n. You have no idea how glad I am.”

A long silence stretched between you, filled only by the quiet hum of the coffee machine cooling down. Then, softly, Mingyu said, “I’m sorry about your parents. I should’ve been there.”

You shook your head, waving off his apology before it could sink too deep. “You were busy. I understand.”

“But I’m your friend, Y/n,” he pressed, voice low but earnest.

You offered a small, knowing smile. “And you’re a busy filmmaker too.”

Mingyu let out a weak laugh, the kind that carried more regret than humor. “That’s not an excuse,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the rim of his cup. His gaze fell to the steam curling from his coffee, as if the words he wanted to say were hidden there somewhere.

You watched him, calm and unreadable, though there was a faint flicker in your eyes—something between understanding and old ache.

“I didn’t need anyone to fix it for me,” you said quietly. “I just needed time. That’s all.”

He nodded slowly, his jaw tightening before he spoke again. “Yeah, but still… I should’ve called. I kept thinking I’d reach out when things slowed down—but they never did. And suddenly, months passed, then a year…”

Your lips curved faintly, not unkindly. “And then Los Angeles happened.”

He looked up, meeting your eyes at last. There was a tired smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. And now here I am—back, sitting in your kitchen like nothing’s changed.”

You tilted your head, a soft laugh escaping. “Things did change, Mingyu.”

He smiled back, but there was something tender, almost wistful in it. “Yeah. You did.”

You raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to take it as a compliment or a reminder. “For better or worse?”

He didn’t hesitate this time. “For beautiful.”

Your breath caught, just for a moment, and you quickly hid it behind another small sip of coffee.

“And you have flowers now…” Mingyu remarked, amusement flickering in his tone.

You laughed, catching the tease instantly. “Don’t make fun of me.”

Mingyu chuckled, resting his elbow on the counter. “You used to throw away every bouquet you got from award nights, Y/n.”

You groaned and covered your face with your hand. “I know! Don’t remind me. I was terrible.”

He grinned, his gaze softening as he watched you. “Yeah… but it was kind of your charm.”

“They died so fast!” you said with a playful pout before your voice softened. “But still… they make a room feel livelier while they last.”

Mingyu smiled faintly, his eyes lingering on you a moment longer than they should. “Guess that’s what makes them worth keeping, then.”

The quiet hum of the room was suddenly broken by the unmistakable sound of Mingyu’s stomach growling.

Both of you froze for a second before Mingyu groaned, lowering his head onto the counter. “Oh no, that’s embarrassing,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against his arm.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “I have some ramyeon,” you offered, amused.

At that, Mingyu perked up immediately, pretending to regain his dignity as he stood. “I’ll cook,” he announced, already rolling up his sleeves like it was a mission.

You raised an eyebrow, smiling. “Still acting like my kitchen’s yours, huh?”

He glanced back with that same boyish grin that never failed to disarm you. “You said it yourself—I’m family in this kitchen.”

*

Mingyu sat still on the couch, the soft morning light spilling across the room. It was Monday now—he had stayed the entire weekend at your place. He’d eaten your cooking, slept in your guest room, laughed at your dry humor like he used to, even watched over your apartment while you went to your pilates class.

“In GTA, people steal houses,” he’d joked when you came back to find him lounging on your couch, using your blanket.

But now, the easy warmth between you had shifted—dimmed by a single sentence.

He had a lunch meeting after breakfast, so he lingered by the door, shoes already on, keys in hand, rehearsing the words in his head before finally saying them aloud.

“Do you still write, Y/n?” His voice came out quieter than intended, like he was afraid of the answer. It was, after all, the reason he came.

You looked at him, your expression unreadable, then slowly shook your head. “No. I stopped writing.”

Mingyu sighed, sinking deeper into the couch. The quiet of his apartment felt heavier than usual, pressing against his chest. He had been genuinely glad to see you again—relieved, even—but now that the warmth of that reunion had faded, reality crept back in like a cold draft.

You weren’t writing anymore.

He rubbed his temples, the frustration building behind his eyes. You were his last hope, the one person who could save his next project from sinking the way his last one had. The investors were growing impatient, the production house was losing faith, and the script he currently had was nowhere near what he needed.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring blankly at the floor. “What am I supposed to do now…” he muttered under his breath.

For years, every hit he made had your name behind it. Every scene that drew emotion, every dialogue that lingered in people’s minds—it all came from your pen. You were the secret to his success, even if no one said it out loud.

But now, you’d stopped writing.

He could still hear your soft voice echoing in his head: “No. I stopped writing.”

His jaw tightened. “You can’t just stop, Y/n…” he whispered to himself, voice rough. Not when he needed you more than ever.

The clinking of cutlery and the low murmur of business chatter filled the restaurant’s private dining room. Mingyu sat across from two producers and an investor, his suit perfectly pressed, his posture straight—but his mind was far from the conversation.

“Your last hit still dominates the streaming platforms,” one of the producers said with an approving grin. “Fair Woman is practically a modern classic now. The way it dissected beauty standards… genius work.”

Mingyu gave a polite nod, forcing a small smile. “That was a good one,” he said, swirling his glass of water. Your one, his mind added bitterly.

The older investor leaned back, eyeing Mingyu with genuine curiosity. “How’s Y/n, by the way? She hasn’t been active in the industry for a while, right?”

The question made Mingyu freeze for a split second. He tried to appear casual, setting his glass down carefully. “Yeah… she’s been taking some time off,” he said, his voice light, almost dismissive. “Focusing on herself, I guess.”

The producer chuckled. “A pity. Her writing was… sharp. The kind that made audiences uncomfortable in the best way.”

Mingyu’s lips curved into a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmured, “no one writes quite like her.”

There was a pause before another voice chimed in. “If you could get her for your next film, that would be something. People would kill to see another Kim Mingyu–Ji Y/n collaboration.”

Mingyu’s hand tightened around his fork. He looked down at the half-eaten steak on his plate, his appetite gone.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “So would I.”

“She never wrote for anyone else but you, I remember,” the producer said casually, slicing his steak as if he hadn’t just dropped a weight on Mingyu’s chest. “It was like she only trusted you to bring her stories to life. That chemistry you two had—unmatched.”

Mingyu’s hand froze midair, the fork hovering above his plate. A faint clatter echoed when he finally set it down.

Really?

He blinked, his mind rewinding through the years of projects, late nights, and scripts with your name neatly typed at the top. It was true—every screenplay that bore your signature had been under his direction. He had just never thought about it that way.

“I guess…” he muttered after a beat, clearing his throat. His voice came out rougher than he wanted. “We just understood each other’s work.”

The producer smiled, unaware of the storm behind Mingyu’s calm exterior. “That kind of partnership is rare. You two made magic together. Every frame felt alive, like the script and the direction were breathing in sync.”

Mingyu gave a tight smile, but his mind had already drifted miles away—from the crisp white tablecloth and polite laughter to a cluttered apartment that used to smell like burnt coffee and paper. He could see you again in that dim light, sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes glued to your laptop as your fingers flew across the keyboard.

He remembered your voice—calm, focused, a little teasing when he gave too many notes. He remembered the first time you cried while reading your own lines aloud, and how he’d quietly taken a photo of you then, because you looked… real.

Now the same hands that once shaped worlds hadn’t written a word in a year.

The conversation at the table blurred into background noise as Mingyu leaned back in his chair, his thoughts sinking deeper. You never wrote for anyone else.

Mingyu sat in the passenger seat, the car humming softly as the city lights flickered past the windows. A stack of scripts lay open on his lap, but he wasn’t really reading them. His mind was still stuck at that lunch meeting—the producer’s voice looping in his head.

She never wrote for anyone else but you.

He exhaled slowly, leaning back in his seat. “Do you have a hobby, Chan?”

Chan, who was focused on the road, blinked and glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “A hobby? Uh… yeah. I like working out.”

“Since when?” Mingyu asked.

“Not that long. Maybe… two years ago?”

Mingyu nodded, tapping the edge of the script against his thigh. “How about something you’ve done for a long time? Since you were younger, maybe?”

Chan thought for a moment. “Hmm… watching movies, I guess. I’ve always liked them.”

Mingyu shifted in his seat, turning slightly to face Chan. “If you suddenly stopped watching movies,” he asked quietly, “what would the reason be?”

Chan frowned, eyes still on the road. “Stopped… completely?”

Mingyu hummed in response.

“Well… maybe I’d lose interest. Or maybe something happened that made me associate movies with bad memories.”

Mingyu nodded, his gaze drifting to the passing lights outside. “Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Something like that.”

The car fell silent again, save for the sound of the engine and the occasional turn signal. Mingyu looked down at the script in his hands, its printed words blurring into nothing.

You used to say that writing was your way of breathing.

So what kind of pain could make someone like you stop breathing?

*

Mingyu met Seokmin that night at a quiet, dimly lit bar tucked behind Seokmin’s agency building. It was the kind of place where no one would bother celebrities—low jazz humming in the background, a few discreet regulars, and a bartender who never asked questions.

Seokmin arrived a few minutes late, still in his long coat, the exhaustion from a full day of shooting barely hidden behind his bright smile. “Man, you look like you haven’t slept in a week,” he teased, sliding into the booth across from Mingyu.

Mingyu let out a short laugh, rubbing his temple. “You’re not wrong.”

Seokmin waved the bartender for two drinks before leaning back. “So? What’s got our genius director looking this dead inside? The script?”

Mingyu sighed, staring down at the untouched glass of whiskey in front of him. “Yeah. And the writer.”

Seokmin raised a brow. “The writer? Don’t tell me…” He grinned knowingly.

“Y/n.”

Seokmin’s brows shot up the moment Mingyu mentioned your name. He had been halfway through taking a sip of his drink when he froze, the glass hovering near his lips.

“Wait—hold on,” he said, setting it down with a soft clink. “You met Y/n?”

Mingyu nodded, his eyes still fixed on the table. “Yeah. Yesterday.”

Seokmin leaned back, visibly surprised. “You’re kidding. After all this time? I thought she’d completely disappeared from everyone’s radar.”

“She did,” Mingyu muttered. “Until I showed up at her door.”

Seokmin blinked, then laughed under his breath. “You what? You just… went to her place? Out of nowhere?”

Mingyu gave a small, guilty shrug. “I needed to talk to her. About the new project.”

“Of course it’s about a project,” Seokmin said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You didn’t even text first?”

“I didn’t have her number,” Mingyu replied defensively—though the faint embarrassment on his face gave him away.

Seokmin smirked, leaning closer. “So what happened? Did she throw you out?”

Mingyu sighed, resting his forearms on the table. “No. She… let me in.”

That made Seokmin pause. His teasing expression softened, curiosity replacing it. “And?”

“She looked different,” Mingyu said after a moment, voice quieter now. “Her place looked different too. It’s like… she built a whole new world without me in it.”

Seokmin nodded slowly, the weight of the words settling between them. “That must’ve hit hard.”

Mingyu chuckled dryly, finishing his drink in one swallow. “Harder than I thought.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The soft jazz played on, and Mingyu’s gaze drifted toward the dark window—his reflection looking more lost than tired.

Seokmin finally broke the silence. “So… what are you going to do now?”

Mingyu’s fingers tightened around the glass. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I need her. For the film. For everything.”

He looked up, the corner of his mouth twitching. “She’s not writing anymore.”

Seokmin’s grin faded. “What do you mean not writing? She’s Y/n. Writing’s like—her entire existence.”

“I know,” Mingyu said quietly, swirling the drink in his hand. “But she told me herself. She stopped. Completely.”

Seokmin leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Did she say why?”

Mingyu shook his head. “No. And I didn’t ask.”

That earned him a soft laugh from Seokmin. “Classic Mingyu—too scared to ask the one thing that matters.”

Mingyu shot him a look, but his silence said Seokmin was right.

“She looked different, Seokmin,” Mingyu said finally, his tone softer now. “Happier, maybe. Healthier. But when I asked about writing, she said it like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter anymore.”

Seokmin studied him for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. “And that bothers you because… you need her script, or because it’s her?”

Seokmin’s question hung in the air, unanswered. Mingyu’s gaze stayed on his drink, the soft light glinting off the rim of the glass.

“I need a new hit, Seokmin,” he finally said, voice low but steady.

Seokmin looked at him, quiet now. There was something different in Mingyu’s tone — less about ambition, more about survival.

“You think Y/n’s the key to that?” he asked.

Mingyu leaned back, eyes distant. “She always was.”

Seokmin let out a quiet whistle, leaning back in his seat. “You’re desperate, man. Never seen you like this since… college.”

Mingyu huffed a small laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Maybe I am. Things were easier then — I made films because I loved it. Now I’m just trying not to fail.”

Seokmin studied him for a long moment, his expression softening. “You won’t fail. You never do. But chasing the same magic from before? That’s not how it works, Mingyu.”

Mingyu’s gaze drifted back to the bar counter. “I know. But she’s the only one who ever understood how to make my stories breathe.”

Seokmin leaned back in his chair, a teasing grin spreading across his face. “I mean, seriously—showing up at her door out of nowhere? That’s not professional, that’s… cinematic.”

Mingyu groaned. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” Seokmin said, laughing. “Director Kim Mingyu, king of box office and heartbreaks, suddenly rediscovering his muse? Sounds like a movie already.”

Mingyu rolled his eyes, but the corner of his lips twitched. “If you’re done dramatizing, maybe help me figure out what to do next.”

“Sure,” Seokmin said, still grinning. “Step one—don’t stalk her. Step two—actually talk to her like a normal human, not like a director trying to cast her in a film.”

“I did talk to her,” Mingyu said, sounding a little defensive.

“Yeah, and I bet you mentioned your project within the first five minutes.”

“Remind me again why I tell you things,” Mingyu muttered, shaking his head.

Seokmin gave a short, dry laugh. “You just sounded like a man in love.” He paused, his gaze steady on Mingyu. “But for real, man… you took a lot for granted with her.”

Mingyu didn’t argue—he just stared down at his empty glass, the faint sound of ice melting filling the silence between them.

*

Mingyu woke with a start, breath shallow and eyes blinking into the gray light leaking through the blinds. For a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was — Seoul, his apartment, the present. His heart was pounding like he’d just run from something. But as the fog in his mind began to clear, realization hit him.

It wasn’t a dream.

It was a memory.

One he’d buried so deep he almost convinced himself it had never happened. But it wasn’t just a scene his mind had conjured up in the middle of the night. It was real — the office, the tension, your face across from him, that quiet look in your eyes when you realized he didn’t understand you anymore.

Three years ago.

The night he rejected your script.

He could still remember the faint hum of the air conditioner in his office, the city lights spilling through the glass walls, and the way you stood near his desk — a little nervous, but hopeful — holding the fresh stack of pages you said you’d stayed up all night finishing.

“It’s too simple, Y/n,” Mingyu had said after flipping through a few pages. His tone had been calm, professional, but detached. Too detached.

“Really?” you asked, frowning. “Why?”

He’d sighed, setting the script down like it had disappointed him personally. “It’s… very… I don’t know. I can’t say the word without sounding like a patriarch.”

Your brows rose. “Feminist?”

Mingyu hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. It’s degrading men too much. It feels… old-fashioned. That’s not what feminism is now.”

You stood there quietly for a moment, lips pressed into a thin line. Then, softly, almost to yourself, you said, “But… men are losers.”

That made him laugh — a short, helpless chuckle as he leaned back in his chair. “I know,” he said, half amused, half uncertain. “I got the premise.”

You didn’t smile. “No, you don’t. Read the whole script.”

He glanced at his watch instead, already distracted. “I’m sorry, Y/n, but I have a meeting. I’ll read it again once you revise it.”

But you never did.

That script — One Who Never Thinks — became the last one you ever offered him. The last time you stood in his office, eyes dimming beneath the weight of disappointment he didn’t recognize back then.

Now, sitting on the edge of his bed years later, Mingyu buried his face in his hands.

He could still see your expression that night, the quiet way you gathered your pages and smiled like it didn’t matter.

But it did.

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple.

He could still remember the folder — the pale blue one you always used when submitting drafts. You said blue made you feel calm. The last time he saw it was in his office archives, buried somewhere between film proposals and contracts he never revisited.

Without thinking twice, Mingyu stood.

By the time he reached the studio, the building was empty except for the faint hum of the elevator. He punched in his passcode and stepped inside his office, the familiar scent of paper and dust greeting him.

The cabinet in the corner was locked. Of course it was. He crouched down, fumbling for the right key in his drawer, muttering to himself as if the silence would answer.

Finally, with a small click, it opened. Stacks of old scripts, labeled and forgotten, filled the narrow space. Midnight Rain, The Sunroom, Flicker, Autumn Field—his hits, his misses, his career.

And there — almost hidden under a pile of loose drafts — was the blue folder.

One Who Never Thinks.

Mingyu froze for a second before pulling it out carefully, as though it might fall apart in his hands. The paper inside had yellowed slightly at the edges. He flipped open the cover and saw your handwriting — neat, purposeful, with that same slanted loop on every “y.”

His chest tightened.

He sat down at his desk and began to read.

At first, his filmmaker’s instinct tried to judge it — the pacing, the tone, the dialogue. But the deeper he read, the quieter that voice became. It wasn’t just a story. It was you. Every line carried your rhythm, your wit, your sadness. The story was simple, yes, but painfully honest — a reflection of how you saw the world.

By the time he reached the final page, his throat felt dry.

It wasn’t too feminist. It wasn’t too simple.

It was real.

Something he hadn’t made in a long time.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the last line you’d written — a line underlined twice, like it mattered more than the rest:

“Sometimes the only way to win is to stop playing the game.”

Mingyu exhaled slowly, a quiet, broken sound leaving his chest.

You stopped playing.

Mingyu found himself standing in front of your apartment again — this time, with your old script clutched tightly in his hand. His breath hitched, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon, though he couldn’t tell if it was from the climb up the stairs or the storm brewing inside him. Every page he’d read left him winded; every word felt like a truth he should’ve understood years ago.

He needed closure. Or maybe, he just needed you.

The door swung open before he could knock twice.

“What are you— were you running?” you asked, your tone casual, a bit startled. A clay mask clung to your face, green and drying around the edges.

Mingyu raised the script wordlessly, the corners worn, his thumb pressed against the last page. “I read the whole thing.”

You blinked, frozen for a beat, then peeled the mask from your face, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and wariness.

“That’s three years old,” you finally said.

A quiet chuckle slipped from him — soft but weighted. He stepped inside, uninvited but not unwelcome, and his voice lowered as he flipped open the final page.

“Liar. It was written ten years ago.”

His gaze lingered on the last line — the note scribbled in your handwriting. His voice faltered slightly as he read it aloud:

“‘Written after Kim Mingyu fixed my light bulb. He was a great man who never thinks.’”

You froze.

Mingyu looked up from the paper, his eyes finding yours. For a moment, everything between you felt suspended — ten years, three years, all folding into a single heartbeat.

“Did you love me, Y/n?” he asked, voice quiet but raw, as if he was finally ready to hear the answer he’d been running from all along.

Your face was still half-covered in remnants of the face mask, hair tied up carelessly, and yet the way Mingyu looked at you — like you were the only thing in focus — made your heart stutter.

He clutched the script tighter, that old blue folder looking smaller in his large hand. “Did you?” he repeated, softer this time, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

You swallowed, trying to steady your breath. “You came here to ask that?”

“I came here because I read it.” Mingyu’s tone wavered between guilt and awe. “I finally read what you wrote. And it wasn’t just a story, Y/n. It was us. Everything we did, everything I missed — it was all there.”

You exhaled a shaky laugh, crossing your arms defensively. “You’re reading too much into it. It was fiction, Mingyu.”

“Fiction doesn’t sound like confession,” he countered gently. “And you don’t write something that raw if it doesn’t come from somewhere real.”

You looked at him, eyes narrowing slightly, unsure whether to feel exposed or angry. “Even if I did,” you said slowly, “that was years ago.”

Mingyu stepped closer, his voice dropping low. “Then why couldn’t I stop thinking about it after reading it?”

Silence stretched between you. The air was thick with the ghost of all your late-night scripts, your shared dreams, your quiet arguments that always ended in laughter.

You sighed and looked away. “You were supposed to read it three years ago, Mingyu.”

“I know,” he admitted. “And I didn’t. I didn’t because I was an idiot who thought I understood you too well.”

You bit your lip, a small, bitter smile tugging at the corner. “And now you think you do?”

Mingyu shook his head. “No. But I want to.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The faint hum of your heater filled the quiet. Mingyu’s gaze softened as he took another step forward, lowering the script slightly.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his — and for the first time in years, Mingyu saw the same spark he’d missed.

The one that made him believe you were capable of turning life into art.

*

“I can’t, Mingyu.”

Your voice broke the quiet — not sharp, not angry, but soft in a way that hurt more than any raised tone could. “I can’t write anymore.” You hesitated, your throat tightening before the rest came out, fragile but final. “Especially for you.”

Mingyu froze. The air between you stilled, heavy and unmoving. It wasn’t anger he heard in you — it was fatigue. A kind of weariness that comes from carrying something too long, from loving something too deeply.

He took a step forward, careful, like the floor might break beneath him. “Y/n—”

You shook your head before he could finish, the motion small but absolute. “You don’t understand.” Your voice wavered, but your eyes didn’t. “Every story I wrote, every line that worked, every silence that hurt — it was all because of you. And when you said it wasn’t enough…” You let out a breath that trembled halfway through. “I stopped knowing what was.”

The silence that followed stretched thin — almost cruel. Mingyu’s grip on the script tightened until the edges bent under his fingers. “I didn’t mean to—”

You stepped closer, and for a fleeting second, your fingers brushed his as you took the script back. The contact was brief, but it jolted through him like a ghost of something long buried.

“I abused myself to be able to write all the scripts I gave you,” you said quietly, your words careful, as if afraid to wake an old wound. “Especially…” You looked down, thumb tracing the worn title page. “…this one.”

Mingyu’s throat went dry. “What do you mean?”

You gave a small, almost weary smile — one that didn’t reach your eyes. “You thought my stories came from talent. From creativity.” You paused, the silence humming between each word. “But they came from pain, Mingyu. I tore pieces of myself out just to make them live.”

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. The script in your hand suddenly felt heavier — like a relic of all the things he never saw.

When you looked up again, your eyes shone under the dim light, tired but unflinching. “You once told me my characters felt real.” Your lips parted, the faintest shake in your voice. “That’s because they were. Every one of them was me. Every heartbreak, every failure, every tragedy — it was me.”

“And you want me to write again?” you whispered, almost laughing — but it wasn’t amusement that came out. It was disbelief. Exhaustion. “To get into the same hole I had trapped myself in for fifteen years?”

Your eyes glistened under the dim light, but your tone stayed steady, painfully calm. “I can’t, Mingyu.”

You looked down at the script still in your hand, its pages worn and fragile — the same way you once felt every time you finished a story. “You don’t know what it did to me. The sleepless nights, the rewrites, the way I’d sit for hours trying to make pain sound beautiful… just so you’d say it was good enough.”

Mingyu’s lips parted, his chest tightening, but no words came out.

“I thought it was love,” you said quietly. “Writing for you. I thought it made me stronger. But it only hollowed me out.” You exhaled shakily, eyes flickering toward him, softer now, almost apologetic. “And I’m not sure there’s anything left to hollow.”

The silence that followed was deafening — thick with the weight of what couldn’t be undone.

Mingyu wanted to say something — anything — but every word he thought of felt too small for what you’d just said.

“Take this script.”

Your voice was flat — drained of the trembling warmth it once carried. You held it out to him, the pages trembling slightly in your hand. “Do whatever you want with it.”

Mingyu just stood there, eyes flicking from your face to the script and back again, unable to move.

You swallowed, forcing your tone to stay steady even as your throat tightened. “Get out.”

He blinked, stunned. “Y/n—”

“Please.” You cut him off, the word small but sharp, cracking through the quiet like glass. “Just go. Before I start to care again.”

Mingyu’s chest felt hollow, the kind of ache that burned slow and deep. The script felt heavier now — like it carried every word you’d never said.

He wanted to argue, to explain, to tell you he finally understood — but the look in your eyes stopped him. It wasn’t anger. It was a resignation. The look of someone who’d already said goodbye long before this moment.

Mingyu took the script, his fingers brushing against yours one last time. You flinched — not out of hate, but memory.

And for the first time in years, Kim Mingyu had nothing to say.

The door clicked shut behind him, a quiet sound that somehow echoed through the hollow in his chest. Mingyu stood there in the hallway, the script still clutched in his hand. It was heavier than before — not because of the paper, but because he finally understood what it carried.

He had spent years chasing stories, chasing success, chasing acclaim. But standing there, staring at your closed door, he realized he’d been chasing you all along — just too blind, too self-assured to know it.

The fluorescent light above him buzzed faintly. He lowered his gaze to the cover of the script, the edges soft and worn. Your handwriting, the faint indent of every note, every correction, every piece of yourself you had given him.

Mingyu’s breath shook.

You had given him everything — your time, your voice, your belief — and when you needed him to believe in you, he had dismissed it as “too simple.”

He remembered your words from moments ago, each one hitting like a slow-moving blade: “I tore a piece of myself out to do it.”

He could see it now, in every story, every scene he’d once thought was fiction. The women who waited. The men who left. The silence that sat between them — that was you. It was always you.

Mingyu ran a hand through his hair, the weight of regret sinking deeper. He laughed bitterly under his breath — the sound dry, humorless. “You really did write me in every story,” he whispered.

And he had been too blind to notice.

The rain had started to fall outside, faint against the window by the stairwell. He turned his face toward it, his reflection staring back — a man who finally realized that the masterpiece he had been searching for had already existed years ago.

He had just thrown it away.

Mingyu gripped the script tighter, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t deserve this.”

But for the first time, he didn’t want to make a film. He just wanted to make it right.

*

Chan had started to notice something different about Mingyu lately. He worked too hard — but not in the same way as before. These days, Mingyu spent long hours alone in his office, surrounded by scattered books and dim light, reading until the clock forgot to move. Sometimes it was scripts; other times, novels so worn their spines barely held. He read and watched and studied as if the next page might save him from something he couldn’t name.

That afternoon, Chan knocked on the office door, balancing a lunchbox in one hand.

“Mingyu hyung?”

No response.

He pushed the door open a little and found him stretched out on the couch, one arm behind his head, a classic novel resting open in his hand. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, striping his face in gold and shadow.

“Oh,” Mingyu murmured without looking up, his voice calm, distant. “Tell the team to gather tomorrow afternoon.”

Chan blinked. “Got it.”

He lingered a moment, unsure if he should say more. There was something oddly peaceful about this version of Mingyu — quieter, slower. He wasn’t pacing the floor or obsessing over a camera angle. He just… read.

Honestly, Chan liked it. The new Mingyu was still sharp, still focused, but softer around the edges.

As Chan turned to leave, Mingyu’s voice broke the silence again.

“Also,” he said, flipping a page, “can you find me an indie writer from an online platform? Someone unknown. I’d like to work with them.”

Chan glanced back. Mingyu’s eyes were still on the book, expression unreadable, but something in his tone — quiet and searching — made Chan pause.

“Sure,” Chan replied softly. “I’ll look into it.”

Weeks passed, and Mingyu didn’t mention your name again. Not to Chan, not to anyone.

But something had shifted. He was still buried in work, yes — only now, it was different. It wasn’t perfection he chased; it was purpose. The quiet kind that didn’t demand applause.

Months later, the studio lights were softer, not as harsh as those on live-action sets. The air smelled faintly of pencil shavings, coffee, and screens running twenty hours a day.

Mingyu stood in front of a massive monitor, arms folded, watching the first test render of the animation play. The room was dim except for the flicker of moving color — a glowing town, a lonely figure walking through the quiet streets. Every line was alive, every movement deliberate.

“Can you slow the scene here?” Mingyu asked softly, pointing to the moment when the character stops under a streetlight. “Let the silence breathe.”

The animator nodded, dragging the sequence slightly. The sound faded to stillness — only the hum of the machine filled the room.

Mingyu watched closely. The animated character, drawn in rough pastel shades, lifted his head toward the light, eyes tired but gentle.

“That’s it,” Mingyu said quietly. “He’s not searching anymore. He’s remembering.”

From behind, Chan smiled faintly. He’d never seen Mingyu like this before — calm, patient, unhurried. He didn’t yell at the staff or check his phone. He just… looked.

When the render ended, Mingyu stayed where he was, the glow of the screen painting soft shadows on his face. He didn’t realize his hands had unclenched until he exhaled.

One of the junior animators approached nervously. “Director Kim, what’s the tone you want for this ending?”

Mingyu thought for a moment, his eyes still fixed on the screen. “Bittersweet,” he finally said. “Like… something you once had to let go of, but you’re grateful you ever held it.”

The room went quiet.

Later that night, when the team had gone home, Mingyu sat alone in the darkened studio, watching the looping test scene on repeat. The character — his character — kept walking toward the light.

It wasn’t regret that filled him anymore. It was understanding.

He was finally learning how to tell stories again — not by bleeding, but by breathing.

A year later, the world was watching again.

The animation — The Quiet Light — premiered at an international film festival, its poster a watercolor wash of dusk and lamplight. Mingyu stood at the back of the theater, not in the spotlight this time, but behind it. He had dressed simply, a dark suit, hair pushed back, the kind of stillness that came from peace rather than exhaustion.

People filled the seats — critics, industry friends, young animators who had once called him “Director Kim” with awe and fear but now greeted him with warmth. The lights dimmed. The first frame appeared.

It wasn’t loud, or grand, or designed to impress. It was quiet — a soft beginning that felt like breathing after a long time underwater. The story unfolded slowly: a man who used to chase light, who forgot what it meant to see it, and who finally learned to stand still long enough for it to reach him again.

Mingyu didn’t blink once. Every frame was familiar, yet distant — as if someone else had told it through his hands.

By the time the credits rolled, the audience was silent. The kind of silence that came after something honest. Then came the applause — soft at first, then growing, filling the entire room.

Mingyu didn’t move. He only watched as the final words faded in on the screen, words he’d written himself, the only ones that weren’t part of the original script:

“For the one who taught me that stories don’t have to hurt to be true.”

No name. No dedication to find. But Chan, sitting a few rows away, saw it — and saw Mingyu, standing still in the glow of the screen, eyes glinting with something that wasn’t sadness anymore.

When the applause swelled again, Mingyu bowed his head slightly. It wasn't a victory he felt. It was release.

After the screening, people surrounded him — shaking hands, asking questions, praising the visual language, the pacing, the emotion. He smiled, thanked them, and listened. But his mind was elsewhere — in a small apartment with soft lights and the faint scent of coffee, where a woman once said she couldn’t write anymore.

And yet, here he was — telling her story in another form.

Later that night, when the crowd had thinned and the stage lights dimmed, Mingyu slipped out through the side exit. The cool night air met his skin, grounding him. He looked up — the moon hung low, pale against the quiet sky.

For a long moment, he just stood there, the same way his animated character had — still, breathing, remembering.

He smiled faintly to himself. “You’d hate this ending,” he murmured, voice barely a whisper. “Too hopeful.”

But deep down, he knew — you would’ve understood.

*

The night sat still.

The kind of stillness that felt deliberate — like the world had exhaled and was waiting for him to notice.

Mingyu dropped his keys onto the counter, the faint clink echoing through the apartment. It had been another long day at the studio. Deadlines. Meetings. Voices. He had forgotten what quiet sounded like.

Until now.

He reached for the pile of mail stacked beside the fruit bowl — half-heartedly, like someone going through motions he no longer cared about. Envelopes, flyers, the usual noise.

Then his hand stopped.

At the bottom of the stack was a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper, edges a little frayed from travel.

His name written in a hand he hadn’t seen in a long time.

Yours.

He stood there for a moment, unmoving, his pulse slow but heavy. The quiet seemed to close in around him, pressing against his ribs.

He tore the wrapping carefully — too carefully — as if one careless move would make it disappear.

A notebook.

The same one he had sent to your apartment a year ago.

He remembered the night he mailed it — the way he wrote that short note inside the cover: For when you’re ready to write again.

He hadn’t expected it back.

Not after all this time.

You sent it back? he thought, his breath catching somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

He ran a thumb over the worn cover, the familiar texture under his skin pulling him backward, into the memory of you — your desk scattered with drafts, your quiet laugh when you hated your own words, the way you used to fall asleep surrounded by sentences.

He sat down slowly on the couch, the parcel still in his lap.

It felt heavier than paper should.

When he opened it, a faint scent of dust and ink rose — a trace of something human. Something kept.

The first page was no longer blank.

Neat handwriting. Black ink.

A small poem.

Naked Body.

Flip every page of its reveal.

Don’t ask. Just read it.

He stared at the words until they blurred.

Then he read them again.

A small, uneven breath escaped him.

He sank deeper into the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, the notebook trembling just slightly in his hands. The air felt thick, dense with all the things he couldn’t name.

He turned the next page.

Then the next.

Each line was quiet but piercing — fragments of something tender, almost raw.

Words you might have never spoken aloud.

He read slowly, almost reverently, afraid to miss anything.

Every verse felt like a pulse.

Every space between them — like the sound of you breathing.

The room dimmed around him, the only light now the one spilling from the lamp beside him.

He closed the notebook gently.

And for the first time in a long while, Mingyu didn’t feel tired.

He just sat there, in the half-dark, holding what was left of you between his hands.

You were writing again.

Not for him, maybe. Not for the world either. Just for yourself. And that was enough.

He rested his thumb along the edge of the notebook, smiling faintly through the silence.

“Welcome back,” he whispered, almost to himself.

*

Mingyu stood in the back of the bookstore, blending into the crowd. In no way could he miss this — your first book launch. He hadn’t told anyone, not even you.

He dressed simply, plain jeans, a soft sweater, sneakers scuffed from long days. He held your book loosely in his hands, the cover unfamiliar yet intimately yours. The smell of fresh pages made his chest tighten.

People moved forward in line, chattering and laughing, waiting for their copies to be signed. Mingyu stayed still, quiet, as if standing too close would break him.

Inside, he was wrecked.

Every laugh, every excited murmur, every smile aimed at you cut through him like shards of glass. He could feel the weight of the years they represented — the years he had missed, the years you had spent without him, the words you had written and given to the world without looking back.

He kept his eyes low, watching you from a distance. Your hair caught the soft lights, your smile radiant and warm, signing each book with care. And each name you wrote… he felt it like a small betrayal, and a small miracle, all at once.

Mingyu’s hands itched to reach out, to touch the spine of the book, to trace the letters you’d written. But he didn’t move. He didn’t breathe too loudly. He simply watched, letting every moment sink in — the sound of your pen scratching, the tilt of your head, the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled at a fan.

He had come here for a reason. Not to speak. Not to call attention. Just to be near. To remember what he had lost. And maybe… to see what he might still have.

“Kim Mingyu?”

The words cut through the crowd like a quiet bell. You looked up from the stack of books, your pen still poised, and froze.

He stepped forward slowly, almost afraid to move too quickly. The noise of the room — the chatter, the laughter, the rustle of pages — seemed to vanish around him. All he could hear was the tremor in his own heartbeat.

“I… I didn’t know you’d come,” you said, voice careful, uncertain.

Mingyu swallowed. He could feel the weight of a year pressing down on him, the weight of everything unsaid. “I had to,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I couldn’t… not be here.”

You studied him, really looked, and for the first time in months, he saw it — your cautious curiosity, your guarded warmth. He wanted to step closer, to reach out, but fear held him back.

“I… I read it,” he added quietly, gesturing toward the book in his hand. “Every word.”

Your chest tightened. That simple sentence, so small, carried the gravity of years.

He looked at you, eyes soft but intense, and the air between you thickened with all the things you hadn’t said, all the moments you had missed.

For a long beat, neither of you spoke. The world around you existed, but only dimly — the real weight of this moment settled heavily in the quiet space between the two of you.

“Perhaps…” Mingyu’s voice trailed off, the word catching somewhere in his throat. He shifted his weight, eyes lowering to the book in your hands before finding the courage to meet yours again. “Do you… want to grab some meal? Not now…” His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk, knuckles pale. “When you’re free.”

The question hung there, tentative but unshaken, like a hand reaching out through years of silence.

You blinked at him, taken aback. It wasn’t the kind of question that belonged in the middle of a signing or under the hum of studio lights. It felt heavier, more like an echo from a different time — when things were easier, before scripts and heartbreak and distance.

Your grip on the book softened, thumb brushing against the embossed title. “When I’m free?” you repeated quietly, as if tasting the idea.

Mingyu swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple shifting. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Whenever. No cameras. No… expectations. Just…” His gaze flicked to yours again, steady now, even if his voice was not. “You and me. A meal.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was thick, weighted, full of things neither of you had said in years.

“Sure.”

The single word left your lips, light, almost casual, but it carried weight Mingyu hadn’t dared hope for.

He blinked, just once, as if making sure he heard it right. Then a small, unsteady smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Sure?” he repeated, like tasting the word for the first time.

You nodded, heart beating a little faster than it should. “Yeah… sure,” you said again, letting it linger.

Mingyu’s chest loosened, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding finally escaping. “Good,” he whispered, almost to himself. “I’ll… I’ll wait.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The noise of the signing faded behind the edges of the room. Time felt suspended — the air between you heavy, yet strangely warm, carrying everything that had passed and all the things that had been left unsaid.

The memory hit Mingyu suddenly, unbidden, as he held your book in his hands.

It was the night of your first award. You two had returned to your apartment, the city outside still buzzing with lights and celebration, though inside it was quiet. He remembered the smell of your takeout dinner mingling with the faint scent of the champagne lingering in the air.

You had insisted on opening a couple of beers, and he had poured them carefully, watching you grin like a kid who had just won the world. The alcohol loosened you, your laughter carrying through the apartment, filling every corner he didn’t know needed filling.

By the time the second bottle was empty, you had collapsed onto the couch, your hair splayed across the cushions, your arms tucked under your head. He had hesitated, frozen in place, staring at the curve of your jaw, the softness in your expression, the way your chest rose and fell with quiet sleep.

Something shifted in him that night. He remembered the subtle weight in his chest, the tightening he hadn’t expected. He realized, then, as he quietly fetched a blanket to cover you, that it wasn’t just admiration he felt anymore. He was in it, completely — fallen without warning, caught off guard by the depth of it.

He hadn’t moved closer, hadn’t dared wake you. He just sat on the edge of the couch, beer in hand, watching, memorizing, feeling the strange, terrifying warmth of it — the first time he knew he had fallen for you.

You have half a mind to text him, various apologies at the tips of your fingers. Sorry, I think I'm coming down with something. My boss is keeping me late at work. I forgot I have a huge presentation tomorrow, can we postpone? You're in no fit state to see anyone—in fact, you camped out in your office for the better part of the afternoon, only emerging to use the restroom or grab something from the printer. You didn't want to be perceived like this, unkempt and miserable. Run through the wringer by deadlines, endless emails, and the constant, looming pressure of not being good enough. Of imminent failure.

You can't, you decide. The two of you just made things official a week ago. The relationship is far too fresh for him to witness you in all your disheveled, post-work glory. You pull out your phone, scroll down to the text thread you have with Kim Mingyu, type out Hey, I'm so sorry to do this—

Suddenly, a shiny black sedan rolls to a stop right beside you. Your shoulders instantly shoot up to your ears, your hand closing around the strap of your bag—to use as a weapon if necessary, of course. You've heard the stories. Men in cars snatching unsuspecting young women right off the curb, swiping them clean off the street and funneling them right into human trafficking schemes, and you'll be damned if you let yourself become a missing person flyer at the police station—

The driver's side door opens, and you're just about ready to swing when you realize who it is. 

"Hey, I—" Mingyu stops short a few steps from you, frowning. "Why do you look like that? Did I scare you?"

You roll your lips to hide your laugh. He might be six feet tall and built like a quarterback, but you're reminded that Mingyu, your boyfriend, is the most harmless thing on earth. He looks unbearably sweet like this: eyebrows lifted in surprise, mouth in a tiny pout, curling in on himself like he's afraid to touch you. "No—sorry, I just—you're early." 

He breaks into a smile, and not for the first time, you think he must be the most gorgeous person on earth. Mingyu's is a sweet, mellow beauty, comforting and stunning all at once. Like spring sunlight. Like mint leaves.

You're not sure exactly what he sees in you, but you like him so much it scares you. So much that you wonder how bad it'll hurt if he ever leaves.

"Where'd you go?"

You blink, crashing back to reality. He's staring at you with that world-ending smile, head tilted a little to one side. "Sorry," you rush out. "I'm just—um. I—long day."

"Ah." He closes the distance and folds you into his arms. It's so sudden—so unexpectedly natural—that you freeze up for a moment, but then you wrap your arms around him, too. He smells nice. Like clean cologne, cotton and wool, something fresh mixed with something warm.

He bends down to press a kiss to the part in your hair, and for the briefest moment you can't remember what had you so upset.

"I'm sorry you had a rough day," he says, just loud enough for you to hear. "Let's go home. You should eat and rest."

——

The drive to Mingyu's is short. He lives in one of the swanky new developments just one highway exit off from your office building. When you first met him through mutual friends, you thought he was a model, or an actor, but no—he much preferred the behind-the-scenes work, running the finances of his friend Seungcheol's entertainment agency . As Seungcheol tells it, SC Entertainment would crumble without Mingyu's effortless, boundless charm to hold it up.

Anyway. This is the first time you've been over, and you're alarmed because it's nice. Very nice. Mostly marble and leather and monochrome accents, but there are little signs of life: a triptych of sweet family photos on the end table, a knit blanket thrown over the couch, a rich, savory smell wafting from the kitchen.

You, on the other hand, live in what only the most generous person would call a dwelling. You have a single burner and a showerhead that hangs over the toilet and a fridge that only sometimes fits leftovers you're hoping to keep for tomorrow. You feel distinctly out of place as you watch Mingyu bounce around his well-equipped kitchen—a dash of salt here, a handful of green onions there. He's got a Zwilling electric pepper grinder, a set of Miyabi knives, one of those fridges that looks like a cabinet. For fuck's sake, he's cooking you dakdoritang in a Le Creuset that probably costs more than a month of your rent.

"I can hear you thinking from here."

You flush, but Mingyu's smiling, the tips of his canines flashing. He walks over to the counter and sets the dish down on a trivet. Brings you a bowl of fresh barley rice and a set of silver utensils that feel heavy in your hand. You wait for him to sit beside you before you take a bite—it's amazing, rich and spicy, and you eat in silence for a bit before he speaks up again.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Damn. Your sisters always used to say your face was an open book, and now you're wondering if you've been spoiling the mood of the occasion—your first time over at his home, your first time having his cooking. He clearly had gone to some lengths to prepare for your visit by tidying and setting up the ingredients for dinner, had even gone out of his way to pick you up directly from work so you wouldn't have to fuss with bus and subway directions. 

You think about your ex. You think back to walking through winding, unlit alleys under the cover of nightfall to make it to his place after work. Eating cold leftovers straight from the fridge while he slept. Avoiding him, eventually, waiting until you knew he was in bed to get on the bus home because you were too exhausted for the inevitable argument.

Mingyu's done the opposite of all of that. Gave you a look like you'd insulted his mother when you suggested you could find your own way to his place after work, and here you are. Stuck in your own head. Some company you are. Some girlfriend you are.

You muster what you hope is a pleasant expression. "No, it's nothing. This is so good, Mingyu. Did you use sugar? Or fruit?"

He fixes you with a look. "Baby."

You feel your cheeks and ears pinking. It's his first time calling you anything but your name. 

He reaches for your hand. "I don't want you to think that—I know we only just made things official, but I don't—I wish you wouldn't keep things to yourself. I want to be there for you. I want to hear what you're thinking. What you're going through. I know you're private, but I hope you don't feel like you have to keep anything from me."

You feel horrible. The last thing you want to do is make Mingyu feel bad, and now you just feel bad for making him feel bad, and the overwhelming weight of it all has tears pricking in your sinuses. "I'm sorry," you blurt, voice thick, unable to come up with anything else. "I didn't mean—"

His eyes soften, and without another word he's pulling you into his chest. You sniffle into his sweater, smearing mascara and snot all over the fine knit. He just holds you for a bit, whispering small and comforting things into your temple, the weight of his hand pressing into your back.

He's so good. He's so, so impossibly good to you, and you marvel at the fact that there have been guys like him out there all this time and that it took you this long to find one. It dawns on you how lucky you are, to know him. To be known by him.

You pull back, wiping at your eyes. You tell him about your awful day—starting off on the wrong foot, being called into your boss's office and hit with half a dozen extra projects to complete before Christmas, your subsequent work on those tasks being interrupted by panicked pings from your juniors and seniors, everyone seeming to need you for something. The intern remembering everyone's lunch order but yours. The coffee stain on your blouse you've been trying so hard to hide. It'd be comical if it weren't happening to you, so absurd that it was almost impossible to believe. And yet.

By the time you're done, Mingyu has a funny look on his face. Like he's trying to fight a laugh, but also like he's genuinely upset for you and is having trouble working out which one should win out, which all has the effect of just making him look constipated. You smile a little, because he's cute and he's trying so hard, and he cracks a smile in return. Holds your face in his hands and wipes away stray tears with his thumbs. You close your eyes and lean into his touch.

It feels good. To be able to rely on someone, to be able to tell someone about your shitshow of a day, to be comforted. You almost forgot what it felt like.

"Do you still want to stay over?" he asks after a while, hesitant. "I can take you home if you want, but—"

"Yes."

"But it's okay if you don't want to, really, I don't want to make—"

"Mingyu." 

You stand up. Get up on tiptoes, so you can loop your arms around his neck and kiss him. A real kiss, even though both of you taste like chicken and gochujang and your cheeks are still tacky with tear tracks. 

Maybe you did something right, because this sweet, gorgeous man would move mountains to make you just the tiniest bit happier—and you get the feeling he wouldn't do this for just anyone.

"Yes," you whisper, when you finally break apart. "Yes, I would like to stay over."

He smiles against your mouth. "Good," he murmurs. You squeal as he hoists you into his arms, so effortless like you don't weigh a thing, and carries you toward the bedroom. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"Can I kiss you?" he asked while holding your hand, his cheeks flushed in anticipation.

"Of course you can," you grinned. It wasn't your first kiss...or even the first dozen. He'd kissed you for the first time last week after walking you to your car. Still, he always asked. It was sort of sweet...

He sighed in relief as if somewhere in his insecure mind he still thought you'd reject him and inched forward, pressing his soft lips to yours with a gentle hum. You were straddling him for the first time and could feel his hands wandering down your spine until he reached the hem of your shirt.

He pulled his hands back up and you could tell they were twitching nervously. As if to guide him to more, you began grinding his waist, rocking your hips back and forth up the length of his cock until his pupils were blown and he pulled back with a sigh.

"Can I take this off?" he rasped, his voice deep with need as he eyed your shirt.

You nodded with a smirk and raised your arms for him to pull off the thin tank top. His eyes immediately turned to your chest, his hand pressing to your bra as his mouth resumed kissing you.

You smiled into the first kiss and ran your hands across his broad shoulders and back to his chest. His shirt was soft and his heart thudded anxiously beneath your palm. You could almost feel the wheels spinning in his head before he asked if he could remove your bra.

"You don't have to ask every time," you teased. "I'll tell you if I feel like I'm being pushed too far."

He looked uncertain but nodded as his fingers got to work undoing the clasp. Within seconds it had been snapped off and discarded on the floor. You bit your lip proudly at him and ran your fingers through his auburn hair.

"Your shirt has to come off too," you ordered while reaching for the black compression material. He laughed and pulled it over his head before standing and pulling you against him. Now flushed chest to chest, you only wanted to be closer, to feel that secure warmth surge through you that you hadn't felt in a long time.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured as he kissed each cheek. You blushed at the compliment and playfully kissed his nose before wrapping your arms around his neck and sinking into a deeper kiss.

He groaned and let his hands fall to your ass, finally taking advantage of your offer for him to push the limits a bit...even if only for a moment.

"Can I take these off too?" he checked while tracing the waistline of your leggings.

You bit your cheek to hide the disappointment that he couldn't just take charge and remove your pants before guiding him to the bed.

What happened from there could only be described as clinical. He checked in so much that you couldn't get that wet as each time it pulled you out of the dazed happy state and back to his fear-driven state.

He was a good guy...a great guy...but he couldn't help but to pull you into his head where he existed in worries and stress. You just wanted to exist in the moment with him...to feel him collapse in deep breaths as he came and little laughs as he let you know he enjoyed it.

But he lived so much in his head that you knew he couldn't exist in the real world.

————————————————————————————

"So...it was that bad?" Candi asked as you sat beside her on a barstool, leaning against the counter that was slightly sticky and wet.

"Not bad..." you began, trying to defend him. After all, he was a really nice guy...just not the guy for you.

"Did you cum?" she asked, making you choke on your martini at her bluntness.

"No," you croaked out, trying to answer her through the coughs to catch your breath again. "But neither did he"

"So he brings you down with him to anxiety land...yikes," she frowned.

"He's a nice guy," you argued.

"Last I checked, nice isn't what makes your pussy wet is it?" she joked.

You shook your head again with a laugh, reminded only of the menagerie of douchbags in your past. Each was toxic and mean or possessive and needy...and yet their desire for you was the sexiest thing about each of them.

"So who in this bar could be your rebound?" she asked as she spun around to examine the options. "Mr. Fake Hermes watch?" she suggested.

You turned to see where she was looking and shook your head. "Insecure about his wealth."

"Right...what about Capris in the corner?"

You turned and saw he was staring at you already. He was bald and muscular. And short...

"The last short guy I fucked had a complex," you reminded her.

"Oh right...Ankle Chomper," she shivered as she recalled the way he always bit your ankle before going down on you like a feisty chihuahua.

"What about him?" you asked, pointing towards a brooding man at the end of the bar. He was staring into his whisky and circling his finger along the glass with a frown.

"He looks kinda upset, (Y/N). Like he was dumped or something," she shouted over the music.

You snagged your purse off the counter and hopped off the stool. "And what do dumped guys do?"

She snorted and waved you off. "Enjoy your little pet."

You grinned and made your way over to the man. Men who looked this upset at bars were often the best to you. You were their savior from a terrible night...and they fucked you best to reward you for it.

You sat beside him and immediately began your line, "I'm so sorry I'm late babe. There was traffic on the highway and the bouncer didn't think my ID was real. He thought (Y/N) was a fake name. Can you believe that?"

He looked up with the most innocently confused eyes...but he had looked up...which meant he could be saved from his terrible night.

"What are you drinking? I owe you one for waiting on me?" you asked as you flagged down Dylan, the bartender.

"I..." he tried to begin but you'd already turned to Dylan who knew your game better than anyone.

"One mojito please, and I'll get him another of whatever he's having," you grinned with a wink.

"Coming right up," Dylan smirked with a laugh as he headed off to pretend to make the drinks.

The man blinked in surprise, his mouth still parted in the answer he never got to give.

"Oh! Sorry!" you laughed. "Where are my manners?" you began as you leaned in, giving him the chance to back away. "It's nice to meet you," you breathed before cupping his cheeks and kissing him.

The whisky on the table became an afterthought. Hell, the bar became an afterthought. He snaked his hands around your waist and pulled you closer as he slipped his tongue into your mouth. He was warm and desperate, and you lost your breath quicker than you'd ever admit. You were gasping when he pulled back and pressed his forehead to yours.

"Your place or mine?" you asked as you caught your breath.

He laughed a little breathlessly and reached for your hand. "Mine. I'm Mingyu by the way."

"I don't care," you muttered before kissing him again and feeling a flutter run through you when he hummed against your lips.

Mingyu pulled you outside to the city that should've been at rest. It was well past midnight and yet cars were skirting through the streets and people were laughing and arguing on their phones. Mingyu walked slightly ahead as if determined to get there as quickly as possible, but he held on to your hand like a lifeline.

"My roommate might be asleep," he whispered his warning.

You nodded and followed him quietly through the pitch-black apartment all the way down the hall where his room was lit up by a lamp. Your heart raced at the idea of being caught, and you nearly complained when he shut his door.

"Come here," he groaned as he pulled you towards the bed.

You kicked off your heels and listened by straddling him. You couldn't stop the whimper that escaped when you felt his cock against your core.

"Fuck you're hard already?" you asked.

"Who wouldn't be?" he rasped. "Have you seen yourself?"

You felt your ego inflating already and ran your fingers through his hair. He was moaning desperately before a strangled gasp left his lips as you yanked his head back. "I don't want to be treated like I'm fragile."

He raised his brow and stood with your legs looped around his waist to press you back against the wall. "Who the fuck thought you were fragile?" he asked before tearing off the first strap of your dress.

You squealed in shock before clasping your hand over your mouth to hold back the groan that followed as he bit and sucked on your shoulder.

"You'll leave a mark," you warned.

"I know," he smirked as he did it again to the other side.

You couldn't help but feel your core dampen at the thought of being bruised by this stranger. You only grew wetter when he yanked the dress down to reveal your chest.

"Fuck," he whined at the sight. "And to think tonight started off so bad."

"Why was it bad baby?" you breathed, holding his head closer when he began trailing kisses along your chest.

"I got looked over for a promotion," he explained before sucking your nipple and swirling his tongue around it.

"Did you deserve it?" you asked in a shaky voice.

"Yes, but the boss's son wanted it," he complained.

You held his face and gazed softly at him, "Take it out on me."

"You're a twisted little thing aren't you?" he smirked.

"The twistiest," you teased with a yelp as he tossed you back to the bed.

He threw off his shirt and began undoing his belt as you watched with wide eyes and spread legs. He had the best body you had ever seen, so much so that you wanted to stay right here in front of him just staring at his abs flexing with every breath.

Then the belt came off, and he demanded that you turn over. You hadn't been hit in a long time and craved it so badly. You knelt over his thighs and squeezed the sheets in front of you when the first blow came down on your ass.

"Do we need a safe word?" he realized after the first screech.

Tears stung your eyes but more importantly, you nearly came from the first smack. You were so desperate for more that you let out a quiet, "Mhm," hoping he'd offer one up.

"My safe word is banana," he suggested as he hit you again, a little harder this time so that your body moved forward in his lap. He palmed the fabric and drove it over your ass before yanking down your panties to see the reddened skin. His touch was soft as he rubbed it...as he waited for you to settle. "Can you say banana for me, baby? I need to make sure you're verbal."

"Bana...na," you gasped when a third smack came down on your bare bottom. This one stung worse than the last and the tears fell down your cheeks.

When his hand slid through your cunt to test how much you liked being spanked, you quivered.

"Dirty, dirty girl," he shamed with another smack. This time your yelp was more like a scream, and he rolled you over to straddle him while hushing you. "You're soaking my pants baby," he complained. "You like being used this much?"

You blushed shyly and nodded against his neck, still coming down from the high of the moment. Shame bubbled in your chest, and you briefly wondered why this was what turned you on. You often sank into this horrible mindset, but then he kissed you, and you realized Mingyu contained the nuance needed to remind you that even while used you were adored.

"Can I take this off?" he asked as he tugged on your dress between kisses.

You wiped your tears and laughed as you'd just escaped a man who asked such questions. "You don’t need permission," you told him with your arms raised. He slid the dress up and over your body with a shrug.

"You needed another moment to calm down, and I was hoping to see that beautiful smile of yours before fucking you," he smiled. God his smile was beautiful. "And now that I see how fucking sexy you are...I'm a little concerned you won't be able to take me."

"Every man that has told me that was the size of my pinky finger Mingyu," you laughed...only to be proven wrong when he pushed his pants and boxers down to reveal the biggest dick you'd ever seen.

"You'd have to have a pretty fucked up pinky finger," he joked as he settled between your legs.

You squirmed so you could feel him better and kissed him just as desperately as you had at the bar. Mingyu was all passion and need, and he was more than capable of giving you the high you needed.

"Do you kiss your boss like this?" you teased.

Mingyu pulled away with his jaw open in surprise and eyes shining in amusement. "Of course you're a brat."

"I'm only a brat when my partner isn't doing a good job of shutting me up," you fought back, heart racing when you noticed his cock twitch. He liked this...which meant he'd punish you for it.

"You have no idea how many ways to do that just crossed my mind," he cocked his brow as he drove his cock up and down your slick to tease you. Your legs went wider as if to permit him.

"It can't be that many if I'm still talking, can it?"

Mingyu smirked and kissed you again, his eyes dark as night when he pulled back. "Turn around."

You eagerly followed his instructions and got on all fours. "Doggy style? That's your idea?" you taunted.

"No," he groaned as he spanked you and pushed your body flat against the bed. You wondered what he was doing but suddenly felt his belt wrap around your thighs before he pulled them tight.

"Mingyu..." you whimpered, unsure what he was planning as this was completely new to you.

"Still talking?" he asked as he dragged your feet over the bed's corner to bend you over the mattress.

You squeezed your eyes shut in anticipation of the first thrust and groaned when you felt his palm spank your clit.

"No words?" he asked before doing it again. "No wit?"

You had never met someone so good at this before. "Mingyu," you begged, hands gripping his comforter for dear life.

"Good girl, that is my name baby," he praised, which caught you off guard...but not as much as his thick, length cock slamming into you and stealing your breath away. "Now scream it."

You tried to spread your legs to give him more room but the belt kept you tight for him. Mingyu slammed into you repeatedly as if you were a toy to be discarded after one use. He was trying to break you...and he was fucking great at it.

The bed shook a few inches off the box spring from how rough he was being, but he didn't seem to mind. He yanked the whole mattress back and fucked you just as hard until it happened a second and third time.

"Mingyu," you cried, face dripping in tears from the pain of being stretched so much. It hurt so good that you weren't sure you'd find anyone better. This random stranger that you'd plucked for his stupid pouty face had surprised you.

"I'm the best, aren't I?" he grunted. You weren't sure if he was talking to you or his boss, but you moaned in agreement. "Fuck you're so tight," he complained as he smacked your ass sharply over the welts from earlier.

"Mingyu!" you pleaded. You needed to cum but didn't know what tricks he had up his sleeve (if any) that could push you over that ever elusive edge.

"Hands behind your back," he demanded, snatching them from in front of you to hold them. He used it for leverage to pull your chest up so he could watch your tits bounce in the mirror across from him.

You caught sight of him, too...of the sweat beading on his forehead, of his lips parted in shaky breaths...

"You gonna cum?" he asked when he saw the redness in your cheeks and the desperation in your gaze.

You shook your head from side to side, one last bratty impulse just to see how he'd react. It shocked you when his hand clasped around your throat to pull your back flush against his chest. It surprised you more when he sucked your earlobe and forced you to look at yourself being used by him... mascara-stained cheeks and all.

"You're going to cum," he demanded. "Because I said so," he rasped.

You shook your head again with a strangled moan, and fought as long as you could when he released your hands to snake his hand around your waist.

He slapped your cheek before rubbing your clit, his voice even rougher this time when he demanded it of you. "Cum."

You couldn't fight it this time. He squeezed your throat and stole your breath, filling you when he felt your cunt pulsing around him as you came. The high was unlike anything you'd ever felt, and he held your throat to prolong that high until you were dizzied and unable to use your vision.

He undid the belt once he was done and helped guide you to the bed where he held you. You found yourself cuddling against him and resting your cheek on his dampened chest.

"Are you okay?" he asked with a kiss to your forehead.

"Mhm," you answered in exhaustion. You hadn't been fucked that well in a long time...maybe not ever.

"Can I hold you while you sleep?" he asked softly.

"Banana," you grinned with a kiss to his chest.

He chuckled, sounding so adorable that you used the last of your energy to look up at his bright smile. "Banana?" he asked.

"Don't ask to hold me, Mingyu. Just do it."

Mingyu didn't understand how someone could be like you; a complete pushover, he calls you that in his head. No matter how much he pushes you back, no matter how much he tells you he's just using you for your body, you crawl back to him, you look at him like you have seen the night sky for the first time in your life, you look at Mingyu like you are in love with him.

And it scares Mingyu to death, you weren't supposed to fall for him neither does he, your contract stated it in bold letters no falling in love, still both of you were breaking each layer of indifference everyday. He wasn't supposed to cook breakfast for you, he wasn't even supposed to sleep in same bed as you but he did anyways, he's doing it since months.

Mingyu sometimes remember how you bounced into his life, he wonders how his life would be peaceful if he never listened to his best friend Jeonghan and went on a date he arranged for him, not just any ordinary date; a fucking date with potential sugar baby.

Still he couldn't blame Jeonghan completely, his friend was tired of him finding new girl to take to his room every weekend, having one night stands sometimes without signing the NDAs. He was putting his whole group reputation to risk cause' he wasn't to fill the gap in his chest by one night stands or drugs. Mingyu was exhausted with the monotonous and tiring life he was living, he wasn't the same person he was years ago.

Deep down Jeonghan knew Mingyu was yearning for romantic connection but he also knew his friend has gone fully pessimistic and bitter regarding love, years of empty failed connections turned the hopeless romantic golden retriever to complete walking red flag.

So all Jeonghan could do was visit some sketchy sugar daddy site and register anonymous date for Mingyu. He didn't wanted get his group's reputation tarnish just cause' a member can't keep it to his pants.

When Mingyu saw you for the first time at the restaurant, he felt like his whole body was attacked with tiny needles, his heart thumping rapidly, he didn't knew why the hell he was having such a visceral reaction by simply looking at you he just knew you were the most beautiful women he has ever laid eyes on.

That happened eight months ago, eight months since Mingyu is trying hard to not spill his feelings to you like a stupid highschool boy. Whenever he sees you , he feels the same sensation he felt the first time he saw you but now he was able to name that feeling; it was love. Pure filthy obsessive love . He wanted you in every possible way but he was afraid. He was afraid of what some of his psycho fans would do to you once your relationship became public, just imagining that makes his skin crawl and blood boil.

Mingyu had endless adoration, love and admiration for you, he knew most of your secrets which you spilled unknowingly during druken late night conversations, he knew why you were forced to be in that stupid website and how much of shit you had gone through. He knew you shine so bright cause' you are trying to hide the darkness residing in you.

Mingyu can't make you go through a forever hell just to be with you, just cause' of his own selfish desires. Being with him meant constant jabs thrown on you, having sasengs following you everywhere you go, your privacy and rights getting stripped of you and your life struggles and traumas being talk of world.

Mingyu knew you don't deserve that, you deserve kind, soft and peaceful kind of love which you were made for receiving but at the same time Mingyu was a slave to his feelings, he couldn't let you go, atleast not yet, atleast not until the contract expires and when he does he's gonna make you sign a new one.

You are Kim Mingyu's muse..

Mingyu was rushing to his hotel room after the concert ended thirty minutes ago, usually the concert adrenaline makes him want to party and get wasted at some bar with his members but everything has changed since you came to his life . He couldn't wait to reach his room cause you would be there, welcoming him with open arms and open legs.

Back in hotel room, you were waiting for Mingyu desperately, playing with hem of your short skirt which was there for mere decoration, for Mingyu to rip it off your body. The memories from last night were making you hazy and lightheaded, Mingyu overstimulated you till you were screaming for him to stop, you looked around your hotel room, remembering how he relentlessly fucked you on each furniture even on that damn cold floor. You lightly touch your neck, hissing sharply as your fingers ram across the hickeys Mingyu painted your neck with. You were doing anything to stop yourself by taking the pillow from behind and hump against it like a bitch in heat like Mingyu calls you.

You were a little too deep in your fantasy land when you heard the sound doorknob opening, a smile made it's way on your face as you jumped off the bed and ran to Mingyu hugging him tightly, clinging to him like a koala bear.

"Missed you daddy so fucking much" you whispered against Mingyu's chest, littering the fabric with kisses. Mingyu felt his heart swelling up on your simple adorable action, his hand engulfing you into a tight embrace, your body fiting perfectly with his, like two missing puzzle pieces coming together.

"Daddy missed his little angel too babe" Mingyu said as he held your chin with his index finger and thumb and slowly bringing his lips close to yours and kissing you like he's been away from you since forever, his hand wrapped around neck and cheek as he deepened the kiss, his tongue licking your bottom lip ever so slowly asking for access even he didn't have to, he could take your body, mouth as he pleases , you smiled into the kiss letting his tongue wonder inside your mouth, you could feel Mingyu's desperation as the kiss deepened.

Your lipgloss was smeared all along your face, wads of spit falling down as Mingyu took your mouth hungrily, he pushed your body closer to his, grinding his growing bulge against you.

"So fucking beautiful" Mingyu said as he broke the kiss to get a good look of your face, his eyes carrying passion of madman, lust growing heavily, you felt your knees giving up as he eye-fucked you.

Giving you one final kiss, Mingyu ran his tongue in your left cheek, the mere action making you let out a whiny moan.

"On your knees" Mingyu ordered, his hand gripping your shoulder and softly pushing you down onto the cold floor.

"You look so pretty like this" Mingyu smiled deviously as he rubbed his spit across your face, his cock straining painfully in his trousers, your messed up face was best view of his life. you should have felt disgusted, dirty but you felt incredibly turned out and wet, your panties sticking to your folds as you were clenching your thighs, mind clouded with heavy pleasure.

"Open up" Mingyu tugged your lower lip with his thumb and suddenly a glob of spit hit your cheek, you knew damn well he missed landing spit in your mouth for his own sadistic pleasure.

"I won't miss this time babe, now open up wide for daddy" Mingyu said his voice laced up with fake sympathy. "Say aahh"

"aahh"

Mingyu spit straight into your mouth, you got the urge to swallow it immediately but Mingyu had taught you better than that, wait till he gives you green light.

"swallow" Mingyu groaned, as started undoing his belt, his cock begging him to use your mouth and chase his high .

You swallowed Mingyu's spit and he didn't wait no further, his hand made it's way to your head, gathering your open hair into a ponytail and gripping it tightly while his other hand held his cock and was smearing his precum on your lips before shoving half of his length down your throat in a quick motion, the action making you moan, sending vibrations down his length.

"My little cock slut, always desperate for cock" Mingyu groaned as he bopped your head upon his cock, his pace being cruel, that's what you absolutely loved about Mingyu, the way he fucked you like a toy, you loved how absolutely feral he was for you, you knew only you had this effect on him.

"It's like your throat was made for sucking and gagging on my cock, that's the only purpose you have Y/N being my human fleshlight" Mingyu's tone was ice cold laced up with desperation nevertheless his degrading words made your pussy dripping with arousal, you swear you could cum by his words alone, the way he thrusting into your mouth made your brain hazy with pleasure. Tears and snort running down your face and dripping into curve of your breasts, the sight making Mingyu lose his mind completely.

"I am gonna cum in this slutty mouth, if you waste even one single drop I am gonna make you lick it off the floor, understand?"

You let out a muffled yes, hollowing your cheeks and sucking his cock harder, your grip on Mingyu's thigh tightened as you looked at him desperately, not caring even a bit regarding the burn you felt at back of your throat, jaw sore from accommodating his large length.

"Take it, fucking good girl" Mingyu moaned as he spilled his cum in your arching thorat, white spurs of cum painting your mouth, he let out hiss as he felt you giving his dick a kitten lick, he pulled out, releasing rest of his cum onto your nose and cheeks, you being covered in his essence satisfying the animalistic urge inside him.

You swallowed Mingyu's cum happily like it was something sacred, afterall you indeed worshipped Mingyu, you licked your lips and held your tongue out showing him evidence of your obedience, he smirked looking at you as he scooped the remaining cum which he painted onto your face by his fingers and shoved them inside your mouth, you needed no command to suck them clean.

Mingyu kneeled down, looking at you with insatiable hunger, even though he just had his cock sucked down so good he was hard again, with you it was never enough .

"hands up" Mingyu commands and you obeyed in a blink of second not caring the ache in your muscles.

Mingyu removed your pink crop top and threw it somewhere carelessly, he wasn't surprised to find you braless as your hard nipples were already poking out since the moment he got here. His palm grabbed your left breast pinching the sensitive bud between his fingers, you whimpered, electricity running in your veins.

"So pretty" Mingyu murmured to himself as he started playing with your tits , kneading the soft flesh mercilessly, his lips made it's way to your neck, sucking on to the same hickey he gave you last night, you felt your whole body was burning with pleasure but it wasn't enough, he wasn't giving your cunt any attention.

"Daddy please... touch me" you whimpered helplessly, earning a raised eyebrow from Mingyu.

"But I am touching you angel, aren't I?" Mingyu said in a mocking tone. Fucking pretentious asshole you thought to yourself.

"Touch my pussy daddy.. please it hurts" you said, not giving two fucks about how pathetic you sound , you knew Mingyu loved having you beg like this, he stripped you off any shame and innocence you felt months ago. What Mingyu made you was in simple words his cock hungry whore.

"Aww it hurts? " Mingyu cooed as his palm landed a sharp slap against your pussy, making your whole body jerk up with sudden ecstasy, you were still on your knees and would have fell off on your head if it wasn't for Mingyu holding you tightly against him as he landed another harsh hit to your pussy, his rough palm being covered with your glistening juices.

"Daddyy" you cried out as you felt Mingyu pinching your clit harshly.

"You wanted me to touch your cum hole right, I am doing it so why are you being ungrateful now, you little whore"

You swear you could have cum right then and there, his words sending sharp vibrations to your cunt, you didn't knew which unhealed part of you, yearned to have Mingyu treat you so roughly but whatever it was you loved it, your pleasure was overwhelming your senses. Each of Mingyu's touch making you shudder.

"Daddy please—Make me cum—please" you begged as you grinded your pussy on Mingyu's open palm, feeling desperate for some sort of stimulation. His one finger was enough for you to reach your orgasm.

Your begging might have pleased Mingyu as he got up and wiped his hand onto your boob and gave you muttered quick stand up.

"Get onto the bed, hurry up if you don't want me to take you again on the floor" Mingyu said as he removed his t-shirt and pants, standing before you like a sculpted statue , every part of him screamed perfection, his skin perfect, his abs? You wish you could ride them, his biceps? You wished he headlocks you while taking you from behind.

You laid down on your back, eyeing Mingyu hungrily as he walked towards you, his tall frame engulfing you completely, he crawled on to the bed, sitting between your legs and pulling them apart in swift motion.

"Look at this desperate pussy begging to be filled up with cum" Mingyu said to himself as he ran his middle finger between your folds, parting them ever so slowly and spitting directly onto your clit, the lewd action drawing out a moan from you.

Mingyu shoved two of his fingers into your cunt, the pooling wetness making it easier for him to move and scissor them around easily, his thumb toyed with your clit, as his digits worked relentlessly inside your walls, pressing down your gummy walls.

" Your tiny cunt remains tiny no matter how many times it gets fucked, even if I fist you today it would again tighten up tomorrow like a virgin hole" Mingyu groaned as you clenched furiously around his digits, the prospect of him fucking his entire fist inside you making you spiral. He knew you were close by the way your walls were clenching so tight around his, afraid of him ruining your much awaited orgasm.

But Mingyu wasn't cruel like that , edging didn't interest him slight a bit, he was a giver and making you cum again and again is what he loved. He loved how sensitive you get after each release, afterall he loved spoiling his baby.

"Cum darling, let it out —make a mess for daddy" Mingyu's words were enough for you release the coil in your stomach, Mingyu's gripped your hip, preventing you from squirming away, you begged for it, so he would give it to you.

"Cumming —" you let out high pitched scream, as you felt your pussy spaming onto Mingyu's finger, thick slick gushing out endlessly, the sound your pussy was making was absolutely embarrassing, almost porn worthy.

Mingyu fucked his digits slowly as he felt your high fading away, he removed them and put them inside his own mouth, lapping the digits clean, he let out a satisfactory hum.

"My favourite desert"

You felt your cheeks heating up at the lewd compliment but at this point your whole body was burning up so it didn't matter. You felt Mingyu aligning his cock between your folds, you tried to squirm away but he quickly held you down by your throat as he was preparing to fuck you in missionary.

"I am sensitive daddy — no more please" you whimpered as you felt his tip entering your sensitive walls .

"Shut the fuck up, I own this cunt and I will use it till as I please" His hand tightens around your throat and another hand between your soaked thighs, cupping the sensitive mound. Fingers spreading open, hard cock teasing your entrance. A hissed whined leaving your lips. In swift motion Mingyu thrusts into you and removes his cock entirely before repeating the same action couple of times, streching you out completely, body tired and sprawled out for him to use, break and mend.

" You feel heavenly baby, my baby" Mingyu whispered as he captured your lips into a passionate kiss, hungrily lapping your mouth and sucking onto your tongue as his cock drilled inside you at a deliciously punishing pace. The hand which was resting on your throat searched for your hand, intervening fingers lovingly as if he isn't fucking you without any ounce of mercy.

" Y/N,Who do you belong to?" Mingyu asked breaking the kiss, looking at you like a pirate that found world famous treasure.

"You — I belong to you " you answered voice breaking between each words, Mingyu let out a disapproving grunt as he gave you particularly sharp thrust .

"I belong to —daddy" you cried out, feeling pleasure beyond limits as Mingyu rutted against you.

"My name darling" Mingyu said, pausing his movements all together, you looked at him with confusion, shock then with pure happiness, you weren't allowed to call Mingyu by his name in bedroom ever, it was one of very few clauses you didn't break, your heart strings tugged as you tried spelling out his name.

"Mingyu —" you whispered, voicing out shyly while ignoring the waves of emotions, erupting in your stomach.

"Louder" Mingyu grunted as he continued his movements, brain going fuzzy by your soft voice moaning out his name so beautifully.

"Mingyu — fuck Mingyu, soo good" you screamed out, clenching around his cock desperately, your second orgasm, approaching you like a truck.

The sole reason Mingyu didn't wished to have you call his name was cause' he wanted to forgive his identity whenever he was with you ,he wanted to stay with you as a nobody, not as a Kim Mingyu who was loved and hated by many, he just wanted to be a simple man with you, the one who is loved and one who is in love.

"I am close darling, gonna breed your pussy real good" Mingyu said as his thrusts grew more sloppy, his own orgasm approaching. With few more thrusts, he spilled his cum inside you, as you released too both of you cums mixing up and overflowing uncontrollably.

Mingyu detached his cock from you, admiring the beautiful creampie he just created, your pussy looked absolutely delectable,he shoved three of his fingers inside you, pushing his cum back inside your tight cunt,the action making you squirm uncontrollably.

"Mingyu please —sensitive" you hissed as you felt his delicious touch, the overstimulation clouding your senses.

"We can't let even a single drop waste, right Angel?" Mingyu asked, as he picked you up almost too easily , bringing you to bathtub and making you sit comfortably while taking seat against you.

He ran the warm water onto your body, the temperature making you forget the ache in your muscles.

"I am sleepy" you said as you pressed your body against Mingyu, finding solace in his big strong arms .

"What's your ring size" Mingyu suddenly asked you, bringing you back from the dreamland you were just about to slip in.

"I don't know never measured" you said sleepily, not caring why he even asked that question in the first place.

However Mingyu made up his mind, he won't be letting fear of future events Make you slip away from him, he loved you, he loved you enough to finally not giving fuck about anything, sudden epiphany hitting him, the love you had for him wasn't that weak to get shattered cause of opinions of useless people and your history, he was billionaire he could bury everything and anything he wants, Mingyu was done torturing himself and you.

He loves you and he will spend his whole life loving you.

He wraps you up in a tight hug, giggling as he roughly nuzzles his cheeks against yours.

"Baby~" he whines, voice soft and playful. You giggle despite yourself, too used to his clinginess to even think of stopping him. If anything, it only reassures you. Four years in, and he still loves you with the same fervor.

Yes, you're tired, but not once does it cross your mind to push him away. So you simply let him do as he pleases, your expression surrendering with quiet fondness even as your body stays still.

"Baby, baby, baby~" he repeats, still aggressively rubbing his cheeks against yours. Then, with both hands, he cups your face and squeezes gently until your lips pout up at him. You hum in protest, eyes lifting toward him since your head can’t.

Mingyu just beams, leaning in to kiss your lips.

"Welcome home," he murmurs between kisses. Once, twice, a third, a fourth, and finally a fifth time before you groan and try to swat his hands away. When you succeed, you tiptoe up and give him a quick peck of your own, smiling softly.

"I love you too."

He squeals like a giddy child and dives in for a sixth kiss, but ends up bumping your nose with his in the rush. Both of you wince from the impact, only to burst into laughter a moment later.

"My Mingyu is extra clumsy today," you tease, patting his head as you try to move past him toward the washroom. But before you can get far, he grabs your hand and pulls you back into a hug. He bends down to your neck, inhaling deeply as if you were the most comforting scent in the world.

"Thanks for working so hard," he whispers. Then, without letting go of you fully, he guides you to the sink, turns on the tap, and gently washes both your hands along with his.

"What shall we do tonight?" he asks, lacing his fingers with yours under the water.

"Drama talk?" you suggest.

Mingyu hums, turning off the tap and handing you a towel. "Someone’s got tea, huh? I’m so in."

You take the towel from him and dry both your hands, the domestic quiet between you filled only by the soft brushing of fabric and water dripping into the sink. Mingyu leans against the counter, watching you like you're his favorite part of the day—which, honestly, you are.

As you finish, he gently pulls you into his arms again, this time slower, calmer, holding you like he has all the time in the world.

"You know," he murmurs against your hair, "no matter how tired you come home, you always bring peace with you."

You smile against his chest, your fingers lazily tracing circles on his back. "You make it easy to come home."

He exhales, like your words are all he needed to hear today. And then, just before he lets go, he plants one final kiss on your temple.

"I’ll get the snacks ready. You go change."

You nod, pulling away with a soft smile, but not before stealing one more kiss from him.

And just like that, the weight of the day melts away, because home isn’t just a place, it’s Mingyu, and tonight, like every night, you’re exactly where you belong.

❖ hits different — by @gyuswhore

Kim Mingyu was the first friend your brother had brought home for dinner. Fast forward a couple years, his toothy smile and pierced ears would wedge their way into a permanent place in your heart. Nail to a coffin, never to escape. Or; in which you get rejected by the only boy you've ever loved; a rejection you can't quite shake off. | 40k [a, f]

❖ creep — by @smileysuh

“If the roles were reversed - if you were a ghost bound to this apartment forever - you’re saying you wouldn’t watch me get naked every day?” He’s definitely got a point. As your eyes skim Mingyu's perfect form again, that tingle returns between your legs. There’s no reason for him to be as sexy as he is- murders aren’t the only shocking thing this man has under his belt and you can see that now. | 9.1k [s]

❖ untitled — by @tonicandjins

2.6k [a]

❖ one last time — by @tonicandjins

you receive an invitation for the worst day of your life. | 10.9k [a]

❖ right time — by @thedensworld

you both were too young when you get together, right person-wrong time. Two years after break up, destiny brought you two again. | ? [a]

❖ did you hear what the rumor said? — by @97linelover

Dating as Idols means, keeping it a secret. Rumors will spread, people will get hurt. What if this one Rumor brings you over the edge and you no longer can handle this Secret? | 1.4k [a, f]

❖ beautiful liar — by @onlymingyus

Kim Mingyu's life has always been complicated, but you just add another layer. At least he is a beautiful liar. | 25.6k [a, f]

❖ thirsty — by @cheolism

joshua sends you a photo of your boyfriend wearing a tank top while working out and you just can't help but thirst. | 5.2k [s]

❖ goodbye — by @tonicandjins

3.1k [a]

❖ evening glow — by @cheolhub

you're having a horrible, no good, very bad day and mingyu wants to do everything he can to make it better. | 4.5k [s, a, f]

❖ statistically speaking — by @gyuswhore

In all your years of academic endurance, you've never failed. A 100% success rate, despite you cutting it close at times. However, the line graph that is your life starts tanking somewhere around the time you began taking this hellsent Statistics in Psychological Research class. With a professor that wouldn't know his ass from his head, and an overworked, overenthusiastic, and overcaptivating TA, it couldn't possibly get any worse than this. However, statistically speaking,...it could. | 21k [s, a, f]

❖ mingyu is so mean when he’s horny — by @gyuspell

? [s]

❖ backburner — by @saythenametotheworld

There is a rule of thumb for casual relationships: do not fall in love with the other. Yet with Mingyu, it felt easier to watch the world burn than to stop yourself from falling for him. | 21k [f, a, s]

❖ still yours — by @number1mingyustan

When you're with him, the time around you ceases to exist. You've got your own little bubble that's immune to reality where he's just yours. | 5.1k [f, s]

❖ i can do it for you — by @hoshifighting

After years dealing with everything alone, you stumble upon an old wishbook from your past. And you jokingly writes down your ideal boyfriend, Mingyu. To your surprise, Mingyu magically appears in your couch. | 8k [s, f]

❖ pretty u — by @soyongdorigyu

Everyone knows breaking into Formula One is no small feat. It takes years of relentless dedication, countless hours on the track, and significant financial investment to secure sponsors and world-class training.

Add to that the sheer exclusivity of the sport—only 20 seats are available globally—and the odds are anything but favorable. 

For Kim Mingyu, however, the dream became a reality. His rise through the motorsport ranks, culminating in a dominant streak in Formula 2, had not gone unnoticed. It felt surreal when Scuderia Ferrari extended an offer for him to join their team.

From karting as a wide-eyed child with ambitions of professional racing to earning a seat at one of Formula One’s most prestigious teams in just his second season, it was a story worthy of the history books.

“Kim Mingyu does it again! What an incredible performance in his second season, claiming his first win at the Italian Grand Prix in Imola!”

The commentator’s voice reverberated through the circuit, electric with excitement as Mingyu crossed the finish line in his Ferrari, trailed closely by his teammate, Jeon Jungkook, and Red Bull Racing’s Choi Seungcheol.

“P1, Kim! What an absolute day. You fought brilliantly, mate,” his race engineer, Eunwoo, radioed in, pride evident in his voice.

Behind the visor of his helmet, Mingyu grinned, his heart pounding with exhilaration. As he drove his victory lap, he raised a hand to wave at the roaring fans in the grandstand, soaking in the moment.

This wasn’t just a race—it was proof that years of sacrifice, grit, and belief in his abilities had paid off.

“Congrats, Mingyu! You crushed it!” Minghao cheered, slapping Mingyu’s helmet affectionately before pulling him into a bear hug.

Jeon Jungkook, who had finished just behind him in P2, was quick to join the celebration. As his teammate and closest friend, Jungkook beamed with pride, clapping Mingyu on the back as they made their way to the podium together.

The air was electric as champagne sprayed over the three drivers, their laughter mingling with the thunderous cheers of the crowd. For Mingyu, it felt like a dream—a surreal, euphoric moment frozen in time.

Standing on the podium, the magnitude of his achievement began to sink in. If this was what victory felt like, he was determined to make the podium his second home for the rest of the season. 

As he gazed out over the roaring fans, one thought crystallized in his mind: becoming a world champion wasn’t just a dream anymore—it was his next goal.

“Congratulations on your first podium, Mingyu!” The reporter greeted him with a warm smile as he stepped off the podium.

“That was a phenomenal performance, especially this early in the season. After qualifying P19 and missing out in Q2, how did it feel to work your way up to P1 from such a position and then maintain the lead to secure the win?”

Mingyu paused, the roar of the crowd still echoing in his ears, as he prepared to relive the race that had just changed his life forever. He smiled earnestly at the camera, still feeling as if he was on cloud nine. 

“It’s an absolute honor,” Mingyu said, the adrenaline from his victory still coursing through him.

“Honestly, I expected to stay within the top ten threshold like I did in my first season, but somehow, I managed to push through and claim P1. I gave it everything I had out there. I’m incredibly grateful to secure this win, especially with such an amazing team supporting me every step of the way, and to achieve this in just my second season—it feels surreal.”

The reporter nodded, thanking him for his time before Mingyu was ushered to another group of journalists. Question after question about the race flowed his way, from strategies to pivotal moments.

By the time the interviews concluded and Mingyu finally made it back to his hotel, he felt utterly drained.

“Good job, Mingyu! Second season and already a first-place finish—you’ve proven your potential in the best way possible,” Minghao, his manager and best friend, said with a grin as they walked into the hotel room.

Mingyu sank into the nearest chair with a deep sigh, exhaustion catching up to him. From starting P19 on the grid to crossing the finish line in P1, it had been a grueling but rewarding weekend. The memory of every overtaking move and every strategic call from the pit crew replayed in his mind.

He knew maintaining this level of performance would be crucial if he wanted to achieve the ultimate goal: becoming a world champion.

“Finally made it to the podium, but how does he still not have a girlfriend?” Seokmin’s teasing voice echoed from the other side of the room as he lounged on the couch.

“Did you see how some of those reporters kept trying to dig into his love life? They were relentless! It was hilarious watching him answer every question about qualifying or race strategy with confidence, but then totally shut down when someone asked if he had a special someone waiting to celebrate with him. Or better yet, if he’d date a fan!”

Mingyu couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head. “I just wanted to talk about racing, but they always find a way to steer it into personal territory.”

“Don’t worry, Mingyu,” Minghao chimed in with a laugh.

“You’ve got bigger things to focus on—like keeping that P1 streak alive. Love life or not, the entire grid knows you’re the one to watch this season.”

Mingyu smiled faintly, the weight of expectations pressing lightly on his shoulders. Despite the exhaustion from the weekend, the thrill of victory reignited the fire within him.

This was just the beginning, and he was determined to keep climbing.

Grabbing a pillow, Mingyu then launched it across the room with a smirk.

“Is it seriously a requirement to have a girlfriend around here?” he quipped, watching as Seokmin dodged dramatically, letting the pillow bounce harmlessly off the window.

“I know I’m hot, but my time will come sooner or later. I guess the internet just can’t handle the fact that a sexy racer is single,” he added, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

Minghao and Seokmin burst into laughter, their snorts filling the room. Mingyu rolled his eyes at their reaction, though he couldn’t help but crack a smile.

Ever since his Formula One debut, he had earned the title “King of Visuals” on the grid—a moniker bestowed by fans who were captivated by his striking looks and undeniable charm.

So when he casually admitted during an interview that he was one of the few single drivers on the grid, the revelation had spread like wildfire across social media.

Memes, hashtags, and fan cams flooded every platform, leaving fans reeling with equal parts disbelief and excitement.

Mingyu had unwittingly become the internet’s favorite enigma—a talented driver with looks that could kill and no one to call his “special someone.”

“I guess being single just adds to the mystery,” Minghao teased, nudging Seokmin.

“Or the drama,” Seokmin shot back, winking at Mingyu.

Mingyu groaned, flopping back onto the bed. “If only winning races caused this much chaos,” he muttered, though a faint smile lingered on his lips.

Fans were relentless, swarming Mingyu at every opportunity—asking him out on dates, flirting shamelessly, or even making bold moves in the paddock.

While he’d be lying if he said a few gorgeous fans hadn’t caught his eye, Mingyu remained firm in his priorities.

He wasn’t opposed to dating; he simply wanted to let things flow naturally. Right now, his focus was on himself and building a career that was still in its infancy.

Not everyone believed his resolve, though.

“I doubt Mingyu will stay single for long,” Minghao said with a sly grin. “I caught him staring at Choi Seungcheol’s sister right before qualifying on Saturday.”

Mingyu froze, his jaw tightening as the memory resurfaced. He had noticed a stunning woman at the Red Bull garage, her presence impossible to ignore.

Her confidence was magnetic, her aura so captivating that he’d found himself stealing glances in spite of himself.

“What?” Mingyu’s voice rose in disbelief. “That woman talking to Jeonghan at the Mercedes garage is Seungcheol’s sister?” His eyes widened comically.

Minghao’s smirk deepened as Seokmin stifled a laugh.

Mingyu felt a chill run down his spine as the realization hit him. This wasn’t just any woman—this was Choi Y/n, a renowned model and the younger sister of his current rival, two-time world champion Choi Seungcheol.

And if that wasn’t enough, she was also infamous for her high-profile breakup with Jeon Wonwoo, a long-standing Mercedes driver whose questionable reputation had only worsened after their split.

The weight of it all sank in, leaving Mingyu feeling lightheaded. If he so much as looked at Y/n for a second too long, let alone entertain the thought of dating her, the consequences would be catastrophic.

The media would have a field day, and Seungcheol would probably want his head.

“Relax, Mingyu,” Minseo’s voice rang out as she strolled into the room unannounced.

Mingyu groaned inwardly at the sight of his younger sister, whose knack for knowing everyone’s business on the grid was unmatched.

“If it makes you feel any better,” she continued casually, “Y/n prefers to keep her private life actually private. She’s been clearing up the mess with Wonwoo, but fans are still warring over her. Not that I blame them—imagine getting cheated on, kept in the dark, and then watching your ex parade his new girlfriend around right after the breakup. Absolute trash behavior.”

Mingyu scowled. “Great. My life was already complicated, and now you’re giving me the full exposé on Choi Y/n.”

Minseo shrugged, completely unfazed. “You brought me here, genius. If you didn’t want the gossip, you should’ve left me at home.”

Mingyu groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. “Please, tell me more, oh esteemed and most beloved F2 wag,” he quipped sarcastically, earning a snort from Seokmin.

Minseo rolled her eyes, unfazed by the title. She had gained quite the reputation for her insider knowledge, thanks to dating Lee Chan, a rising star in F2 and the McLaren driver academy.

Mingyu had no one but himself to blame—he’d introduced her to the world of other F1 and F2 wags, unknowingly giving her a front-row seat to the intricate web of grid drama.

“Don’t be mad because I know things,” Minseo teased, crossing her arms.

“Besides, you’ll thank me when you need the inside scoop on how to avoid getting on Seungcheol’s bad side.”

Mingyu groaned again, burying his face in his hands. Racing might be his job, but navigating the social minefield of the paddock was starting to feel like an entirely different sport.

Minseo plopped down beside her older brother on the bed, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “She’s a tough nut to crack, I’ll give you that,” she began, nudging him lightly.

“Jiheon told me she’s here for one reason only: to support her brother. She’s not looking for anything romantic, especially after what her ex put her through. If you’re hoping to catch her attention, Gyu, you’re going to need to be more than just a hotshot driver with a nice smile.”

As Mingyu groaned, Minseo pulled out her phone, her expression turning thoughtful.

“Honestly, I look up to her. Y/n’s the type of woman who’s got it all—well-educated, graceful, kind, and, let’s be real, totally charming. Spending the weekend with her and the other wags was eye-opening. She’s not just beautiful; she’s smart and grounded, too. You’d better bring your A-game because she’s not going to fall for someone who’s only about muscles and pole positions.”

Minseo paused dramatically before adding, “Oh, and let’s not forget—she just got out of a toxic relationship with Jeon Wonwoo, the guy everyone calls the next Lewis Hamilton. She’s not exactly eager to dive into another mess.”

Mingyu grimaced, running a hand through his hair as her words sank in. He couldn’t deny the truth in them.

The paddock had been buzzing a year ago when the news broke that Wonwoo’s ex-girlfriend—none other than Choi Y/n—had been the one he cheated on.

The revelation had sent shockwaves through both the racing world and social media, making Wonwoo public enemy number one for a while.

But time, as it always does, had softened the uproar. Wonwoo’s reputation for brilliance behind the wheel had gradually eclipsed the whispers about his personal life.

On the track, results often spoke louder than scandals, and the noise had all but faded into the background.

Still, the thought of trying to win over someone like Y/n—a woman with her own storied history and a grace that made her untouchable—felt daunting. Mingyu sighed, leaning back on the bed.

“Why do I feel like this is going to be harder than winning a championship?” he muttered under his breath.

Minseo chuckled, her teasing grin returning. “Because it is. But hey, maybe if you stop grimacing and start acting like the guy everyone thinks you are, you might have a shot.”

Seokmin, who had been quietly observing, chimed in with a laugh. “No pressure, though. You’re only competing with her brother’s protective instincts, her ex’s reputation, and, oh yeah, the rest of the paddock. Easy, right?”

Mingyu groaned again, throwing a pillow at Seokmin. “You’re not helping.”

There were undeniable pros to asking you out.

First, you were single and finally free after healing from a traumatic relationship. Second, he had an unexpected advantage—his younger sister, Minseo, who already seemed to have a friendly rapport with you.

But the cons? Oh, the cons were enough to give even someone as bold as Mingyu pause.

You were practically an untouchable goddess in the paddock, your presence commanding attention and reverence.

Mingyu wasn’t oblivious to the fact that other drivers—some of them far more experienced and decorated than him—were already vying for your attention.

To make matters worse, dating you could throw a wrench into his carefully curated reputation.

You weren’t just anyone; you were Choi Seungcheol’s sister and Jeon Wonwoo’s infamous ex.

For a rookie still carving out his place in Formula One, the optics of dating a rival’s sister, much less a former wag, were a minefield.

Mingyu could hear the whispering headlines already. "Rookie Kim Mingyu entangles himself in paddock drama!" It wasn’t the kind of attention he needed so early in his career.

Yet, there was an undeniable pull—a magnetic allure he couldn’t ignore.

He mulled over the idea, torn between his cautious side and the part of him that thrived on risks.

After all, wasn’t risk-taking how he’d clawed his way into Formula One in the first place? ‘Fuck it,’ he thought to himself, but the weight of uncertainty pressed down on him.

Even with all the confidence in the world, this wasn’t a decision he could make lightly.

“Just give it a go, man. You can prove yourself worthy and treat her better,” Seokmin said, breaking Mingyu’s spiral of thoughts. His friend’s voice was casual, but the words hit with the force of an ultimatum.

Mingyu sighed, running a hand through his hair. He’d faced impossible odds before, betting on himself when no one else did.

He wasn’t afraid of a challenge—Formula One had taught him that much. But this? This wasn’t just about proving himself on the track.

This was about putting his heart on the line, and for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t entirely sure he was ready to gamble.

Still, a spark of determination flared in his chest. If he was going to take this leap, he’d do it the only way he knew how— flat out, full throttle, no looking back.

After all, Mingyu didn’t just race to win; he raced because he thrived on the thrill of defying expectations. Maybe this was just another race he needed to run.

“You should talk to her at the after-party tomorrow. It’s your chance to ask her out once we’re back in Monaco,” Minseo teased with a mischievous glint in her eye, a snort escaping her as she nudged Mingyu’s arm.

Minghao didn’t miss the opportunity to join in, giving Mingyu a knowing look. “She’s right. You’ve got an opening—don’t waste it,” he added, smirking as Mingyu rolled his eyes in exasperation.

The thought of asking you out swirled in his mind, accompanied by flashes of possible scenarios.

You, like Mingyu, currently called Monaco home, a city tailor-made for romance and spectacle.

Mingyu’s mind toyed with ideas—maybe he’d take you out on his yacht, letting the waves of the Mediterranean set the mood, or perhaps a drive around the glittering streets of the principality, culminating in an unforgettable night of vibrant nightlife.

But before he could settle on anything, Minseo shattered his daydreams.

“If you’re genuinely thinking about bringing her out on your yacht, save yourself the trouble. Y/n’s a simple girl,” she remarked, shaking her head.

“She’d prefer a nice dinner with a stunning view and a good glass of wine.”

Mingyu let out a breath of relief he didn’t realize he was holding. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Well, that makes things easier. I owe you one,” he said, genuinely grateful for the insight. The last thing he wanted was to overdo it and come off as trying too hard.

On the day of the after-party, Mingyu is scrambling to look his best. He puts on a sleeveless black Vetements top and a pair of black cargo jeans, finishing the look off with tinted glasses. Mingyu hears a whistle from behind him as Minghao laughs.

As he adjusted the glasses in the mirror, he heard a low whistle from behind him.

Minghao, leaning casually against the doorway, burst into laughter. “Look at you, pulling out all the stops. You sure you’re not overthinking this?”

Mingyu smirked, glancing back at his friend. “You can laugh all you want, but first impressions matter. Besides,” he added, tugging on the hem of his top, “I’m not taking any chances.”

Minghao grinned and gave him a pat on the back. “Relax. Just be yourself, and you’ll be fine. And hey, if all else fails, at least you’ll look good while striking out.”

With a groan and a shake of his head, Mingyu grabbed his jacket and headed out.

Tonight wasn’t just another party—it was an opportunity, and he was determined not to let it slip through his fingers.

At the club, Mingyu felt a rare mix of excitement and nerves bubbling beneath his cool exterior.

The pulsing lights and bass-heavy music only amplified the electric energy of the night. He’d decided to be optimistic about his chances, reminding himself that confidence was key. After all, wasn’t that what got him into Formula One?

When he spotted you speaking to Minseo near the bar, he knew it was his moment. Taking a deep breath, he adjusted his tinted glasses and ran a hand through his hair.

This was his chance to make an impression, and he wasn’t about to waste it.

As he approached, Mingyu couldn’t help but pause for a brief second to take you in. The flashing club lights danced across your figure, highlighting every elegant detail of your appearance.

You were a vision—draped in a sleek black mini-dress that hugged you perfectly, accentuating your silhouette.

Your hair was styled in a loose bun, soft tendrils framing your face in an effortlessly alluring way. But it was your lips—a stunning shade of red—that truly stopped him in his tracks.

Mingyu felt his throat tighten for a moment as he struggled to gather himself. Keep it together, Gyu, he thought. You’ve driven at 300 kilometers per hour—this is nothing.

But somehow, approaching you felt infinitely more nerve-wracking than overtaking a rival on the track.

Minseo caught sight of him first, giving her brother a subtle but encouraging nod. You followed her gaze, and when your eyes met his, Mingyu felt the rest of the club melt away.

The noise, the crowd, the lights—all of it seemed to fade as a small, curious smile graced your lips.

With renewed determination, Mingyu straightened his posture, his confidence returning. He flashed you a smile and closed the distance between you.

“Mind if I join the conversation?” he asked, his voice smooth but slightly tinged with nervous energy.

You tilted your head slightly, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Well, if Minseo vouches for you, I suppose I can spare a few minutes,” you replied, your tone playful but inviting.

As you exchanged introductions and began chatting, Mingyu found himself relaxing. You were warm and genuine, your laughter lighting up the room in a way that made him forget the pressure of the moment.

And for the first time that night, he realized something important: this wasn’t just about taking a chance—it was about truly connecting. And so far, it seemed like he was off to a good start.

“So, Mingyu,” you began, your voice silky and low, “what makes you think you can just waltz over here and steal away all of my attention? I’m sure there are plenty of women in this club waiting for you to flash that grin their way.”

Mingyu’s lips quirked into a confident smile, but there was a softness in his gaze. “Maybe, but they’re not you. Something about you, Y/n... You make this rookie want to risk it all.”

Your eyebrow arched, your expression playful yet enigmatic. “Risk it all?” You tilted your head, letting your gaze linger on him for a moment too long, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Bold words for someone who doesn’t even know what I like to drink.”

He chuckled, leaning closer, his voice dropping to match yours. “Let me guess—red wine. Something deep, bold, and unapologetic, just like you.”

You smiled, clearly pleased but refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Not bad,” you murmured, sipping your wine, your eyes fixed on him over the rim of your glass.

“But knowing my drink won’t get you very far. Impressing me takes more than pretty words and that charming smile, Mingyu.”

He straightened, undeterred, his grin widening. “Dinner in Monaco. Just you and me. Let me show you I’m more than just words.”

Your laugh was low and sultry, sending his heart racing. “Dinner? What makes you think I’m the kind of woman who falls for candlelight and compliments?” You leaned closer, your perfume intoxicating.

“You’ll need to earn my time, Mingyu. I don’t waste it on anyone who can’t keep up with me.”

The challenge was clear, but something was inviting in your tone—a test wrapped in flirtation. “So, what do you say?” he asked, his confidence unshaken.

You tapped a finger against your glass, pretending to deliberate, though the glint in your eye gave away your amusement.

“Alright, rookie. Impress me tonight, and maybe—just maybe—I’ll consider giving you my time. But I don’t make promises.”

Before he could respond, the moment was interrupted by the presence of two figures approaching from behind him.

Wonwoo and Jeonghan stood there, their expressions unreadable but charged with unspoken warnings.

“Kim Mingyu,” Wonwoo’s voice was smooth, yet there was an edge to it. “Got a minute?”

You stepped back gracefully, your lips curving into a knowing smile. “Don’t let them scare you off, Mingyu. I’m not that easy to get rid of.”

You chuckle, turn, and disappear into the crowd, leaving him to face the two seasoned drivers.

Jeonghan was the first to speak, his usual teasing demeanor masked by a surprising edge.

“Y/n’s... a handful, you know. Complicated in the best and worst ways. You sure you want to dive into that?” His smirk was still there, but his tone hinted at something deeper.

“She’s nothing like any of those ditsy admirers you have, by the way,” Wonwoo interjected, his voice clipped and direct.

“And if you’re thinking of making a move, tread carefully. She’s been through more than you can imagine, and she doesn’t need someone messing around in her life just to back out when it gets tough.”

Mingyu shifted his weight, unfazed by their words. His voice was steady, almost challenging.

“I know about what happened between you two,” he said, looking directly at Wonwoo.

“And I know how much it hurt her. But I’m not here to bring her more pain. If anything, I want to be the one who treats her the way she deserves.”

Wonwoo’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. The weight of Mingyu’s words seemed to hang in the air, his sincerity impossible to ignore.

Jeonghan leaned closer, his smirk deepening as he let out a low chuckle.

“Big words, rookie. Do you think just because you’re sweet-talking us here, you’ll get a free pass? Let me tell you something—Y/n’s not a charity case, and she doesn’t need saving. She’s been doing just fine without you or anyone else.”

“I’m not trying to save her,” Mingyu replied firmly.

“I just... I see her, and I know what I want. She deserves someone who sees her for who she is, not what she’s been through. And I’m willing to prove I’m that guy.”

Jeonghan’s teasing expression softened just slightly, though the glint in his eyes remained.

“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But this isn’t a race where all you need is speed and a good strategy. This is Y/n. You fumble, and you’re out—not just with her, but with the rest of us watching from the sidelines.”

“Noted,” Mingyu said, his confidence unwavering.

“But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this sport, it’s that the best rewards come from the biggest risks. And Y/n? She’s worth it.”

Wonwoo’s expression remained unreadable, but a flicker of something—reluctant respect, perhaps—passed through his eyes.

“If you’re serious, you better be ready. She doesn’t give second chances, and she doesn’t forgive easily.”

“I wouldn’t expect her to,” Mingyu replied simply. Jeonghan clapped a hand on Mingyu’s shoulder, his grin widening.

“Well, rookie, if you’re that determined, good luck. You’re going to need it.” His tone was light, but the underlying warning was clear.

As they walked away, Mingyu exhaled, his resolve only growing stronger. This wasn’t about proving himself to the others—it was about proving himself to Y/n.

You were a challenge unlike any he’d faced before, but he was determined to show you that he was ready for whatever it took. For you, he was willing to take the risk—and win.

The low rumble of the Ferrari 812 Superfast filled your ears as you gazed out at the glittering Monaco skyline.

The sleek red car sliced through the winding streets, the hum of its engine almost hypnotic.

You weren’t about to admit it, but the smooth ride and his confident handling of the car were mildly impressive—though it also stirred an uncomfortable familiarity.

Your ex had loved the showy grandiosity of moments like this. The high-end cars, the breathtaking views, and the carefully curated settings screamed perfection but felt empty beneath the surface. A part of you braced for the same facade now.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Mingyu said, breaking the silence. His hand rested casually on the steering wheel, but his tone was laced with amusement.

“I’m just admiring the ride,” you replied coolly, turning to face him. “You really leaned into the whole Monaco-Ferrari cliché. Should I be flattered?”

He chuckled, casting you a glance before focusing back on the road. “It’s not a cliché if it works. But if the car isn’t enough, maybe the destination will be.”

You allowed yourself a faint smile but didn’t respond, letting the glittering city lights distract you.

As the car climbed higher, the roads became quieter and more secluded. When the car finally came to a stop, Mingyu stepped out quickly, moving around to open your door.

“Your chariot awaits,” he said, extending a hand with a boyish grin. You raised an eyebrow but accepted his hand, stepping out gracefully.

The view before you was breathtaking—a cozy, secluded restaurant perched on a cliff, its warm lights spilling out onto a terrace that overlooked the entire harbor. The sea stretched endlessly into the night, reflecting the twinkling city lights.

“Points for effort,” you said lightly, brushing off your dress, though the scene tugged at something buried deep in your chest.

Inside, the restaurant was intimate, far from the prying eyes of the world. Your table was set at the very edge of the terrace, offering an unobstructed view of Monaco’s skyline. The warm evening breeze and soft glow of the lanterns set a perfect scene.

“You like to impress, don’t you?” you asked as you settled into your seat, your fingers lightly brushing the stem of your wine glass.

He shrugged with that same confident grin. “I just wanted the setting to match the company.”

You laughed softly, swirling the dark liquid in your glass. “Flattery, Mingyu? I would’ve thought you’d try something more original.”

“I’m not flattering you,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “Just being honest.”

That made you pause. There was a sincerity in his tone that caught you off guard, and for a moment, your playful smirk faltered.

It reminded you of the early days with your ex, back when he’d been convincing enough to make you believe in his charm. But unlike before, this didn’t feel rehearsed.

“Do you always go to this much trouble for a girl you barely know?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you set your glass down.

“Only for the ones who are worth it,” he replied smoothly, his gaze steady.

Your heart tightened, the old wounds from your past relationship threatening to surface.

Your ex had always said the right things too—until the truth unraveled, and you realized how hollow those words had been.

But as you held Mingyu’s gaze, you couldn’t find the cracks you’d learned to expect. His determination wasn’t about ego; it was quieter, steadier.

“And what exactly are you expecting in return?” you asked, your voice soft but challenging.

“Nothing,” he said simply. “Except a chance. A chance to show you I’m serious.”

You studied him carefully, searching for any sign of pretense. But all you found was earnestness, and it unnerved you.

“Maybe,” you said finally, the word slipping out before you could stop it. “Maybe I’ll consider it.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up into a satisfied smile, but he didn’t push further.

The rest of the evening passed in a comfortable rhythm, the playful edge between you softened by something deeper.

When you slid back into the car for the drive home, you caught yourself stealing glances at him.

He didn’t need to fill the silence with charm or bravado, and for the first time, you wondered if he might actually be different.

The thought scared you—but it also left you with something unfamiliar. Hope. Maybe this rookie was more than just a fleeting moment—and maybe, just maybe, you’d let yourself find out.

After dinner, the night air was cool as Mingyu opened the car door for you once again, the hum of the car coming to life beneath his touch.

Instead of heading straight back, he took a turn that led deeper into the illuminated streets of Monte Carlo.

“Where are we going?” you asked, a curious edge to your voice.

“It’s too early to end the night,” he replied, a boyish grin spreading across his face. “Trust me, you’ll like this.”

Monte Carlo at night was a masterpiece—its streets glowing with golden light, the harbor dotted with yachts shimmering like jewels, and the gentle hum of the nightlife echoing in the distance.

The Ferrari’s engine purred as Mingyu navigated the winding roads, his confidence behind the wheel evident in every turn.

The windows were slightly down, and the cool breeze swept through your hair as you leaned back in the seat, the city lights painting your features in soft hues.

From his side, Mingyu stole a glance at you, his heart skipping at how serene you looked.

For someone who carried such an untouchable aura, there was an undeniable warmth in moments like this.

“You know,” he started, his voice soft, “you’re really something.”

You turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Something? That’s a little vague, don’t you think?”

He chuckled. “Alright, let me be specific. You’re beautiful, but not just in the obvious way. It’s… the way you carry yourself, the way you challenge me. It’s magnetic.”

You looked away, a faint blush creeping onto your cheeks as you tried to play it off with a small laugh.

“Careful, Mingyu. Keep saying things like that, and I might start believing you.”

The car slowed as he pulled into a quiet overlook, the city sprawling out before you in a sea of light.

For a moment, the two of you just sat there, the only sound the distant hum of the nightlife below.

“I used to love nights like this,” you said suddenly, your voice softer than before. “When everything felt… simple. Before it all got so complicated.”

Mingyu turned to you, sensing the shift in your tone. “You mean before—?”

“Before everything,” you interrupted gently. “The spotlight. The rumors. People assuming they know you because of headlines. It’s exhausting.”

There was a vulnerability in your words that he hadn’t seen before, and it made his chest tighten.

“You don’t have to carry all that alone, you know.”

You met his gaze, searching for any hint of pity but finding only sincerity. It caught you off guard, and for the first time that night, you let yourself relax completely.

“Maybe,” you said softly, echoing your earlier words from dinner. “Maybe I don’t.”

The drive back to your place was quieter, but it wasn’t the kind of silence that felt heavy. Instead, it was comfortable, the two of you lost in your own thoughts as the city passed by in a blur of light and shadow.

When he finally pulled up to your building, you hesitated for a moment before unbuckling your seatbelt.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said, your voice warmer than before. “I… I had a good time.”

Mingyu smiled, leaning slightly toward you. “So, does that mean I get another chance?”

You didn’t answer right away, stepping out of the car instead and turning back to face him with a playful smirk. “We’ll see.”

With that, you disappeared inside, leaving him grinning like an idiot.

When Mingyu got home, he found Minseo lounging on the couch, scrolling through her phone. She looked up when he walked in, immediately catching the glow on his face.

“So?” she asked, sitting up eagerly. “How’d it go?”

Mingyu flopped onto the couch beside her, running a hand through his hair with a dreamy smile. “It was perfect. She’s… amazing.”

Minseo smirked, nudging him playfully. “Did you tell her how much you like her?”

“Not yet,” he admitted, his smile softening. “But I think she’s starting to let me in. Slowly.”

“Well, don’t screw it up,” Minseo teased, though her tone was affectionate. “I like her already.”

Mingyu chuckled, leaning back and closing his eyes.

For the first time in a long while, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. And as he replayed the night in his head, he couldn’t wait to see where this road would take him.

The Monaco Grand Prix weekend was in full swing, and the energy in the paddock was electric.

The iconic views of the harbor, the glamorous yachts, and the bustling atmosphere of the streets, combined with the sounds of engines revving and the anticipation of one of the most prestigious races of the season, made for a thrilling backdrop.

Inside the Ferrari hospitality suite, fans were buzzing with excitement, but it wasn’t just the drivers who caught their attention that day.

As the crowd navigated the high-end lounge, all eyes were drawn to Mingyu, who, as usual, effortlessly commanded attention with his tall, lean frame and charismatic smile.

But what had people talking was the stunning woman standing beside him.

You, dressed in an elegant white silk dress with subtle touches of gold—perfectly matching the Monaco glamour—were engaged in a conversation with Mingyu.

Your laughter blended with the excitement of the moment, and the two of you were noticeably close, almost as if the world outside didn’t exist.

There was a natural ease between you, one that made it impossible to deny the undeniable chemistry sparking between you and Mingyu.

As the two of you shared an inside joke, the fans watching couldn't help but whisper among themselves.

Who is she? Is she a lucky charm? The murmurs quickly turned into something more salacious as the gossip began to spread like wildfire.

Wait... isn’t that Y/N? Wonwoo's ex? Some fans gasped, clearly recognizing you from the rumors that had circulated about your past relationship with the Mercedes driver. I thought she was with him, but now she’s with Mingyu?

The whispers grew louder, some speculating that Mingyu had bagged Wonwoo’s ex—someone who had been publicly cheated on.

Others were wondering if it was all some sort of calculated move. She’s with Mingyu now? After everything that happened with Wonwoo?

It was impossible to ignore the buzz around you, but you and Mingyu remained blissfully unaware of the growing gossip.

You were so absorbed in each other, lost in your private world, that the fans’ prying eyes went unnoticed.

But those murmurs were starting to spread rapidly, and no one dared to ask aloud, too caught up in the electric chemistry between you two.

Still, the tension in the air was palpable, the fans too intrigued by the dynamic unfolding before them.

Unbeknownst to you, a pair of familiar eyes had been quietly watching from a distance.

Wonwoo, strolling alongside Seungcheol and his teammate Woozi, caught sight of the two of you as he passed by.

His step faltered for a brief moment, his gaze lingering longer than he intended.

His heart skipped, not out of jealousy, but something much more inexplicable.

His eyes narrowed slightly, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of something—what was it? Curiosity? Longing? Before he could process the feeling, Seungcheol, ever observant, raised an eyebrow and asked with a smirk, "Who’s the lucky guy?"

"Is it Mingyu?" Woozi added, clearly noticing the dynamic between you and Mingyu.

Wonwoo didn’t answer right away. Instead, he simply shrugged it off, turning his focus back to the upcoming day’s events. But deep down, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted.

Back inside the hospitality suite, you slowly began to let your guard down, the intoxicating ambiance of Monaco, mingled with Mingyu's easy-going nature, allowing you to feel more at ease.

It wasn’t often that you felt so relaxed around someone, but Mingyu had a way of making everything feel effortless.

Your conversation flowed like a river, the outside world fading away.

However, with a glance at the clock, you quickly realized that it was time for you to head to the Red Bull Hospitality before the qualifying session.

"I’ll let you get ready for qualifying, Gyu. I’ll be in the Paddock Club cheering you on," you said with a small, warm smile.

Mingyu smiled, his eyes sparkling with appreciation.

"Good luck to me, then. I’ll see you after!" he teased, but there was an undeniable warmth in his voice.

As you made your way toward the exit, your heart fluttered a little, but you pushed the feeling down, knowing Mingyu had his focus on the track.

Meanwhile, the buzz in the hospitality had only grown, fans whispering about the connection they had witnessed between the two of you.

The moment qualifying ended, the energy in the paddock shifted. The Ferrari garage erupted in cheers as Mingyu claimed pole position in a spectacular performance.

The roar of the crowd and the camera flashes filled the air, but Mingyu’s mind was elsewhere.

He was thinking of you, and only you.

However, you had made it clear earlier that you didn’t want anyone to know about the arrangement between you and him. It was a secret that had to be kept, at least for now.

The media and fans were already speculating about the connection they’d seen in the hospitality suite, and you didn’t want to fuel the rumors just yet.

After the qualifying session, you quickly slipped away from the Paddock Club hospitality and headed to Parc Fermé.

Mingyu had specifically asked you to meet him there, away from the prying eyes of the paddock.

You approached the secured area where the cars were lined up, careful not to attract attention.

Mingyu, still in his Ferrari racing suit, was surrounded by his team, but his eyes immediately found you in the crowd. He gave you a small, knowing smile, his face lighting up at the sight of you.

You walked toward him, heart racing in anticipation. "Congrats on pole, Mingyu," you whispered, your voice soft yet full of warmth.

"Thanks," he replied quietly, glancing around to ensure no one was paying attention. "I couldn’t have done it without you."

You smiled, your heart swelling with pride for him, but you both knew that you had to keep things discreet.

His fingers brushed against yours briefly before he quickly pulled his hand back, a silent reminder of the arrangement you were trying to keep secret.

The chemistry between you two was undeniable, but in this world, it had to remain in the shadows for now.

Before you could say anything else, a familiar face appeared—your brother, Seungcheol. He was making his way toward the press conference area, and his eyes swept over the scene in front of him.

You straightened up quickly, knowing you needed to distance yourself from Mingyu before Seungcheol noticed.

Mingyu nodded subtly in understanding, backing away a few steps to give you space.

"Good luck tomorrow," you said quietly, not wanting to make a scene. "I’ll be cheering for you from the Red Bull Garage."

Mingyu’s smile was both grateful and a little teasing. "I’ll see you there."

With one last glance, you turned and left, making your way toward the crowd, careful not to look back.

Back in the Red Bull hospitality suite, you tried to focus on the race, but your thoughts kept drifting to Mingyu and the moment you shared a few minutes ago.

His performance, his quiet smile, the brief touch of his hand—it all felt electric.

You had just taken your seat when you saw a familiar figure outside, weaving through the crowd. It was Mingyu.

He was making his way toward the Red Bull hospitality suite, without a care and with a determined look on his face.

Fans, noticing the connection between you two, whispered to each other as he walked past, but he didn’t seem to care.

Mingyu wasn’t trying to hide the fact that he was looking for you. He was coming for you, and you admired the boldness.

Your ex usually kept you under wraps, but Mingyu was determined.

As he entered, his eyes immediately found yours. Without a word, he walked over to you, a warm smile on his lips, his presence making your heart flutter.

"Ready for tomorrow? I just finished my interviews so I could come visit before my meeting," he asked softly, his voice low enough that no one else could hear.

"I am now, you shouldn’t have gone through so much trouble, you know?" you replied, giving him a small smile, feeling the energy between the two of you intensify.

The murmurs around the room had grown louder, and the whispers that started with Mingyu and the girl from Ferrari soon shifted toward something more intriguing.

Wait a minute... Isn’t she... A fan who had been observing the two of you pointed to you and then to a familiar face in the paddock.

"Isn’t she... Wonwoo's ex-girlfriend?"

The conversation quickly spread, as fans began to piece together your past. Oh, that’s her—Seungcheol’s sister, right?

The whispers turned into speculation, with fans recalling the well-known drama surrounding your breakup with Wonwoo.

Wait... isn’t she the one he cheated on? The room buzzed with theories. So she’s with Mingyu now?

Some fans couldn’t help but wonder if Mingyu had stolen her away after the public mess with Wonwoo. What happened between them?

The gossip was relentless, with fans scrambling to connect the dots of your past relationship with Wonwoo and the secretive interaction they had just witnessed between you and Mingyu.

The more they talked, the more the pieces seemed to fall into place, and the intrigue only deepened.

But neither of you cared about the growing attention. What mattered was the moment you shared, the quiet connection that spoke louder than any rumors or expectations.

For now, it was just the two of you, and that was enough.

Mingyu’s breath was warm against your ear as he leaned in closer, his words so soft that they seemed to vibrate in the air between you two.

"No one needs to know everything, right?"

You smiled, a soft laugh escaping your lips, the playful warmth of his tone making your heart flutter. "Not yet."

But as he pulled back, your gaze lingered on him, and for the first time that weekend, a wave of realization hit you.

Being with Mingyu felt... different. It wasn’t just the chemistry or the electric pull that seemed to draw you closer every time he was near. It was more than that.

In the chaos of the Monaco Grand Prix, amidst the flashing cameras, the gossip, and the pressure of it all, you had found something in Mingyu that you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

It wasn’t just the comfort of having someone to lean on, though he made you feel safe in ways you hadn’t expected.

It was the way he understood without needing words, how his smile made everything else seem less important, how he could make you forget the world and simply be with you in that moment.

It was as if everything else—the mess with Wonwoo, the drama, the expectations—had faded into the background.

With Mingyu, you felt seen in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time, maybe ever.

No pretense, no games—just raw, real connection. The kind of connection that made you wonder if it was time to stop hiding, to stop keeping everything a secret.

But then reality crashed in. You couldn’t just throw everything into the open, not yet.

There were too many unanswered questions, too many things that needed to be untangled.

Still, in that brief exchange, in the quiet of the moment, you allowed yourself to think that maybe this was different.

Maybe Mingyu was different.

As he gave you that knowing smile and turned to walk away, you stood frozen for a second, your mind racing.

Maybe you had been too cautious for too long, too afraid to step into something real again.

But with Mingyu, it didn’t feel like a leap—it felt like a step toward something you weren’t sure you were ready for, but something you couldn’t resist.

You glanced back at him, his tall figure moving through the crowd.

Maybe you hadn’t figured everything out yet, but with him, you felt like you were starting to.

Slowly, surely, you could see where this could lead.

As the evening settled over the Monaco paddock, the energy from qualifying slowly began to dissipate.

The buzz of celebration in the Ferrari garage was still palpable, but the crowds had thinned, leaving only a few lingering team members and the two drivers.

Mingyu, having played the role of the victorious pole-sitter all evening, decided it was time to steal a moment for himself—and for you before you both retired to your homes.

Navigating through the quieting paddock, he slipped away from his team’s hospitality, his steps purposeful as he made his way toward the secluded corner where he knew you’d be waiting.

The soft hum of the Monaco harbor filled the air as he rounded a corner, only to come face-to-face with none other than Wonwoo and Hoshi.

Wonwoo’s sharp eyes narrowed as he took in Mingyu’s casual, almost nonchalant demeanor.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," he said, his voice laced with disdain.

Hoshi, standing beside him in his McLaren race suit, crossed his arms and leaned against the wall with a slight smirk.

"Well, well, sneaking off, are we, pole-sitter?" His tone was teasing, but his gaze was scrutinizing.

Mingyu straightened, his jaw tightening as he met Wonwoo’s glare. "I don’t see how this concerns either of you," he replied evenly, though there was a sharp edge to his voice.

Wonwoo stepped forward, his expression hardening.

"It concerns me because she’s Seungcheol’s sister. And more importantly, because I know you, Mingyu. You think this is a game? You’re not fit for her."

Mingyu’s eyes darkened, his patience wearing thin. "That’s not for you to decide," he said firmly. "Especially not after what you did."

Hoshi chimed in, his voice light but his words pointed. "I think what Wonwoo’s saying is... tread carefully. She’s been through enough, don’t you think?"

The tension between the three drivers was palpable, but before it could escalate further, your voice cut through the air.

"What the hell is going on here?"

The three men turned to see you standing a few steps away, your arms crossed and your gaze fiery. Mingyu’s tense posture softened slightly, but Wonwoo’s face hardened.

You marched up to them, your eyes fixed on Wonwoo.

"Seriously? You’re trying to tell Mingyu what to do? You don’t get to have a say in my life anymore."

Wonwoo opened his mouth to speak, but you didn’t give him the chance.

"You cheated on me, Wonwoo. You made it very clear how little you cared about me back then. So don’t you dare act like you’re some protective ex now. You lost that right a long time ago."

Hoshi raised his eyebrows, clearly taken aback by your bluntness, while Mingyu’s lips quirked into a subtle smile, pride flickering in his eyes.

You turned to Hoshi, your tone still firm but less cutting.

"And you? I appreciate the concern, but I can handle myself. Mingyu has been nothing but kind to me, and honestly, I don’t need the two of you ganging up on him."

Wonwoo looked away, his jaw clenched, while Hoshi gave a small, apologetic nod. Mingyu stepped closer to you, his hand brushing yours in a silent show of support.

You sighed, your voice softening as you addressed all three of them.

"I’m not some prize to be fought over. I make my own decisions. And right now, I’m choosing to be with someone who actually respects me."

With that, you turned to Mingyu, your expression softening as you met his gaze. "Let’s go."

He nodded, his hand lightly resting on the small of your back as the two of you walked away, leaving Wonwoo and Hoshi standing in the shadowed paddock.

As you disappeared around the corner, Hoshi let out a low whistle. "Well, that was something."

Wonwoo didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the spot where you had stood.

For the first time in a long time, he felt the sting of regret—not just for losing you, but for realizing that someone else might treat you the way he should have.

As you and Mingyu walked away from the tension-filled scene, the quiet of the dimly lit paddock enveloped you both.

The distant hum of the harbor and the faint echoes of laughter from the remaining hospitality areas faded into the background.

Mingyu’s hand lightly rested on the small of your back, his touch warm and grounding.

After a few moments of silence, he finally broke it, his voice gentle. “You didn’t have to do that, you know. Standing up for me like that.”

You glanced up at him, your expression softening as you saw the flicker of emotion in his eyes.

“Of course, I did,” you said simply. “You didn’t deserve that. None of it.” Mingyu stopped walking, turning to face you fully.

The faint glow of the overhead lights cast soft shadows on his face, making the vulnerability in his expression even more evident.

“I’m fine,” he said quietly, though the slight waver in his voice betrayed the truth. “I just... I didn’t want them dragging you into more drama because of me.”

Your heart twisted at his words. For all his confidence and charisma, Mingyu wasn’t as invincible as he seemed.

He was trying to shoulder everything on his own, and it hit you just how much he cared—not just about his image or reputation, but about protecting you from the chaos of his world.

You took a step closer, your hand reaching out to gently rest on his arm. “Mingyu,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Are you okay? Really?”

His eyes searched yours for a moment as if debating whether to let you see the cracks beneath the surface.

Finally, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “I am now,” he admitted. “But I hate that this affects you, too. I never wanted that.”

You shook your head, your hand sliding down to intertwine with his.

“I knew what I was getting into, Mingyu. And I’m not running away just because it’s a little messy. You’ve been there for me, and I want to be there for you, too.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his gaze locked on your joined hands.

He noticed the way your thumb absentmindedly traced circles against his skin, a small but significant gesture that spoke volumes.

“You don’t know how much that means to me,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

You smiled softly, the tension in your shoulders easing as you saw him relax slightly. “Good. Because I mean it.”

Mingyu didn’t push further. He could sense that this was a big step for you—letting your walls down, even just a little.

Instead, he gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his silent way of acknowledging the progress.

“I’m lucky, you know,” he said after a pause, his tone lighter but still sincere. “To have you. Even when things get crazy.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, though your smile betrayed your affection. “Don’t get used to it just yet,” you teased, but there was no mistaking the warmth in your voice.

As the two of you continued walking, the tension of the evening seemed to dissipate, replaced by a quiet sense of understanding.

For the first time in a long time, you felt like you were finally letting someone in, and Mingyu, ever patient, was exactly who you needed at that moment.

Later that night, the warm glow of the city lights filtered through the windows of your apartment, casting soft shadows on the walls.

You sat curled up on the couch with a blanket draped over your lap, the faint hum of the Monaco harbor in the distance.

Across from you, Seungcheol sat with his arms crossed, his jaw set as he stared at you with the intensity only an older brother could manage.

“So,” he said finally, breaking the silence.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you and Mingyu, or do I have to find out from the gossip mill?”

You sighed, tucking your knees under you as you avoided his gaze. “It’s not... it’s not like that,” you started, but the way his eyebrows shot up made you correct yourself.

“Okay, maybe it is. A little.”

Seungcheol leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You’re seeing him,” he stated bluntly, his tone somewhere between accusation and concern.

You hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. I am.”

The silence stretched between you, and you could see the gears turning in his head. He was fuming, you could tell—his tight posture, the way his fingers tapped against his knee, and the sharp edge to his expression.

Finally, he exhaled sharply. “After everything with Wonwoo? Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“That’s not fair,” you said, your voice firmer than you expected. “Mingyu isn’t Wonwoo. He’s... he’s different.”

“Is he?” Seungcheol shot back. “Because I remember how broken you were after that mess. I had to watch you pick up the pieces, and now you’re telling me you want to jump back into something with one of his friends?”

You flinched at the mention of the past, but you refused to back down.

“It’s been years since then, Cheol. I’ve changed. I’ve grown. And Mingyu—he’s nothing like that. He treats me well. He respects me.”

Seungcheol stared at you, his expression unreadable.

You could feel the weight of his protectiveness pressing down on you, but you held your ground.

“I get it,” you said softly. “You’re just looking out for me. But I’m not the same person I was back then. I’m stronger now.”

His shoulders sagged slightly, and he ran a hand through his hair, clearly struggling with his emotions.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt again,” he admitted, his voice quieter now.

“I know,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“But Mingyu’s not going to hurt me. He’s been patient, Cheol. He’s been kind. And honestly... he makes me feel like maybe I can give love another chance.”

Seungcheol looked at you for a long moment, his gaze softening as he took in your words.

He could see the sincerity in your eyes, the way your shoulders relaxed when you talked about Mingyu.

Finally, he sighed, leaning back against the couch. “You’re a grown woman,” he said reluctantly. “I guess I don’t really have a say in what you do anymore.”

You laughed lightly, the tension in the room easing. “No, you don’t. But I still appreciate that you care.”

He shook his head, a small smile breaking through his stern exterior. “I just hope he knows how lucky he is. And if he screws up—”

“You’ll be the first to let him know,” you finished, grinning.

“Damn right,” Seungcheol muttered, though his tone was more affectionate than angry now.

As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, you felt a sense of relief wash over you.

For the first time in a long time, you had opened up about your feelings, and while Seungcheol’s approval wasn’t everything, it mattered.

With his begrudging blessing, you felt like you were finally moving forward—ready to see where things with Mingyu might lead.

Seungcheol leaned back onto the couch, his expression softening as the tension eased between the two of you.

After a few moments, he raised an eyebrow, a hint of curiosity creeping into his tone.

“Alright, fine. But now you have to tell me how this all started. How did you even end up with Mingyu?”

You smiled, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself as you leaned into the couch cushions.

“It was here in Monaco, actually,” you began. “Right after the Imola Grand Prix.”

Seungcheol’s brow furrowed slightly. “Monaco? What happened here?”

“Well,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips, “Remember the after-party that was hosted by Joshua Hong? You know, just to let loose a little after a hectic weekend since we all live here anyway. I wasn’t planning anything that night, but then Mingyu showed up. He was there with some of his friends as well, and... I don’t know, we just started talking.”

Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed slightly. “He asked you out at the after-party? Why didn’t I know about this?”

“Don’t make it sound like that,” you protested with a laugh.

“It wasn’t sleazy or anything. He was... charming. Polite. He didn’t push, just asked if I’d like to go out to dinner sometime. Honestly, I almost said no.”

“Why didn’t you?” Seungcheol asked, his tone skeptical but not unkind.

You shrugged, your smile softening.

“There was something about him. He wasn’t overbearing, and he didn’t act entitled like some guys do. He made me laugh. It felt easy.”

Seungcheol hummed, leaning his chin on his hand. “So you said yes?”

“Yeah,” you said, your eyes lighting up at the memory.

“A few days later, he took me out to this beautiful little restaurant overlooking the harbor. It wasn’t flashy, just... nice. Intimate. We talked for hours, about everything and nothing. And after dinner, he asked if I wanted to see more of Monte Carlo. He took me on this drive through the city, and it was... magical. The way the city lights sparkled against the sea—it felt like something out of a movie.”

Seungcheol’s expression softened further, though he still seemed hesitant. “And he’s been respectful? No games?”

You nodded firmly.

“Completely. He’s never pushed me to do anything I wasn’t comfortable with. He listens, Cheol. When I told him I needed time, he gave it to me. No questions, no complaints. He’s patient, and he’s made it clear that he’s okay with going at my pace.”

Seungcheol exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck as he processed your words.

“Alright,” he said finally, his tone begrudging but genuine. “I’ll admit, that sounds... better than I expected. He’s really been that good to you?”

“Yes,” you said earnestly, meeting his gaze.

“He’s been amazing, Cheol. He makes me feel like I can trust him, like I can actually let someone in again.”

Seungcheol studied you for a moment longer before finally nodding. “Okay,” he said, his voice low.

“If he makes you happy and treats you right, then I’ll back off. But,” he added, his tone sharpening slightly, “if he ever does anything to hurt you—”

“Again, you’ll be the first one to kick his ass,” you finished, grinning. “I know.”

Seungcheol shook his head with a reluctant smile, leaning back onto the couch. “You really like him, don’t you?”

You felt your cheeks warm, but you didn’t deny it. “Yeah,” you admitted softly. “I really do.”

For the first time that night, Seungcheol didn’t argue. Instead, he simply nodded, a quiet understanding passing between the two of you.

The final day of the Monaco Grand Prix dawned bright and clear, the Mediterranean sun casting its golden rays across the iconic harbor.

The air was filled with excitement, the buzz of anticipation almost tangible as fans packed the grandstands and the paddock brimmed with activity.

The Monaco GP wasn’t just a race—it was a spectacle, a celebration of speed, luxury, and prestige, and today promised to be unforgettable.

You stepped into the paddock alongside Mingyu’s sister, Minseo, and your friend Jiheon, a wag whose easy charm made her a favorite among the paddock regulars.

Your off-shoulder white maxi dress swayed elegantly with each step, its flowing fabric catching the light and drawing eyes wherever you went.

The dress, paired with understated gold jewelry and a pair of nude heels, was the perfect balance of sophistication and glamour, effortlessly fitting the grandeur of Monaco.

Your hair fell in soft waves, framing your face as you smiled and chatted with your companions.

The three of you moved through the paddock with ease, turning heads as the collective grace of your group drew admiration.

Photographers snapped away, and fans whispered excitedly as they recognized you.

It wasn’t just the dress or the occasion—it was the way you carried yourself, the quiet confidence and elegance that had people wondering who you were and how you fit into the thrilling world of Formula 1.

Mingyu stood near the Ferrari garage, finishing up a pre-race discussion with his engineers.

His fire suit hung slightly open at the top, the vibrant red of his team unmistakable. As the conversation wrapped up, his eyes drifted across the paddock—and then he saw you.

Time seemed to slow for him as he took in the sight of you. The white dress, the way it flowed effortlessly as you walked, the soft smile on your lips—it all made his heart skip a beat.

You were stunning, a vision of grace and beauty, and the way you lit up when you laughed at something Jiheon said only added to your charm.

Without a second thought, Mingyu excused himself from the conversation and made his way toward you.

His long strides carried him across the paddock quickly, his eyes locked on you the entire time.

You noticed him as he approached, and your face lit up in recognition, your smile widening in a way that made his chest tighten.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice casual but his eyes warm as they met yours.

“Good morning,” you replied, tilting your head slightly to look up at him. “Ready for the big day?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he said with a small grin, his hands resting on his hips. “How about you? Ready to cheer for the wrong team?”

You laughed lightly, the sound like music to his ears. “I’ll be watching from the Red Bull garage today,” you admitted, a playful glint in your eye.

“But I’ll still be cheering you on, Mingyu. Even if you’re a Ferrari driver.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Traitor,” he teased, though his tone was laced with affection. “But I’ll take whatever support I can get.”

Before either of you could say more, Jiheon nudged your arm gently, reminding you it was time to head to the hospitality area.

You gave Mingyu one last smile, your voice soft as you said, “Good luck out there. Drive safe.”

“I will,” he promised, watching as you turned to walk away.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment, the elegant sway of your dress and the way you carried yourself etching itself into his memory.

The pre-race atmosphere was electric. Mingyu stood on the grid, surrounded by his team as they made final adjustments to the car. But even with the chaos and noise, his mind wandered back to you.

As he glanced at the large screens broadcasting scenes from around the paddock, his heart skipped a beat.

There you were, standing in the Red Bull garage, chatting animatedly with Jiheon.

The camera lingered on you for a moment, capturing the way you laughed, your hands gesturing as you spoke.

You looked completely at ease, unaware of the world watching you. Mingyu’s lips curved into a grin, a soft chuckle escaping him.

The sight of you—so vibrant and natural—was all the motivation he needed.

Shaking his head slightly, he refocused on the task at hand. As he climbed into the cockpit of his Ferrari, he adjusted his gloves, his determination sharpening.

The roar of the crowd filled the air as the engines came to life, the sound reverberating through the streets of Monte Carlo.

Yet, even as the formation lap began, Mingyu couldn’t shake the thought of you.

Knowing you were there, cheering him on despite your seat in the Red Bull garage, gave him a sense of calm and drive that was hard to explain.

You weren’t just a distraction—you were his grounding force, his silent supporter in a world that rarely allowed vulnerability.

As the lights went out and the race began, Mingyu’s focus was absolute. But in the back of his mind, he carried the image of you in that white dress, cheering for him in your own quiet way.

It wasn’t just a race—it was a chance to show you that he was someone worth believing in.

The streets of Monte Carlo buzzed with electric anticipation as the Monaco Grand Prix soon reached its climax.

Mingyu was in the lead, his Ferrari weaving through the narrow streets with unmatched precision and focus.

Behind him, Seungcheol in the Red Bull was closing the gap, his aggressive driving style leaving no room for error.

Not far behind, Wonwoo in the Mercedes was biding his time, waiting for any mistake from the two drivers ahead.

The battle for victory was fierce, every lap a testament to skill and strategy.

In the Red Bull garage, you sat on the edge of your seat, your hand firmly intertwined with Jiheon’s. The tension in the air was palpable, the high-stakes nature of the race reflected on every screen in the garage.

Jiheon gave your hand a gentle squeeze, her eyes flicking to you with a supportive smile.

“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “Mingyu’s got this. He’s driving like a man possessed.”

You nodded, but your heart was hammering. Watching Mingyu fight for every inch on the track made you realize how much you cared.

It wasn’t just about the race—it was about him, about what he was proving to himself and the world.

Out on the circuit, Seungcheol made his move, diving deep into Mirabeau in an attempt to overtake Mingyu.

His Red Bull was so close to the Ferrari’s rear wing that the commentators were holding their breath. But in his eagerness, Seungcheol braked too late, his tires locking up and forcing him to take a wider line.

Mingyu seized the opportunity to pull ahead, his calm under pressure shining through.

From behind, Wonwoo saw his chance.

As Seungcheol recovered, Wonwoo’s Mercedes gained rapidly, but a momentary loss of grip through the Swimming Pool complex forced him to back off.

Frustration flickered across his face, but he knew he couldn’t risk a bigger mistake.

In the Red Bull garage, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, clutching Jiheon’s hand tighter.

“Come on, Mingyu,” you whispered under your breath. Your eyes were glued to the screen, your entire body tense as the final laps unfolded.

With just two laps to go, Mingyu remained untouchable. His Ferrari danced through the streets of Monaco, every apex hit with precision, every straight taken at full speed.

The commentators marveled at his composure, declaring this race a defining moment in his career.

As the checkered flag waved, the grandstands erupted in cheers. Mingyu crossed the line first, securing a hard-fought victory.

His engineer’s voice cracked through the radio, full of emotion. “P1, Mingyu! Monaco is yours! Incredible drive!”

Mingyu let out a triumphant laugh, his voice filled with joy. “We did it! Thank you, team!”

In parc fermé, the energy was electric. Mingyu climbed out of his car, raising his fists in the air as his team swarmed him.

The weight of the victory was clear in his elated expression.

Seungcheol arrived shortly after, his Red Bull taking second place. Despite the disappointment of missing out on the win, he approached Mingyu with a sportsmanlike handshake.

“Great race, Mingyu,” he said, his voice tinged with respect. “You earned this one.”

“Thanks, Cheol,” Mingyu replied, gripping his hand firmly.

Moments later, Wonwoo pulled in. His Mercedes had claimed third, but his expression was anything but celebratory.

He exited the car with a scowl, his jaw tight as he walked past Mingyu and Seungcheol without a word.

His frustration was evident, the sting of falling short only amplified by the dynamic unfolding before him.

As they made their way to the cool-down room, the atmosphere was tense. Mingyu sat in a chair, catching his breath, while Seungcheol leaned casually against the wall.

Always the one to lighten the mood, Seungcheol joked, “I nearly had you at Mirabeau. You’re lucky I locked up.”

Mingyu grinned, his exhaustion giving way to humor. “Luck or skill? I’ll let you decide.”

Wonwoo, standing silently in the corner, crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on Mingyu. The unspoken tension between them was thick, but Seungcheol, sensing the awkwardness, kept the conversation light.

“Track conditions were brutal today,” he said. “It’s a miracle we all finished without incident.”

As they were called to the podium, Mingyu stole a glance at the crowd. His eyes found you standing near the VIP section, your radiant smile sending a surge of warmth through him.

You waved, your expression full of pride, and in that moment, Mingyu felt invincible.

The podium ceremony was a spectacle of celebration. Mingyu stood on the top step, lifting the winner’s trophy high as the crowd roared.

Seungcheol stood beside him, clapping with genuine admiration, while Wonwoo’s expression remained neutral, his disappointment evident.

From your vantage point, your heart swelled with pride. Seeing Mingyu bask in the glory of his win solidified everything you’d been feeling.

As the champagne sprayed and the drivers celebrated, you knew this wasn’t just a fleeting moment. This was the beginning of something real.

After the podium, you waited near the Ferrari garage. When Mingyu finally emerged, still in his race suit, you didn’t hesitate to approach him.

Without thinking, you threw your arms around him, whispering, “You were amazing out there. Congratulations.”

Mingyu hugged you back tightly, his voice soft in your ear. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Nearby, Seungcheol watched the exchange with a mix of protective instinct and acceptance. Walking over, he clapped Mingyu on the back.

“Good race,” he said. “Take care of her.”

Mingyu nodded, his expression serious. “Always.”

Wonwoo, watching from a distance, could only scowl as he turned and walked away, the sight of you and Mingyu together a reminder of what he’d lost.

But none of that mattered.

For you and Mingyu, this victory was more than just a race—it was a turning point, a moment that cemented your connection and opened the door to a future you were both ready to embrace.

Epilogue:

The glitz and glamour of the Formula 1 world always had its fair share of stories, but none felt quite as personal as yours and Mingyu’s.

Months after that life-changing Monaco Grand Prix weekend, your relationship had blossomed into something undeniably beautiful, and for the first time, you didn’t feel the need to hide.

The world first got confirmation when Mingyu posted a candid photo on his Instagram: you, standing on the balcony of his Monte Carlo apartment, looking out at the Mediterranean Sea.

The caption was simple yet heartfelt: “Worth every risk. ❤️”

You weren’t prepared for the wave of support that followed. Fans flooded the comments section with love:

“Finally! You two are so cute together!”

“She’s his lucky charm—look at his podium streak since Monaco!”

“From heartbreak to happily ever after. We’re here for it.”

Since then, you and Mingyu have embraced the freedom of being open about your relationship.

At races, he’d smile at you from across the paddock, his gaze filled with warmth, while you’d cheer him on from the Ferrari garage or wherever you chose to watch.

The stolen moments you used to have in secret were now shared openly—a hand on his arm after interviews, or a quick kiss on the cheek before he stepped into the car.

At the Singapore Grand Prix, you walked into the paddock hand in hand, the city’s bright lights reflecting the happiness you felt.

You could feel eyes on you, but instead of shrinking under their gaze, you smiled, more comfortable now in your place beside him.

During an interview, Mingyu was asked about the impact of your relationship on his career. He looked straight at the camera, a soft grin on his face.

“She’s my biggest supporter. Having her here makes everything better—on and off the track.”

You couldn’t help but blush, watching from the sidelines.

Later, when you teased him about making you the center of attention, he just shrugged, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“What can I say? It’s the truth.”

At home in Monte Carlo, life was a dream. Mingyu often called you his lucky charm, pointing to his string of podiums and victories since you’d been together.

You’d laugh, reminding him that his talent and dedication had gotten him where he was.

One quiet evening, as you both lounged on the couch after dinner, Mingyu turned to you, his expression soft.

“Do you ever regret letting the world in on us?”

You thought for a moment, then shook your head with a smile. “Not for a second. Hiding felt safe after the whole mess with Wonwoo, but this... this feels real. I’m glad we took the chance.”

His fingers intertwined with yours, his voice low but steady. “Me too. You were worth every risk, every whispered conversation, every secret meeting. I’d do it all over again.”

As you lay in his arms that night, you couldn’t help but marvel at how much had changed. The walls you’d built around your heart were gone, replaced by a trust and love you hadn’t thought you’d feel again.

Mingyu had been patient, kind, and understanding—everything you hadn’t known you needed.

For him, seeing you open up was the most rewarding part. He knew the risks of being with you, the doubts and fears you carried, but it was worth it.

Fans had embraced your relationship, noting how grounded and happy Mingyu seemed with you by his side.

And as the F1 season rolled on, your love story became a part of the sport’s narrative.

Whether it was the way you supported him through the highs and lows of racing, the genuine smiles you shared after a victory, or the quiet moments when the cameras weren’t watching, your relationship was a testament to the magic of taking a chance on love.

Love, it turned out, was worth every risk. And for you and Mingyu, it was only the beginning.