𐙚 ₊ ⊹ do not disturb
♡ lee know is the emotionally unavailable dance major who becomes quietly obsessed with taking care of his accidental roommate. he doesn’t say “i care about you.” he changes your lightbulbs, cooks for you at 2 a.m., and gets irrationally angry when anyone else gets too close. “we’re not dating” — except everyone on campus thinks you are.
☆ genres: accidental roommates | domestic tension | slow-burn yearning | emotionally constipated minho | acts of service | “we’re not dating” but we act married | subtle possessiveness | campus romance | hidden softness ☆ warnings: explicit nsfw (18+ / MDNI), heavy detailed smut scenes, domestic sex, marking/hickeys, light choking, possessive talk, praise kink, teasing/edging, semi-public risk, multiple orgasms, emotional intimacy during sex, hurt/comfort ☆ playlist: darl+ing - seventeen | angel or devil - txt | not for sale - enhypen | unplugged boy - tws | dear my darling - boynextdoor |
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The email had been very clear.
“Due to a system error in the off-campus housing portal, your assigned apartment (Unit 412) will be shared with one other approved tenant for the remainder of the semester. We apologize for the inconvenience.”
You had laughed when you read it. Laughed because it felt like a joke. Laughed because you were exhausted from moving boxes up three flights of stairs in the August heat. Laughed because what else were you supposed to do?
Then you opened the door to Unit 412 and stopped laughing.
Lee Minho was already there.
He stood in the middle of the living room like he owned it — black hoodie, sweatpants, arms crossed, expression unreadable as he watched you drag your last suitcase inside. His hair was slightly messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His eyes, sharp and dark, flicked over you once before returning to the suitcase like it personally offended him.
“You’re the roommate,” he said. Not a question. A statement. Flat. Annoyed.
You straightened up, wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, and gave him your brightest, friendliest smile.
“Hi! Yeah, I’m y/n. Housing mix-up, right? This is awkward but I promise I’m clean, quiet, and I don’t throw parties. We can make a chore chart or something if you want.”
Minho stared at you for a long second.
Then he turned and walked into the kitchen without another word.
You blinked.
Okay. Not a talker.
You dragged your suitcase further inside and looked around. The apartment was surprisingly nice — open layout, big windows, two bedrooms on opposite sides. One door was already closed with a small “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging on the knob. His room, obviously.
Minho reappeared from the kitchen holding a glass of water. He set it on the counter near you without comment.
You stared at it, then at him.
“…Thanks?”
He shrugged, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed again. “You looked like you were about to pass out.”
His voice was low, almost bored. But he didn’t leave. He just stood there, watching you with that unreadable expression.
You took the water and drank it, suddenly aware of how thirsty you actually were.
“So,” you said, trying to keep things light, “which room is mine?”
He tilted his head toward the open door on the left. “That one. I took the one with the better window. Sorry.”
He didn’t sound sorry.
You smiled anyway. “No problem. I’m easygoing.”
Minho hummed, like he didn’t quite believe you, then pushed off the counter.
“Dinner’s in the fridge if you’re hungry,” he said as he headed toward his room. “Leftovers from last night.”
You stared after him.
He cooked?
Before you could thank him, his door clicked shut.
The “Do Not Disturb” sign swayed gently.
You exhaled, looking around your new (shared) home.
The first week was a careful dance of avoidance and accidental domesticity.
Minho was gone most of the day — dance practices, classes, whatever mysterious schedule a dance major kept. You were busy with your own classes and part-time photography gigs. You barely saw each other.
But the apartment started showing signs of him anyway.
A perfectly folded stack of your laundry appeared on your bed one afternoon (he had “accidentally” mixed it with his and refused to admit it was intentional). A pot of kimchi jjigae was left on the stove with a sticky note that just said “eat” in neat handwriting. When you came home late from a shoot one night, the living room light was still on and Minho was on the couch, pretending to watch a drama while clearly waiting for you.
“You’re late,” he said without looking up.
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re not my dad.”
He finally glanced at you, expression flat. “You forgot to eat again. There’s leftovers.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Then he stood up, walked into the kitchen, and silently reheated the food for you.
You ate at the counter while he leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching you like it was his job to make sure you actually finished the bowl.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” you said between bites. “We’re just roommates.”
Minho shrugged. “You’re bad at taking care of yourself. Someone has to.”
His tone was annoyed.
But he stayed until you finished eating.
And when you thanked him, he just muttered “whatever” and disappeared into his room again.
The “Do Not Disturb” sign never moved.
But you were starting to think it might as well say “Do Not Fall For Your Roommate.”
Because Lee Minho was already becoming a problem.
The weeks after that were a masterclass in quiet chaos.
He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t messy. He was just… there. Always in the periphery, always doing small things that made your shared apartment feel less like a temporary mistake and more like something dangerously comfortable.
It started with the ramen.
You came home from a long photography shoot at 2:14 a.m., exhausted, starving, and too tired to cook. The apartment was dark except for the soft glow of the kitchen light. Minho was standing at the stove in black sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, hair slightly messy, stirring a pot like it was the most normal thing in the world.
You stopped in the doorway.
“…Are you cooking?”
He didn’t look up. “You forgot to eat again. Sit.”
You blinked. “How do you know I forgot to eat?”
He shrugged, sliding a bowl of kimchi jjigae in front of you as you sat at the counter. “You always do when you have shoots.”
You stared at the bowl, then at him.
He leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, watching you eat with that same unreadable expression. He didn’t say anything else. Just stood there until you finished.
When you thanked him, he muttered “whatever” again and disappeared into his room.
The next morning, your laundry was folded neatly on your bed.
You knew you hadn’t done it.
When you confronted him in the kitchen later, he was making coffee, back to you.
“You folded my clothes,” you said, half-amused, half-confused.
“You did it wrong,” he replied without turning around. “Everything was wrinkled. I fixed it.”
You leaned against the doorway, smiling. “You’re strangely domestic for someone who acts like he hates people.”
Minho finally glanced over his shoulder, expression flat. “I don’t hate people. I just don’t like most of them.”
You laughed. He turned back to the coffee maker, but you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The pattern continued.
He started leaving sticky notes on the fridge:
There’s leftover tteokbokki. Eat it before it goes bad. - Minho
Your plants are dying. Water them. - Minho
Stop staying up until 4 a.m. editing. Sleep. - Minho
You teased him relentlessly about it.
“You know you’re acting like a worried husband, right?” you said one evening while he was silently reheating food for you again.
Minho didn’t even pause. “Eat your food.”
But his ears turned pink.
Your friends noticed before you did.
One weekend, you invited a couple of them over for a casual movie night. Minho was supposed to be out at dance practice.
He wasn’t.
He walked in halfway through the movie, took one look at the group on the couch, and immediately went to the kitchen. Ten minutes later, he emerged with a tray of perfectly cut fruit, homemade ramyeon, and drinks — placed it on the coffee table without a word, then sat on the floor beside your legs like it was his assigned spot.
Your friend Jisoo stared. “Wait… he lives here?”
You nodded. “Roommate. Housing error.”
Jisoo looked between you and Minho, who was now quietly watching the movie while occasionally glancing up to make sure you were eating the fruit he brought.
“…Looks like y'all are married,” she whispered.
You laughed. “We’re not. He’s just… like this.”
Minho didn’t comment.
But later that night, after everyone left, he lingered in the living room while you cleaned up.
“You can go to bed,” you told him. “I’ve got this.”
He ignored you and started helping anyway, silently drying dishes while you washed them.
When you bumped shoulders accidentally, he didn’t move away.
Neither did you.
The clinginess showed up in quieter ways too.
One night you came home late and freezing from a shoot. Minho was on the couch, pretending to read. The moment you walked in, he stood up, disappeared into his room, and came back with one of his hoodies.
“Put this on,” he said, tossing it at you. “Your room’s heater is shit.”
You pulled it on without arguing. It smelled like him — warm, clean, faintly like his cologne.
You caught him staring for a second too long before he looked away.
“Thanks,” you said softly.
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
But he stayed on the couch with you until you fell asleep watching a drama, a blanket mysteriously draped over both of you.
When you woke up the next morning, he was gone.
But the blanket was still there.
And so was the faint scent of him on your hoodie.
You told yourself it was just roommate stuff.
Minho was practical. He was helpful. He was… Minho.
But your friends were starting to look at you like you were the only one who couldn’t see what was happening.
And deep down, you were starting to wonder the same thing because, the domesticity didn’t stay small for long.
Minho’s care started slipping into your life in ways that felt too personal to ignore — quiet, practical, and impossibly consistent.
One rainy Thursday, you came home from a long outdoor shoot completely soaked and starting to sniffle. Your nose was running, your throat hurt, and you were too tired to do anything but collapse on the couch.
Minho took one look at you and disappeared into the bathroom.
He returned with a towel and your hair dryer.
“Sit,” he said, voice flat.
You blinked through your exhaustion. “What?”
“You’re dripping everywhere. Sit.”
You sat.
He stood behind the couch and gently dried your hair with the towel first, movements careful and efficient. Then he turned on the hair dryer, fingers combing through your damp strands with surprising gentleness. The warm air and his steady touch made your eyes flutter shut.
“You don’t have to do this,” you mumbled, voice hoarse.
“I know,” he replied.
But he kept going until your hair was dry and you stopped shivering.
When he finished, he placed a blanket over your lap and disappeared into the kitchen. Ten minutes later, he returned with a bowl of warm porridge and medicine.
“Eat,” he said, setting it on the coffee table. “Then sleep.”
You stared at the bowl, then at him.
“…Thank you.”
He shrugged like it was nothing and retreated to his room.
The “Do Not Disturb” sign stayed up.
But you noticed he left his door cracked open that night — just enough to hear if you needed anything.
He also started remembering things.
Your coffee order (extra shot, oat milk, one sugar). The days you had early classes. The exact brand of snacks you reached for when stressed. When your period was coming and you needed chocolate.
He never announced it. He just… did it.
One morning you woke up to find your favorite coffee and a small pack of painkillers on the kitchen counter with a sticky note that simply said:
Don’t forget to eat lunch.
No signature.
But you knew it was him.
-----
The jealousy started subtle.
You were in the shared living room one evening when a guy from your photography class, Jisung, stopped by to drop off a lens you’d lent him. He lingered in the doorway, chatting and laughing, standing a little too close as he complimented your latest shots.
Minho was in the kitchen, pretending to make tea.
But you felt his eyes on you the entire time.
When Jisung reached out to brush a stray hair from your shoulder, Minho’s spoon clattered loudly against the mug.
Jisung startled. “Oh, sorry — I didn’t know you had company.”
Minho didn’t look up. “She’s busy.”
His voice was calm. Almost bored.
But his knuckles were white around the mug.
Jisung left quickly after that.
The second the door closed, Minho set the mug down harder than necessary and walked over to you.
“You let him touch you,” he said, voice low.
You raised an eyebrow. “It was just my hair.”
He stared at you for a long moment, jaw tight.
Then he reached out and gently fixed the same strand of hair himself, fingers lingering against your cheek.
“Don’t,” he muttered.
You blinked. “Don’t what?”
He didn’t answer.
He just turned and went back to the kitchen like nothing had happened.
But that night, when you went to bed, you found one of his hoodies folded neatly on your pillow.
No note.
Just the hoodie.
The obsession grew quieter. Deeper.
He started waiting up when you had late shoots.
You’d come home at 1 a.m. to find him on the couch, pretending to watch a drama, eyes heavy with exhaustion but refusing to go to bed until you were safely inside.
One night you tried to tell him he didn’t have to.
Minho just looked at you, expression unreadable.
“I know,” he said.
But he stayed on the couch anyway.
You told yourself it was just roommate stuff.
Practical.
Convenient.
Nothing more.
But your friends were starting to look at you like you were the only one who couldn’t see what was happening.
The domestic routine had settled into something dangerously comfortable.
Minho still acted like he didn’t care. He still left the “Do Not Disturb” sign on his door. He still muttered “whatever” when you thanked him for the late-night ramen or the perfectly folded laundry.
But the small things kept piling up.
He started leaving the living room light on when you had late shoots. He started buying the exact brand of tea you liked when the old box ran out. He started sitting on the couch with you during movies instead of retreating to his room.
You told yourself it was just roommate courtesy.
Your friends told you you were delusional.
The tension finally snapped at a house party thrown by one of your mutual friends.
You hadn’t planned to go, but Minho had been unusually quiet that day, so you dragged him along, hoping it would loosen him up.
Big mistake.
The party was loud, crowded, and full of people who knew you as the friendly photography girl and Minho as the intimidating dance major who rarely spoke.
You were in the kitchen getting a drink when a guy from your department — Hyunjin — approached. He was charming, talkative, and had been flirting with you casually for weeks.
“Hey,” he said with an easy smile, leaning against the counter beside you. “You look good tonight. Finally taking a break from hiding behind that camera?”
You laughed lightly, friendly as always. “Trying to. You?”
Hyunjin stepped a little closer, eyes sparkling. “Better now that you’re here. Want to dance? Or we could go somewhere quieter and talk about that project you mentioned—”
A hand landed on your lower back.
Firm. Possessive.
Minho appeared at your side like a shadow, his body pressed close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.
“She’s busy,” he said, voice low and flat.
Hyunjin blinked, surprised by the sudden interruption. “Oh… sorry, man. I didn’t know you two were—”
“We’re not,” you started.
At the same time, Minho said, “She’s with me.”
The words came out calm. Controlled.
But his hand stayed on your lower back, fingers pressing slightly into the fabric of your shirt like he needed the contact to stay grounded.
Hyunjin raised his hands in surrender and backed off with an awkward laugh.
The second he was gone, you turned to Minho, heart racing.
“What was that?”
Minho didn’t look at you. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the crowd.
“He was too close,” he muttered.
You stared at him. “You’re acting jealous again.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You literally just told him I’m with you.”
Minho finally looked at you. His eyes were dark, conflicted, something raw flickering beneath the usual unreadable mask.
“I don’t like it when people touch you,” he said quietly. “Especially when they don’t know you.”
The honesty hit harder than expected.
You opened your mouth to respond, but Minho was already pulling you gently by the wrist, leading you out of the noisy kitchen and toward a quieter hallway.
The moment you were alone, he stopped.
Turned.
And kissed you.
It wasn’t soft.
It was frustrated. Hungry. Like he’d been holding back for weeks and finally lost the fight. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as his mouth moved against yours, deep and demanding.
You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers gripping his shirt.
For a moment, it felt like it would escalate — his body pressing you against the wall, thigh sliding between yours, breath ragged against your lips.
Then Minho pulled back suddenly, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “We shouldn’t—”
“Yeah,” you agreed, equally breathless, hands still fisted in his shirt. “We’re not… we’re just roommates.”
He nodded once, but didn’t move away.
Neither did you.
The hallway felt too small. The air too thick.
Minho’s thumb brushed your bottom lip once, almost reverently, before he forced himself to step back.
“Don’t let him touch you again,” he muttered, voice rough.
Then he turned and walked away before you could respond.
You stayed leaning against the wall for a long time, heart pounding, trying to convince yourself the kiss hadn’t meant anything.
It had felt like everything but it changed nothing on the surface.
Minho still acted like the same emotionally unavailable roommate — quiet, practical, and annoyingly competent. He still left the “Do Not Disturb” sign on his door. He still muttered “whatever” when you thanked him for the late-night food or the perfectly folded laundry.
But underneath, something had shifted.
The domesticity became heavier. More intimate. Harder to ignore.
It started with the laundry again.
One morning you woke up to find several of Minho’s hoodies and shirts mixed in with your clean clothes. You knew you hadn’t washed them. When you confronted him in the kitchen, he was making coffee, back turned to you.
“You put your clothes in my laundry again,” you said, holding up one of his black hoodies.
He didn’t turn around. “They were mixed. I fixed it.”
“You didn’t have to wash mine.”
“I was already doing a load.”
You stared at his back. “You’re doing my laundry now?”
He finally glanced over his shoulder, expression flat. “You do it wrong. Everything ends up wrinkled. It’s practical.”
You pulled his hoodie closer without thinking. It smelled like him — clean, warm, faintly like his cologne. You told yourself you were just borrowing it because it was soft.
You wore it for three days straight.
Minho noticed.
He didn’t say anything, but you caught him staring at you in it more than once, ears faintly pink before he looked away.
Movie nights became dangerous.
One Friday, you suggested watching a new drama together on the couch. Minho agreed with his usual noncommittal shrug.
Halfway through, you fell asleep.
When you woke up hours later, the TV was still on, but you were no longer sitting upright. You were lying down, head on Minho’s chest, his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His breathing was steady, but you could tell he wasn’t fully asleep.
You stayed very still, heart racing.
After a moment, Minho’s fingers brushed lightly up and down your back — slow, absentminded, like he didn’t realize he was doing it.
“…You’re warm,” he muttered sleepily when he felt you stir. “Stay.”
You didn’t move.
Neither did he.
You fell back asleep like that — tangled together on the couch, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
The next morning, he pretended it never happened.
But his hoodie was still on you when you woke up.
The care kept creeping in.
When you had a bad day, he showed up at your door with your favorite takeout without being asked.
When you mentioned your favorite tea was running low, a new box appeared on the counter the next day.
When you complained about the cold in your room, he “fixed” the heater — which somehow meant he started leaving his own blanket on your bed every night.
You tried to call him out on it.
“You’re spoiling me,” you said one evening while he was silently reheating food for you again.
Minho didn’t look up from the stove. “It’s practical. You forget to eat when you’re stressed.”
You smiled, leaning against the counter. “You’re acting like a worried boyfriend.”
He froze for half a second.
Then, voice flat: “I’m not.”
But his ears were red again.
Your friends were the first to say it out loud during a casual hangout at your apartment.
One of them watched Minho quietly refill your water glass without being asked, then disappear back into the kitchen.
“…You two are basically married,” she whispered.
You laughed. “We’re roommates.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Roommates don’t look at each other like that.”
You brushed it off.
But later that night, when Minho fell asleep on the couch beside you during another movie, his head eventually ending up on your shoulder, and you didn’t move him.
You just sat there, heart beating a little too fast, wondering when “roommates” had started feeling like something more.
Minho, still half-asleep, mumbled something against your shoulder.
“…Don’t leave.”
You froze.
He didn’t say anything else.
But his arm wrapped around your waist a little tighter.
And for the first time, you realized you didn’t want to leave either.
-----
The jealousy started escalating the week Seojun entered the picture.
Seojun was a confident, charismatic dance major in Minho’s department — loud where Minho was quiet, outgoing where Minho was reserved. He had been friendly with you for a while, but lately he’d been showing up more often, especially when you were around the dance building dropping off photos for a project.
One afternoon, you were waiting outside the practice room when Seojun spotted you.
“Hey!” he called, jogging over with an easy grin. “You here for Minho?”
You smiled back, friendly as always. “Yeah, I promised I’d bring him the edited shots from last week.”
Seojun leaned against the wall beside you, standing a little too close. “You’re too nice to him. He doesn’t deserve it.”
You laughed lightly. “He’s not that bad.”
Seojun tilted his head, eyes sparkling. “You know, if you ever get tired of dealing with his grumpy ass, I’d be happy to take you out sometime. Coffee? Or dinner? No pressure.”
Before you could respond, the practice room door opened.
Minho stepped out, hair slightly damp with sweat, towel around his neck. His eyes landed on Seojun’s proximity to you immediately.
His expression didn’t change much.
But you saw the way his jaw tightened. The way his hand flexed at his side.
He walked straight over and stopped right beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours.
“She’s busy,” Minho said, voice flat and low.
Seojun raised an eyebrow, amused. “With you?”
Minho didn’t blink. “Yes.”
The tension was instant.
You tried to laugh it off. “Minho, it’s fine—”
But Minho was already gently grabbing your wrist, pulling you toward the exit without another word to Seojun.
You let him pull you along, heart racing.
The second you were outside, you turned on him.
“What was that?”
Minho didn’t look at you. “He was too close.”
“You literally told him I’m busy with you.”
He finally glanced at you, eyes dark. “You are.”
The possessiveness in his voice made your stomach flip.
You stared at him. “We’re not dating, Minho.”
“I know,” he said, voice tight. “But I still don’t like it.”
He didn’t elaborate.
He just started walking you back to the apartment, staying closer than usual, his shoulder brushing yours with every step.
It kept happening.
Whenever Seojun was around, Minho’s reactions became sharper.
During a group hangout at the apartment, Seojun sat next to you on the couch and casually rested his arm along the back of the seat behind you. Minho, who had been in the kitchen, appeared seconds later and sat directly on your other side, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours.
He didn’t say anything.
He just reached over and fixed the collar of your shirt, fingers lingering against your skin.
Seojun eventually moved.
Later that night, after everyone left, Minho was quieter than usual. He was washing dishes when you walked into the kitchen.
“You’re being weird again,” you said, leaning against the counter.
He didn’t look up. “I’m not.”
“You literally sat between me and Seojun like a guard dog.”
Minho’s hands paused on the plate. Then he continued washing, voice low.
“I don’t like when he touches you.”
The honesty made your breath catch.
You stepped closer. “Minho…”
He turned off the water and finally looked at you, eyes dark and conflicted.
“I know we’re not dating,” he said quietly. “But I still hate it.”
The air between you felt thick.
You didn’t know what to say.
So you didn’t say anything.
You just reached up and gently fixed a strand of hair that had fallen into his eyes.
Minho closed his eyes for a second, leaning into the touch like he was starving for it.
Then he pulled away, muttering something about needing to sleep, and disappeared into his room.
The “Do Not Disturb” sign never moved.
But you were starting to realize that the sign wasn’t for you.
It was for him.
Minho still kept his “Do Not Disturb” sign up like a shield, but the walls between you were crumbling faster than either of you could pretend otherwise. He was louder in his silence now — the way he’d linger in the kitchen when you were home, the way his eyes followed you when he thought you weren’t looking, the way his hoodies kept mysteriously appearing in your room.
You tried to act normal.
You failed.
One Thursday night you came home from a brutal editing session, shoulders aching, eyes burning. The apartment was warm and smelled like something delicious. Minho was at the stove again, stirring a pot of samgyetang with focused precision.
“You’re back,” he said without turning around.
“Yeah. Smells good.”
He hummed. A few minutes later, he set a steaming bowl in front of you at the counter, along with a glass of water and painkillers.
“Eat,” he ordered quietly.
You sat down, suddenly too tired to tease him. The first spoonful made your eyes flutter shut. Perfect, as always.
Minho leaned against the counter across from you, arms crossed, watching you eat like it was his personal responsibility. The silence felt heavier tonight. Charged.
When you finished, he took your bowl without a word and started washing it.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” you said softly, standing up to help dry.
“I know.”
But he didn’t stop. His shoulder brushed yours as you worked side by side. Neither of you moved away.
Later that night, you were on the couch scrolling through photos when Minho came out of his room in a black t-shirt and sweatpants. He paused, then sat beside you instead of retreating to his usual spot.
You glanced at him. “Movie?”
He nodded once.
Halfway through, your head ended up on his shoulder. His arm slowly slid around you, pulling you closer until you were curled against his chest. His fingers traced slow, absent patterns on your arm.
“You’re warm,” he muttered, almost to himself.
You tilted your head up. His face was inches from yours, eyes dark and unreadable in the glow of the TV.
“Minho…”
He swallowed hard. Then he leaned down and kissed you.
This time, there was no hallway. No party. No interruption.
It started slow — hesitant, like he was still fighting himself. But the second you kissed him back, something in him snapped. The kiss deepened, turning hungry and desperate. His hand cupped the back of your neck, tilting your head as his tongue slid against yours.
You climbed into his lap without thinking, straddling him. Minho groaned softly into your mouth, hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips. “This is a bad idea.”
“Probably,” you whispered, rolling your hips once.
His grip tightened hard enough to bruise.
He stood up suddenly, carrying you like you weighed nothing, and walked straight to his room. The “Do Not Disturb” sign stared at you mockingly as he kicked the door shut behind him.
The second your back hit his bed, Minho was on you.
He kissed you like he’d been starving for months — deep, messy, possessive. His hands shoved your shirt up, mouth latching onto your neck, sucking a dark mark right below your ear.
“Mine,” he growled against your skin, so low you almost missed it.
You pulled his shirt off, nails dragging down his toned back. He hissed, grinding his hard cock against you through your clothes.
Clothes came off in a blur. When he finally pushed inside you, slow and deep, both of you moaned brokenly.
“Shit— so tight,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes were dark, intense, completely focused on your face as he bottomed out. “Look at me.”
You did.
He started moving — deep, rolling thrusts that made your back arch. Every stroke felt deliberate, like he was trying to memorize how you felt around him. His hand came up to wrap gently around your throat, not squeezing hard, just holding you there as he fucked you.
“You feel so good,” he whispered, voice rough. “Better than I imagined. Fuck— been thinking about this for weeks.”
You moaned his name, legs wrapping tighter around his waist. He angled his hips and hit that spot inside you perfectly, drawing a sharp cry from your throat.
“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing you messily. “Let me hear you.”
He fucked you harder, one hand slipping between your bodies to rub tight circles on your clit. The pleasure built fast and overwhelming. When you came, clenching around him with a broken moan of his name, Minho cursed and followed right after, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you.
For a long moment, the only sound was both of you breathing hard.
Minho didn’t pull out. He collapsed on top of you, face buried in your neck, arms wrapped around you like a vice.
“Don’t say anything,” he whispered against your skin. “Just… stay.”
You stayed.
He fell asleep still inside you, holding you like you might vanish if he loosened his grip even slightly.
The next morning, he was already in the kitchen when you woke up. Two plates of breakfast waited on the counter.
He didn’t mention the sex.
But when you reached for your coffee, he gently fixed the collar of the hoodie you’d stolen from him — his hoodie — and his fingers lingered against your neck, right over the hickey he’d left.
You didn’t mention it either.
But the line between roommates and something more had been completely, irreversibly crossed.
“Morning,” you said softly.
“Sit,” he replied, voice low. He slid a plate of perfectly cooked eggs, rice, and grilled spam in front of you, along with your coffee — exactly how you liked it.
You ate in silence for a few minutes. The tension from last night still hummed between you, thick and unspoken.
“You’re not going to say anything?” you finally asked.
Minho paused, chopsticks hovering over his food. “About what?”
You raised an eyebrow. “About the fact that we had sex last night.”
He shrugged, ears turning faintly pink. “It happened.”
You stared at him. “That’s it?”
He finally looked up, expression carefully blank. “We’re still roommates. Don’t make it weird.”
But the way his gaze lingered on the hickey he’d left on your neck said otherwise.
The denial didn’t last long.
Over the next week, Minho’s care became almost suffocating in its intensity. He cooked every night. He waited up every time you had a late shoot. He started doing your laundry without even pretending it was an accident. And at night…
He stopped pretending he wanted space.
One evening you came home exhausted. Minho took one look at you, walked over, and pulled you into a slow, deep kiss right in the middle of the living room. No words. Just his hands sliding under your shirt, mouth claiming yours like he’d been thinking about it all day.
He carried you to his bed again.
This time, he took you apart slowly.
Minho laid you down gently, stripping you piece by piece with patient hands. His mouth followed — kissing down your neck, sucking marks across your collarbones, tongue teasing your nipples until you were squirming beneath him.
“Minho…” you breathed.
“Shh,” he murmured against your stomach, lips brushing lower. “Let me take care of you.”
He ate you out like he had all the time in the world — slow, filthy licks and gentle sucks on your clit, two fingers curling inside you until your thighs shook around his head. He didn’t stop even after you came the first time, just kept licking you through it, groaning softly like your taste was addictive.
When he finally crawled back up and pushed inside you, it was devastatingly deep. He fucked you with long, rolling thrusts, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked on your face the entire time.
“Look at me,” he whispered when your eyes fluttered shut. “Want to see you.”
Every thrust felt heavy with meaning. His hand came up to wrap around your throat again — light pressure, possessive, grounding. The other rubbed your clit in perfect rhythm until you came again, clenching hard around him.
Only then did Minho let himself go. He buried his face in your neck and fucked you harder, chasing his own release with broken, quiet moans of your name. When he came, he stayed deep inside you, hips twitching as he filled you up.
Afterwards, he didn’t pull away. He rolled onto his back and pulled you on top of him, still connected, arms wrapped tightly around your back.
“You’re staying here tonight,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.
You smiled against his chest. “Okay.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, fingers tracing slow circles on your bare skin. For once, he didn’t run back behind his walls. He just held you.
But the denial still lingered during daylight.
He still muttered “we’re not dating” when your friends teased you. He still put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on his door when other people came over. He still got prickly and quiet whenever Seojun texted you or when someone flirted with you on campus.
One afternoon Seojun stopped by the apartment to drop off dance footage for a project. Minho was in the kitchen, but the second Seojun leaned in a little too close while laughing at something you said, Minho appeared like a shadow.
He didn’t say anything. Just wrapped an arm around your waist from behind and pressed a slow kiss to the side of your neck — right over one of his many marks — while staring directly at Seojun.
Seojun got the message quickly.
When the door closed, you turned in Minho’s arms.
“You’re being possessive again.”
Minho’s jaw tightened. “I don’t like him near you.”
“You keep saying we’re not dating.”
He stared at you for a long moment, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes before he buried it.
“I know what I said.”
Then he kissed you hard, like he could avoid the truth if he just drowned it in physical closeness.
That night he fucked you against the kitchen counter after dinner — rough, desperate, and possessive. One hand around your throat, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints as he pounded into you from behind.
“Say my name,” he growled against your ear. “Only mine.”
You came moaning his name. He followed right after, spilling deep inside you with a broken groan.
Afterwards, while he was carefully cleaning you up with a warm towel, he kissed your shoulder softly.
“…Stay in my room tonight,” he whispered.
You smiled. “I thought we weren’t dating?”
Minho froze, then buried his face in your neck, arms wrapping around you from behind.
“Shut up,” he mumbled against your skin, voice muffled and embarrassed.
But he didn’t let go.
And you were starting to realize that Lee Minho’s version of “we’re not dating” was beginning to sound a lot like “I don’t know how to admit I’m falling in love with you.”
Minho no longer waited for you to fall asleep on the couch. Most nights he simply pulled you into his room after dinner, wordlessly stripping you down and burying himself inside you like it was the only way he knew how to say the things he couldn’t voice.
One particular night, you came home after a long day of back-to-back shoots. The apartment was quiet, but the moment you stepped inside, Minho was there.
He didn’t speak. He just walked up to you, cupped your face, and kissed you slow and deep, like he’d been waiting hours for this exact moment. His hands slid under your shirt, thumbs brushing your ribs as he backed you toward his bedroom.
“Missed you,” he muttered against your lips. It was the closest thing to a confession he’d ever given.
He took his time with you that night.
Minho laid you out on his bed like you were something precious, mouth mapping every inch of your skin. He spent long minutes between your thighs, licking and sucking until you came twice on his tongue, fingers buried deep inside you, curling against that spot that made you see stars. He groaned every time you clenched around his fingers, like your pleasure fed something starving inside him.
When he finally pushed inside you, it was devastatingly slow. He held your gaze the entire time, forehead pressed to yours, one hand gently wrapped around your throat while the other pinned your wrist above your head.
“So good for me,” he whispered, voice rough as he rolled his hips deep. “Always so fucking perfect.”
Every thrust was measured, intentional, like he was trying to carve himself into your memory. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him impossibly closer, and he let out a broken sound that made your chest ache.
When you came again, clenching hard around him, Minho followed with a quiet, shuddering groan, spilling deep inside you while whispering your name against your neck like a secret.
Afterwards, he didn’t move. He stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tightly around your body as he rolled you both onto your sides. His face stayed hidden in the crook of your neck, breathing you in.
You gently ran your fingers through his hair. “Minho… what are we doing?”
He was quiet for a long time.
Then, barely audible: “I don’t know.”
But his arms tightened around you like he was scared you’d pull away.
The next few days felt like borrowed time.
Minho’s care became almost overwhelming. He started waking up earlier just to make you breakfast. He left sticky notes on the mirror after you showered: “Drink water.” “You looked tired. Sleep early.” He even started doing your photography editing backups “because your laptop is old and slow.”
You caught him staring at you more often — soft, unguarded looks when he thought you weren’t paying attention. But the second you turned toward him, the mask would slip back into place. Flat expression. “Do Not Disturb” energy.
One afternoon, while you were both in the kitchen, you decided to test the waters.
“I found a new apartment listing,” you said casually, stirring your coffee. “It’s available next month. Closer to campus, cheaper rent…”
Minho’s entire body went still. The knife he was using to cut vegetables froze mid-air.
“You’re moving?” His voice was carefully neutral, but you heard the strain underneath.
“Yeah. The housing error gets fixed at the end of the semester anyway. Thought I should start looking.”
He didn’t respond. Just went back to chopping vegetables with a little more force than necessary.
That night, he fucked you like he was angry.
Bent over the kitchen counter right after dinner, your shorts shoved down, his cock slamming into you from behind with deep, punishing strokes. One hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.
“You’re really leaving?” he growled against your ear, hips snapping harder. “After all this?”
You moaned, pushing back against him. “You said we’re not dating—”
He pulled your head back by your hair and bit down on your shoulder, sucking a dark hickey as he fucked you even deeper.
“Don’t say that right now,” he hissed.
He made you come twice before he finally let himself go, filling you up with a low, broken groan. Afterwards, instead of his usual quiet aftercare, he carried you to his bed and held you so tightly you could barely breathe.
“Don’t look for apartments yet,” he whispered against your hair in the dark.
You didn’t answer.
But you didn’t pull away either.
The next morning, Minho was quieter than usual. He made your coffee exactly how you liked it, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes. When you tried to tease him about burning the toast, he barely reacted.
You hated how much it hurt.
Because the truth was becoming impossible to ignore: you didn’t want to move out. You didn’t want to leave this apartment. You didn’t want to leave him.
And Lee Minho, for all his emotional constipation and “Do Not Disturb” signs, was starting to look like he felt the exact same way.
But neither of you knew how to say it.
Yet.
-----
The argument finally exploded in the kitchen on a random Tuesday night.
You’d been putting it off for days, but the new apartment listing had been confirmed. You set your phone down on the counter and took a deep breath.
“I found a place,” you said quietly. “It’s available at the end of the month. I think I’m going to take it.”
Minho was stirring rice in a pan. His hand stilled completely.
For a long moment, the only sound was the faint sizzle of the food.
“You’ll survive,” you added, trying to keep your voice light. “You lived alone before me anyway.”
Minho slowly set the spoon down and turned to face you. His expression was tight, jaw clenched, eyes darker than usual.
“I know I will,” he said flatly.
You nodded, heart aching. “Then why are you acting like this?”
He stared at you for a long second, something raw and frustrated breaking across his face. The “Do Not Disturb” mask he’d worn for months finally shattered.
“Because I liked living with you!” The words burst out of him, louder than you’d ever heard him speak. He immediately looked away, ears burning red. “More than I should’ve.”
Silence filled the kitchen.
Minho gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white.
“I know I’m bad at this,” he continued, voice dropping. “I don’t say things. I just… do things. Cook for you. Wait up for you. Fold your stupid laundry. But every time I think about you moving out, it feels wrong. Like the apartment’s going to be too quiet. Like I’m going to be too… empty.”
He finally looked at you, eyes vulnerable in a way that made your chest tighten.
“I don’t want you to leave.”
You stepped closer until you were right in front of him. “Then ask me to stay, Minho.”
He swallowed hard. Then, barely above a whisper:
“…Stay.”
You smiled, soft and warm. “Okay.”
The tension snapped.
Minho pulled you into him almost desperately, kissing you like he’d been holding back for years. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as the kiss turned deeper, slower, full of everything he’d never been able to say.
He lifted you onto the kitchen counter, stepping between your legs. But this time it wasn’t rushed or possessive. It was tender.
Clothes came off slowly. He kissed every inch of skin he revealed, murmuring quiet praises against your collarbone, your stomach, your thighs. When he finally slid inside you, it was gentle and deep, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, rolling his hips in a slow, steady rhythm. “I’m not letting you go.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, holding him just as tightly. The pleasure built gradually, sweet and overwhelming, until you both came together — quiet moans and trembling breaths, bodies pressed impossibly close.
Afterwards, Minho carried you to his bed (your bed now, too), cleaned you up with careful hands, then pulled you against his chest. He buried his face in your hair, arms locked around you.
“No more looking at apartments,” he mumbled against your temple.
You laughed softly. “No more ‘we’re not dating’ either?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then:
“We’re dating,” he said, almost shyly. “If… you want.”
You tilted your head up and kissed him. “I want.”
-----
The next few weeks were sickeningly cute.
Minho still acted annoyed when your friends teased him about being whipped, but he no longer denied it. He started introducing you as “my girlfriend” in the most casual, deadpan way possible — like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
He took the “Do Not Disturb” sign down permanently.
Now the only sign on his door (your shared door) was a small handmade one you’d made together that read: “Do Not Disturb… unless you’re y/n”
Domestic life continued, only now it was openly affectionate.
He still cooked for you at 2 a.m. when you forgot to eat, but now he’d pull you into his lap afterwards and feed you bites while pressing kisses to your neck. He still folded your laundry, but now he’d steal kisses every time he passed you a stack of clothes. He still waited up for you, but now he’d greet you at the door with a hug that lasted way too long.
One lazy Sunday afternoon, you were both on the couch watching a drama. You were wearing his hoodie (as usual). Minho had his head in your lap, eyes half-closed as you played with his hair.
“You know,” you said softly, “I never thanked the housing office for their mistake.”
Minho hummed, turning his face to press a kiss to your thigh.
“Don’t thank them,” he muttered. “Thank me for not letting you move out.”
You laughed and leaned down to kiss him.
He smiled against your lips — small, genuine, and completely unguarded.
Lee Minho still wasn’t great with words.
But he didn’t need to be.
He showed you he loved you every single day — in the meals he cooked, the hoodies he let you steal, the way he held you at night like you were the only thing that mattered.
And you?
You stayed.
Right where you belonged.
