Beside you, Mingyu’s grin curves up as she leans forward. “Sounds like a party, Dean W.” 

You glance at him, grimacing. “Or a logistical nightmare,” you mutter. 

“Sorry what? Thought you said nightmare,” Mingyu shoots back. 

You scoff, arms folding. “Yeah, I said you’re a fu- nightmare.” 

He laughs softly, the kind that means he’s not really taking you seriously. It prickles at the edge of your composure. 

Dean Whitaker clears her throat, looking pointedly between the two of you. “Clearly you two have just demonstrated why we need two organizers for this year’s Spring Gala.” She folds her hands together. “Y/n, your sorority’s track record with events is stellar. Mingyu, it’s safe to say your fraternity’s network is unmatched on this campus, though the deans would really prefer if you would use it to host more underage friendly functions and not just supply booze for all fraternity socials.” 

You take small joy in seeing Mingyu sheepishly laugh. 

Dean Whitaker suppresses a smile. “I expect a good Spring Gala from the two of you. Yes?” 

Mingyu leans forward, elbows on his knees with the stupidest smile on his face. “We’ll make it happen, Dean,” he says easily, voice a shade too confident and airy. He turns to you, cheek against his palm. “Right, Y/n?” 

You turn to him, legs crossing. Your brows narrow. “We’ll get it done,” you reply, clipped. 

“Same thing,” he shrugs. Infuriating, really. 

Dean Whitaker doesn’t seem to notice the strain in your silence of thinly pursed lips. “Good,” she hums, reaching for something inside of her desk drawer. “Then I’ll expect a draft of your proposal by Friday.” She slides a blue folder across the desk. 

Almost immediately, you both reach for it.

His fingertips brush yours. 

It’s a second too long before either of you move. His fingers are warm, calloused, and when he finally lets go, you’re overcome with some strange urge to go and wash your hand. 

“I can take that,” he mumbles.

You click your tongue, laughing. “No, I’ve got it.” You pull the folder to your side.

“No, really, I can take it,” Mingyu rebuts, dragging the folder across the table to his side.

You glare at him. “No, really, Min-”

“-Finish this outside, would you?” You selectively ignore the Dean’s tone of amusement. 

Mingyu’s brows furrow. “Dean Whit–”

Before he can finish his sentence, you jerk the folder towards you and wrench it out from under his hand, tucking it close against your chest like a shield. You scramble to your feet, chair thick against the carpeted floor. Your chin tilts up just the slightest. You’re not too proud of how Dean Whitaker shakes her head at the two of you (mostly you, but you digress). 

“I’ll send you the meeting schedule,” you say, words clipped and final. 

Mingyu huffs, hand brushing through his hair as he rises as well, rolling his eyes. “Looking forward to it,” he replies, and when you turn towards the door, you swear you hear him mumble a quiet “your majesty” and Dean Whitaker’s soft snort of laughter, but you chalk it up to sleep deprivation from studying through two nights in a row. 

You didn’t have enough caffeine in your system for a full fight anyways. 

And then, just as you reach the threshold, his voice follows close behind like some unstable, annoying ghost: “They’re cleaning the left side.” 

You pause. “Of what?” 

“The hallway,” Mingyu says easily, arms crossed, looking down at you now. “Thought you’d like to know, considering you always take the left side.” 

You squint up at him, before scoffing. 

“Text me the meeting times?” His stupid voice. 

You don’t look back. 

“Can’t fucking wait,” you grumble.

You walk on the right. 

Just to prove him wrong. 

The folder digs into your ribs, an edge of cardboard pressed hard against the spot between your third and fourth rib bone. It serves as a small, physical reminder of the mistake (and future pain) of what you’ve just agreed to live through. 

The hallway right outside of the Office of the Deans is too bright and the sound of sudden chatter echoes down the hall. Laughter spills from somewhere down the corridor. It’s an effortless and careless sound that makes your skin crawl. You can still feel the weight of Mingyu’s stare clinging to your shoulder blades and hear his shoes against the marble of the hallway. 

Three weeks. 

Three weeks of meetings, of negotiations, of pretending not to notice the way his entire frat starts to whisper when you walk into your Econ class. 

You can hear the lingering echo of your final exchange. And the memory drags like sandpaper across your nerves. The smug warmth of it. The easy confidence, as if he already knows you’ll play along with whatever he has in store for you. 

When you get to the next turn of the hallway, you stifle a groan. One of the reasons you never take the left side is because the right side is longer, looping around the east wing before cutting back towards the student lounge. But whatever. It’s a small rebellion – stupid and invisible to his eyes. You imagine him noticing anyway, that slow grin tugging at his mouth and the way his eyebrows scrunch when he thinks that something you’re doing is useless. It makes you walk faster. 

When you jerk open the doors to the student lounge, it’s blessedly empty. One low lamp hums in the corner, and the fluorescent ceiling lights flicker faintly like a warning. 

God, you told Amiyah to change those lights weeks ago. 

You stare up at one flickering light, standing in the middle of the entrance carpet for a good minute before you click your tongue and move away, shaking your head. 

Clearly you’re already losing it. 

You trudge over to the nearest table, dropping your bag down. The sound is too loud in the quiet. Then the folder – the fucking folder – lands beside your crumpled bag, papers shifting like they’re mocking you for having to work on this instead of studying for your Urban Planning 401 class. 

You exhale, sharp and uneven. The irritation tastes metallic in your mouth. Three weeks. Three weeks of Mingyu’s charm masquerading as competence. Three weeks of that half-laugh, that tilt of his head when he’s pretending to listen as he plays Clash Royale under the table. Three weeks of forcing your eyes off of his eyes when he runs into the group study room, fifteen minutes late with the excuse that he was helping someone benchpress four plates, whatever that means. Three weeks of trying to ignore how good he smells when he brushes past you in the cafe pick-up line, only to look back and give you the goofiest grin and wave you hello. Three weeks of stifling sighs because you’ve learned over the years that the more you sigh, the more eager he gets to overcompensate. 

You pull out your phone from your pocket. Your reflection glints in the black screen – eyes sharp, mouth set. You fix a lash cluster with your nail. You unlock your phone to a new message. 

Kim Mingyu (Sigma Tau): it’s mingyu just in case u deleted my number

He’s so fucking annoying. Every time you do a group thing he does this: retexts his name to you, as if you’d delete his number after every single group project. He’s been in at least three of your classes each year, and that’s minus all the other socials and functions you have to plan and throw together. It’s be a terrible waste of time if you deleted his number after every single time. 

You roll your eyes as you type out your text. 

You: library 7pm. don’t be late

The reply comes so fast like he’d been waiting for your text. 

Kim Mingyu (Sigma Tau): need to set up for a party at 7 babe how about 8

Your thumb stills over the keyboard and you push down the urge to throw your phone across the room. 

Babe? Babe? The word is too casual. Too warm. It’s one thing hearing it be yelled across campus and another thing reading it on your phone in the quiet of the student lounge. Like he has the right to shape it around your name. Like you’re dating or something. 

You type slowly, each word a pin pushed through your irritation. 

You: 7 or dont bother

When you hit send, you take small pride in how the three dots appear immediately, pulsing like a heartbeat. 

Kim Mingyu (Sigma Tau): damn ur wound up 😂

You can almost see it – him leaning back in his stupid gaming chair, tapping that message out one-handed, that lazy smirk tugging at his lips. He probably thinks this is funny. You, the overachiever. Him, the fun one. 

Your jaw tightens. 

How the fuck were you going to get through these three weeks. 

You:  im not wound up im efficient

idiot frat boy: sure u probably even alphabetize ur sock drawer

Your scoff, pulling out your chair, one leg pulled up to your chest. 

You can picture the way he’d say it – voice low and teasing, his stupid cute dimples showing on his cheeks. And you hate that your stomach feels a little twisty at the thought of him smiling. 

You:  at least i HAVE a sock drawer

You send it before you can fully think about what your retort even means. After two times of quick re-scanning, you conclude that Mingyu will have no idea what you’re saying because you have no idea what you meant by that. It’s just childish and petty. 

idiot frat boy: and here i thought u were above frat boy joke

You snort, the sound breaking through the silence. 

You: i am ironic considering deanwhit paired me w one

This time, the pause before the three dots is longer. Long enough for your thumb to press long on the text you just sent, wishing you could just delete it or just have never sent it. Long enough to make your pulse jump. There was no way you had actually hurt–

idiot frat boy: yeah sure whatever youd miss me if i wasnt there

The words sit there, bright against your screen. You read them once, twice. You shouldn’t react – not really. But something uncoils anyway. It’s not really irritation but rather some sort of strange heat of being seen too clearly. Even if you didn’t say anything. 

Because he’s not really wrong. 

Because even though he’s a stupid idiot, he notices. 

He notices everything. From the way you color code your notes to the way your take your coffee (no coffee, either tea or matcha with oat milk), to the fucking side of the hallway you walk on. And the way you always arrive early because “I can choose my seat” when the real reason is because it gives you a false sense of control. 

So you don’t reply. 

You shove your phone as low as it’ll go in your bag and tell yourself that you have better things to do – that you’re busy. 

7:07 PM

The library hums with that hollow kind of silence that makes every sound too loud. Even the clock on the wall in the study room you booked in the afternoon sounds impatient – tick, tick, tick, tick – carving the air into uneven slices of time. 

You’ve been here since 6:30. 18:30. Not because you needed to be, but you were worried that the study room wouldn’t be cleaned up before your time and you also needed to finish your paper for your Architecture in the Urban Spheres class. 

Your notes are spread across the table. Printouts are stacked by priority and the clear folders stacked on one side are for your newest spring Rush girls, which you need to go back and package into the envelopes June hopefully actually bought. Your laptop glows in soft color, opened to an excel sheet that you shared with Mingyu last night (which he responded with a literal thumbs up across the student computer section of Welles Library. 

Blue sections out venues, green for caterers, yellow for budget lines (which you’ve triple-checked), and you’ve even added in a backup vendor tab, just in case Mingyu’s “connections” inevitably flakes. The excel sheet soothes you. Order. Predictability. Control. 

Yet the one thing you somehow cannot control stays in the circumference of your peripheral. 

The chair across from you stays terribly empty and the longer it does, the tighter your chest feels with either anger, frustration, exasperation, or all three, nevermind that they’re all synonyms. 

He’s late. Of course he’s late. 

Your fingers drum against the wood. You try to focus on the spreadsheet, which has only been edited by you. You focus on the tidy little numbers that don’t talk back or flirt or show up with those stupid acid-wash jeans or those stupid muscled arms in that stupid tight, white tank. Like he’s some model rolling out of a GQ photoshoot. But the thought of him, in all of his golden, unbothered somehow puppy-like thing keeps interrupting your focus. 

The image of him as he was in class that morning (your last class with him, which would be your Architecture in Urban Spheres class), burns through your mind as you stare blankly at your screen. Black sweatpants that you swear Lyon was complaining about having to wait three hours for just to get a glimpse of in the Tokyo Chrome Hearts store, paired with a cream quarter zip and Nikes. He had on his black cap that he wears when he’s hungover from the night before and those black frame glasses that sometimes just really made his eyes–

No. What the hell? 

You should not be thinking about–

The door creaks open. A burst of cooler air slips in before the sound of sneakers on polished tile. 

You look up. 

He’s in the same black sweatpants and a dark navy blue Ralph Lauren sweater. 

You have the exact same one. 

It’s really unfair how he looks better in it than you. 

“Sorry,” he says, voice smooth and easy. “Traffic.” 

You glance at the clock behind you and then back at him with a raised eyebrow. “You walked here.” 

The chair scrapes against the floor as he pulls it out, loud enough to echo through the entire study floor. He drops into it like it’s his living room couch, bag thunking against the table. 

He gives you a silly little smile as he sits, pushing up his glasses. “M not late,” he says, canines showing. “You’re early.” 

He sets something in front of you – a coffee up. When you raise your brows, he rolls his eyes, sighing, and opens the cap. A hot matcha greets you, a little foamy at the edges. It’s sprinkled with cinnamon. 

You open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it. 

“Oat milk, Nakamura Tokichi on medium. Right?” He phrases it as a question but the way his eyes sparkle with knowing makes you just a teensy bit annoyed (after you’re just the slightest bit impressed). He turns the cup around so you can see the Sharpie-d in order on the side of the cup. “Am I the best partner or what?” he laughs, pushing the cup to you, bringing out his own. His is some kind of iced coffee. 

You blink at your cup, then at him. 

His hair is damp, dark strands curling just enough to look accidental. The scent coming off of him is clean, sharp – something sea-side misty with a hint of some type of Creed cologne. You can only stare as he pulls off his sweater, mumbling about the room being hotter than outside, and straightens his shirt underneath. It’s unbuttoned until three buttons from the throat, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and there’s a thin silver chain glinting at the base of his neck that you swear you’ve seen before, but you’re not too sure where. He throws the sweater onto the back of another chair, grinning at you as he pulls out his computer. 

“So?” 

You squint. “Seven means seven.” 

He shrugs. “And yet,” he gestures at the table, “here we both are. Right on schedule.” 

You ignore the steaming opened matcha. You ignore him. You point to thes spreadsheet as you turn your computer around, trying also to ignore how he blinks at the lack of table space to place his computer on. You try to not snap when he just starts stacking stuff to the side. 

“Mingyu,” you sigh. 

“Hm?” 

“We have three weeks.” 

He hums, leaning back in his chair. “Plenty of time, I know.” 

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, trying to not let out yet another sigh. “The venue,” you say, “needs to be booked by Monday.” You point to another tab. “The caterer finalized by Wednesday.” Another tab. “The invitations by–”

“-Y/n,” he interrupts, voice lower now, softer. He sips his coffee. “Breathe.” 

You blink, reeling back like he just slapped you. “Excuse me?” 

“We’re not curing cancer,” he says, lips tugging upwards. “We’re planning a party. You know, like the ones you hold after Rush?” 

You bristle. “It’s not a party. It’s a gala. With donors and alumni and faculty and the deans.” You choose to ignore the statement about the thing about Rush. 

“So?” His tone is light, teasing, but he doesn’t look away from you. “It’ll be fine. Trust.” 

“It’ll be fine if we do it right.” 

He tilts his head, studying you for a moment like he’s memorizing something you didn’t mean to show him. Then he says, soft but deliberate, “It’ll be fine because we’re doing it.” 

You exhale sharply, trying to not dwell on the way he accents “we’re.” 

“You’re insufferable,” you grumble. 

He laughs. Quiet and low in his throat – the kind that rolls through your body starting from your chest. “I’ve been called worse.” 

You grab your pen, maybe a little too tightly, the cheap plastic cracking under your grip. 

His eyes flick down. “You just–”

You force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Can you please just–”

“-Focus?” he finishes for you, leaning forward now, elbows braced on the table. The movement brings him close. Close enough that you can see the faint stubble along his jaw and the flecks of honey in his eyes and the way his golden skin shines under the library’s study room lights. 

“I am focusing,” he says. 

His eyes are really pretty. 

“On the spreadsheet,” you hiss. 

He hums, his voice dipping lower. “I dunno. I’m good at multitasking.” He gives you a sly grin, poking your hand. 

You feel the heat crawl up your neck before you can stop it. You don’t even know what to do with your hands after you slap his fingers off your skin. 

Quietly, to yourself, you mutter, “I am not worked up.” 

His grin widens, slow and dangerous, and you know he’s heard what you said. “Never said you were.” His knee bumps yours under the table, lingering. “But if you were, I’d take it as a compliment.” 

You should pull away. You should. But your body refuses to obey. You grab the matcha instead, the heat searing your tongue, and swallow. 

“I hate you,” you mumble, glaring at him. 

Mingyu laughs again, soft this time, like he can’t help it. He grabs the pen from your fingers, twirling it around in his hand. “And yet,” he murmurs, “here you are. Still sitting across from me.” 

You don’t have a comeback. 

You hate that you don’t. 

It’s quiet between you for a heavy beat. You can feel his leg brush up against yours under the table, hesitate, and then pull away almost sheepishly. You watch him pull your laptop towards him, scrolling through the spreadsheet as if he’s yielded to you. You try to not flinch when he nods, flipping the computer back, reaching across the table for the list in front of you, warm fingers brushing yours. And that stupid smile making his stupid handsome face light up. 

“Alright,” he sighs, mock surrender, “We’ll do this your way.” 

The words linger between you, thick with something neither of you will admit to. With something neither of you have admitted to. Your pulse beats against your throat, and you’re half-sure that Mingyu can hear it in the thick silence of the room. 

And the worst part is that you like it. 

You like it so much that you wordlessly let him mess with your colored tabs. 

You hate that you like it. 

You hate it so much that you can’t pull away. 

monday; 9:26 AM

You’re late. 

Not by much – 25 minutes, maybe – but it digs into you. You’ve never been late to class. 

You really don’t care, it’s just one class. But the universe has a sick sense of humor and today it decided to test how much you could take in the morning. 

Your alarm didn’t go off, first of all, and then your foamer broke mid-whir and your matcha splattered all across your white sweater. And somewhere between the crosswalk and the architecture building, you dropped your favorite (and only) pen and a scooter ran over it and you watched as it snapped clean in two. And when you bent down to grab and throw it away, someone stepped on the hem of your skirt and left dirt marks on the back hem of it. 

The skirt was like 70 dollars. 

So by the time you reach the doors to the lecture hall, you’ve given up on trying to dust the dirt off of the pale blue, and you can hear the hum of the room on the other side, the professor already mid-lecture. 

You inhale once, twice, trying to smooth out the angry thump of your pulse. Then, you push open the door just wide enough to slip through. 

The hinges creak so loud that at least the entire back half of the room turns in their seat to look up at you. 

Your cheeks burn. 

When you slip in, the room is much brighter than the hallway and every seat is filled. The air smells faintly of cold coffee and printer ink and the faint musk of too many people in close quarters. You scan the rows from the back once, twice, three times. 

You can almost scream when you finally see it. 

And then see the person sitting right beside the only open chair in the entire 150-person lecture hall. 

Mingyu, leaning back in his chair like he’d rather be anywhere else, one long arm draped along the backrest, a pen spinning and spinning between his fingers. It’s really just carelessness. His hair falls over his forehead in small waves, a stark contrast to the Brutalist architecture on the projector screen. He’s wearing a soft gray sweatshirt with the university logo, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, the fabric stretching across the width of his god-given shoulders like it’s trying to keep up with his every movement. 

He lifts his head. 

And then he’s looking right at you. 

The moment your eyes meet, his mouth curves. It’s not a full smile, but it’s that almost-smile. The one he uses when he gloats on you or wants to say I knew this would happen! with that stupid little lilt and lisp of his words.

Your bottled-up sigh whines to be let free from your lungs and you seem to be stuck in your place at the back of the room. 

There are other options. Technically. 

You could stand. 

You could drop out. 

You could fake an asthma attack and run. 

You could leave and move those fucking creaking hinges again. 

But then the professor glances up, the briefest flicker of irritation in her eyes, and you know the only thing worse than sitting next to Mingyu would be sitting next to Mingyu after you’ve drawn more attention to yourself. 

So, you walk down the aisle stairs, chin up, bag strap digging into your shoulder, eyes tracking you, steps too loud, and watching as Mingyu’s grin widens with each footfall. 

You stop in his row, mumbling apologies as you squeeze past the legs of at least 5 other people to reach the one empty seat. 

You don’t look directly at him, but you can feel the teasing gaze. 

You slide into your seat with as much dignity as you can manage.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Wonwoo – normally Mingyu’s seatmate – now half-turned in the chair right next to yours, squeezed uncomfortably close to another student. He gives you a little nod. 

You pull your laptop from your bag. The screen flares bright white before it flashes to a picture of you and your double figure skating partner on the ice. It’s a flimsy barrier between you and the six feet of smugness to your left. 

Mingyu doesn’t say a word at first. You can feel his amusement radiating off of him and hear the subtle scrape of his chair as he shifts just enough to angle himself towards you. 

When he finally speaks, it’s low. 

“Didn’t think I’d live to see the day,” he murmurs, voice warm, a smile curling beneath it. 

You stare straight ahead, fingers tight on your keyboard. “Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” 

“Start.” 

He leans in slightly, just enough that his shoulder almost brushes yours. His cologne is faint, the same light, ocean breeze mixed with his Creed perfume. It catches in your throat in the best way. 

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he hums, though his grin tells a different story. “I’m just proud of you. Growth, you know?” his grin widens. “Being fashionably late looks good on you. You even had enough time to get dirt on the back of your skirt.” 

You type harder than necessary, the clack of keys cutting through his laughter. 

Wonwoo glances over when you hit the backspace key with too much force, brows raised. 

The professor says something about taking out your worksheets, which you do, after rummaging in your overflowing folders for it. 

The professor keeps talking about Brutalist architecture in Russia, but you can’t hear a word. The only thing you can focus on is the warmth beside you, the occasional creak of Mingyu’s chair as he shifts, the way your heartbeat syncs annoyingly with the rhythm of his pen tapping. 

You stare at the worksheet and pretend you don’t notice the way his arm brushes the edge of your desk. Pretend you don’t notice him glancing at you from the corner of his eye. Pretend that sitting next to him doesn’t feel like standing too close to an open flame and that this proves absolutely nothing about you. Well, actually no. This is why you’ve gone out of your way to sit away from him through every single class you’ve had together. 

When you finally come-to (after the Professor accidentally drops her textbook), you glance down again. 

Right. No pen.

You reach into your bag automatically, going through loose papers and dried-out ink cartridges and the small box of architecture models. No backup. You close your eyes briefly, the exhale slipping out high-pitched between your teeth. 

You turn Wonwoo, poking his bicep. 

“Wonwoo,” you whisper, “Can I borrow a pen?” 

He looks up, startled, glasses falling down his nose, like you’ve just asked for the answer to life itself. “Uh… I don’t have–" His eyes dart to something behind you. "Yeah, I don’t have another pen, sorry.” He gives you a sheepish grin. 

You breathe out through your nose, fighting the urge to groan. 

When you look up again, Mingyu’s already holding one out like he’d been waiting for the moment you’d need it. The pen glides faintly in the overhead light, his fingers steady. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just tilts it towards you with a little flick of his wrist, brows raised. Ironically, it’s the same pen as you have – or had, since it broke. 

You stare at it like it's a trap. 

Then, inevitably, he grins. “Take it. Or are you gonna use your own blood for the notes instead?” 

Your hand moves before your brain catches up. You snatch it from his fingers. 

“Thanks,” you mutter. 

“Anytime,” he murmurs, voice warm and soft in a way that sneaks under your guard. The words should sound cocky but they don’t. They sound genuine, like he actually means it. 

You force your attention forward, gripping the pen too tightly. It writes smoothly, annoyingly so. You can feel him next to you, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the cologne drifting from his sweatshirt. It’s maddening. 

He’s focused, though. More than you expect, at least. His handwriting sprawls across the page in sharp, uneven angles, letters looping around in his cursive. He underlines, stars, annotates. You catch glimpses of small doodles in the margins—a sketch of a coffee cup, a tiny basketball hoop, a half-drawn cat. It’s ridiculous, and weirdly endearing.

You hate that it’s endearing.

You hate that he’s endearing.

He shifts slightly, elbow brushing yours. The smallest touch, but your pulse stumbles.

“You good?” he murmurs without looking up, pen still gliding. 

“Fine,” you say too quickly. 

“You sure?” His voice dips lower, smooth as velvet, teasing. “You’re staring.” 

Your breath catches, head whipping towards him. “I am not–”

“-You are.” He turns his head just enough for you to catch the curve of his mouth, the faintest dimple in his cheek. “Don’t worry. It’s…” he trails off, “cute.” 

You glare at the whiteboard like you can burn through it and hope and pray that he can’t see your cheeks heat up. 

He chuckles, quiet, under his breath. 

You try to ignore him. You really do (not). 

Your gaze drifts again, unbidden, to his notebook. He’s scribbling something between his neat bullet points, the handwriting a little slanted. 

Ask me for my notes later :)

You blink. Then, despite everything you have in yourself, your lips twitch. You bite the inside of your cheek to hide it, but it’s too late. 

He sees. 

His shoulder bumps yours, gentle. 

“See?” he murmurs, not looking at you. His next words are so casual that it doesn’t register until five seconds later. “I was right. You look good when you smile.” 

You don’t reply. It’s too late anyways. That and you don’t trust your voice to work. So, you just keep writing, heart pounding too loud, pretending the warmth in your chest is irritation. 

Pretending that you don’t notice the way Mingyu’s still watching you, out of the corner of his eye. 

He’s weird today. 

Yes, let’s chalk it up to that. 

He’s in a weirdly good mood or maybe he won beer pong last night, you’re not sure. But it’s confusing. 

You’ve never had this problem before. 

God, what is wrong with you? 

10:17 PM

Your phone buzzes against your desk, cutting through the low hum of music drifting from your speaker. You don’t think much of it until you see the name lighting up your screen. 

idiot frat boy:  notes?  my place?

You blink once. Then twice. 

you:  the library.

You stare at the text like it’ll make his response come in faster. 

idiot frat boy:  the librarys closed

you: then the 24 hr study lounge

idiot frat boy:  have u ever seen anyone talk for more than 1 sec in that place???

you: we're not gonna talk

idiot frat boy: we're not? then how r u gonna get my notes

you: shut up ur frat house is NOT an option

idiot frat boy:  my office is! and its clean scouts honor

you: u were never a scout

idiot frat boy:  details how would u know that so?

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the keyboard. You should say no. You know you should say no. Every rational cell in your body is telling you that this is a bad idea. That being alone with Mingyu, especially after 10 PM, is exactly the kind of decision people in cautionary tales make right before things go batshit crazy. 

But you do need his notes. And it’s not like you’re scared of him. 

Well, not him, per say. 

You type out your answer before you can overthink. 

you: fine. but if its not clean im leaving

idiot frat boy:  its clean mostly 

you:  …

idiot frat boy:  i hid the beer cans happy?

You don’t bother replying. 

Instead, you’re slipping into the nearest pair of ugg tazmans, pulling a clean uni sweater over your head, and spritzing perfume all over you. No shame, really, until you’re halfway out of your sorority house door with a tote over your shoulder with your computer and folders and you swear to God, you hear someone say asking who’s leaving and another person saying that they’re probably going out to fuck. 

You are not fucking. 

The frat office is quieter than you expected. Well, you’ve never really been in the frat house when it’s not in party use, so you guess you wouldn’t really know every-day frat lifestyle anyways. It’s cleaner than you imagined, too. It’s not spotless, but not a disaster: the desk is cleared off exxcept for a half-opened laptop and a stack of flyers for some charity mixer. The couch in the corner looks freshly de-linted, even if a sweatshirt is slung across one arm. The TV is on an episode of Modern Family, volume low and unheard over the music. 

Mingyu’s sprawled in the desk chair, clad in a black hoodie, sleeves shoved up like it usually is, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he scrolls through his phone. There’s a half-empty cup of what looks like a highball sweating beside his laptop, ringed by condensation circles. 

He looks up when you step in, and that smile slides into place effortlessly as he stands. 

“Took you long enough,” he says, like you’re late to something. 

“I had to walk across campus,” you reply, deadpan, dropping your bag onto the desk with a dull thud. 

He rounds the corner of the desk, walking towards you. You hate that when he stretches up, you can see the shadows of his abs. 

“Hey, you chose to walk across campus. I offered to pick you up.” 

“I don’t need a ride.” 

“Was just an offer.” He turns to you, leaning against the desk, close enough to make you aware of how close he actually is. “But you’re here now. Notes?” 

You open your laptop and set it between you like a barrier. “Yeah. Notes.” 

He slides a chair close, knees bumping yours under the desk. His stupid cologne still wafts in the air. He watches as you finalize something on your computer. 

“You always look so serious when you’re working,” he says, after a moment. 

“That’s because I’m working,” you mutter, fingers tapping the trackpad. 

He hums, a soft sound of amusement. “Do you ever do anything halfway?” 

You glance up at him, ready with a tired retort, but the words stick. He’s watching you – not in that lazy, teasing way you’ve come to expect but quieter. His eyes are lingering. 

It’s honestly disarming. You don’t like it. 

“What?” you say sharply. 

He blinks. “Nothing. Just–” he clears his throat, leaning back in his chair, “it’s kinda nice seeing you out of the council office. Or just any academic setting, really. You don’t glare as much in this lighting.” 

“Maybe it’s ‘cause you haven’t said anything too stupid yet.” 

He laughs. “I doubt it.”

You look away. 

He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, staring at you. “Relax, Hong. It’s just planning and notes.”

He says that, yet it really doesn’t just feel like “just notes.” Actually, scratch that. You know it’s not just notes. You know he knows that too. The air between you hums with the weight of everything unspoken, and it’s way too late for you to be pretending not to see the way he stares at you when he thinks you’re not looking. 

“Here.” He reaches over the desk to grab his computer, typing in the password. When he turns it to you, it’s opened to a Google Doc, class notes typed up neatly. “Copy up. I’m gonna go down and get us beers.” 

You roll your eyes, tugging his computer towards you, scrolling through. “I don’t want beer.” 

Mingyu shrugs. “Well, then I’m gonna get a beer for myself and I’ll bring up more because you’re probably gonna want some.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” you mutter under your breath. 

Mingyu leaves the room with a small click of the door. 

His notes are really good, you realize when you actually start copying them down. And you’re maybe half way through speed-typing it into your computer when his computer dings quietly with a notification. 

An i-message bubble pops up in the corner of his screen. 

won-won:  bro no way u have y/n hong in the FRAT OFFICE

You blink. 

What the hell?

And then, another one. 

wonwon: this is legendary

Your fingers pause. 

cheol hyung: no way y/ns here its like 11  r u guys gonna hook up????

Some weird noise pops out from your throat. 

Literally what the hell were you reading? 

You feel a little violated but at the same time, like you’re violating Mingyu’s privacy. 

kim mingyu's iphone: shut up lol

won-won: u fucking shut up  ur fucking glowing

kim mingyu's iphone: fuck OFF

You keep clicking the ‘x’ button until all the notifications disappear. You don’t react. You’re not sure how to react. 

And then, like the devil himself, the door creaks open and Mingyu strolls in (and you thank God that you don’t flinch), four beer bottles clinking between his fingers. 

“Peace offering,” he says, sliding one towards you. “You look like you’re two seconds away from setting my laptop on fire.” 

You don’t look up. “I am.” 

He laughs, which doesn’t help because it’s infuriatingly charming. He cracks open his beer. “Drink. It’ll help.” 

You should refuse. 

But you don’t. 

Which seems to be the pattern tonight. 

Your fingers over the keyboard for a beat before you snatch the beer, slam the cap on the edge of the desk, and take a long swig. It’s bitter but it’s good. Cold. Foamy. 

When Mingyu gives you a pointed look, you roll your eyes. “This doesn’t mean I like you,” you mutter, setting the bottle down with a clink. 

“Didn’t say anything,” he says, grinning as he drops into the chair beside you. 

You scoff, keys clacking, The Weeknd smoothing over from the speakers. 

By 11:03 PM, you’ve drunk more than a half of your first beer, warmth spreading through your chest as you finish typing up the last of the notes. Mingyu looks up from scrolling through endless TikToks on his phone, amused, as you take another sip and push his laptop toward him. 

“Done,” you state. “Now let’s actually talk about the gala.” 

“It’s pretty late. Thought your bedtime was at eleven,” he teases, taking another sip of beer. 

You roll your eyes. “I’m already here. We might as well make the most of my time.” 

“Your time?”

“Yeah,” you huff, the corners of your lips twitching upwards. “I’m not free, you know.” 

Mingyu lets out a laugh, saluting with his beer before setting it down, grabbing a whiteboard marker. “Yes, ma’am.” He stands. “Themes. Go.” 

You follow him to the whiteboard, grabbing a marker of your own. “I was thinking,” you start, uncapping it and starting to write, “Midnight in Paris.” You circle it. “Classy, timeless, but still fun.” 

Mingyu hums, underlining it. He turns to you with eyebrows raised. “So… lots of black and gold? Chandeliers? French music?” 

“Kind of?” you say, pointing the marker at him. “Maybe not French music.” 

“You’re snobbing out French music now?” he teases, but he’s already scribbling down what you said underneath the theme. “I’m thinking twinkly lights, centerpieces, champagne–”

“-Real champagne,” you correct, taking the last swig of your beer. “None of that cheap frat swill.” 

“Ouch,” he mock-gasps, clutching his chest. “That hurt. We spend fortunes on that ‘cheap frat swill.’”

You roll your eyes but you smile. “Deal with it, frat brat.” 

His grins widens, like you smiling makes him happy or something. Then, he reaches for the other two beer bottles on the desk. “Round two?” 

You should say no. 

But, like clock work, you don’t. 

And by 11:47 PM, the second bottle is almost finished, and the whiteboard is a mess of scribbled ideas: midnight in pairs, great gatsby, enchanted forest, Hollywood glam, masquerade. Mingyu’s gone to doodle stars and other characters in the black white spaces. 

“Okay,” he says, tapping the board, “wait, hear me out. What if we did like a Decades theme? Like, each room is a different era. Like 20’s, 30’s, 80’s–”

“-That’s like ten different themes, Mingyu,” you point out, but you find yourself laughing. 

What the hell is wrong with you?

“It’s versatile,” he counters, stepping closer to you, bicep brushing your shoulder. “And fun.” 

“It’s gonna be chaotic,” you say, but you don’t move away. 

He scoffs. “You love chaos,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to something lower and warmer. 

You should argue. 

But you don’t

Because then he’s right there and his free hand suddenly finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer to him. “Admit it,” he says, breath warm against your ear. “You’re having fun.” 

Honestly?

You are. 

And that seems to be the problem. 

Especially when the analog clock on the desk reads 12:01 AM and both of your beer bottles are empty and the whiteboard holds no more white space and your brain is just about done pretending that whatever is going on is just about the gala. 

The air in the frat office is thick with tension that makes your skin hum. The caps of the whiteboard markers are scattered across the table like abandoned soldiers. Your beer sits empty beside Mingyu’s condensation pooling on the wood, the faint bitter aftertaste still lingering on your tongue. You should’ve stopped at one. You knew better. But you couldn’t turn down a challenge, especially when Mingyu looked at you like he knew you would take it. 

Now, his hand is on your waist, thumb tracing slow and maddening circles over your sweater. Your legs swing from your seat on top of the desk. You should push him away, put some space between you, remind yourself that this is Mingyu – the boy who drives you insane, who teases you relentlessly, who you’ve spent most of your years pretending isn’t hot. 

But the beer has melted the ice around your resolve, and the way his fingers press into your skin, the warmth of his boy so close to yours,  makes your breath catch. 

“So,” he starts, voice quiet from in front of you. He looks down at you but you can’t bring yourself to look up.

“Are we done here, then?” you ask, fiddling with your sweater sleeve. How do you tell someone you don’t want to go without actually saying those words?

“I mean, we can always work on more,” Mingyu replies. You can hear the smile in his voice. His hand is warm. 

You look up, just slightly. Just to brush hair out of your eyes. 

But then, his face is inches from yours and his lips are crashing down. 

It’s not gentle or slow. It’s desperate. Like he’s been waiting to kiss you for months. Like something just snapped in him. 

You really don’t have time to react because his hands tangle in your hair, his fingers curling against your scalp, and you gasp into his mouth as he pulls you closer. Your hands find the front of his hoodie, gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. The gala, the notes, the whole world fades into the background. The only thing that matters is the way he kisses you—like he’s starving, like he’s finally getting something he’s wanted for too long.

The whiteboard marker clatters to the floor, rolling away unnoticed.

Mingyu’s chest presses against yours, his heart pounding so hard you can feel it through his hoodie—or maybe that’s yours. His glasses fog up between you, and he pulls back just long enough to yank them off and toss them onto the desk behind him. They clatter against the wood, but neither of you cares.

Then he’s back, his mouth on yours, harder this time, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue. You moan, the sound swallowed by his kiss, your fingers tightening in his hair. He groans in response, the vibration humming against your lips, and his hands slide down to your waist, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin just beneath your shirt.

You arch into him, your body acting on instinct, chasing the heat, the pressure, the way he makes you feel like you’re burning.

His grip on you is bruising, possessive. He steps between your legs, his thighs pressing against yours, and the table creaks under your weight. You don’t care. His hands slide up your thighs, his thumbs brushing the hem of your sweats, and you shiver, your breath hitching. He takes advantage, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours, demanding, taking. It’s embarrassing how you whimper, fingers clawing at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, like you can’t get enough.

The room spins, the air thick with the sound of your ragged breaths, the creak of the table beneath you, the rustle of papers scattering to the floor. His hands roam over your back, his touch searing through the fabric of your shirt, and you melt into him, your body aching for more.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips, his voice raw, unsteady. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

You should stop him. You should push him away, tell him this is a bad idea, that you’re supposed to be working, that this changes everything. But then his mouth trails down your jaw, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear, and your thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm.

“Mingyu—” His name spills from your lips like a plea, and he smirks against your skin, his breath hot, his fingers tightening in your hair.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

It’s ridiculous, how instead of breaking away, you grip his hair and yank him down – his lips back on yours, kissing him harder now. 

His hands slide up your back, under your shirt, his touch searing against your skin. You gasp as his fingers trace the line of your spine, his other hand tangling in your hair, tilting your head just right so he can kiss you deeper.

The table shudders as he steps closer, his thighs pressing against yours, and you wrap your legs around him, pulling him flush against you. His hips roll once, and you break—a sound tearing from your throat that’s half moan, half his name.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, his lips swollen, his chest rising and falling like he’s just run a mile.

“This was a mistake,” you breathe, your voice unsteady, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

His grin is wicked, his thumb brushing your bottom lip, his touch light but possessive. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice rough, his gaze locked on yours. “Let’s do it again.”

And then his mouth is on yours once more, and this time, there’s no holding back.

His hands are everywhere—in your hair, on your waist, sliding up your ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. You arch into him, a whimper spilling from your lips, and he swallows it, kissing you like he’s starving, like he’ll die if he stops. His hips roll against yours, and you moan, your nails scraping down his back, gripping the fabric of his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

The room spins, the world narrowing to just this—the heat of his body, the taste of him, the way his hands claim you like he’s been waiting for this forever.

And when his hand slides up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, you melt into him, kissing him back with everything you’ve got—because god, you’ve wanted this, too.

You’ve just been too stubborn to admit it.

His mouth is everywhere—on yours, along your jaw, down the column of your throat—and you melt into him, your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs parted around him as he steps closer, his hips flush against yours. The table creaks under your weight, but you don’t care. The only thing that matters is the way his touch burns through you, the way his breath hitches when you arch into him, the way his name spills from your lips like a prayer.

One of his hands slides behind you, bracing against the table, his fingers splayed wide as he leans into you, his chest pressing against yours. The other hand—slow, deliberate—traces up your side, his thumb brushing the hem of your shirt before slipping beneath the fabric. Your skin tingles under his touch, your breath catching as his fingers trail higher, higher.

You should stop him.

His mouth finds yours again, hungry, desperate, and you kiss him back with everything you’ve got—because god, you’ve wanted this, too. You’ve just been too stubborn to admit it.

His hand glides up your ribcage, his thumb skimming the underside of your breast, and you whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders. He groans against your lips, his kiss turning deeper, hotter, as his fingers tease the curve of your breast, his thumb brushing just beneath the swell.

“Y/n—” His voice is rough, a plea, as his hand finally cups you, his thumb grazing over the peak through the thin fabric of your bra.

A sound tears from your throat—half moan, half his name—and his lips crash back onto yours, swallowing it. His touch is firm, possessive, and you shudder, your back arching off the table, your body aching for more.

But then his fingers shift, his thumb brushing over your nipple, and reality hits like a bucket of ice water.

You shove him away.

It’s not hard but Mingyu stumbles back, his chest rising and falling like he’s just run across campus. His lips are swollen from your kiss, hair a mess from your fingers, and his eyes are opened wide – raw like you’ve torn away something delicate from his insides. 

What the hell are you thinking?

“Ohmygod,” you gasp, voice cracking. You press your palms to your cheeks as if you can erase the heat lingering there and the feel of his lips on your jaw. “What am I– what the hell–”

Mingyu doesn’t move. His hands hover in the air between you like he’s not sure if he’s afraid to touch you or afraid to not touch you. His usual light-hearted grin is gone, replaced by a wide-eyed look of shock, mouth parted slightly. Words start tumbling out. 

“Shit. Shit. Shit, Y/n– Y/n I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–”

“-You did mean to!” Your voice is too loud and too sharp but you can’t stop it. “You always do this! Push and push and push until everything I’ve–” 

You only half-register how unfair this is to him. 

“--No.” He cuts you off, dragging a hand through his hair. His glasses still lay abandoned behind you. “I mean– No, I mean, I wanted to. But not like– like this. Not if you–” he swallows hard, his throat working. “Fuck, no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have–” 

You can only stare at him, catching your breath. 

You’re being unfair, really, you know. You kissed him back as hard, if not harder, than he kissed you. And he sounds genuine and he looks so wrecked, fingers pulling at his hair, and he looks so sorry. He’s just standing there like you’ve gutted him or something. But your brain is fuzzy and you can’t focus on more than one thing and you can’t bring yourself to care about what’s fair and what’s not. 

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. You can still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin as you pull your bra back into place and your sweater back down. You can still taste him on your lips when your tongue darts out. It makes your stomach twist. 

Mingyu looks down at his feet, almost shamefully. 

Some part of you twinges with guilt. 

It’s not really his fault (even though he did kiss you first and he didn’t even get consent like you learned during your freshmen year sex-ed orientation). Although, you guess moaning his fucking name like some prostitute was consent enough. 

“I’m leaving,” you mutter out, words leaving your lips strangled. You slide off the table, legs feeling unsteady. You shove your laptop and folders into your bag before sliding it over your shoulder. 

Mingyu doesn’t stop you. He kind of just moves to the side. 

He just stands there as you brush out your hair with shaking hands. “Y/n…” 

“Don’t,” you snap, not looking at him. “Just, don’t.” 

You storm to the door, shaking still as you reach for the knob. You can’t believe you let him kiss you. You’re halfway out the door when he speaks again, so softly that you almost miss it:

“Fucking idiot, Mingyu.” 

You freeze. 

Just for a second. 

His back it to you. 

And his words are directed at himself. 

And the way he says it, like he’s disgusted with himself, like he’s kicking himself for ruining whatever that was, makes something in your chest ache. 

But you yank the door open completely and slip out into the quiet hallway, your mind racing. The walk back down to the front door of the frat house feels like the walk of shame. Or well, what could have been an actual walk of shame, had you not come to your senses. Seriously, something was genuinely wrong with you. 

When the front door closes behind you, your heated face meeting the cool night air, your phone clock reads 12:34 AM. 

Clearly way past your bedtime. 

---

mingyu; 8:49 PM

The frat house kitchen is a disaster: half-unpacked cases of beer, a countertop littered with red Solo cups, and the faint but unmistakable scent of spilled vodka mixing with the lemon cleaner someone sprayed earlier in a futile attempt to disguise the stench of last weekend’s debauchery. Mingyu leans against the chipped laminate counter, fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against the edge. His mind is still stuck on you. Even after spending three hours in the gym and running the circumference of campus at least twice. 

“Yo, earth to Mingyu.” Seungcheol’s voice cuts through his thoughts, accompanied by the thud of another case of beer hitting the counter. “You’ve been staring at the wall for like ten minutes. What’s up?” 

Mingyu blinks, forcing himself back to the present. “Nothing.” 

Wonwoo snorts, appearing from down the hall. He reaches for a beer can, popping the tab off and sliding it towards Mingyu. “I call bullshit,” he hums, pushing his glasses up. “You’ve been like this since Friday, man. Did Y/n Hong finally like snap and break up your weird ass enemies to lovers shit? Is that why you’re all mopey?” 

Mingyu snatches the can, his fingers tightening around it. “We’re not a fucking K-Drama. And no,” he says pointedly, “she didn’t ‘break up.’”

“But I bet she wanted to,” Seungcheol says, grinning as he leans against the counter beside Mingyu. “What’d you do? Tell her you think her folders are stupid or something?” 

“Yeah, right,” Mingyu huffs, taking a long sip. The beer does nothing to ease the tightness in his chest. 

Wonwoo’s brows raise. “So?” 

“Worse,” Mingyu groans. 

“Oh. So that’s why she stormed out of here like you set her hair on fire. You–” 

Seungcheol interrupts with wide eyes. “-You finally made a move?” 

Mingyu doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the can in his hands, the condensation running down his palm. “Yeah, I guess.” 

Seungcheol whistles, low and impressed. “Damn. And? How was it? What’d she say?” 

Mingyu’s throat tightens. “Uh, there wasn’t that much talking involved.” 

Wonwoo blinks. “Huh? Whaddaya mean? Thought you confessed.” 

Mingyu exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “It means I fucked up. I kissed her. She was drunk. I should’ve stopped. I didn’t.” 

Seungcheol waves a hand. “Come on, man. It’s not like you forced yourself on her. Y/n’s not exactly the type to let someone push her into something she doesn’t really want.” 

“That’s not the point,” Mingyu snaps, voice sharper than he intends. He takes another swig. “She trusted me. I was finally getting her to open up to me as a friend. And I–” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I fucking ruined it.” 

Wonwoo studies him for a long moment, then sighs. “I think you’re overthinking this. Y/n’s tough. She can handle herself.” 

“That’s not the issue,” Mingyu groans, frustration bubbling up. “The issue is I know her. She’s been avoiding any personal interaction with me since sophomore year because she probably thinks I’m some frat boy who doesn’t take anything seriously and fucks around. And then I have to go and prove her right by basically assaulting her in the office like some horny freshman.” 

Seungcheol barks out a laugh. “Dude, you’re way too hard on yourself. Y/n’s hot. Any guy would’ve lost his mind a little.” 

Mingyu glares at him. “Not the point.” 

“I know, I know,” Seungcheol says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “But come on. You’ve been pining after her for like three years now. You finally get a shot and you’re beating yourself up ‘cause it didn’t go perfectly? Life’s not a rom-com, man.” 

Mingyu rubs the back of his neck, the weight of his own stupidity pressing down on him. “I just… I like her, okay? Like, really like her. And I know she thinks I’m some joke–”

“-She doesn’t think that,” Wonwoo interrupts, voice surprisingly confident. “She knows you, Mingyu, unfortunately. That’s why she lets you get under her skin.” 

Mingyu stares at him. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” 

Wonwoo shrugs. “That she cares. Even if she won’t admit it.” 

Mingyu exhales, his friends’ words settling over him. He wants to believe them. I mean, you kissed him back, for fuck’s sake. But the memory of your face, horrified as you pushed him away, still stings. 

Seungcheol nudges him with his elbow. “Look, man, just talk to her. Apologize. Just fess up. Tell her you like her. Girls love that shit.” 

“Or,” Mingyu mutters, “she’ll punch me.” 

Seungcheol shrugs, grinning. “Eh. Sounds worth it to me.” 

Mingyu shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth twitches despite himself. “You’re useless.” 

“But right,” Seungcheol counters, clinking his beer can against Mingyu’s. “Now drink and stop moping before the party starts. You’re really killing the vibe.” 

Mingyu just laughs, letting Wonwoo and Seungcheol walk him out of the kitchen. 

Yeah, maybe it wasn’t so bad. 

The beer pong table is sticky under Mingyu’s palms, the music too loud, and the air thick with the scent of beer and sweat. He’s pretty sure his team is up by four points. Maybe six? He stopped paying attention five minutes ago. 

“Mingyu!” Seungcheol barks, beer in hand. “It’s your turn, man.” His voice cuts through the haze and Mingyu blinks, realizing that he’d been staring at the same damn cup for who knows how long. 

He grabs the ball, the plastic slick against his fingers, and misses the shot. Again. The Sigma Chi guys across the table whoop in triumph (apparently that was the winning stroke) and Wonwoo groans, shoving Mingyu’s shoulder. 

“Dude, you’re trash tonight. Thought we fixed your girl problems.”

Mingyu doesn’t answer. His chest is tight and his skin is itchy. To be honest, ever since Wonwoo and Seungcheol told him to confront you, he’s been jittery like he’s been wired all wrong. Nerves, maybe? But you’re not even here. You never come to his frat parties, especially during the spring term. 

“Holy fuck.” Seungcheol’s voice is suddenly different, sharper, his eyes locked on the swinging door. “Isn’t that KAT?” 

“Huh?” 

“Bro, that’s the Kappa Alpha Theta girls.” 

Mingyu’s head snaps up. 

And there you are. 

Walking through the door of his house, laughing at someone one of your friends said, your hair loose down your shoulders, lips curved in a grin that he’s spent years trying to coax out of you. You’re wearing a dress – dark red, tight. The fabric clings like second skin and he can see how the fabric of the neckline flounces with every step you take. The hem ride high on your thighs. His throat goes dry as he watches you move, the way the dress hugs your hips, the way he can see the sweel of your tits bounce slightly with every step. Fuck, he’s downed too many beers for this. 

He forces himself to look away and take a deep breath, but its useless. It’s like his body remembers you – the way you’d felt under his hands, the way, for a second, you arched into him, melting under his palms. The way you had also wanted him, even if just for a passing minute. 

“Mingyu!” Wonwoo’s voice is impatient, but he doesn’t really care. He throws the ball, doesn’t even watch where it lands. The floor, probably. 

And then Mingyu sees him. 

Some guy. Tall, smug, swearing Sigma Chi’s letters proudly across his chest, stepping into your space. He’s leaning in. Talking. Talking to you. To you. His hand brushes your arm. Who the fuck does he think he is?

Mingyu’s fingers clench around the edge of the table. 

The guy laughs at something you say, his hand lingering on your arms. And in that moment, something primitive and ugly rears up in Mingyu’s chest. His stomach twists, his jaw locking, the aluminum of the beer can denting under his fingers. 

Some weird, possessive part of him wants to rip the loser’s hands off. 

The guy steps closer, his fingers trailing down your arm, and Mingyu’s vision goes red. 

He drops the ball. 

“I’m out,” he mutters, already pushing away from the table, his pulse roaring in his ears. 

“Yo, where the hell are you going?” Seungcheol calls after him, but Mingyu doesn’t stop. 

Because you’re laughing again, tilting your head back, and the guy steps even closer, as if your laughter is an invitation for his tongue down your throat. He’s smirking too, like he’s won something, like he has any fucking idea of what you’re really like. 

And Mingyu can’t take it. 

He can’t.

So when the Sigma Chi guy’s hand slides lower, his fingers lingering on the small of your back, something inside Mingyu snaps. He’s across the room in seconds, hand slamming onto your waist before the guy can even react. 

“She’s with me,” Mingyu says, a thin smile stretching on his lips. His smile contradicts his low voice. 

The guy blinks.

What was his name again? Jason? Joshua? 

His smirk falters as he takes in Mingyu’s expression. “Didn’t know she was taken,” he mutters, backing off with his hands up. 

Mingyu really doesn’t care. He’s distracted because of you – because you tense under his hand, breath hitches when he pulls you closer. Weirdly, you don’t really protest or push him away. 

He leans down, lips brushing your ear. “You came here to piss me off?” he murmurs, grip on your waist tightening. 

You swallow, your pulse fluttering under his fingers. “I came here to drink,” you say, but he knows it's a half-lie. He can hear how unsteady your voice is, your eyes dark when you finally look at him. 

Mingyu’s hand tightens around your waist, his fingers pressing into the soft fabric of your dress, the heat of your skin burning through the material. He should let go. He really should let go and step back, give you space, ask what the hell you’re doing here. But fuck, the way you melt into him, the way your breath hitches when he pulls you closer, it shatters whatever self-control he had left. 

“Liar,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice rough with need. You shiver under his touch, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his fingers, and something primitive uncoils in his chest. Something raw and possessive in his chest tightens. 

You swallow as you lie again. “I came here to drink.” 

Mingyu smirks against your skin, thumb tracing slow circles on your hip. “Then why are you looking at me like that?” 

You don’t answer right away. Instead, your fingers clench around your cup, your knuckles white, dark eyes flashing with something he recognizes. For the first time, he sees something other than annoyance in your eyes: need. It drives him crazy. It’s everything he’s been craving since the last time he touched you, since the last time he tasted you. 

He can’t resist. 

His mouth crashes onto yours, hard and demanding, and the second your lips part under his, he’s lost. You taste like beer and something sweet, something uniquely you, and it drowns him. He can smell the faint scent of peaches in your perfume and he can taste beer and something else – strawberries? Did he set out strawberries for this party? His hands slide up, one cupping your jaw, the other gripping your hip, pulling you flush against him. The way you whimper into the kiss, the way your fingers fist in his shirt – fuck, it’s everything. 

“Mingyu–” His name on your lips. Like a plea, a warning. 

“Tell me to stop,” he gasps against your mouth, his body pressing you against the wall, his thigh sliding between your legs. He presses a little– 

You moan, your body arching into his, and Mingyu needs to stifle his groan, his control snapping. His hands roam over your waist, up your ribs, his thumbs brushing the swell of your breast through the thin fabric of your dress. You gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders, your legs parting just enough to let him press closer, harder. The friction is maddening, his cock throbbing painfully in his jeans, but he doesn’t care. All that matters is you—the way you respond to him, the way your body moves against his, chasing the same release he’s aching for.

"Your room," you gasp, your voice breathless, desperate.

Fuck yes.

Mingyu doesn’t waste a second. He grabs your hand, pulling her through the crowd, his grip tight, possessive. Bodies are all around you as he pulls the two of you through the throng of people. The stairs blur beneath his feet, the music fading into the background as he kicks his door shut behind them, the lock clicking into place with a finality that sends a jolt through him. 

The second the door closes, you’re suddenly on him, your lips crashing onto his, your hands fumbling with his waistband, your body pressing against his like you’re trying to crawl inside of him. Drunk, drunk, drunk, drunk. His brain is on overdrive. Bad choice, bad choice, bad idea, what the hell. His brain is overheated. It’s hot. What room is this? Mingyu groans, his hands tangling in your hair, tilting your head back as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours. 

His mind is a whirlwind – drunk on you, on the taste of you, on the way your body molds against his. The scent of peaches and vanilla wraps around him, intoxicating, maddening. His hands grip your waist, lifting effortlessly, voice rough against your lips: “Jump.”

You jump without hesitation, your legs wrapping around his waist, your dress riding up as you lock your ankles behind his back. Mingyu groans, the heat of you pressing against him, even through the fabric of his sweatpants. Fuck. He stumbles backward, his knees hitting the edge of his – or wait no, someone else’s maybe – bed. He can’t stop kissing you, touching you, breathing you in. 

“You’re such a tease,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. You shiver under his touch, your fingers digging into his shoulders, nails scraping against his skin as you pull his shirt up, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank it over his head. 

He watches as you grin, hair mussed, lipstick smeared. 

“You love it,” you breathe, hands roaming over his chest, palms flat against his skin, fingers tracing every ridge of muscle, every inch of him. Mingyu groans, his head falling back as your hands go down his abs. 

“Y/n–” His voice is tight with warning. 

Your hands slide up, over his shoulders, like you’re somehow mapping and calming him, before dragging down his back, and he just knows he’ll wake up to those faint red marks from your nails. Mingyu shudders, his control fraying as you arch into him, your lips find his again, kiss hot and messy. 

“Touch me,” you whisper, arms winding around his neck. Your voice is low, body rolling against his. 

And really, he doesn’t need to be told twice. 

His hands physically shake as they slide under your dress, his fingers digging into the bare skin of your thighs, firm and possessive. You gasp into his mouth, your legs tightening around him. 

“Mingyu, please–”

“-I’ve got you,” he mumbles against your lips. And suddenly, he takes one more step back to– nothing. He’s falling, gravity forcing him away from you, your wide eyes above his as he lands backwards on the bed, the blanket puffing up around him. You follow quickly, hands on either side of his head, legs straddling his waist. Both of you are panting, chests heaving, especially as you loom over him, hair spilling around your shoulder, breasts threatening to spill out of the lace dress, lips swollen from his kisses. 

You’re grinning.

And he’s never seen something prettier. 

“You talk too much,” you say, fingers trailing down his chest, hovering over the waist band of his sweatpants. 

Mingyu grins, cheeks hot, one hand gripping your waist, the other your thigh, up so high that his thumb brushes the delicate lace of your panties. He could die. 

“Thought you liked that about me,” he counters, voice rough, and he reaches up to pull you down again, lips crashing together. 

Mingyu’s fingers find the zipper of your dress, his touch shaky with need as he slowly drags it down. The fabric parts, you gasp, breaking away from the kiss. He pulls the dress ove ryour head in one fluid motion, and fuck – your tits bounce free, full and god your nipples are alreay hard from the cool air, from his touch (at least he hopes). His breath catches and his cock throbs painfully against the fabric of his sweatpants. 

“Fuck, Y/n–” his voice is rouh as you rub the corner of your lips, one of your hands reaching for his. Your hand leads his to your tits, forcing him to cup them, his thumb brushing over your nipples. You arch into his touch, whimpering, hips rolling against his like you’re chasing the friction. 

And then it’s a blur. 

You’re kissing again, hips grinding together, desperate, needy, and Mingyu feels like a teenager from how close he is just from dry humping you. He swears he almost bust when he glanced down for a split second, only to see the darker wet patch you left on his sweatpants, arousal leaking through your panties.

The bed creaks beneath you, the sheets tangling around your legs, but neither of you can slow down. 

“Mingyu, please,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. Your chest heaves in front of his face, thighs trembling, face red with exertion. “My fucking thighs…” you mutter. 

Mingyu doesn’t hesitate. Whatever you need, really. 

Mingyu’s hands tighten on your waist, his thumbs brushing over your nipples again, teasing them into harder peaks. The way you whimper, the way your body rolls against his – fuck, he’s done for. His cock aches, throbbing against the wet spot on his sweatpants, proof of how badly you want him driving him wild.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he mutters, his voice rough as he flips you onto your back, his body covering yours. His lips crash onto yours, hot and messy, his tongue sweeping against yours as his hands slide down, hooking his fingers into the lace of your panties. Your skin is so soft. 

“Mingyu–” Your voice is desperate, pleading, your hips lifting off the bed as he drags the fabric down your legs, tossing it somewhere in the room.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your lips, his fingers trailing up your inner thighs, teasing, taunting. You shudder, your legs falling open for him, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. It’s music to his ears, thundering in his brain.

His mouth trails down your body, slow and deliberate: over your collarbone, between your breasts, down your stomach. He kisses the dip of your hipbone, his tongue tracing the line of your pelvis, his breath hot against your skin.

“Mingyu, please–” You whine, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer

New discovery: he hates making you wait. 

His lips press against your thigh, his teeth grazing the soft skin, his fingers spreading you open. “Fuck,” he groans, his breath ghosting over you, “you’re so wet for me, baby.”

And then his mouth is on you.

His tongue flattens against your clit, long and slow, and you jolt, a broken cry spilling from your lips. Mingyu groans against you, the taste of you sweet and intoxicating, his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you open, holding you still as he devours you.

“Oh my god–” Your back arches, your hips lifting off the bed, chasing his mouth. Mingyu doesn’t let up, his tongue flicking over your clit, circling, teasing, before sucking it between his lips. Your moans fill the room, desperate and uncontrolled, your fingers clawing at the sheets. 

Like some pervert, he wants more. More, more, more, more, more, more.

“That’s it,” Mingyu murmurs, his voice muffled against you, “let me hear you.”

Your breath hitches as his fingers slide inside you, quite easily, actually, curling just right, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. “Min– fuck– Mingyu!"

“Come for me,” he orders, his tongue moving faster, harder, his fingers working you in perfect rhythm. “C’mon, baby, come for me.”

He can pinpoint the exact moment you shatter, your body tensing, your orgasm crashing over you, wave after wave of pleasure wracking your body. Mingyu doesn’t stop, licking you through it, drawing out every last shudder, every last whimper.

When you finally collapse back onto the bed, boneless and breathless, Mingyu crawls up your body, his lips finding yours again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your body trembling beneath him, your chest heaving.

Mingyu hovers over you, his body humming with need, his cock so painfully hard, tucked in the waistband of his sweatpants. The sight of you, flushed, trembling, your pupils blown and dark, your lips parted and swollen from his kisses, drowns him. Your chest heaves, the rise and fall of your breasts hypnotic, the sheen of sweat on your skin glowing in the dim light of his room. 

Fuck, you’re perfect.

You’re everything he’s dreamed you to be. And more. So, so, so much more. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, your body still trembling beneath him, your fingers clawing at his shoulders. 

He dips down, capturing your mouth in another kiss, slow and deep, his tongue sweeping against yours. You moan into it, your body arching up to meet his, your nails digging into his skin. Mingyu groans, his hips rolling against yours, the friction maddening.

“This wasn’t the plan,” you breathe against his lips, your voice shaky, unsteady as you ramble on your excuse. “I should leave–”

“-No,” Mingyu huffs, his lips trailing down your neck, his teeth sinking into the soft skin just below your ear. He sucks, hard, marking you, claiming you. “Don’t fucking care if this wasn’t your plan,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. “You want this as much as I do.”

You whimper, your head falling back as he kisses down your throat, his hands gripping your waist, holding you tight. Your hands roam the crevices of his deltoids and he deludes himself to think that the way you bite your bottom lip is because of him. Him, him, him, him.

“Mingyu—” Your voice is weak, breathy, your body betraying you as you roll your hips against his.

“Stay,” he pleads, his voice rough, desperate, thumb pulling your lip free from the bite of your teeth. He runs the pad of his thumb over the plump skin, kissing the corner of it. “I’ll do whatever you want, y/n. Anything.” His lips find yours again, his kiss hot and messy, his control snapping as you whimper into his mouth.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, your cheeks flushed, your lips parted, your eyes dark with lust, blinking up at him. This is dangerous. You are dangerous. You’re some type of poison to him. He can’t control the words that flow out of his mouth. Not with you so close to him. No space for him to breathe, think, speak properly. “But don’t tell me you don’t want this,” he breathes, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Not when you look at me like that.”

Your breath hitches, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. “I hate you,” you whisper, but your body arches into his, your legs wrapping around his waist.

Mingyu grins, feral, triumphant. “Liar,” he murmurs, before his mouth crashes onto yours again.

His cock throbs and the pressure from his waistband isn’t quite enough. He aches for release, but he ignores it. Right now, this (you) is everything. The way you respond to him, the way your body moves against his, the way you whimper his name like a prayer. It’s intoxicating. Like some kind of drug induced halo effect. He could drown in you. You’re burning him up like some flimsy little incense stick. He’s burning for you. So, so happily. 

Lips moving in tandem, your hands roam across the expanse of his rippling shoulders, back, and he shudders when your nails rake through his hair. 

“Mingyu,” you whisper, breaking away for a second.

He hums in response, kissing down your neck, one arm above your head, supporting his weight, as the other hand massages your boob. His mouth goes lower. 

“Mingyu,” you say, more incessant now, pulling him up to your face. 

“Yeah?” he breathes, panting, hair falling in front of his eyes, arm shaking. He doesn’t know where to look – your eyes? Lips? Boobs? No, not boobs, you’ll have his head. He barely registers that you’re saying something until you stare up at him expectantly. Fuck, what did you say?

“Huh?” he says, stupid from the way your nails were scratching the nape of his neck. “Wha’cha say?” 

He ignores the way you roll your eyes at him, licking the shell of your ear, biting the skin. 

“I said, take your shirt off,” you repeat. Your fingers suddenly tighten around the back of his neck and you force him to look up at you.

Fuck, you’re so hot. 

Mingyu swallows, trying to blink away the haze in his brain. 

“Mingyu, did you hear me?” You ask, brows raised. 

He licks his lips, nodding furiosly. “Uh huh, uh huh,” he responds. 

“So? Take it off.” 

He nods, sitting back on his heels, reaching for the hem of his shirt, yanking it over his head in one fluid motion. The cool air hits his skin, but all he feels is the heat of your gaze raking over him. Over his shoulders, his pecs, the ridges of his abs, the dips of his hips. He preens under your attention, his chest puffing just a little as your breath catches, your lips parting further, your eyes darkening with hunger.

"Like what you see?" he murmurs, his voice rough, teasing, as your hands reach for him.

“Should’ve taken this shit off sooner,” you mumble, and he blushes at your words. 

Your fingers trace the curves of his muscles, light at first, then firm, exploring every inch of him. Mingyu shudders, his abs clenching under your touch, his skin burning where you trail your palms. “Fuck, y/n.” His voice is a groan, his control fraying as your nails scrape down his chest, over his hips, hooking into the waistband of his sweatpants.

“You’re so fucking hot,” you breathe, your voice husky, your thumbs brushing the dips of his hip bones.

Mingyu grins, feral, triumphant, like he won the lottery, as he leans down, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss. His hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of your bare skin against his almost unbearable. “You drive me crazy,” he hums, his lips trailing down your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone.

Your fingers tighten on his waistband, tugging him closer, and Mingyu groans, his hips rolling against yours, the friction maddening. “You want this,” he murmurs, his voice rough against your skin. “Say it.” 

He can physically see the way your brain tries to come up with something to say to him. And then how it gives up. 

“C’mon,” he whispers into your ear, kissing your cheek, “say it, baby.” 

You whimper, your nails digging into his hips, your body arching into his, and he knows he’s won. “I want you,” you gasp, your voice broken, desperate. You arch into him. “Mingyu, god, please.”

Mingyu doesn’t need to hear it twice.

His mouth crashes onto yours again, hot and demanding, as his hands slide under your ass, lifting you, grinding you against him. The moan that spills from your lips vibrates through him, sending a jolt straight to his cock. "You’re mine," he growls, his voice raw, possessive, and fuck, the way you whimper in response, the way your body moves against his, chasing more, chasing him, it’s everything. Forget the fact that he doesn’t know where those almost territorial words popped out of. Forget the fact that he’s so hard that he’s almost 99% sure he’s gonna burst a load the moment your bare pussy even grazes his dick. Forget the fact that he wants to kiss you again and again and again.

The air between you is electric, charged with need and want. Mingyu’s hands tangle in your hair as he kisses you deeply, his tongue sweeping against yours, slow and deliberate. Your fingers explore the hard planes of his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles, the heat of his skin burning beneath your touch. He whimpers into your mouth, his body arching into yours, and he’d be embarassed if his cock didn’t fuckin’ hurt. 

“Mingyu–” you gasp, pulling back just enough to breathe, your chest heaving. You press your palms against his shoulders, pushing him away lightly, just enough to put some space between you.

And it’s like he’s been snapped out of whatever was controlling him. Mingyu freezes, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with concern. “W-wh- Are you okay?” His voice is rough, husky, his hands still hovering over your waist, ready to pull you back if you want him to. His eyes roam your face, trying to discern what’s wrong.

You swallow, your fingers brushing over his bottom lip, swollen from your kisses. You have the same look in your eyes like from when he said something really productive in class. “Lie down,” you murmur, your voice low, commanding.

“Huh?” Mingyu raises an eyebrow but obeys, shifting back until he’s lying on the bed, his body spread out before you. His chest rises and falls with each heavy breath, his abs clenching as he watches you. “What’re you—?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you slide your heels off, letting them drop to the floor with a soft thud. Mingyu’s gaze tracks every movement, his cock twitching as he takes you in: your lipstick smudged, the purple blooming at your neck from his hickies, the way your hair spills over your shoulders, messy and wild.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice thick with lust. “You should see yourself. You look so hot like this.”

You crawl up the bed, settling between his spread legs, your fingers trailing down his chest, over his pecs, his stomach, following the dips and curves of his body. “You promise?” you tease, your palm pressing against the bulge in his sweatpants.

“Fuck, yeah, I promi–” Mingyu hisses, his hips jerking up into your touch, head falling back. “Y/n–” His voice is a warning, a plea, his hands fisting in the sheets.

You lean down, pressing a kiss to his pecs, then lower, over his abs, your lips trailing down the V-line that disappears beneath his waistband. “You talk too much,” you murmur, your breath hot against his skin.

“Y-you’ve said,” he retorts, but his voice is strained, his body tensing beneath you as your fingers trace the waistband of his sweatpants, your thumb brushing over the head of his cock through the fabric. 

Fuck, you know what you’re doing. 

“Because you do,” you respond, slowly rubbing up and down through the fabric. You press a kiss at his pulse point on his neck. 

“I th-thought you said, fuck, you l-liked it,” his words end as a moan, hips jerking up into your touch when you bite down lightly. He can feel your lips stretch into a grin against his skin.

“Maybe I do,” you whisper, your lips pressing against the skin just above his waistband. “But right now…” You glance up at him, your eyes dark with promise, “I want you to shut up.”

Mingyu groans, his head falling back against the pillow, his chest heaving. “Fuck, Y/n–” His voice is broken, desperate, as your hand slides beneath the fabric, nails scratching his happy trail, fingers delicately wrapping around his cock. Did your fingers even wrap around the entire thing? Fuck, this is like the peak of all of his wet dreams. His Adams apple bobs. 

“Good boy,” you mumble, your lips curving into a dangerous grin when you see his eyes roll back at your words. He wills himself to not cum as you begin to stroke him, slow and torturous. His body shudders, his hips lifting off the bed, chasing your touch. 

Another discovery: he likes when you praise him. 

He should’ve figured. 

You press another kiss to his stomach, then lower, your tongue darting out to trace the line of his hip bone. Mingyu’s fingers tangle in your hair, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “Y-you’re gonna kill me," he groans, but he doesn’t stop you.

Your fingers hook into the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, slowly dragging them down his hips. Mingyu lifts his ass off the bed just enough to let you pull them free, his cock springing up, hard and throbbing, the tip already glistening with pre as it hits his stomach. He swallows hard, his hands hovering in the air, unsure—should he touch you? Should he grip the sheets? Hold the headboard? What was the right thing to do when someone was going to suck him off? Fuck, should he—?

You glance up at him, your lips curved in a sweet smile, your fingers wrapping around the base of his cock. He twitches. 

“Here,” you murmur, grabbing his hand and guiding it down until his fingers tangle in your hair. “You can touch.”

Mingyu exhales shakily, his blush deepening as his fingers curl into your soft strands, his grip tightening just enough to feel you. “Y/n–” His voice is rough, thick with need. He wants to say you don’t need to. That you can stop, that you shouldn’t feel obligated to suck him off just because he fingered you, that you don’t need to reciprocate. But then you squeeze and then jerk him off twice, breath fanning over his tip, and then everything he should say leaves his stupid, stupid brain. 

You lick your lips, your eyes dark as you take him in. “Fuck, Gyu,” you breathe, your thumb brushing over the head of his cock, spreading the pre that beads there. He tries his best not to cum from the nickname alone. “You’re so big.”

Mingyu’s cock twitches at your words, his blush rising higher on his cheeks, his chest tight. “Y/n, don’t–” He groans, his hips jerking as you wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly.

“Don’t what?” you tease, your tongue darting out to kitten-lick the head, tasting the salt of his pearly precum. 

Mingyu’s breath hitches, his fingers tightening in your hair. 

You grin wickedly, lips puckering to kiss his tip, moaning at the taste of him. Mingyu’s eyes roll back at the sensation, whimpering. 

“Don’t tell you how hot you are? What you taste like?” you whisper, hands magical on his throbbing cock. “Because you’re so hot, Mingyu. You look so hot with your muscles,” you run a fingers down the middle of his abs, “and your cute little blush,” your thumb brushes his cheekbone, “and you taste,” you look down at his length that you’ve been stroking, and Mingyu almost chokes on his own spit at the way your tongue dart out to lick at his slit. You finish off your sentence with a small giggle, looking up at Mingyu. He swears to God, he’s gonna lose his mind.

He whimpers, his cock throbbing in your hand. “Y’ gonna kill me.”

You giggle, the sound muffled as you press a kiss to the side of his shaft, then another to the underside, your lips trailing up and down his length, messy with spit. “You like it,” you murmur, your breath hot against his skin.

“Fuck– yeah–” Mingyu gasps, his hips lifting off the bed, chasing your mouth, fingers gripping your hair.

You grin, looking up at him through your lashes. “Can I suck you off?” Your voice is soft, sweet, but your eyes are dark with promise. “Pretty please?”

Mingyu nods frantically, his chest heaving. “Please–”

Thank god that’s all the permission you need.

Your tongue flattens against the underside of his cock, licking from base to tip before you take him into your mouth, slow and deep. You make a cute little sound when he hits the back of your throat and there’s still more of him left. Mingyu groans, his fingers tangling in your hair, his hips rolling up to meet you unconsciously. “Oh fuck–” His voice is broken, desperate, as you hollow your cheeks, sucking, taking him deeper, your hand stroking the base of his cock in time with your mouth. You pull back, taking a big breath in, before you go back down, and Mingyu has to fist the sheet with one hand because you don’t stop at where you were. Instead, your head goes down and down, until your nose meets the tuft of neatly trimmed hair at his base, spit foaming at your stretched lips, your throat constricting as you gag on him. He lets out a sound in between a moan and a sob, begging his hips to stay in place. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” he pants, the hand in your hair so, so, so tight. “God– shit–!” His other hand comes crashing down above his head against the wooden headboard as you swallow and swallow around him. “Fuck!” he groans, and his hips buck up and he barely registers how you choke and his hand pulls you back. 

You pull back just enough to swirl your tongue around the head, teasing the slit, before taking him back in, your lips sealing around him. 

“Y/n– fuck – y’ gonna–” he moans when you suck on his tip like he’s some oversized lollipop, “Fuck! Y’ gonna m-make me c-cu– oh shit – cum!” 

You pull off, giggling, wiping off your spit from your chin like some cock-drunk bimbo. “Cum, then. ‘M not stoppin’ you.” 

Mingyu’s body tenses, his cock throbbing, pre dripping onto your tongue.

“You feel so good,” he pants, his voice rough, his hands gripping your hair just right.

You moan around him, the vibration sending a jolt through his body. His hips buck, his cock hitting the back of your throat, and you swallow around him, your eyes watering just a little.

Mingyu’s fingers tighten in your hair, his hips rolling up as he pushes you down just a little further, his cock hitting the back of your throat. “Fuck– just like that, baby,” he groans, his voice rough and desperate. You whimper, your nose pressed against his lower abs, your breath coming in short through your nose as you try to relax your throat around him. The sound you make – need and want and just a hint of struggle – sends a jolt straight to his spine.

“Y’ take me s-so well, yeah?” he pants, his hips stuttering up, holding you there for a beat before letting you pull back, gasping for air. “Fuck, l-look at you–” His voice cracks as his gaze drops to where your free hand is gone between your thighs, your hips rolling subtly against the bed, chasing friction. “You l-like this, d-don’t you? Like being su-ugh-such a good – nngh – girl for me?"

You moan around his cock, your thumb circling the slit, spreading the pre that beads there before licking it off, your tongue swirling over the head. Mingyu hisses, his body tensing, his cock throbbing in your mouth. “Ugh—fuck—nnghh–”

Your fingers trail lower, massaging his balls, rolling them gently in your palm. 

“Mmm,” you hum, the vibration making his hips jerk. “Taste sshooo good,” you murmur, your voice muffled as you take him back in, hollowing your cheeks.

“I can’t—” Mingyu gasps, his fingers tangling in your hair, guiding you slow and deep. “I can’t last—” His words jumble together, his mind short-circuiting as he watches you: lipstick smudged, eyes watering, still grinding against your fingers like you’re desperate for more. “You’re so fuh-fuckin’ perfect.”

You pull back just enough to lick a strip up the underside of his cock, your hand pumping the base slowly. “Y’ wanna come in my mouth?” you whisper, your breath hot against his skin. “Or d’ya wanna fuck me first?"

Mingyu groans, his cock twitching. “I want—fuck—” His eyes roll back as you take him deep again, your tongue flat against the underside. “Wanna– nngh–” Mingyu moans so loud he’s pretty sure people could hear him over the party noise. “Wan’ both!"

You giggle, the sound vibrating around him, and Mingyu whimpers, his hips lifting off the bed. “Please,” he begs, his voice broken. “Y/n, please—”

Your thumb presses against his slit, teasing, and Mingyu’s body locks up, a broken moan spilling from his lips. “You little—fuck—!” His gaze snaps down to where your hips are rolling against the bed, the wet sound of you rubbing your pussy against the sheets filling the room. “So wet f’ me, right?" He says it like his well-being depends on you being turned on by this. So turned on by this that you’re dripping onto his sheets.

You nod, your cheeks hollowed around his cock, sucking and sucking, tongue dipping into his slit, your fingers picking up speed on his balls. Mingyu’s breath hitches, his cock pulsing. “Fuh-uck, baby, stop—I’m gonna—!” he squirms, trying to get you to stop, but it only makes his cock hit the back of your throat over and over again, until your throat constrict around the head. 

Mingyu’s breath comes in ragged gasps, his fingers clawing at the sheets as you work him over, your lips wrapped tight around the head of his cock, sucking, your tongue swirling over the sensitive spot just beneath the ridge. 

“Fuck, Y/n, I needa fuck you,” he rambles, his voice raw and desperate, on the verge of sobs. “Please, baby, let me—I-I’ll show you how m-much I wan’ you—fuck, I can’t— can’t c-cum yet—"

You pull off for a split second, your hand pumping him slow and deliberate, your thumb pressing against the slit, teasing. “No,” you murmur, your voice low and firm. Your words have a twinge of annoyance, like when he forgot to submit an event form and you had to do it yourself. “If you don’t cum in my mouth,” you say, stroking him faster, “you’re not fucking me.” Your eyes lock onto his, dark and commanding. “So,” you breathe, all doe-eyed and sweet smiles again, “Gyu, won’t you be a good boy and come for me?”

Mingyu whines, his hips jerking up into your hand, his cock throbbing. He lets out a low moan, thighs shaking, abs clenching. His gaze drops to where your other hand is sliding between your legs, your fingers circling your clit, glistening with how wet you are. “You’re so wet—I know you want me to—”

“I do,” you breathe, leaning down to lick a strip up the underside of his cock, your lips brushing the head. “But,” you tighten your grip, your tongue flicking over the tip, “you’re gonna cum right here.” You take him back into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, your hand pumping the base in time with your mouth.

“Oh my god,” Mingyu’s voice breaks, his body tensing as you focus on the head, your tongue swirling, your lips sealed tight. “I can’t—I need to fuck you—please—”

You pull back just enough to speak, your breath hot against his skin. “Cum in my mouth,” you order, your voice husky. “And then you can fuck me however you want.” You kiss his tip. “I know you’re close.”

Mingyu groans, his cock pulsing in your hand, pre dripping onto your tongue. "You’re killing me—"

“Good,” you murmur, taking him deep again, your fingers picking up speed on his balls. “Cum for me, Mingyu.” Your free hand slides back between your legs, your fingers rolling over your clit as you moan around his cock, the vibration sending him over the edge.

“Ugh! Fuck—Y/n—!" His orgasm hits him hard, his cock pulsing as he spills into your mouth, his moans loud and broken. He shudders as wave after wave crashes down on him, cock straining against the tight suction of your mouth, weeping thick ropes of hot, white cum that paints the back of your throat with a milky gloss. You swallow around him, moving so that you’re sucking his tip, licking him clean before pulling back with a soft pop, your lips glossy, your eyes dark with satisfaction. You stick your tongue out at him, and he could die right there. Not a single drop of cum left on your tongue. 

Mingyu collapses back onto the bed, his chest heaving, his body trembling. "Fuck," he pants, reaching for you, pulling you up to crash his lips onto yours. He can taste his salty cum on your tongue. “You’re fucking made for me,” Mingyu growls against your lips, his hands gripping your waist before he flips you onto your back in one swift motion. His body covers yours, his knees spreading your thighs wide as he settles between them. “Fucking hell, Y/n,” he mumbles, his voice rough and breathless, his lips crashing onto yours again. His kisses are messy, desperate—teeth clashing, tongues twisting—as he mutters nonsense between them. His fingers trail down until they meet a slick wetness. His eyes almost bulge out. "You’re impossible—fuck—how are you this wet—?"

You giggle against his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair. "Don’t forget your forms are due tomorrow night," you tease, your hips arching up to grind against him.

Mingyu pulls back just enough to glare at you, but his eyes are dark with lust, his chest heaving. "Shut up," he groans, kicking his sweats and boxers the rest of the way off before his fingers trail down your stomach, slow and deliberate. "You drive me crazy."

His touch is light at first, teasing the top of your thighs, the dip of your hip bones, before finally—finally—brushing against your cunt, fluttering, missing his mouth, his fingers. "Fuck," he breathes, his voice rough with awed disbelief. "You’re soaked."

You shudder, your back arching off the bed as his fingers glide through your wetness, circling your clit just once before dipping lower. “Mingyu—” Your voice is broken, needy, as he slowly pushes two fingers inside you, curling them just right. You let out a moan right by his ear.

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips pressing against your collarbones, your breasts, everywhere he can reach. His fingers work you open, slow and deep, his thumb brushing your clit in lazy circles. “Look at you—all wet f’me.”

You whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders, your body trembling beneath him. “More—” you gasp, your hips rolling to meet his hand.

Mingyu chuckles darkly, his breath hot against your skin. “Patience, baby,” he murmurs, his fingers sliding in and out of you, stretching you, preparing you. “Want t’feel you come on my fingers first.” His voice is low, husky, his eyes locked on yours as he watches you fall apart. “You can do that f’me, right? Jus’ f’me?”

Your breath hitches as he adds a third finger, his thumb pressing firm against your clit. “Fuck—nnghhh!—” Your body tenses, your orgasm building fast, uncontrollable.

“That’s it,”  he growls, his lips capturing yours again. "Let me hear you." His fingers pick up speed, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, his thumb rubbing your clit in perfect rhythm. 

You whimper, your back arching off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure coils tight in your stomach. “Mingyu—” His name is a plea, a warning, your body trembling on the edge.

“Shhh," he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and rough. “Not yet.”

You whine, your hips rolling against his hand, chasing the release that’s just out of reach. One hand digs into his shoulder, the other gripping his wrist, unsure whether to push him away or press him down harder. “Please—” Your voice is broken, desperate, but Mingyu doesn’t give in.

Instead, he slows his fingers, teasing you—just enough pressure to keep you there, right on the brink, but never enough to push you over. “You feel so good,” he praises, his lips trailing down your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "But I want you begging for my cock."

You moan, your body aching, needing. “B-b-but! M-mingyu, mmnghh! Y-you s-s-said!”

“I know, I know, baby. Almost,” he promises, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl, his thumb pressing just hard enough to make you whimper. And then—fuck—he pulls his fingers out, leaving you empty, aching.

"No—!" You gasp, your body trembling, your orgasm hanging just out of reach.

Mingyu grins, feral, as he brings his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a slow, deliberate sweep of his tongue. "So sweet," he murmurs, his eyes dark with lust.

Before you can protest, his lips are on yours, his kiss gentle—slow, deep, tasting of you. "M sorry,” he whispers against your mouth, his cock throbbing against your thigh.

You meet his lips, hands in his hair. 

“Good girl,” he whispers against your mouth, “Wanna fuck you properly. Can I, baby? Can I fuck you?” he mumbles. 

You nod blearily. “Mhm, fuck me, please, fuck me,” you pant, hips canting up as you whine. “G-Gyu,” you whine, bare pussy rubbing on his thigh, “Wan’ it. W-wan’ it sshhooo bad.” Your hips cant up. “It hurts, Gyu, S’ hurts,” you whine, tears in your eyes. “You’re s’mean.” 

“Fuck,” Mingyu gasps, eyes bulging at your words. “N-no, I gotchu, baby. M’ gon’ fuck you now, m’kay? Fuck you nice and good,” he murmurs, kissing you, hand wrapping around his cock, stroking himself slowly. He leans over to the nightstand, fumbling around in the drawer for a condom. When he fishes it out though, you’re faster. Your fingers snatch it from his grip, tearing the wrapper open with shaky hands. His breath hitches as you roll it down his length, your touch light but electric, your eyes locked on his.

"Y/n—" His voice is rough, thick with restraint, as he catches your wrists, bringing your hands to his mouth. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, then another to your palm, his lips lingering against your skin. "We don’t have to do this," he murmurs, his forehead pressing against yours. "If you don’t want to—"

You shake your head, your fingers tangling in his hair. "I want to," you whisper, your voice raw. 

Mingyu exhales shakily, his grip on your wrists tightening just enough to ground you. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this," he admits, his voice cracking. His lips find yours, his kiss slow and deep, pouring every ounce of need into it. "Fuck, Y/n—"

He shifts, his body hovering over yours, one arm bracing his weight as the other slides down to guide himself to your entrance. The head of his cock presses against you, hot and heavy, and you whimper, your hips lifting to meet him.

"Wait—" Mingyu breathes, his forehead resting against yours. "Breathe, baby. Just breathe."

You nod, your chest heaving, your nails digging into his biceps as he pushes in—slow, inch by inch, letting you adjust to the stretch, the burn, the fullness of him. "Fuck—" The word spills from your lips as a moan, your back arching off the bed, your body trembling beneath him.

"You feel—" Mingyu groans, his voice cracking as he pushes in, his hips stuttering to a halt as your body clenches around him, unyielding. "Fuck—Y/n, relax," he breathes, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot and ragged. His fingers tangle in your hair, his other hand bracing against the bed beside your head. "You’re so fucking tight—I can’t even—"

A whimper escapes you, your nails digging crescents into his arms, your face burying into the crook of his elbow. The stretch is intense, the pressure almost too much. "It’s too big—" Your voice shakes, breathy and raw, your body trembling beneath him. You can feel him—thick, hard, unrelenting—and for a second, panic flares in your chest.

Mingyu lets out a weak, nervous chuckle, his fingers brushing your cheek in an attempt to soothe you. "Three inches of my dick and you’re already complaining?" he teases, his voice light but strained. "At this rate, you’re gonna think I’m hung like a horse." His thumb traces your bottom lip, trying to coax a smile from you. "Maybe you need better taste in men, baby."

Your hand snaps out before you can think, slapping his shoulder—not hard, but enough to make him hiss in surprise. "’s not funny!" Your voice cracks, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, and the second he sees them, his smirk vanishes.

"Shit—baby—" His thumb gently wipes away the first tear that spills over, his expression softening into something tender, worried. "Hey, hey—" He cups your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "We can stop. Right now." He starts to pull back, his cock sliding out just enough to ease the pressure, but your legs lock around his waist, holding him in place.

"No," you whisper, shaking your head frantically. Your fingers clutch at his biceps, your breath coming in short, shaky gasps. "I can do it. Just—go slow."

Mingyu exhales shakily, his forehead pressing against yours again. His eyes search yours—dark, intense, filled with something that makes your stomach flip. "You sure?" His voice is gentle, laced with concern, his hands cradling your face like you’re something precious. "Because I don’t want to hurt you."

You swallow hard, nodding again. "I want to," you breathe. "I’ve wanted this. Please."

He studies you for a long moment, his gaze flickering between your eyes, searching for any hesitation. And when he finds none, he leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss—soft, slow, reassuring. His lips are warm, patient, coaxing you to relax beneath him. "Okay," he murmurs against your mouth. "Okay, baby. Breathe." His hand slides down, wrapping around his cock, guiding himself back in with painstaking slowness.

You whimper as he pushes in another inch, your body stretching around him, the burn easing into a deep, aching heat. "Mingyu—" His name spills from your lips like a plea, a prayer, your fingers clawing at his skin.

"I’ve got you," he promises, his voice rough with restraint. "Just like this, okay?" He pulls back just a little, then pushes in again—slow, steady, letting you adjust to every inch. His forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

Your nails dig into his skin as he bottoms out finally, his cock seated fully inside you. The sensation is overwhelming—pleasure and pressure and something so intimate it makes your heart pound against your ribs. "Fuck—" The word tumbles out of you, broken and breathless, your body trembling around him.

"You feel so good," Mingyu groans, his voice thick with need. "Fuck, Y/n—" His lips press against your neck, your jaw, anywhere he can reach, his hips rolling slowly, giving you time to adjust. "You’re doing so good."

You can feel the way your body slowly opens for him, the way the discomfort melts into something deeper, hotter. Your legs tighten around his waist, pulling him closer, and Mingyu groans, his control fraying.

"More—" you gasping, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him down into another kiss. "Please."

Mingyu doesn’t need to be told twice.

His hips begin to move—slow at first, shallow thrusts that let you feel every inch of him, every ridge, every pulse. "Like this?" His voice is husky, his breath hot against your ear.

"Yes—" You moan, your body arching up to meet his, the pleasure building deeper, hotter, more intense with every movement. "Don’t stop."

His lips crash onto yours, his kiss desperate, hungry, as his hips pick up speed. Still slow, but deeper, faster, each thrust dragging a moan from your lips. "Fuck, baby—" His voice is raw, broken, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him. "You feel so perfect."

And god, you do. You feel full, stretched, owned in a way you’ve never been before. Your moans spill into the air between you, your body clenching around him, pulling him deeper, harder, until neither of you can tell where one ends and the other begins.

Mingyu’s hips roll into you with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his cock filling you inch by inch as he buries himself deep. The burn has eased into a throbbing heat, and every time he pulls back, only to push in again, you whimper, your fingers clutching at his biceps. His skin is slick with sweat, his muscles tensing beneath your touch as he moves inside you—deep, steady, like he’s savoring every second.

"You feel," his voice is rough, broken, as he leans down to press his forehead against yours, "so fucking good." His lips brush yours, his breath hot and ragged, his eyes dark with lust.

You moan into his mouth, your body arching up to meet his thrusts, your nails digging into his skin. "Mingyu," his name is a plea, a prayer, as he hits that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. "Don’t stop."

He doesn’t.

Instead, he speeds up, his hips snapping faster, his cock sliding in and out of you with wet, obscene sounds. The bed creaks beneath you, the sheets tangling around your legs as he fucks you deeper, harder. His hands grip your hips, holding you still as he pounds into you, his thighs pressing your legs wide open.

"Fuck—" he groans, his voice thick with need. "You take me so well, baby." His lips trail down your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone before he sucks a mark into your skin.

Your moans grow louder, more desperate, as pleasure builds inside you, coiling tight and hot. "Harder—" you gasp, your body clenching around him. "Please—"

Mingyu obliges, his thrusts becoming sharper, more insistent. His cock drags against your walls, hitting that same spot over and over until you’re seeing stars. "You like that?" he pants, his voice husky against your ear. "You like when I fuck you like this?"

"Yes—" You whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down into a messy kiss. "God, yes—"

His lips crash onto yours, his tongue sweeping against yours as his hips piston into you, fast and hard. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, mixed with your whimpers and his groans. "You’re so fucking perfect," he growls, his voice rough with lust.

You can feel him losing control, his movements becoming less measured, more desperate. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he shifts your legs to wrap around his waist. The change in angle hits you deep, and you gasp, your nails raking down his back.

"Fuck, right there—" The words spill out of you, broken and honest, your body arching into his. "Don’t stop, please."

Mingyu groans, his cock throbbing inside you. "I won’t," he promises, his voice rough. His lips find yours again, his kiss hot and messy. "Y/n—fuck—" Mingyu groans, his voice rough and unsteady, his hips snapping harder, faster. The bed creaks beneath you, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. His forehead is damp with sweat, his chest heaving, his blush darkening as he loses himself in you. "You feel so good, fuck, I can’t—"

You moan, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down into a messy kiss. "I love it," you gasp against his lips, your confession spilling out unfiltered. "I love how you fuck me. How you make me feel."

Mingyu groans, his cock throbbing inside you, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Oh shit," his words tumble out in a jumbled rush, nonsense and need and something raw. "You’re so,” a kiss on your cheek, “fucking,” a nibble of your earlobe, “perfect." A hard thrust against your hips.

Your legs tighten around him, your heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. "Harder," you beg, your voice desperate, your body clenching around him. "Please, Mingyu, don’t stop."

He obliges, his hips pounding into you, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I can’t—I can’t last." His lips crash onto yours, his kiss sloppy, desperate, his tongue sweeping against yours. 

Mingyu’s hips roll into you with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his cock filling you deep, dragging against that spot that makes your vision blur. Your arms are wrapped tight around his shoulders, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. His head is tucked into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, his moans spilling out in broken, need whimpers.

"Mingyu, fuck," You whine, your voice high and desperate, your body trembling beneath him. "I’m so close, please." You’re not sure what you’re begging for now as your fingers claw at his back, legs locking around his waist, pulling him deeper.

"Y/n–" His voice is a whimper, slutty and broken, his lips pressing open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin of your neck, your collarbone, anywhere he can reach. His breath shudders against you with every desperate exhale. "You feel so fucking good." His hips stutter, thrusts losing their rhythm as he loses himself in the heat of you, the way your body clenches around him. "Fuck—no one else feels like this—" His voice cracks, raw and honest, like he’s confessing something he’s never said before. "It’s only you. Always you. Dreamed of this, fuck you’re so tight still, dreamed of fucking you."

His fingers dig into your hips, holding you tight as he grinds into you, deep and slow, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. "I’m gonna cum so hard for you, baby. ‘M gonna cum so hard—" His words spill out in a jumbled, messy rush, unfiltered and wild. "I can’t— I can’t—" His cock throbs inside you, swollen and aching, his thrusts becoming short, shallow, desperate. 

"Are you feeling good, baby?" His lips brush your ear, his voice thick with need, pleading. "Does it feel good for you too?" His tongue flicks over your pulse point, tasting the salt of your skin, the sweat beading there. "Tell me—please—" His hips roll again, hitting that same spot, and you whimper, your body trembling beneath him.

"Yes," You gasp, your voice high and breathy, your body clenching tight around him. You’re so close to the edge you can taste it—electric, intense, just out of reach. "Mingyu—fuck—please. I need—I need more—"

"I know," he moans, his voice breaking. "I know, baby." His hand slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, circling it with just the right pressure. "I’ve got you." His lips crash onto yours, his kiss messy and desperate, swallowing your moans. "I want you to come for me." His thumb presses firm, unrelenting, drawing circles that make your hips jerk up to meet his. "Please, Y/n," his voice is a plea, raw and needy, "can you come for me? Please?" His cock pulses inside you, throbbing with every beat of his heart.

You whimper, your body coiling tighter, pleasure building hot and unbearable inside you. "I can’t—" Your voice cracks, frustrated, desperate. "I need—" You don’t even know what you need—just him, more of him, everything he can give you.

"You can," Mingyu growls against your lips, his breath ragged. "Let go, baby—" His thumb moves faster, harder, pushing you right to the brink. "Come for me. Need t’feel you come around my cock." His hips snap once, twice, hitting that spot deep inside you that makes your vision blur. "Please—fuck—please, Y/n—" His voice is broken, begging, his body tensing above you as he chases his own release.

"I—I—" Your words cut off in a broken moan, your back arching off the bed as pleasure teeters. "Mingyu—!" His name spills from your lips like a prayer, a plea, as your orgasm builds, coiling tight and uncontrollable. "Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop." Your nails dig into his shoulders, holding on like he’s the only thing keeping you together.

"Never," he promises, his voice rough. His lips find your neck again, sucking, biting, marking you as his thumb keeps working you, his cock filling you over and over. "Come on, baby," His voice is a whisper, a command, filled with so much need it sends a shudder through your body. "Fuck—Y/n—I—"

And then it tumbles out of him before he can shut his stupid fucking pussy-drunken mouth.

"Fuck, I love you."

Your eyes widen, your body freezing beneath him. But before you can process it, Mingyu’s lips are on yours again, his kiss swallowing your shock. He pulls back just enough to see your expression, wide-eyed, stunned, and panics.

"Shit—" he breathes, his face flushing deeper, but you don’t let him take it back.

"Shut the fuck up," you gasp, “You don’t mean that,” you mutter, yanking him down by his hair, crashing your lips onto his. He wants to tell you that he does. He does mean it, but your kiss is hard, possessive, and swallows whatever else he was going to say.

Mingyu groans into your mouth, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing inside you. "Y/n—" His voice is broken, vulnerable, but you don’t let him think. You don’t let him apologize.

“M’ gonna cum,” you sob, hiccuping, nails scratching his back raw. “Gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna cum– don’t stop,” you pant, “don’t you dare fucking stop,” you cry, clinging onto his shoulders. 

Mingyu’s brain is mush. He’s dizzy, lightheaded, dry-mouthed, hips canting into yours faster and faster and faster, your moans spilling into his mouth. His fingers work quicker, tighter, pinching, slapping, rubbing, hands lifting your hips up and up, your ankles locking high around his waist. 

“F-fuh-fuck!” you squeal, tears brimming your eyes, “G-gyu! C-c-cumming–!” 

"Come for me," he orders, his voice raw. "I gotchu, baby," His thumb presses against your clit, circling it firmly. 

You sob out a broken moan of his name, back arching off the bed, a broken cry tearing from your throat as pleasure wracks your body. Your orgasm hits you hard, wave after wave of intense, shuddering ecstasy crashing over you. Mingyu doesn’t stop—his thumb keeps circling, his cock twitching inside you, drawing out every last shudder until you’re boneless beneath him.

“Nnghh!” You throw your head back, body shuddering with overstimulation. “M-Min–! Umph! P-puh-lease c-cum!” You cry into the crook of his neck. “Ohmygod, feels s’good– y’ feel ssshhoo good— sshhoo deep–!” 

Mingyu shatters—his body tensing, his cock pulsing as he spills inside the condom, his moans muffled against your lips. "Fuck—Y/n—" His voice is broken, desperate, as his hips jerk uncontrollably, dragging out every last wave of his release. His balls tighten almost painfully as you squeeze around him as his spent cock pulses and throbs inside of you, spurting out aftershock bursts of pearly cum into the rubber. 

The air between you is thick with the heat of your bodies, the scent of sex and sweat lingering in the room. Mingyu collapses onto you, his chest heaving against yours, his skin damp and sticky with sweat. His weight is heavy, comforting, but the intensity of the moment fades into something quieter, more vulnerable. The only sound is your ragged breaths, slowly steadying, the thud of his heartbeat against your chest.

"Fuck," he pants, his voice rough. "What I said, I didn’t—"

You cut him off with another kiss, slow and deep, your fingers tangling in his hair. "I told you to shut up," you murmur against his lips, your heart pounding wildly.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s soft, intimate, the kind that settles in the aftermath of something raw and real.

Mingyu shifts just enough to press a gentle kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering against your skin. "A-are you okay?" His voice is muffled, rough from exertion, but tender.

You swallow, your fingers lightly tracing the dips of his spine. "Yeah," you whisper, your voice quiet, almost fragile. The adrenaline is fading now, leaving you aware of every inch of skin, every place his hands had touched you. You suddenly feel exposed—not just physically, but emotionally, like the barriers you’d kept up have crumbled with the rest of your control.

Mingyu must sense it. He lifts his head just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours. Without a word, he reaches for the rumpled sheets, pulling them up to cover you, tucking them around your shoulders like a shield. His fingers brush a stray strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a softness that makes your chest ache.

"Here," he murmurs, rolling onto his side without pulling out and pulling you with him, tugging you against his chest. His arm wraps around your waist, holding you close, his breath warm against the top of your head. "You good?"

You nod, burrowing into the heat of him, letting his body chase away the sudden chill. "Yeah," you repeat, softer this time. His other hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together, squeezing just enough to ground you.

For a while, you just lie there, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his heart slowly calms beneath your palm. His lips press against your temple, then your cheek, slow and unhurried, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. "I’ve got you," he murmurs, his voice low and sure.

You bury into his chest, cunt pulsing around his softening cock. You swallow.

Mingyu’s chin rests on top of your head. “I can almost hear you overthinking,” he jokes, fingers combing through your hair. 

“We just fucked,” you mutter into his chest. 

“I know,” he hums. 

“We hooked up, Mingyu,” you repeat, eyes closing. “Basically completely sober.”

“I know.” 

“We just–”

“-Y/n, I’m sorry, but you saying the same thing three different ways does not make it any less true,” Mingyu sighs, fingers drumming on your bare waist. 

“...sorry,” you mumble. 

“...No, don’t be.” Mingyu strokes your hair. “Don’t be sorry. I know I’m not.” 

The two of you fall into a silence again. 

Mingyu stirs after a few minutes, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before slowly pulling away. You hiss as he eases out of you, the sensitivity making you flinch. 

"Fuck, you’re huge," you mutter, half joking, half exhausted. Your poor attempt at lightening the mood. 

Mingyu laughs quietly, the sound rumbling against your back as he disposes of the condom and grabs a few tissues from the nightstand. "Yeah, yeah," he teases. With gentle hands, he slowly cleans you up. You finch. "You complaining?"

You swat at him weakly, but there’s no heat in it. "Shut up," you mumble, already half-asleep as he tosses the tissues aside and pulls you back into his arms.

“Hey,” he mumbles into your hair. 

“Hm?” 

“Will you be here tomorrow?” He asks, voice quiet. His heart thuds against his ribs, scared of your answer. 

You turn to look up at him, brows knitting. “For what?” 

“No, like I mean, when I wake up,” Mingyu coughs, clearing his throat as a blush rises on his cheeks. “You know, like, will you be here? Next to me, I mean. In the morning.” 

You stare at him and you don’t say anything. For a good five seconds, he stares back at you until the silence gets tense and he laughs shakily. “I mean, you don’t–”

“-Yeah,” you murmur, lips pursing. 

Mingyu immediately shuts up, eyes widening. “Like–” he swallows, hands tightening on your body, “like ‘yeah’ you’ll be here?” 

You laugh. “Yes. Like ‘yeah’ I’ll be here.” 

He giggles like a stupid schoolboy, kissing your forehead before reaching for the blanket and drawing it over both of you. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

The sheets are cool against your skin, but his body is warm, solid, a perfect contrast. You melt into him, your eyes drifting shut as his fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm.

"Sleep," he murmurs, his voice soft and rough with fatigue.

You don’t argue. You also don’t think about how domestic this feels. 

The last thing you register is the way his breath evens out, the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the way his arm tightens just enough to keep you close. The room is dim, the only light filtering in from the hallway, casting long shadows across the bed. It feels domestic—quiet and safe and something you don’t dare name—but you don’t say it out loud. You just let yourself sink into it, into him, as sleep pulls you under.

Mingyu’s lips brush your hair one last time, his voice a bare whisper. "Goodnight, Y/n."

And for once, you don’t overthink it. You just close your eyes to the sound of Mingyu’s heartbeat and his fingers threading through your hair. 

Mingyu lies awake, listening to you fall asleep, repeating the cursed fucking thing he said in the heat of the moment. Well, technically, he guesses, not in the heat of the moment because it’s true. 

When your breathing evens out and he’s sure that you’re asleep, Mingyu carefully extricates himself from your limp grip, pressing one last kiss to your temple before sliding out of bed. He pulls on his sweatpants, wincing as the fabric brushes against his over-sensitive skin, and tiptoes toward the door. The floorboards creak slightly under his weight, but you don’t stir—out cold, breathing slow and even.

He eases the door shut behind him, exhaling sharply as he turns—only to come face-to-face with Wonwoo, leaning against the hallway wall with a rag in one hand and a smirk on his face.

"Took you long enough," Wonwoo drawls, raising an eyebrow. "Cleaning up already? Or just sneaking out?"

Mingyu flips him off, but there’s no heat in it. "Shut up," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

Seungcheol chooses that moment to round the corner, a trash bag slung over his shoulder. He takes one look at Mingyu—disheveled, flushed, still catching his breath—and laughs. "Finally. Took you fuckers long enough." He drops the bag by the door and crosses his arms. "So. How was it?"

Mingyu groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Dude—"

"Oh, come on," Wonwoo scoffs, tossing the rag into a nearby bucket. "We’ve been waiting for this shit for months. Details."

Mingyu glances back at the door, as if worried you’ll hear, before lowering his voice. "It was—fuck, I don’t know. Good. Really good." He exhales, running a hand through his messy hair. "Really, really good."

Seungcheol grins. "That’s my boy." He claps Mingyu on the shoulder, shaking him lightly. "About damn time you stopped moping and did something about it."

Wonwoo snorts. "Yeah, moping. That’s what we’re calling it." He leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "So. She finally admit she’s into you, or are you still pretending this is just casual?"

Mingyu opens his mouth, then shuts it, because what the hell is he supposed to say to that? He couldn’t just tell them that he sort-of-kind-of-maybe-most-definitely confessed his love to you mid-fuck, could he? "I—she—fuck off."

Seungcheol laughs, full and loud, earning a glare from Mingyu. "Oh, man. You’ve got it bad."

"I don’t—" Mingyu starts, but even he doesn’t sound convinced.

Wonwoo rolls his eyes. "Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that." He picks up the bucket and heads toward the stairs. "Just don’t fuck it up again, yeah? Or I swear to god, I’ll personally make your life a living hell."

Mingyu flips him off again, but Seungcheol just laughs, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Relax, Gyu. We’re happy for you." He grins. "Now go hydrate. You look like shit."

Mingyu shoves him off, but he’s smirking now, the weight in his chest lighter than it’s been in weeks. "Yeah, yeah." He glances back at the door one last time, then follows them downstairs, shaking his head, muttering under his breath as he heads toward the kitchen, bare feet padding against the cool tile. He pulls open the fridge, the light spilling out into the dim room as he grabs a bottle of water. "You two are insufferable,"* he grumbles, twisting off the cap of a bottle of water and taking a long swig before pouring a glass for you.

Wonwoo leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with amusement. "We’re realists," he corrects, smirking. "And realistically, you’ve been pining after her for how long now? Years?"

Seungcheol snorts, grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge and tossing one to Wonwoo. "More like forever," he says, popping the cap off his own with a flick of his thumb. "Remember last year, when you got all moody because she dated that one guy for, like, two months?"

Mingyu glares at him, filling the glass with more force than necessary. "That guy was an asshole."

"Uh-huh," Wonwoo drawls, taking a sip of his beer. "And you were jealous."

"I was not—" Mingyu starts, but Seungcheol cuts him off with a laugh.

"Oh, please. You sulked for days." He grins. "We all saw it."

Mingyu exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. "Can we not do this right now?" He grabs the glass and turns to leave, but Wonwoo blocks his path, raising an eyebrow.

"Fine, fine," Wonwoo says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "But seriously—what happens now? You finally hook up, and then what? You just pretend it didn’t happen?"

Mingyu hesitates, gripping the glass tighter. "I don’t know, okay?" He runs a hand through his hair, frustration creeping into his voice. "It’s complicated."

Seungcheol leans against the counter beside Wonwoo, studying him. "Only as complicated as you make it," he points out. "You like her. She clearly likes you. Or maybe just your dick, but same difference. What’s the problem?"

Mingyu doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the water swirling in the glass, thinking about the way you looked at him earlier—flush and breathless, your hands clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. "She didn’t say it was anything more than," He waves a hand vaguely. "This."

Wonwoo rolls his eyes. "Because you didn’t ask before you stuck it in her."

Mingyu frowns, opening his mouth to retort, but Seungcheol cuts him off.

"Or maybe she expects something out of it," Seungcheol adds, shrugging. "Sometimes actions speak louder, Gyu."

Mingyu glances at them, then sighs, defeated. "I don’t know what to do," he admits quietly.

Seungcheol claps him on the back, grinning. "Then don’t overthink it. Just, keep doing whatever this is. It’s clearly working… somehow. And maybe," he stresses, "actually talk to her about it instead of brooding in the corner like a tragic hero."

Mingyu flips them both off, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, yeah." He takes a deep breath, nodding to himself. "I’ll … figure it out."

"Good," Wonwoo says, pushing off the counter. "Now go bring her that water before she wakes up and thinks you ditched her."

Mingyu shakes his head, but he’s already turning to leave, the glass clutched in his hand. "You two are the worst."

Seungcheol laughs, raising his beer in a mock toast. "But we’re right."

Mingyu doesn’t bother arguing. He just heads back upstairs, mind racing with possibilities. And for the first time in a long time, hope feels like something tangible. Something waiting for him on the horizon.

Mingyu eases the door open, slipping back into the room with the quiet stealth of someone who’s practiced sneaking around too many times. The glass of water clinks softly as he sets it down on the nightstand, the sound lost in the steady rhythm of your breathing. He hesitates for a second, just watching you—your hair spread across the pillow (his pillow !?!), your lips parted slightly, your chest rising and falling with each slow breath. Gorgeous. Fuck. He could stare at you forever if you let him.

He carefully lifts the blanket, sliding in beside you, his body molding to the curve of yours. The second his skin touches the sheets, you stir, mumbling something incoherent before rolling over—right into his chest. His breath hitches as your bare skin presses against his, warm and soft, and fuck, he wants to scream. 

"Mingyu…" You murmur his name sleepily, nuzzling closer, your arm draping over his waist like it belongs there. Your cheek presses up against his bare chest and your hair tickles his chin and your legs weave in between his and you let out a cute little sigh. 

His arms wrap around you instinctively, pulling you tight against him, his chin resting on the top of your head. His chest aches—not from exertion, but from something deeper, something that feels like it could spill out of his mouth again if he isn’t careful. God, he wants to tell you. He wants to whisper “I love you” into your hair, wants to press his lips to your forehead and promise you everything.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he swallows the words down, letting them settle in his chest like a secret. His fingers tighten just enough to feel the steady beat of your heart against his ribs, and he exhales shakily, pressing his lips to your hair.

"Not fair," he whispers, so quiet you won’t hear it. It’s not fair that you do this to him. Make him feel so much with just a look, a touch, the sound of his name on your lips. It’s not fair that other guys – assholes and fuckboys and undeserving maggots – latch onto your precious arm and leech through empty words that he would say to you with such vigor. It’s not fair that he can only be your secret, that he’ll probably wake up tomorrow morning to an empty side where you had slept. Still warm, if he wakes up early enough. 

He should move. He should put space between you before he does something stupid, like confess everything in the dark. But he can’t. Not when you fit against him like this, not when your breath fans warm against his skin, not when every part of him screams to hold you closer.

So he doesn’t move.

He just breathes you in, lets the weight of you against him anchor him to the moment. His eyes drift shut, his mind quieting for the first time in hours. The last thing he thinks, as sleep pulls him under, is that he’ll find a way to tell you. Soon. Before he loses his mind.

(And god, he hopes you feel the same way.)

: ̗̀➛ wrong thing, classic

After everything. After you told him you’d stay.

Without a word.

His stomach twists, a sick, hollow feeling spreading through his chest. He scrubs a hand over his face, his fingers trembling. Last night—fuck, last night—had been—he doesn’t even have words for it. The way you touched him, the way you looked at him like he was the only thing you had ever wanted. The way you whispered his name like a prayer.

He thought—fuck, he thought—maybe this was it. Maybe this was the start of something. Friends with benefits, at least. Maybe more, if he was lucky. If he played his cards right.

But you left.

Like it meant nothing.

Like he meant nothing.

His hands clench into fists in the sheets. He should text you. He should—fuck—he should call you. Demand an explanation. Demand something.

But what if you don’t answer?

What if you—

The door creaks open.

Mingyu whips his head around, his heart stuttering, hoping, but it’s just Wonwoo, leaning against the doorframe with a pity-grin, a cup of coffee in hand.

"Dude," Wonwoo says, raising an eyebrow. "You look like someone died."

Mingyu doesn’t answer. He can’t. His throat is too tight, his chest too heavy.

Wonwoo sighs, pushing off the doorframe and walking in. "She actually left, huh?"

Mingyu glances up, his jaw clenched. "How did you—"

"Saw her sneak out this morning." Wonwoo shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee. "Gave her my slippers. She looked, I dunno. Panicked?"

Mingyu’s stomach drops.

Panicked.

Like you regretted it.

Like you never wanted to be here in the first place. 

"She say anything?" His voice is rough, barely more than a rasp.

Wonwoo shakes his head. "Nah. Just, you know, embarrassed or some shit.

Mingyu looks away, his hands shaking. Embarrassed. Of him? Of what you did? Of—

"Look," Wonwoo says, his voice softer now. "She’s, well, you know how she is. Overthinks everything. Probably just freaked herself out. Nothin’ against you or whatever you guys did.”

Mingyu doesn’t answer. He can’t. Because if he opens his mouth, he might break. And he won’t—he can’t—not over this. Not over you.

Not again.

Wonwoo sighs, clapping him on the shoulder. "C’mon. Get dressed. We’ll get breakfast. You look like shit."

Mingyu doesn’t move. He just stares at the empty pillow, at the cold spot where you should be.

You left.

y/n; 8:27AM

The first thing you register is the light, harsh and unforgiving this early in the morning, streaming through the crack in the curtains, cutting across your face like a knife. Which in itself is weird because your room doesn’t usually get sunlight early in the morning because it’s west facing. You groan, pushing that thought away and rolling over to bury your face in the pillow–

And freeze.

Because oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

Your eyes fly open, threaten to pop out of their sockets, locking onto the broad expanse of Mingyu’s back, the rise and fall of his calm breathing, the way his dark hair spills across his face. If it weren’t for the memories of last night that flood back, he would have looked almost Adonis-like in the morning sunlight, his golden tan gleaming under the sun. But all you can think about iare his hands, his mouth, the way he whispered things you weren’t supposed to hear, and panic all but explodes in your chest.

What the hell did you do?

You bolt upright, heart pounding so hard you’re sure Mingyu’s going to wake up from it alone. The sheets pool around your waist and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that you’re naked. Entirely. Entirely fucking naked, oh god, you’re naked in Mingyu’s bed.

No. No, no, no.

Your gaze darts around the room, landed on your dress, crumpled in a heap by the bed, and Mingyu’s oversized Stussy zip-up draped over the back of a chair. You lunge for them, yanking the dress over your head and down your naked body with shaky hands. The fabric clings to your sweat-damp skin. The zip-up follows, swallowing you whole, drowning you in his scent: musk, sea salt, and something uniquely him. It makes your stomach flip but you’re a little too busy with other things to linger on that sensation.

Your phone—where the hell is your phone?

There. On the nightstand, half-buried under a crumpled tissue.

You snatch it up, screen flaring to life—8:30 AM. Shit. Shit, shit, shit—

You scoop up your heels in one hand, phone clutched in the other, and tiptoe toward the door. Every creak of the floorboards feels like a gunshot, but Mingyu doesn’t stir. Thank god. Thank fucking god— The door clicks shut behind you, and you don’t breathe until you’re halfway down the hallway, your bare feet silent against the hardwood. The house is quiet, still—no sign of witnesses to your walk of shame. You burst into the frat lounge, chest heaving, hair a mess, Mingyu’s oversized hoodie swallowing you whole. The room is empty and for a second, you let yourself believe you’ve escaped unseen.

Then the door creaks open.

Wonwoo steps out, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, hair sticking up in every direction. He blinks at you, slow and unfazed, like finding you sneaking out of Mingyu’s room at 8:30 AM in last night’s dress and his hyung’s hoodie is the most normal thing in the world.

Then his lips curl into a grinning, knowing smirk.

"Morning," he drawls, leaning against the doorframe like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His gaze drops to your bare feet—heels dangling uselessly from your fingers—and back up to your face. "Need shoes for your walk of shame, or you good?"

Your face burns. "I—" What do you even say to that? "Shut up."

Wonwoo laughs, low and amused, pushing off the wall and strolling toward you. "Relax. Mingyu’s not gonna be awake for another hour, probably. Your secret’s safe." He tilts his head, eyeing the hoodie you’re drowning in. "Though I don’t think he’s gonna let you keep that if you walk out on him. Sentimental value and all."

You flip him off, but your hands are shaking, and he notices. His grinning fades just enough to sober up.

"Hey." His voice is softer now. "You okay?"

You swallow, clutching your heels tighter. You try to calm the thudding of your heart and the tears that suddenly feel too close to your waterline. "Yeah. Just—embarrassed." Of what, you weren’t too sure. Sneaking out after quite possibly the greatest fuck of your lifetime? Leaving Mingyu’s side cold and barefoot while donning his zip-up like some girlfriend? Just coming to the frat house when you knew what you were getting yourself into? Letting that guy slobber all over you just to get Mingyu jealous to test out a theory? Your head pounds.

Wonwoo shrugs, reaching back into his room and tossing you a pair of black slippers. "Here. Least I can do." He grins. "Unless you wanna borrow my socks too?"

You snatch the slippers, shoving your feet into them before he can change his mind. "You’re the worst," you grumble.

"Nah," he says, grinning again. "I’m the best. Ask anyone."

You roll your eyes, but the tension in your chest eases just enough to let you breathe. "Thanks. For, you know."

Wonwoo waves a hand, already turning back toward the kitchen. "Yeah, yeah. Now get outta here before Seungcheol wakes up and starts asking questions." He pauses, glancing back at you. "And y/n? Next time, maybe don’t sneak out like a criminal. Own that shit." He lets out an airy laugh. “You could at least do that if you’re breaking a man’s heart all over again.”

You don’t have a comeback. What is someone supposed to say to that anyways? Wonwoo’s words echo back Mingyu’s tiny confession from last night, and it repeats and repeats until the three words bang against your skull like some dark magic mallet.

But as you slip out the front door, slippers too big on your feet and Mingyu’s scent still cling to you, you realize something.

You don’t regret a thing. Even amidst the panic and the embarrassment and the pure disappointment in yourself, you don’t regret a single thing. 

8 days later; 6:42 PM ; kappa alpha theta

For two weeks, you avoid Mingyu like he’s the plague.

The dining hall? You take the long way around, even if it means walking an extra ten minutes in the cold. See him walking toward you on campus? You duck into the nearest building—even if it’s the wrong class, even if it’s a janitor’s closet, even if it’s the middle of a lecture you don’t belong in. His name pops up on your phone? You silence it before the first ring even finishes, your thumb hovering over the screen like it’s a live grenade.

You don’t answer. You don’t reply. You don’t breathe when you see him.

You’re curled up on your bed, your laptop open but ignored, your notes scattered around you like the wreckage of a ship you don’t know how to fix. Chaewon lies beside you, her dark hair fanned out on your pillow, her fingers tapping idly on her phone. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of your respective screens and the flickering light of the TV playing some mindless reality show in the background.

"You’re being ridiculous," she says, not looking up from her phone. "He’s texted me, you know. Asking if you’re okay."

You don’t look at her. You can’t. Because if you do, she’ll see the way your hands are shaking, the way your throat is tightening, the way your chest feels like it’s caving in.

"What did you say?" Your voice is too sharp, too defensive, like a blade drawn in self-defense.

Chaewon finally looks up, her dark eyes locking onto yours. She doesn’t flinch. She never does. "Told him you were alive. That’s it."

You swallow hard. "That’s it?"

"That’s it." She tilts her head, studying you. "Unless you wanted me to tell him you’re dying of heartbreak? That you cry into your pillow every night? That you—"

"Chaewon," you warn, your voice cracking.

She sighs, sitting up. "I’m just saying. You’re acting like he murdered your family. He just slept with you. And yeah, maybe it was messy, maybe he didn’t meet your standards, maybe he didn’t fuck you like,” you glare at her, “okay fine, maybe he did meet your standards and fuck you good, but—"

"It wasn’t just that," you mutter, staring at your hands. There is ink smeared across your fingers, a dark, ugly stain. "It was—" Everything. The way he looked at you. The way he held you. The way he whispered things you weren’t ready to hear. The way you left.

Chaewon reaches over, prying the pen out of your grip. "Then talk to him."

"I can’t."

"Why not?"

Because I’m scared. Because if I see him, I’ll remember how good it felt. Because if I hear his voice, I’ll remember how much I wanted it. Because if I let him in again, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to walk away.

You don’t say any of that.

Instead, you shake your head and reach for your phone, scrolling mindlessly through your socials, pretending the weight in your chest isn’t there.

Chaewon exhales sharply but doesn’t push. She knows better than anyone when you’re drowning.

9:38 PM

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Again.

You ignore it, just like you’ve ignored the last twelve calls from him. The texts are worse—apologies, jokes, pleas—all left on read. You don’t have the heart to delete them. You don’t have the heart to do anything but pretend they don’t exist.

Chaewon’s phone chimes with a message. She glances at it, then at you. "He’s texting me again."

Your stomach twists. "What does he want?"

"To know if you’re okay." She turns her screen toward you. "See?"

You don’t look.

"He’s pathetic," you mutter, but your voice lacks conviction.

Chaewon snorts. "He’s in love."

"He’s annoying," you correct, but the words taste like a lie.

She doesn’t argue. Instead, she tosses her phone aside and grabs the remote, turning up the volume on the TV like that can drown out the noise in your head.

It doesn’t.

The TV is drowned out by the noise in your head, ringing over and over and over again. The echoing is so loud that when your phone rings, for a second, you think you’re imagining it.

“Are you gonna get that??” Chaewon says, cutting into your space out. 

You blink, glancing at your phone screen. 

Unknown number.

You ignore it, assuming it’s spam. “It’s probably a spam call.” 

But then it rings again. And again.

Chaewon picks it up on the third ring, rolling her eyes. "If this is another scam call about my car’s extended warranty, I swear to god—"

"Y/n?"

Mingyu’s voice cuts through the speaker like a knife.

Your entire body locks up.

Chaewon’s eyes snap to yours, wide and horrified. "Oh shit—"

"Y/n, are you there? Just—just listen to me, please."

Your breath catches. Your hands shake. Chaewon stares at you, her jaw dropped, her thumb hovering over the END CALL button. But she doesn’t press it. Not yet.

"I know you’re mad," Mingyu’s voice cracks. "I know I fucked up. But please—just let me explain. You don’t have to say anything. Just—fuck—just listen."

A tear slips down your cheek.

Chaewon’s gaze softens, her eyes flicking between you and the phone. "Y/n—" she mouths, but you shake your head, your throat too tight to speak.

"I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean for it to happen like that," Mingyu’s voice cracks through the speaker, raw and desperate. His breath is shaky, like he’s been running, like he’s been holding this in for weeks. "But I don’t regret it, Y/n. I don’t regret any of it. Not for a second. Not the way you looked at me, not the way you—" He swallows hard, the sound audible even through the phone. "Not any of it."

Your breath hitches. Chaewon’s eyes are locked on you, wide and unblinking, like she’s watching you shatter in real time.

"I know I fucked up," he continues, his voice breaking. "I know I should’ve—fuck, I don’t know, waited? Asked? Something. But I don’t—" Another shaky breath. "I don’t regret it. And I know that makes me an asshole. But it’s the truth."

You press your lips together so hard they hurt.

"You don’t need to like me back," he says, quieter now, like he’s admitting something he’s never said out loud. "I know I’m—fuck, I’m a lot. And I get it if you don’t want this. If you don’t want me. But I just—" His voice cracks again. "I just need you to know that was the best night of my life. And if you never want to see me again, I’ll forget everything. I’ll do whatever you want. Just—please—don’t shut me out like this."

A tear slips down your cheek. Then another.

"I’m sorry," he whispers. "I’m so sorry, Y/n. For everything. For pushing you. For not—fuck—for not being enough. For being too much. For whatever I did to make you leave like that. Just—" His voice is barely a whisper now. "Tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix this. Because I can’t—I can’t lose you like this."

The silence that follows is suffocating. Chaewon’s hand finds yours, squeezing tight, like she’s trying to anchor you to the present. But you’re drowning. You’re drowning in the sound of his voice, in the memory of his hands, in the way he said "the best night of my life" like it wasn’t just sex, like it meant something.

Like you meant something.

And that’s what breaks you.

With a trembling hand, you snatch the phone from Chaewon and end the call. The screen goes dark, but the weight of his words lingers, heavy and unbearable.

The second the call cuts off, your chest caves in.

You press your hands to your face, your shoulders shaking as the first sob tears out of you. It’s ugly, broken, the kind of sound you don’t want anyone to hear. Chaewon doesn’t let go. She pulls you against her, her arms wrapping around you like a shield.

"Why can’t he just forget it," you whisper, your voice breaking. "Just, why can’t he just forget about it?” 

To that, Chaewon stays silent, before whispering, “Because he cares about you, y/n.” 

"I hate him," you hiccup, your voice muffled against your palms. "I hate him so much."

"I know," Chaewon murmurs, her hand rubbing slow circles on your back. "I know."

But you don’t.

Because the truth is, you don’t hate him.

You hate yourself.

For leaving. For wanting. For loving him when you know—you know—it’ll only hurt more in the end.

And you can’t tell her that.

So you let the tears come, hot and endless, soaking into your hands, your sleeves, the fabric of Chaewon’s shirt. You cry until your throat is raw, until your head pounds, until the only sound in the room is the ragged rhythm of your breathing.

Chaewon doesn’t say anything else.

She just holds you.

And you let her.

Because you know—

You were the one who left.

You were the one who broke this.

And you don’t know how to fix it either.

2 days later; 12:00 PM

The door to the Interior Modeling studio swings shut behind you, the hum of conversation and the clatter of chairs fading as you step into the hallway. You exhale, rubbing your temple with the back of your hand, your mind still racing with the critique you just got on your latest project. You don’t notice him at first—not until you turn to walk toward the exit and find Mingyu leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his gaze locked on you like he’s been waiting for hours.

Your eyes go wide.

Fuck.

You whirl around, ready to bolt—but his hand darts out, his fingers wrapping around your wrist before you can take a step. "Not so fast."

"Let go of me," you hiss, yanking your arm back—but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he pulls you aside, into the alcove by the emergency exit, where no one can see you. The door clicks shut behind you, the sudden quiet making your heart pound even harder.

"You gonna keep ignoring me forever?"

His voice is low, rough, like gravel underfoot—like he’s been holding this in for weeks, like he’s one wrong word away from shattering. The hallway feels too small, the air too thick, and you can’t breathe. His fingers are still wrapped around your wrist, his grip firm but not cruel, like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll disappear entirely.

"I’m not ignoring you," you lie, your voice sharper than you mean it to be. It’s a reflex, a defense, something to keep the cracks in your chest from splitting wide open.

"You’re not?" He laughs—a short, bitter sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. "Then why aren’t you answering my calls? My texts? Y/n," his voice drops, raw and desperate, "you won’t even fucking look at me."

Your throat tightens. "I’ve never looked at you," you snap, but the words taste like ash. You know it’s a lie. You’ve always looked at him. Too much. Too long. Too like he was something you could never have.

"We both know that’s a fuckin’ lie," he huffs, stepping closer. The heat of him radiates against you, familiar and infuriating. His free hand comes up, hovering like he wants to touch you but doesn’t dare. "So why are you ignoring me?"

"I don’t know, Mingyu," you say, but your voice cracks, betraying you. The truth is a knot in your chest, tangled and painful. You do know. You’re just too scared to say it.

"Why, Y/n?" His fingers tighten just a little on your wrist—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you look at him. His dark eyes are searching, desperate. "Why are you ignoring me? What did I do?" His voice breaks. "If you just tell me, I can—I can fix it. I can—" He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. "I can do better."

The rawness in his voice undoes you.

"For fuck’s sake, Mingyu," you explode, yanking your arm free. The motion is sharp, angry, but it doesn’t shake him. "You told me you loved me while you were fucking me!" Your voice rises, echoing down the empty hallway. "Who tells someone that they love them mid-fuck?! What was I supposed to do with that, Mingyu? Sit back, relax, and take it as it is?"

His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle tick. "I meant it," he snaps, his voice low and dangerous, but his eyes—his eyes are pleading. "I meant every fucking word. But I guess that’s worse, huh? That I actually meant it?"

"You don’t get to do this," you fire back, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. The nails dig into your palms, grounding you. "You don’t get to drop that on me and then act like I’m the crazy one for not knowing what to do with it!"

"I never said you were crazy," he retorts, stepping even closer. The space between you is charged, electric. "I said I love you."

The hallway silences—or maybe it’s just your mind going blank, your heart pounding so loud it drowns out everything else. His words hang between you, heavy and irreversible. You open your mouth, but the words come out in a rush, a mess of everything you’ve been holding in for weeks.

"This is moving too quickly, Mingyu!" Your voice cracks, the tears you’ve been holding back burning your eyes. "That night—it was a mistake. You don’t mean it. You can’t. People don’t just—" You gesture wildly between you, your chest heaving. "You don’t just say that and expect everything to be fine!"

"Why not?" His voice is quieter now, but no less intense. "Why can’t I mean it? Why can’t I love you?"

"Because!" The word tears out of you, raw and ugly. "Because it’s too much, Mingyu! Because I—I can’t—" You press your palms to your eyes, trying to stop the tears, but they come anyway, hot and relentless. "I can’t do this. I can’t be what you want me to be."

"You don’t get to decide that for me," he says, his voice softer now, but firm. "I’m not asking you to be anything, Y/n. I’m just telling you how I feel."

"Well, don’t!" you snap, your voice breaking. "Don’t say things like that when you know—I can’t—" You shake your head, your vision blurring. "We should just—we should both just forget any of this ever happened."

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, his expression a mix of frustration and something softer, something that makes your chest ache.

Then, quietly, he says, "I can’t."

"Mingyu—"

"I can’t forget it," he repeats, stepping closer again. His hand reaches up, his thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek. "I can’t forget the way you looked at me. The way you felt. The way you—" His voice cracks. "The way you sounded when you—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "I can’t forget any of it. And I don’t want to."

You open your mouth to say something—what, you don’t know. To tell him he’s wrong. To tell him you can’t do this. To tell him something. But the words won’t come.

Instead, you turn away, your shoulders shaking, and walk out of the alcove—leaving him standing there.

Three Days Before the Gala

Your phone buzzes on your desk, the screen lighting up with a notification. You glance at it, expecting another reminder from the caterers or a panicked message from one of the event coordinators. Instead, it’s an email.

Subject: Urgent: Cancellation of Reservation for Shuastar Charity Gala

Your stomach drops.

No.

No, no, no—

You click it before you can stop yourself, your fingers trembling as you scan the words. Double-booked. Unforeseen circumstances. Sincere apologies. The usual corporate bullshit. But the meaning is clear:

No venue.

No gala.

Your phone buzzes again. 

DO NOT ANSWER !!! hey we need to fix this meet me at the cafe

You stare at the screen, your chest tightening. The café. His café. The one you’ve avoided for weeks, the one where you used to meet before everything got so complicated. Before he got so complicated.

Before you ruined everything.

You don’t want to go.

God, you don’t want to go.

But you have to.

Because if you don’t, the gala is over. Months of work, gone. All the planning, the late nights, the stress—gone. And it’s not just about you. It’s about the charity, the donors, the people counting on this event. It’s about him, too, even if you don’t want to admit it.

You exhale sharply, rubbing your temples. Your phone is still in your hand, the screen glowing with Mingyu’s message. Without thinking, you scroll up.

And there they are.

All of them. Plus one voice note.

Some crazy part of your brain pulls your thumb to click on the voice note. 

Static crackles and there’s a rustling of fabric, a quiet murmur of faint voices, before Mingyu’s tired voice comes through. 

"Y/n… hey. It’s me. Again.

He pauses, clearing his throat. 

I don’t even know if you’re listening to these anymore, but I had to try. It’s been two days. Two days, and I still don’t know what I did wrong. I know I fucked up. I know I said too much, and I know it was too fast, and I know you probably think I’m some desperate idiot now, but–

His voice cracks. 

–but I need you to talk to me. Even if it’s just to tell me to fuck off. Even if it’s just to say you never want to see me again. I just…

A sigh. 

– I need to hear your voice.

You can hear the end of a shaky exhale. 

Look, I’ll take it back. Okay? I’ll pretend I never said it. I’ll pretend it was just- just the heat of the moment, or some stupid drunk confession, or fuck, I don’t know. Just text me back. Please. We can go back to how we were. We can be friends. I just… I can’t lose you like this. Not when I don’t even know why.

There’s a long pause.

…I miss you.  A lot. Call me. Or don’t. But please just… let me know you’re okay.

His next words are so quiet the phone barely captures it.

…I love you. Fuck. I still love you. Even if you hate me for it."

The voice note stops. 

You swallow, your throat closing up as your thumb hovers over the screen, scrolling through the messages again, each one a knife twisting deeper. The words blur as your vision burns, but you don’t stop. You can’t. Because somewhere between the anger and the pride and the stubborn refusal to admit how much this hurts, there’s a part of you that needs to see the proof that he felt it too. 

That it wasn’t just you.

That you weren’t fucking crazy. 

DO NOT ANSWER !!! 4 days ago; 20:39 I know youre mad y/n i dont know how to fix this if you dont tell me anything I miss you

Your chest aches, a dull, persistent throb behind your ribs. You press a hand there, as if that could somehow ease the pressure, but it doesn’t. Nothing does.

The way he begged you to talk to him with some crazy notion that you were the only person in the world who could make this right. Like he couldn’t breathe without your answer.

He fucking apologized. For existing. For loving you. Like it was a crime. For missing you.

And the worst part?

You missed him, too.

You exhale sharply, the sound shaky, uneven. Your phone feels heavy in your hand, like it’s burning through your skin. With a sudden, violent motion, you toss it onto the bed, watching as it bounces once before settling against the rumpled sheets. It’s like throwing away a grenade, like if you don’t put distance between yourself and those messages, they’ll detonate and leave you in pieces.

You don’t want to feel this.

You don’t want to care.

But you do.

You sink onto the edge of your bed, your hands trembling as you press them to your face. The tears come before you can stop them, hot and fast, slipping through your fingers. You hate this—the way your body betrays you, the way your heart still aches for him even after everything. Even after you left. Even after you tried to forget.

You tried so hard.

And it still wasn’t enough.

Chaewon finds you like this.

She doesn’t knock. She never does. The door creaks open, and her footsteps are soft as she crosses the room, sitting beside you without a word. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong. She already knows.

"He texted you again, didn’t he?" Her voice is quiet, gentle.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

She sighs, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you against her. "You’re allowed to miss him, you know."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut.

"I don’t want to," you whisper, your voice breaking.

"I know," she murmurs. "But you do."

And that’s the worst part.

Because she’s right.

You cry until your throat is raw, until your chest hurts from the force of it. Chaewon doesn’t let go. She just holds you, her hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back, her presence a quiet anchor in the storm.

"It’s okay," she says, over and over, like a mantra. "It’s okay to feel this."

But it doesn’t feel okay.

Eventually, the tears slow. You wipe your face with the back of your hand, your breath hitching as you try to steady yourself. Chaewon reaches over, grabbing a tissue from your nightstand and pressing it into your palm.

"You gonna be okay?" she asks, her dark eyes searching yours.

You don’t know how to answer that.

So you don’t.

Instead, you take a shaky breath and nod, even though it’s a lie.

Chaewon studies you for a long moment, then sighs. "You’re a terrible liar."

You manage a weak, watery laugh. "I know."

She doesn’t push. 

But as you sit there, the weight of everything pressing down on you, you know one thing for certain:

You can’t keep running forever.

And that, more than anything (even the desperate text messages and the voicemails Mingyu’s left you), terrifies you.

4:05 PM 

You walk in, the bell above the door chiming softly. The scent of coffee and baked goods wraps around you, familiar and comforting. Your eyes scan the room, and there he is.

Mingyu.

He’s already there, sitting at the same table you used to share, his laptop open in front of him. He’s wearing a black sweater, the one you always liked, the one that makes his shoulders look broader, his arms more defined. His dark hair is slightly messy, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose as he stares at the screen.

He looks up.

And then he sees you.

For a second, neither of you moves. The air between you is thick, charged, like the moment before a storm. His expression is unreadable—relief, maybe, or frustration, or something else entirely.

You don’t know what to say.

You just walk over, pulling out the chair across from him and sitting down. The wood is cold beneath your palms, grounding you.

Mingyu doesn’t speak at first. He just looks at you, his gaze searching, like he’s trying to memorize every detail of your face.

Then, quietly, he says, "You came."

You swallow hard. "We have a gala to save."

He exhales, a shaky breath, like he’s been holding it for weeks. "Yeah," he murmurs. "We do."

Silence stretches between you, heavy and uncomfortable. You can feel the weight of everything unsaid, every text, every call, every moment you’ve spent avoiding this.

Avoiding him.

Finally, you look down at your hands, your fingers twisting together in your lap. "I saw your texts," you admit quietly.

Mingyu doesn’t respond right away. When he does, his voice is rough. "Which ones?"

"All of them."

Another pause. Then, softer, "And?"

You don’t really have an answer for that.

Instead, you pull out your laptop, opening it with more force than necessary. "We should figure out the venue situation," you say, your voice clipped, professional. "The Grand Hyatt has an opening, but it’s double the price."

Mingyu watches you for a long moment before nodding, turning back to his own screen. "We’re not paying double," he says, his tone firm. "I’ll call the Ritz. See if they can give us a deal."

You hum out a quiet “Okay.”

The café hums around you, the low murmur of conversation and the clink of cups filling the silence between you and Mingyu. You sit across from each other, the table a battleground of unspoken words and lingering tension. Your laptop is open, the glow from the screen casting shadows on your face as you scroll through the email from the Ritz. Mingyu’s fingers tap restlessly against his coffee cup, his gaze flickering between you and his own laptop.

You don’t want to be here.

Really. 

5:12 PM

"So," you say, your voice carefully neutral as you pull up the venue details. "The Ritz can accommodate us, but we’d have to adjust the seating chart. Again."

Mingyu exhales, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I saw that." He leans forward slightly, his dark eyes meeting yours for the first time since you sat down. "We can make it work."

You nod, your fingers flying over the keyboard as you pull up the guest list. "We’ll have to cut at least twenty people."

"I’ll handle it," he says, his voice firm. "I’ll call the donors, explain the situation."

You glance up at him, surprised. "You’d do that?"

He shrugs, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "I’m the one who fucked up the venue. Least I can do is clean up the mess."

You don’t argue. Even though it’s not really his fault. None of this is, actually. 

Instead, you turn back to your screen, but there’s something lighter in your chest now, something that almost feels like the way things used to be between you. Before everything got so complicated. Almost.

The minutes tick by, the two of you falling into an old rhythm. You throw out ideas, he counters with his own, and before you know it, you’re laughing – actually laughing – when he suggests moving the dessert table to the center of the room "for maximum sugar accessibility."

"That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard," you say, grinning despite yourself.

"No, it’s genius," he argues, a smirk playing on his lips. "People get cranky when they’re hungry. We keep the sugar flowing, we keep the donors happy."

You roll your eyes, but you’re still smiling. "You’re impossible."

"You’ll miss me if I leave though," he teases, his voice softer now, almost tentative.

Your smile falters for a second, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on you. But then he grins and something in you shifts. For a moment, just a moment, you forget.

You forget the texts. You forget the calls. You forget the way you left.

You forget everything.

You’re leaning over your laptop, typing out a response to the Ritz, when you say the first thing on your mind.

"You know, I’ve never really gone to frat parties."

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, the words slipping out before you can stop them. The café’s ambient noise fades into the background as Mingyu’s head snaps up, his dark eyebrows lifting in surprise.

Oh shit.

"You came to mine," he says, his voice low, like he’s pointing out the obvious.

"Well, yeah," you admit, your fingers freezing mid-type. Heat creeps up your neck, flooding your cheeks. "But that was because I wanted to see y—" You cut yourself off, biting your lip, eyes wide. Fuck. You weren’t supposed to say that.

Mingyu’s smile is instant, slow and knowing, like he’s just won a game you didn’t realize you were playing. "Because you wanted to…?" he prompts, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table. His dark eyes lock onto yours, teasing but tender, like he’s afraid to push too hard.

You exhale sharply, your gaze dropping to your laptop screen. "I wanted to see you," you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper. You’re not sure what compelled you to say that. 

Mingyu’s grin widens, triumphant and bright, like the sun breaking through storm clouds. "What?" he asks, even though he heard you perfectly.

"What?" you snap, your face burning. You glare at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. "I didn’t say anything."

"You did," he counters, his voice light, playful. "You absolutely did."

"No, I didn’t," you insist, but your voice wavers, and you can feel your cheeks flaming.

"Yes, you did," he repeats, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "You wanted to see me."

"Mingyu, drop it," you warn, but there’s no real bite to your words. Your heart is pounding, your fingers twisting together in your lap.

"Y/n—" he starts, his voice softer now, almost gentle.

"—I don’t like you," you blurt out, desperate to shut this down, to put distance between you and the way your chest is tightening, the way your stomach is flipping.

Mingyu doesn’t even flinch. If anything, his grin widens, like he knows he’s won or something. Like he’s successfully proved you wrong. "I never said that you did," he says, his voice even, like he’s humoring you.

"You implied it," you argue, your chest tightening. "You said—"

"I didn’t imply anything," he interrupts, his voice gentle, almost amused. "I just said you wanted to see me. Which you did."

"That’s…not the point," you stammer, your face still burning. "The point is—"

"-The point is," he cuts in, leaning back in his chair, his gaze never leaving yours, "you came to see me."

You open your mouth to argue, but the words die on your lips. Because he’s right. And you hate that he’s right.

"...Whatever," you grumble, turning back to your laptop, your fingers flying over the keys with more force than necessary. "I’m not the one who told someone I love you mid—" You cut yourself off, your face flaming as the words hang in the air between you. You can’t believe you just said that.

That makes Mingyu’s smile wobble. He goes still, before whispering, "I meant it."

Your breath catches.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Because if you do, you’ll see the sincerity in his eyes, the raw honesty, and it’ll undo you. Instead, you stare at your laptop screen, your vision blurring as your fingers hover over the keys.

"Mingyu—" you start, but your voice cracks.

"Y/n," he says, his voice gentle, almost pleading. "Can we stop pretending it never happened? Just…talk to me. Please."

You swallow hard, your fingers curling into fists in your lap. "I don’t—" Your voice breaks again. "I don’t know what to say."

"Say anything," he murmurs. "Say you hate me. Say you miss me. Say you wish you’d never met me. Just– just say something."

Your breath hitches. "I can’t—"

"You can," he interrupts, his voice soft but firm. "You can talk to me, Y/n. Even if it’s just to yell at me. Even if it’s just to tell me to fuck off. I’ll take it. I’ll take anything. Anything you give me, I’ll take it."

You exhale shakily, your hands dropping to your lap. "You don’t—" You stop, pressing your lips together. "You don’t get to do this, Mingyu. You don’t get to just say things and expect me to—" You gesture wildly between the two of you. "To just pretend like everything’s fine."

"I’m not expecting anything," he says, his voice low, earnest. "I’m just asking. For one conversation. That’s all."

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you look down at your laptop, at the half-written email to the Ritz, at the way your fingers are trembling over the keys. "This isn’t—" You stop, swallowing hard. "This cannot be a conversation, Mingyu. This is us working."

"It can be both," he says, his voice gentle. "We can work and talk. We can fix the gala and fix—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "We can just talk, Y/n. That’s all I’m asking for."

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Because if you do, you’ll see the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the only thing that matters. And that scares you.

"I don’t—" Your voice is barely a whisper. "I don’t like you, Mingyu."

His smile returns, tighter and sadder now. "So you’ve said."

“That was one night.” You exhale sharply. "You can’t just say things like that during a– a– a hookup and expect me to—" You gesture helplessly between the two of you. "To just pretend like it’s nothing."

"I’m not asking you to pretend," he says, his voice quiet but steady. "I’m just asking you to talk to me. To let me—" He stops, running a hand through his hair. "To let me be here. Even if it’s just as your friend."

"Mingyu," Your voice cracks. "You told me that you loved me! You said you loved me while I moaned under you like some fucking prostitute! You can’t just say that and expect me to—" You stop, swallowing hard, wiping at your eyes, "to just act like it’s nothing."

"I’m not expecting you to act like it’s nothing," he says, his voice low, earnest, completely ignoring the first part of what you said. "I’m just telling you how I feel."

“...I know.” 

“Do you?”

“I do.” 

The silence stretches between you, heavy and fragile. You can feel his gaze on you, warm and steady, but you don’t look up. Instead, you turn back to your laptop, your fingers resuming their frantic typing.

"We should get back to work," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Mingyu doesn’t push. He just nods, turning back to his own screen. But the air between you has shifted, charged with something new.

6:20 PM

The café is nearly empty by the time you finally close your laptop, the hum of the espresso machine and the quiet clink of dishes being cleared away filling the space between you and Mingyu. The gala preparations are actually finished—somehow, miraculously, despite the chaos of the last few hours. You exhale sharply, rubbing your temples as you push your chair back and stand, stretching your arms over your head. Your back cracks, the tension of the last few weeks—hell, the last few months—finally easing just a little.

Mingyu stands too, his chair scraping against the floor. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you as you gather your things, his dark eyes unreadable. Then, without a word, he reaches for your tote bag, slinging it over his shoulder before you can protest. You open your mouth to argue, but the words die on your lips. Instead, you just watch as he adjusts the strap, his fingers brushing against the fabric like it’s second nature.

"Ready?" he asks, his voice quiet.

You nod, even though you’re not sure you are.

When you walk out, the night air is cool, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the café. You pull your jacket tighter around yourself as you step outside, the streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement. Mingyu falls into step beside you, his shoulder brushing yours just lightly, accidentally, maybe, or maybe not. You don’t pull away.

You notice, almost immediately, the way he positions himself. On the road side between you and the traffic, like he’s some kind of human shield. You’ve seen him do it before, with his friends, with his frat brothers, but on the receiving end now, it feels different now. Intentional. Like he’s making sure you’re safe, even from something as simple as a car splashing water from a puddle.

You don’t say anything about it.

The walk back to your sorority house is quiet at first, the only sounds are the distant hum of traffic and the occasional laugh from a group of students heading the opposite way. You keep your hands stuffed in your pockets, your gaze fixed on the sidewalk ahead of you. Mingyu doesn’t speak either, but you can feel his presence beside you, solid and warm, like a promise.

Then, without warning, his hand is on your arm, pulling you sharply and suddenly against him. Your breath catches as a scooter zips past, far too close to you to be safe, the rider weaving unsteadily. Mingyu’s grip is firm, protective, his other hand coming up to brace against your back like he’s afraid you’ll stumble. You collide with his chest, your heart pounding, and for a second, you’re surrounded by him—the scent of his cologne, the warmth of his body, the steady thud of his heartbeat under your ear.

"Fucking idiot," he mutters under his breath, his voice rough. His hand lingers on your back, just for a second, before he pulls away, but not all the way. His fingers brush yours as you step back, and you swallow hard, your skin tingling where he touched you.

"You okay?"* he asks, his voice low, his eyes searching yours in the dim light as he looks down.

You nod, even though your pulse is still racing. "Yeah."

He doesn’t let go of your hand.

Not right away.

Not until you start walking again.

You keep walking, but now there’s a shift between you, something lighter, something warmer. Your fingers brush against his as you move, and neither of you pulls away. It’s stupid, really—just the barest touch, the lightest connection—but it feels like everything. Like a thread pulling taut between you, something fragile and precious.

"You always walk road-side,” you say suddenly, your voice quiet.

Mingyu glances down at you, his eyebrows lifting slightly. "Yeah."

"Why?"

He shrugs, like it’s obvious. Like you should know by now. "So if some idiot asshole driver loses control, they hit me first." He grins afterwards, like it makes perfect, total sense.

Your breath catches. Your heart thuds in your chest. What a stupid, idiotic, heartfelt, sweet thing to say. "That’s—Mingyu, that’s—"

"Stupid?" He supplements. 

“No, fucking absurd,” you retort, arms crossing. 

His lips quirk up at your words, as if he enjoys this. "Maybe. But I’d rather it be me than you."

You don’t know what to say to that.

He’s been catching you off guard a lot more recently.

Instead, you let your fingers linger against his, just for a second, before you pull your hand back into your pocket, kick stray rocks down the path,  lump in your throat. 

The closer you get to your sorority house, the more the tension between you shifts—less like a wall, more like a bridge. You find yourself relaxing, your shoulders loosening, your steps slowing just a little so you’re in sync with his. The silence isn’t awkward anymore. It’s comfortable. Familiar.

"You remember that time we got caught in the rain last spring after the charity dinner rehearsal?" Mingyu asks suddenly, his voice warm.

You blink, surprised by the change in topic. "The one where we were under that old gas station awning for like an hour?"

"Yeah," he chuckles, the sound low and rich. "You were so mad because your shoes were ruined."

"I was planning on wearing it for the actual charity dinner," you protest, but you’re smiling now, the memory flooding back. "And you laughed at me."

"Because you looked like a drowned rat," he teases, nudging your shoulder lightly with his. "But a really cute drowned rat."

You shove him half-heartedly, but you’re still grinning. "Shut the fuck up," you grumble

"Hey, come on now," he says, his voice softer now. “I’m the best you’ve got."

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels lighter than it has in weeks.

Slowly, your sorority house comes into view, the warm glow of the porch light spilling onto the sidewalk. You slow to a stop at the bottom of the steps, turning to face Mingyu. He’s watching you, his expression unreadable, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

"Thanks," you say quietly, "for walking me back."

His gaze softens. "Of course." Like it’s mandatory. Like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing. It eats at you.

You hesitate, your fingers twisting together. There’s so much you want to say. So much you should say. But the words stick in your throat, tangled and messy.

Instead, you just look at him.

And for a second, he looks back at you—really looks at you—like he’s memorizing the way the porch light catches in your hair, the way your lips part just slightly when you’re thinking, the way your eyes reflect the stars.

Then, quietly, he says, "I miss this."

Your breath catches.

"Miss what?" you whisper. You’re scared of the answer.

"You," he says simply. "Talking to me. Laughing with me. Being with me."

You don’t answer.

You can’t. Your weird friendship-enemyship-situationship that existed before he put his dick in you – even that never realy felt like this. Whatever this is. Whatever you having sex with him did to you, to him, to unlock a part of him that you didn’t really know existed. A part of him that was so hung up on you, on your absence, that said ballsy shit like I miss you and I love you without expecting the same back. 

Instead, you take a shaky breath and nod, your throat tight.

Mingyu doesn’t push. He just smiles, softly, sadly, and reaches out, his fingers brushing yours one last time as he hands you your tote back. Your murmur a small thank you.

"Goodnight, Y/n," he murmurs.

"Goodnight," you whisper back.

And as you watch him walk away, his hands in his pockets, his silhouette disappearing into the night, you realize something:

You miss it too.

God, you miss it too.

gala night; 8:35 PM

The gala is in full swing, the grand ballroom of the Ritz bathed in soft golden light, the hum of conversation and the clink of glasses filling the air. You stand by the drink bar, a flute of champagne in hand, laughing at something Chaewon just said about the new poke place that opened downtown. The dress—this dress—hugs your body like it was made for you, the deep navy satin cascading to the floor in a river of elegance. The off-the-shoulder neckline and delicate chain straps make you feel like some kind of modern-day goddess, and for the first time in weeks, you feel confident. Beautiful.

Unshakable.

Chaewon grins, nudging your shoulder with hers. "Okay, but if we go, you’re not allowed to judge me when I get the spiciest option and then cry."

"I would never," you say, mock-offended, taking a sip of your champagne. 

She’s about to say something when her expression shifts, her eyes flickering over your shoulder before she leans in, her voice dropping to a low whisper. "Not sure if you wanna hear this, but iloveyoumidfuck has been staring at you for the past 15 minutes."

Your stomach drops.

"What?" you say, too quickly, your fingers tightening around the stem of your glass.

Chaewon huffs out a laugh, leaning back again and taking a sip of her own drink. "Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t know. You know exactly who I’m talking about."\

You don’t turn around. You won’t turn around. But you can feel it—the weight of his gaze on you, like a physical touch. It sends a shiver down your spine, heat pooling in your chest.

"He’s probably just making sure I don’t mess anything up," you mutter, but your voice lacks conviction.

Chaewon snorts. "Yeah, because that’s totally why he’s practically undressing and eye-fucking you."

You elbow her lightly, but your heart is pounding. "Shut up."

She laughs, shaking her head. "You two are ridiculous. Just talk to him already."

"There’s nothing to talk about," you say, but the words taste like a lie.

Chaewon opens her mouth to argue, but then her eyes flick over your shoulder again, and her expression softens. "I’m gonna bet that he doesn’t feel the same."

Before you can ask what she means, a familiar voice cuts through the noise of the gala.

"Y/n."

You freeze.

Then, slowly, you turn.

Mingyu stands there, dressed in a tailored black tuxedo that fits him like it was made for him. His dark hair is styled neatly, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and his eyes—god, his eyes—are locked onto yours, dark and intense and hungry.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

The noise of the gala fades into the background, the world narrowing down to just the two of you.

"You look—" His voice cracks. "You look incredible."

Your breath catches.

And for the first time in weeks, you let yourself really look at him.

Let yourself feel it.

The way your heart races when he’s near. The way your skin tingles where his gaze touches you. The way, despite everything, you miss him.

Your lips part, the words you were about to say hanging between you like a tantalizing dessert, before the Dean of Student Affairs appears at Mingyu’s side, clapping him on the shoulder with a booming laugh.

Fucking Dean Hastings.

"Kim! There’s the man of the hour!" Dean Hastings grins, oblivious to the tension crackling between you two. "This gala is a masterpiece. Absolutely flawless. You two really outdid yourselves."

Mingyu doesn’t miss a beat. "It wasn’t just me," he corrects, his voice warm with that effortless charm of his. "Was probably all Y/n. I was just the muscle, you know, reaching up high for decorations ‘n everything." He shoots you a sideways glance, his eyes softening into something almost tender. "She’s the one who made the magic happen."

Dean Hastings turns to you, beaming. "Ah, yes! Ms. Hong, of course. We’ve heard wonderful things." His eyes flick between the two of you, and for a second, your heart thuds because you swear he sees it: the way Mingyu’s shoulder brushes yours, the way his fingers twitch like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. "Well,” Dean H says, clearing his throat, giving Mingyu another clap on the shoulder, “keep up the good work, you two. This is exactly the kind of initiative Dean Park loves to see!"

Mingyu nods, his hand accidentally brushing against yours as he shifts closer. Then, slowly, his fingers find yours, squeezing once, quick and reassuring, before he pulls away. But that single touch sends a jolt through you, your breath catching in your throat. You want to punch him. You want to kick him in the shin, you want to rip out his fingers. You don’t dare look at him.

Because if you do, you’ll cry.

You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve him. Not after the way you ignored him, the way you pushed him away, the way you acted like his feelings were some kind of burden instead of the gift they are. And yet here he is, standing beside you, deflecting praise, making sure you get the credit, his hand finding yours in the dark like he can’t help himself.

The dean keeps talking, something about donor engagement and future collaborations, but the words blur together. All you can focus on is the heat of Mingyu’s presence beside you, the way his pinky lingers near yours like he’s waiting for an excuse to touch you again.

Then, just as suddenly as they appeared, the deans excuse themselves, shaking your hands before moving on to schmooze with someone else.

Mingyu exhales, running a hand through his hair, and turns to you, his mouth already open, something soft and unguarded in his eyes. "Y/n, I—" He’s promptly cut off by Chaewon’s voice interrupting, sharp through the tension like a knife.

"Y/N!"

You both jump, turning to see her barreling toward you, her expression apologetic but urgent.

"Oh my god, I’m sooo sorry, but we have to deal with the caterer. Right now. They messed up the vegetarian options, and if we don’t fix it, half the donors are gonna riot."

Mingyu blinks, the spell broken. "Uh. Yeah. Go." He shoves his hands in his pockets, his smile tight. "I’ll—uh—handle the DJ or something."

You hesitate, your chest aching. "Mingyu—"

"Go," he says, softer this time. "We’ll talk later."

Chaewon grabs your arm, already dragging you away. "Sorry, sorry, but this is urgent!" she hisses, shooting an apologetic glance over her shoulder at Mingyu.

You let yourself be pulled away, but not before glancing back at him one last time. He’s watching you, his hands still in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself wonder. 

What if I just… let myself have this?

9:41 PM

The gala hums around you—laughter, clinking glasses, the low thrum of the string quartet in the corner. You’re standing in a loose circle with Chaewon, a few sorority sisters, and a couple of guys from your marketing class when Dylan appears at your side.

Dylan.

He’s all easy smiles and expensive cologne that all but attacks your nose, his arm slipping around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

"Damn, Y/n," he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you and Chaewon hear. "You clean up good." His fingers twirl a loose strand of your hair, his thumb brushing the back of your neck just once. It’s too familiar, too possessive. As if just because you hooked up with him a couple times your junior year that gives him consent to twirl you around like a doll.

But you don’t pull away.

Because the group is watching, because Chaewon’s eyes are begging you not to make a scene, because you’ve spent the last two weeks pretending you don’t still feel like you’re drowning every time Mingyu’s name crosses your mind.

So you laugh, light and practiced, like Dylan’s touch doesn’t make your skin crawl. "Flattery won’t get you an extra slice of cake, Dylan."

"Worth a shot," he grins, his grip tightening just a fraction before he finally lets his hand drop.

Chaewon exhales beside you, shooting you a look that says what the hell was that? but you just shake your head, taking a long sip of your champagne.

Across the room, Mingyu stands with Wonwoo and Seungcheol, his back to you as they laugh about something. Probably some stupid frat story, the kind that starts with "Bro, so this chick is like hot, right?" but then Wonwoo says something, nudging Seungcheol, and Mingyu turns.

Just in time to see Dylan’s fingers in your hair.

His laughter dies mid-breath.

Wonwoo follows his gaze, his eyebrows scrunching when he sees Dylan’s arm around you. He claps a hand on Mingyu’s shoulder, leaning in to mutter something. Mingyu doesn’t really hear him.

His entire body goes still, like a predator locking onto its target. His fingers flex at his sides, his jaw tightening just enough that you can see it even from here. The smile he forces is sharp, all teeth, no warmth. "You good, man?" Seungcheol asks, his voice low, but Mingyu doesn’t answer.

He just watches. Watches Dylan lean in, whisper something in your ear that makes you laugh—fake, fake, fake—watches you play along because what else are you supposed to do? You’re not his. You made that clear. You left. You ignored him. You acted like his feelings were some kind of mistake.

And now here you are, letting Dylan touch you like he has any right.

Wonwoo says something else, his grip on Mingyu’s shoulder tightening, but Mingyu shakes him off, his eyes never leaving you.

Chaewon notices.

"Y/n," she hisses, elbowing you in the ribs. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What?" you snap, too quickly, your voice too bright. "Nothing. It’s fine."

"It’s not fine," she mutters, her eyes flicking over your shoulder. "He’s two seconds away from committing a felony."

You don’t have to ask who he is.

You can feel the weight of his gaze burn into the side of your face, but you refuse to look. Refuse to acknowledge the way your chest tightens, the way your stomach twists with something ugly and guilty.

Dylan, oblivious, grins and raises his glass. "To the most beautiful woman at the gala," he toasts, winking at you.

The group laughs, clinking glasses, but all you hear is the roar of blood in your ears.

"That’s enough." Mingyu’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade.

The group falls silent.

Dylan turns, his smirk faltering when he sees Mingyu standing there, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his dark eyes burning. "Kim," Dylan says, too smooth, too fake. "What’s up, man?"

Mingyu doesn’t look at him.

He looks at you.

"We need to talk," he says, his voice low, dangerous.

Chaewon grabs your wrist. "Y/n—"

"Now," Mingyu adds, ignoring her.

Dylan’s arm is still around your waist, his fingers digging in just a little, like he’s staking a claim. "She’s busy," he says, his voice dripping with false cheer.

Mingyu’s gaze drops to Dylan’s hand.

Then he smiles.

It’s not a nice smile.

"Get your fucking hand off her," he says, quiet. Too quiet.

The group goes still.

Dylan’s grip tightens. "Or what?"

Mingyu takes a step forward.

Wonwoo and Seungcheol move with him, arms dangling uselessly by their sides, eyes flitting over from you to him to Dylan, as if they’re unsure of what exactly to do.

Chaewon’s nails dig into your skin. "Y/n," she whispers, "do something."

But you can’t.=

Because Mingyu’s eyes are locked onto yours, and the look in them—hurt, anger, betrayal—makes your throat close up.

"Mingyu—" you start, your voice breaking.

"Outside," he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Now."

Dylan finally drops his arm, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "Chill, man. We’re just talking."

Mingyu doesn’t even glance at him.

He just waits.

For you.

Chaewon lets go of your wrist, her expression torn between worry and relief. "Go," she murmurs. "Before this gets worse."

You swallow hard, your hands shaking.

Then you follow him out of the ballroom, your heart pounding so loud you’re sure everyone can hear it.

The heavy ballroom doors swing shut behind you with a soft, final click, muffling the hum of the gala—the laughter, the clinking glasses, the string quartet playing some elegant, meaningless melody. The hallway is dimly lit, the air cooler here, away from the crush of bodies inside. Mingyu stands a few feet away, his back to you, his shoulders tense under the crisp black fabric of his tuxedo. He doesn’t turn around right away. Maybe he’s giving you a second to breathe. Maybe he’s giving himself one.

"What the fuck was that?" he demands, his voice raw.

"You don’t get to do this," you retort, your voice sharper than you intended. It echoes off the marble floors, bouncing back at you like an accusation.

Mingyu turns slowly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. There’s something raw in his expression — something wounded and furious all at once. "Do what, Y/n?" His voice is low, controlled, but you can hear the crack in it. "Call out the guy who had his hands all over you after you’ve spent weeks pretending I don’t exist?"

"That’s not fair," you snap, your fingers curling into fists at your sides. "You don’t get to act like you have some claim over me just because we—" You cut yourself off, your face burning. "Just because one thing happened."

"One thing?" He lets out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Is that what you’re calling it now? We’ve changed from a one night stand to a mistake to one thing?"

"It was once," you say, lifting your chin to try to hide the way his words cut you. 

The words hang between you, heavy and ugly.

Mingyu’s expression darkens. "A mistake."

"You know what I mean," you mutter, looking away.

"No," he says, stepping closer. "I don’t. Because if it was a mistake, then why does it feel like you’ve been punishing me for it ever since?"

Your breath catches. "I haven’t—"

"You have," he cuts in, his voice rising. "You ignored me. You avoided me. You acted like I was some kind of monster for telling you how I felt—"

"Because it was too much!" The words tear out of you before you can stop them. "You don’t just—you don’t just say that to someone in the middle of—of that and expect them to know what to do with it!"

Mingyu goes still, his chest rising and falling too fast. "So what was I supposed to do, Y/n?" His voice is quieter now, but no less intense. "Wait? Pretend I didn’t mean it? Act like it was just sex when we both know it wasn’t?"

You press your lips together, your eyes burning. "It doesn’t matter. Because we’re not together. You don’t get to dictate who I talk to, who I let touch me—"

"I’m not dictating anything!" he snaps, his hands clenching at his sides. "I’m asking you to talk to me! Look at me! Stop acting like I’m the villain here when all I’ve ever done is care about you!"

"You don’t get to demand that!" you fire back, your voice shaking. "You don’t get to pull me out of a conversation in the middle of the gala and act like I owe you something!"

"You owe me nothing," he says, his voice breaking, “but honesty! You owe me the truth about why you’ve been terrified to even look at me for weeks!"

The words hit you like a physical blow.

You take a step back, your heel catching on the hem of your dress. "I am not terrified," you lie, but your voice wavers.

Mingyu exhales sharply, like he’s trying to rein himself in. "Then what is it, Y/n?" His voice is softer now, pleading. "What in God’s fuckin’ name are you so afraid of?"

You don’t answer.

Because the truth?

You’re afraid of this—of the way your chest aches when he looks at you, of the way your hands shake when he’s near, of the way you want to reach for him even though you know you don’t deserve him. You’re afraid that you’ll let him in and he’ll leave you. You’re afraid that you’ll get attached and then all of the promises he had whispered in your ears will come crashing down. You’re afraid to give someone so much love, to somehow match their intensity. You’re afraid of how much it hurts to love someone who sees you so clearly. You’re afraid that you’ll, one day, hurt this person more than you have right now. 

"I can’t do this right now," you say instead, your voice hollow. "The gala’s not over. I have work to do."

Mingyu’s jaw tightens. "So that’s it? You’re just gonna walk away again?"

"I’m not walking away," you say, even though you know it’s a lie. "I’m working. And if you’re gonna be childish about this, then you can wait until it’s over."

"Childish?" His voice is dangerously quiet.

"Yes," you say, lifting your chin. "Childish. You don’t get to drag me out here and demand things from me when we’re not even together."

Mingyu stares at you, his dark eyes searching yours like he’s trying to find something, anything, that will make this make sense. "You’re right," he says finally, his voice flat. "We’re not together. So I don’t get to demand anything from you."

The words sting more than they should.

"Good," you say, but it comes out weaker than you intended.

Mingyu doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you.

You should walk away.

You should.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stand there, your heart pounding, your throat tight, waiting for him to say something that will make this easier.

He doesn’t.

So you turn on your heel and walk back into the gala, the doors swinging shut behind you with a finality that feels like a punch to the gut.

And for the rest of the night, you avoid him.

11:11 PM 

The ballroom is a ghost of what it was.

The string quartet packed up hours ago. The donors, the deans, the laughing groups of students—all gone. The only remnants of the gala are the scattered champagne flutes, the abandoned name cards, the half-crushed programs left on chairs. The lights are dimmed, the chandeliers casting long, wavering shadows across the floor.

You and Mingyu are the last ones left.

You’ve been cleaning in silence, the kind that isn’t uncomfortable, but heavy—like the air before a storm. Your heels are long gone, kicked under a table somewhere. Your hair, once perfectly styled, is coming loose in soft waves around your shoulders. Mingyu’s tie is undone, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his usually neat hair mussed from running his hands through it too many times.

You’re both exhausted.

But neither of you has said it’s time to leave.

You’re folding the last of the tablecloths when Mingyu speaks.

"We make a good team."

His voice is quiet, but it still makes you jump. You glance up at him, your fingers pausing in their work. He’s watching you, his dark eyes unreadable in the dim light.

"Professionally," you say, because you have to. Because if you don’t, you’ll break.

Mingyu exhales, a soft, humorless laugh. "You sure?"

He steps closer.

Your breath catches.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" you ask, but your voice is too quiet, too weak.

"It means," he says, his voice low, "that we’re good at more than just planning galas."

Your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can hear it. "Mingyu—"

"No," he cuts in, shaking his head. "Let me say this. Please."

You swallow hard, but you don’t stop him.

He takes another step closer, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, close enough that you can smell the faint scent of his cologne—cedar and something warm, something him. "I’m crazy about you, Y/n," he says, his voice rough. "I’ve been crazy about you since freshman year. That night wasn’t just a hookup. It was literally the best night of my life, and I’m sorry I threw a love confession on you, but I don’t regret it. I don’t regret it at all."

Your chest tightens.

"Because I am in love with you," he continues, his voice breaking just a little. "I’m in love with you so much that I’d rather you hate me and acknowledge me than ignore me completely. I am in love with you, and you consume me—mind, body, and soul, every single day."

He’s close enough to touch you now.

But he doesn’t.

"And you don’t need to agree with me," he says, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable. "At all, actually. I’m not asking for your love back. Hell, I’m not even asking for the tiniest fucking slice of love back." He lets out a shaky breath, his hands flexing at his sides. "I’m just asking for a chance. One chance."

The silence that follows is deafening.

You don’t know what to say.

Because the truth is, you feel it too.

You’ve always felt it.

But you’ve been too scared to admit it. You’re still scared to admit it.

The air between you is thick, charged with everything he just said—every confession, every raw, unfiltered truth. Your chest aches, your hands tremble at your sides. You stare at him, then at your feet, then back at him again, like if you look away too long, this moment will dissolve into nothing.

Mingyu doesn’t move. 

And then, finally, you look up.

Your voice is shaky, barely above a whisper. "Are you serious?"

Mingyu’s expression doesn’t waver. "Y/n," he says, like it’s the only answer he’s ever needed to give, a huff of bitter laughter escaping him. "I’ve never not been serious about you."

Your breath hitches.

"I—"

"If you’re not going to," he cuts in, his voice rough, "just tell me. But don’t tell me that that night didn’t mean anything—"

"—Yes."

The word slips out before you can stop it. Before you can overthink it. Before you can convince yourself this is a bad idea.

Mingyu freezes.

"—no, just let me fin— wait. Wait, what?"

"Yes, Mingyu."

"Wait, wait, wait—yes, yes you’ll give me a chance or like yes you’re gonna let me down because—"

"—Yes, I like you too," you blurt out, your face burning, your heart pounding so hard you’re sure he can see it. "So just—"

Mingyu doesn’t let you finish.

One second, he’s standing there, stunned.

The next, he’s on you.

His hands cup your face, his fingers tangling in your hair as he leans down, his breath warm against your lips. "Ohmygod," he whispers, like he can’t believe this is real.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not soft. Not gentle. It’s desperate, like he’s been starving for this, for you, for this moment. His lips crash against yours, his hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You gasp into his mouth, your fingers clutching at his shirt, your body melting into his like it was always meant to.

Mingyu groans, his hands tightening on your hips before he lifts you up, spinning you around like you weigh nothing. You break the kiss with a breathless laugh, your hands flying to his shoulders as he sets you down, his forehead resting against yours.

"Say it again," he demands, his voice rough.

You grin, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. "Yes, Mingyu."

He kisses you again, softer this time, his lips brushing against yours like he’s memorizing the shape of them. Then he pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours, his breath coming fast. "I love you," he murmurs,  softer this time, like he needs to hear himself say it to believe it’s real.

Your breath catches.

You want to say it back.

God, you want to.

But the words stick in your throat, tangled in fear and doubt and the weight of everything that’s happened between you.

Mingyu must see it—the hesitation in your eyes, the way your lips part but no sound comes out—because his expression softens, his hands sliding down to your shoulders, then your waist, pulling you closer. "You don’t need to say anything," he murmurs, his voice rough. "Fuck, Y/n, I just—" He exhales sharply, his forehead pressing against yours. "I missed you. Fucking—fucking hell – I—"

His voice breaks.

He kisses you again, starving, like he’s been drowning and you’re the only thing that can save him. His lips crash against yours, his hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. You gasp into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

Mingyu groans, his hands sliding down to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, your dress riding up as he stumbles over and presses you against the nearest wall, his body pinning you there. His mouth never leaves yours, his kisses deep and hungry, like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into you.

"I’ll prove it to you," he murmurs against your lips, his voice ragged. "I’ll literally do anything you want. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you, god."

You whimper as his hands roam your body, one sliding up your inner thigh, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin there, sending sparks through your veins. The other hand cups your breast, his thumb rubbing slow, teasing circles over the fabric of your dress, making you arch into his touch. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps, your nails digging into his shoulders as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver.

"Mingyu—" you choke out, your voice breathy, needy.

"Tell me to stop," he growls against your throat, his hand sliding higher, his fingers brushing dangerously close to where you ache for him. "Tell me to stop, and I will."

You don’t.

You can’t.

Instead, you tilt your head back, giving him better access, your hips rocking against his without thought. "Don’t—don’t stop," you whisper, your voice trembling.

Mingyu groans, his fingers tightening on your thigh. "Fuck, Y/n," he breathes, his lips crashing back onto yours. His kiss is deeper now, more desperate, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s claiming you. His hand slides higher, his thumb pressing against the damp fabric between your legs, and you moan into his mouth, your body trembling.

"You’re killing me," he murmurs, his voice rough with need. His fingers tease you through the thin barrier of your underwear, his touch light but maddening. "Tell me what you want."

You whimper, your hips jerking against his hand. "You," you gasp. "I just—I just want you."

Mingyu’s breath hitches, his forehead pressing against yours as his fingers finally slip beneath the fabric, his touch direct, sure. You cry out, your back arching off the wall as he strokes you, his thumb circling your clit in slow, torturous motions. "Like this?" he murmurs, his voice dark, teasing. "Is this what you want?"

"Y-yes—" you stammer, your fingers clutching at his shoulders. "God, yes—"

Mingyu kisses you again, swallowing your moans as his fingers work you, his touch relentless, perfect. His other hand slides up your body, cupping your breast again, his thumb brushing over your nipple through the fabric of your dress. The dual sensations send you spiraling, your body trembling, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"You’re so beautiful," he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with awe. "So fucking perfect."

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but feel—his hands on you, his body pressed against yours, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. Your dress is rumpled, your hair is a mess, and you’ve never felt more alive.

"Mingyu—" you gasp, your body tightening around his fingers. "I’m— I’m close—"

"I know," he murmurs, his voice dark, satisfied. "I’ve got you."

And you do.

You shatter, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, your cries muffled against his shoulder as he holds you through it, his fingers slowing but not stopping, drawing out every last tremor.

When you finally come back to yourself, Mingyu is watching you, his dark eyes soft, his expression reverent. He presses a gentle kiss to your lips, his hands sliding up to cup your face. "I love you," he whispers again, his voice steady, sure.

You melt into him, your arms wrapping around his neck as you pull him close, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of what just happened. Your lips brush against the corner of his mouth, soft and lingering, before you press a firmer kiss there, your heart swelling with something warm and real.

"Wanna come to my room?" you murmur against his skin, your voice still breathy. "It’s down two blocks."

Mingyu’s arms tighten around you, his chest rumbling with a low, satisfied sound. "Fuck, yeah."

Then he pauses, his grip loosening just enough to pull back and look at you, his dark eyes searching yours. "But I’m not just saying that to—to fuck you, you know that, right?" His voice is softer now, almost hesitant. "I just—"

"—Mingyu," you cut in, smiling despite the flush still burning in your cheeks. "I get it."

He exhales, a shaky laugh escaping him as he presses his forehead to yours. "Okay. Good. Because I really want to fuck you, but also—"

"—You wanna be with me?" you finish for him, grinning.

"Yeah," he admits, his voice rough. "That too."

You laugh, the sound light and easy, and it feels like the first real breath you’ve taken in weeks. Then you wiggle in his arms, your dress still bunched around your hips, and wince. "Ugh, I just ruined my underwear."

Mingyu’s grin turns wicked as he lowers you to the ground, his hands lingering on your waist. "You could give it to me," he teases, his voice dropping to a low purr.

You slap his chest, laughing. "Absolutely not."

He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm before lacing his fingers through yours. "Worth a shot."

You roll your eyes, but you’re still smiling as you grab your bag and shoes from where they’d been abandoned near the drink table. Mingyu drapes his jacket over your shoulders without a word, the fabric warm from his body, smelling like him—cedar and something uniquely Mingyu. You slip your arms into the sleeves, the fabric swallowing you whole, and he tugs you close again, his arm slung around your waist as he guides you toward the exit.

The night air is cool against your flushed skin as you step outside, the quiet hum of the city wrapping around you. You wince as your bare feet hit the pavement, the cold seeping into your soles.

Mingyu notices immediately.

He stops, turning to face you, his expression softening. "You’re really okay with no shoes?" His thumb brushes over the back of your hand, his voice laced with concern. "I can carry you back."

You smirk, squeezing his hand. "Tempting. But I think I can manage."

He studies you for a second, like he’s trying to decide if you’re lying, before nodding, his grip tightening around your fingers. "If you change your mind, just say the word."

You lean into him, your shoulder brushing his. "I won’t."

11:59 PM

The two blocks to your sorority house pass in a blur of laughter and stolen kisses, your fingers tangled together, Mingyu’s jacket draped over your shoulders like a shield against the night. The cold pavement stings your bare feet, but you barely notice—every brush of his thumb against your knuckles, every time he pulls you closer to press a kiss to your temple, sends warmth flooding through you.

By the time you reach your door, you’re breathless, giddy, your heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with the walk and everything to do with him.

You fumble with your keys, your hands shaking just enough that Mingyu chuckles, his breath warm against your neck. "Need help?"

"Shut up," you mutter, but you’re smiling as you finally get the door open.

The second it swings shut behind you, Mingyu’s hands are on your waist, spinning you around and pressing you back against the wood. His jacket slips from your shoulders, pooling on the floor as his mouth finds yours, his kiss hungry, desperate. You giggle against his lips, your fingers tangling in his hair as he lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist.

"Fuck, I’ve missed this," he murmurs between kisses, his hands sliding under your thighs to hold you up.

"Missed what?" you tease, nipping at his bottom lip.

"You," he whispers, before turning around with you in his arms. 

Your room is exactly as you left it—soft, lived-in, you. The fairy lights strung along your headboard cast a warm, golden glow, the faint hum of your salt lamp filling the silence. A pile of textbooks sits on your desk, half-finished sketches of interior designs scattered across the surface. The scent of your vanilla candle lingers in the air, mixing with the faint musk of Mingyu’s cologne.

He pauses as he sets you down, his eyes scanning the room before landing back on you. "This is very you," he murmurs, his voice low, almost reverent.

You laugh, kicking off your shoes before they can hit the floor. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"It means," he says, stepping closer, his hands sliding up your arms, "it’s warm. Soft. Like you could curl up in here and never leave."

Your breath catches.

Mingyu’s gaze darkens as he takes you in, his fingers brushing against the strap of your dress. "You look gorgeous in this light," he murmurs, his voice rough. "Like you’re glowing."

You swallow hard, your hands finding their way to his chest. "You’re just saying that."

"Uh-uh," he says, shaking his head. "I’m not."

And then he’s kissing you again, his hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You moan into his mouth, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours.

Mingyu walks you backward until your legs hit the edge of your bed, his hands never leaving your body. He lowers you onto the mattress gently, like you’re something precious, his weight settling over you as he kisses you deeper, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s memorizing the taste of you.

His hands roam your thighs, his touch firm, possessive, sending sparks skittering across your skin. "Can I take your dress off?" he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with need.

"Please," you breathe, your hands already sliding under his shirt, pushing the fabric off his shoulders.

Mingyu sits back just enough to unzip the side of your dress, the sound loud in the quiet room. The fabric loosens, and he peels it away from your body slowly, his breath catching as he takes you in. "Fuck," he curses under his breath, his eyes darkening. "You’re perfect."

You laugh, breathless, as you help him pull the dress over your head, tossing it aside. "You’re overdressed," you tease, your fingers already working on the buttons of his shirt.

Mingyu grins, shrugging the shirt off before reaching for his belt, his eyes never leaving yours. "Better?"

"Much," you murmur, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the heat of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under your palm.

He kisses you again, his hands sliding up your thighs, his touch sending shivers through you. "You’re so beautiful," he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough. "I can’t—"

You cut him off with another kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer. His belt clatters to the floor, forgotten, as his hands slide higher, his thumbs brushing against the damp fabric of your panties.

"Fuck, Y/n," he groans, his breath hot against your skin. "You’re soaked."

You whimper as his thumb presses against your clit, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through you. "Mingyu—"

"I’ve got you," he murmurs, his voice dark, promising. His thumb circles you slowly, teasingly, his eyes locked onto yours as he watches your reaction.

You arch into his touch, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Please—"

Mingyu’s grin is wicked as he leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Please what?"

Mingyu’s thumb circles your clit through the thin fabric of your panties, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every gasp, every shudder that ripples through you. His mouth crashes back onto yours, swallowing your whimpers as his touch grows firmer, more insistent. The heat of his body presses you into the mattress, his weight a delicious pressure, grounding you as pleasure coils tight in your stomach.

"Fuck—" you breathe against his lips, your hips rocking up instinctively, chasing the friction of his thumb. "Mingyu, please—"

He smirks against your mouth, his free hand sliding up your ribs, his fingers brushing the underside of your breast. "Please what?" he murmurs, his voice rough, teasing. "Tell me what you want."

You whine, your nails digging into his shoulders. "You know what I want."

"Say it," he growls, his thumb pressing harder, making you gasp. "I want to hear you say it."

"I want—" Your voice breaks as his fingers finally slip beneath the fabric of your panties, his touch direct, electric. "I want you."

Mingyu groans, his forehead pressing against yours as his fingers tease you, his thumb circling your clit in slow, maddening strokes. "You’re so wet," he murmurs, his voice thick with awe. "Fuck, Y/n, you’re dripping for me."

You whimper, your hips jerking against his hand. "Mingyu—"

"Shh," he soothes, his lips brushing against yours. "I’ve got you."

His fingers slide lower, teasing your entrance before finally—finally—pushing inside you. You cry out, your back arching off the bed as he curls them just right, his thumb never stopping its relentless rhythm on your clit.

"That’s it," he murmurs, his voice dark, satisfied. "Let me hear you."

You can’t help it—the sounds spill out of you, breathy and desperate, your fingers tangling in his hair as he works you over, his touch perfect, relentless. His mouth finds your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver.

"Mingyu—" you gasp, your body tightening around his fingers. "I’m— I’m close—"

"I know," he murmurs, his voice a dark promise. "Come for me, Y/n. Let me taste you."

Before you can process his words, his fingers are gone, his hands gripping your hips as he slides down your body, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach. He pauses at your navel, his tongue dipping into the dip before he continues lower, his breath hot against your skin.

You whine, your hands flying to his hair. "Mingyu—"

"Patience," he murmurs, his fingers hooking into the sides of your panties. He pulls them down slowly, his eyes locked onto yours as he drags the fabric over your thighs, your knees, your ankles. And then—

He pockets them.

Your eyes widen. "Did you just—"

"Mine now," he says, his voice smug, his grin wicked.

You open your mouth to protest, but then his hands are on your thighs, spreading you open, and all coherent thought flees your mind.

Mingyu’s breath is hot against your center, his gaze dark as he takes you in. "Fuck, you’re gorgeous," he murmurs, his voice rough. "So perfect."

And then his mouth is on you.

You cry out, your back arching off the bed as his tongue drags slow, deliberate circles around your clit. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as he licks you like he’s starving, like he’s been waiting for this moment for years.

"Mingyu—" you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Oh god—"

He groans against you, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure through your body. His tongue flicks over your clit, teasing, before sliding lower, tracing the length of your slit. You whine, your hips rocking up instinctively, chasing his mouth.

"More," you beg, your voice breaking. "Please, more—"

Mingyu doesn’t make you wait.

His tongue returns to your clit, his lips sealing around it as he sucks gently, his fingers sliding back inside you. You cry out, your body trembling as he works you over, his touch relentless, perfect.

"That’s it," he murmurs against your skin, his voice dark, encouraging. "Let me hear you, Y/n. Fuck—you taste so good."

You whimper, your hips jerking against his mouth as pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your stomach. "Mingyu—I’m— I’m gonna—"

"Come for me," he growls, his fingers curling inside you, his tongue flicking over your clit in fast, merciless strokes. "Let me feel you."

And you do.

You shatter, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, your cries filling the room as Mingyu holds you through it, his mouth never leaving you, his fingers drawing out every last tremor.

When you finally come back to yourself, Mingyu is pressing soft, lingering kisses to your inner thighs, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your skin. "Fuck, Y/n," he murmurs, his voice rough. "You’re incredible."

You laugh breathlessly, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him up to kiss you. "You’re not so bad yourself," you murmur against his lips.

Mingyu grins, his hands sliding up your body to cup your breasts. "Oh, we’re just getting started."

“I’m gonna hold you to that.” 

Mingyu hovers over you, his arms trembling with restraint, his dark eyes burning into yours like he’s committing this moment to memory. His chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven breaths, his skin slick with sweat, his muscles coiled tight. You can see the effort it takes for him to stay still, to let you set the pace.

And you love it.

You reach for him, your fingers brushing against the hard line of his cock through his boxers before you hook your thumbs into the waistband and pull them down. His breath hisses between his teeth as you free him, your hand wrapping around his length, stroking him slow and firm.

"Fuck—" he groans, his hips jerking into your touch.

You smirk, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, "Will you let me ride you?"

Mingyu’s entire body goes rigid.

For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Then his hands are on your hips, his fingers digging in as he flips you both over in one smooth motion, settling you on top of him. His cock presses against your thigh, hot and heavy, already twitching with need.

"You’re killing me," he growls, his voice rough.

You laugh, breathless, your hands sliding up his chest as you sit up, straddling him. Your dress is long gone, your bra unhooked and discarded somewhere on the floor, your skin flushed and sensitive under his gaze. You can feel how wet you are, how ready, your thighs slick as you rock against him, teasing him with the heat of your pussy.

Mingyu’s hands tighten on your hips, his breath coming in sharp gasps. "Condom—"

You cut him off with a kiss, your lips crashing against his as you reach between you, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance. "I have an IUD," you murmur against his mouth.

Mingyu freezes.

"Raw?" His voice is barely more than a whisper, like he’s afraid to hope.

"Yeah," you breathe, your nails digging into his shoulders. "If you’re okay with it."

"Fuck—" His hands slide up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. "Raw, Y/n?" His voice is rough, disbelieving. "God, what—you’re—yes. Okay. Fuck."

You don’t give him time to overthink it.

You lower yourself onto him slowly, so slowly, your breath hitching as his cock stretches you open, inch by inch. Mingyu’s hands fly to your hips, his fingers digging in as he fights the urge to buck up into you, his entire body trembling with restraint.

"Fuck—" he groans, his head pressing back into the pillow. "Y/n—fuck—"

You whimper, your head falling back as you take him deeper, your body adjusting to the fullness of him. He feels bigger like this, hotter, the sensation of skin on skin sending sparks skittering across your nerves. "Mingyu—" you gasp, your hands sliding up to your own breasts, teasing your nipples as you rock your hips. "You feel so good—"

Mingyu’s eyes darken as he watches you, his hands sliding up your thighs, his thumbs brushing against your clit. "You’re taking me so well," he murmurs, his voice rough with awe. "Fuck, Y/n—you’re perfect."

You moan, your hips rolling as you take him deeper, your body trembling with the effort to go slow. "Mingyu—" you whimper, your nails digging into his chest. "I can’t— I need—"

"I know," he growls, his hands tightening on your hips. "I’ve got you."

You’re a vision above him—your hair wild, your lips swollen, your skin flushed and glistening with sweat. Mingyu’s hands grip your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go, his fingers digging into your flesh as you finally, finally sink all the way down onto his cock.

"Fuck—" His voice is a broken rasp, his eyes locked onto where you’re stretched tight around him. "Y/n—fuck—you feel—" He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "You feel unreal."

You whimper, your nails scraping down his chest as you adjust to the fullness of him, your body trembling. He’s thick, hot, filling you in a way that makes your toes curl, your breath hitching as you rock your hips experimentally.

"God—" Mingyu’s head presses back into the pillow, his jaw clenched tight. "You’re killing me."

You grin, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips, your hips rolling in slow, teasing circles. "You like it?" you murmur against his mouth.

"Fuck yes I like it," he groans, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. "I love it. I love the way you take me. The way you milk me. Fuck—" His breath hitches as you clench around him, your body already fluttering with need. "You’re so tight. So wet. So fucking perfect."

You moan, your hips rocking faster, your clit grinding against the base of his cock with every movement. "Mingyu—" you gasp, your hands sliding up to tangle in your own hair. "You feel so good—"

"Yeah?" His voice is rough, his eyes dark as he watches you. "Tell me how good."

"So good," you whimper, your hips rolling in deep, slow circles. "So big—so deep—" Your breath catches as he hits that perfect spot inside you, your body trembling. "Right there—"

Mingyu groans, his hands tightening on your hips as he fights the urge to buck up into you. "Fuck, Y/n—you’re dripping on me. Fuck—" His thumb brushes over your clit, making you gasp. "You love this, don’t you? Love riding my cock. Love the way I fill you up."

"Yes—" you moan, your head falling back. "God, yes—"

"That’s it," he growls, his hips twitching up, meeting your movements. "Take what you want. Fuck—you’re so greedy for it."

You whimper, your hands sliding down to brace against his chest as you ride him harder, your hips snapping down onto his cock. Mingyu’s breath comes in sharp gasps, his eyes locked onto where you’re joined, his cock glistening with your arousal.

"Fuck—" he groans, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumbs teasing your nipples. "You’re so beautiful like this. So fucking mine."

You moan, your body trembling as pleasure coils tight in your stomach. "Mingyu—" you gasp, your nails digging into his chest. "I’m close—"

"I know," he murmurs, his voice dark, promising. "I can feel you. You’re clenching around me. Fuck—you’re so close."

His words send a jolt of pleasure through you, your hips rocking faster, your body trembling. "Mingyu—" you whimper, your head falling back. "Please—"

"Come for me," he growls, his hands tightening on your hips. "Let me feel you come on my cock. Fuck—I want to feel you."

And you do.

You cry out, your body trembling as pleasure crashes over you, your pussy clenching around him as you ride out your orgasm.

You’re still riding him, slow and deep, your body trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm, your pussy fluttering around his cock like it never wants to let go. Mingyu’s hands are on your hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Fuck—Y/n—" His voice is strained, his muscles coiled tight. "I should— I should pull out—"

You shake your head, your nails scraping down his chest as you roll your hips, taking him even deeper. "No," you whisper, your voice breathless. "It’s okay. I want you to come inside me."

Mingyu’s eyes darken, his grip tightening. "You—you’re sure?"

"Yes," you murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. "I’m sure."

That’s all it takes.

With a broken groan, Mingyu’s hips jerk up, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he comes. His entire body shakes, his breath hitching as he spills into you, his hands slamming down onto your hips to hold you still. "Fuck—fuck—fuck—" His voice is a raw, desperate rasp, his eyes squeezed shut as he rides out the waves of his orgasm.

You whimper, your body trembling as you feel him filling you, the heat of his release sending another jolt of pleasure through you. "Mingyu—" you gasp, your hips rocking slowly, drawing out his orgasm. "God, you feel so good—"

Mingyu’s hands fly up to your face, cupping your cheeks, pulling you down for a searing kiss. You whine into his mouth, collapsing onto Mingyu’s chest, your body boneless, your breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. His arms wrap around you instantly, pulling you close as he presses soft, lingering kisses to your cheek, your temple, your jaw. His lips move against your skin, his voice a low, rough murmur.

"Fuck, Y/n… you’re perfect… so fucking perfect… I love you… love you so much…"

You whine, burying your face in the crook of his neck, your thighs trembling. "Mingyu—" Your voice is muffled, embarrassed. "I can feel it… your cum… it’s dripping down my thigh…"

Mingyu freezes.

His cock twitches inside you.

You feel it immediately.

A sharp, surprised laugh bursts out of you, your hips shifting just enough to make him groan. "Oh my god," you giggle, nipping at his earlobe. "Are you serious right now?"

Mingyu’s hands tighten on your waist, his breath hitching. "Fuck—" His voice is rough, disbelieving. "You’re kidding me—"

"Nope," you tease, rolling your hips just a little, feeling him grow inside you. "You’re getting hard again."

Mingyu groans, his head pressing back into the pillow. "Y/n—fuck—you can’t do that—"

"Do what?" You smirk, rocking your hips again, your body already responding to the fullness of him. "This?"

"Fuck—" Mingyu’s hands slide down to grip your ass, his fingers digging in. "You’re killing me—"

You laugh, breathless, your lips brushing against his ear. "Wanna go again?"

Mingyu’s breath catches, his cock pulsing inside you. "You think you’re ready for it again?"

You bite your lip, your hips rolling in slow, teasing circles. "I dunno," you murmur, your voice dripping with false innocence. "Are you?"

Mingyu doesn’t answer with words.

Instead, he kisses you—deep, hungry, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s claiming you all over again. His hands slide up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he rolls you onto your back, his body settling between your thighs.

You gasp as he sinks deeper, his cock thickening inside you, stretching you all over again. "Mingyu—" you whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Oh fuck—"

Mingyu groans, his forehead pressing against yours as he pulls back just enough to look down between you. His breath hitches as he watches his cum—your cum, mixed—spill out of you, dripping down your thighs. "Fuck—" His voice is a broken rasp. "Look at you… fuck…"

You whine, your hips rocking up, your body already craving more. "Mingyu—" you gasp, your legs wrapping around his waist. "Please—"

Mingyu doesn’t make you wait.

His hips snap forward, his cock sliding deep inside you, filling you in one smooth motion. You cry out, your back arching off the bed as pleasure crashes over you, your body trembling with the overwhelming sensation of him.

"Fuck—" Mingyu groans, his hands sliding under your ass, lifting you just enough to angle himself deeper. "You feel so good—so fucking tight—"

You whimper, your nails scraping down his back as he sets a slow, deep rhythm, his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you. "Mingyu—" you gasp, your hips rocking up to meet his. "Harder—"

Mingyu groans, his hips snapping forward, his cock pounding into you with deep, relentless strokes. "Like this?" he huffs, his voice rough. "You want it harder?"

"Yes—" you moan, your head falling back. "God, yes—"

Mingyu’s hands tighten on your hips, his breath coming in sharp gasps as he fucks you deeper, harder, his cock stretching you open with every thrust. "Fuck—Y/n—you’re taking me so well—" His voice is wrecked, his eyes locked onto where you’re joined, his cum dripping out of you with every movement.

Mingyu’s hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your thighs, tangling in your hair—as he fucks you with deep, relentless strokes. You’re already so close, your body trembling, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps.

Then, without warning, Mingyu stops.

You whine in protest, your hips rocking up instinctively, chasing his cock. "Mingyu—" you gasp, your nails digging into his arms. "Don’t stop—"

Mingyu grins, his dark eyes burning into yours. "Be patient," he murmurs, his voice rough.

Before you can protest again, he slides a hand under your hips, shoving a pillow beneath you in one smooth motion. The new angle makes you gasp. He hits deeper, harder, the head of it dragging against that perfect spot inside you.

"Oh fuck—" You arch off the bed, your back bowing as pleasure jolts through you. "Mingyu—fuck—"

Mingyu groans, his hands tightening on your hips as he pulls back just enough to watch his cock slide back into you. "Fuck—" His voice is a broken rasp. "Look at you… taking me so well…"

You whimper, your hands flying to the headboard, your fingers clutching the wood as he sets a slow, deep rhythm, his cock stretching you open with every thrust. The new angle makes every movement electric, your body trembling with the effort to hold back.

"Mingyu—" you gasp, your nails scraping down his arms. "I’m— I’m close—"

Mingyu’s hands slide up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he kisses you—deep, hungry, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s trying to devour you. His hips snap forward, his cock pounding into you with deep, relentless strokes, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every movement.

You moan into his mouth, your body trembling as pleasure coils tight in your stomach. "Mingyu—" you whimper, your hips rocking up to meet his. "Please—"

Mingyu groans, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, his fingers digging in as he fucks you harder, faster. "You’re so close," he growls, his voice rough. "I can feel you."

You whimper, your head falling back as your body trembles on the edge. "Mingyu—" you gasp, your nails digging into his arms. "I’m gonna—"

Mingyu’s hand slides between you, his thumb pressing against your clit in slow, firm circles. "Come for me, Y/n," he murmurs, his voice dark, promising. "Let me feel you."

And you do.

You shatter, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, your pussy clenching around him as you ride out your orgasm. Mingyu groans, his hips jerking forward, his cock pulsing deep inside you.

"Fuck—Y/n—" His voice is a broken rasp, his breath coming in sharp gasps. "Can I—can I cum inside you?"

You whimper, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm. "Yes—" you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Cum inside me, Mingyu—please—"

Mingyu groans, his hands tightening on your hips as he fucks you through your orgasm, his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you. "Fuck—" His voice is wrecked, his eyes locked onto where you’re joined. "You’re so tight—so wet—"

your back arches off the bed, your thighs shaking, your pussy clenching so tight around Mingyu’s cock that he groans, his rhythm stuttering for just a second before he recovers, his hips snapping forward again, dragging his cock against that perfect spot inside you.

"F-Fuck—!" You gasp, your nails digging into the headboard so hard your knuckles turn white. Your vision whites out for a second, your body trembling as pleasure crashes over you in waves. "M-Mingyu—! I c-can’t—!"

Mingyu doesn’t stop.

He never stops.

His hands slide up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears already welling in your eyes. "You can," he groans, his voice rough, feral. "You’re not done yet, Y/n. Not even close."

You whimper, your body already oversensitive, every drag of his cock against your walls sending sparks skittering across your nerves. "N-No—!" You shake your head, your hips twitching away from him instinctively. "It’s too much—!"

Mingyu’s grip tightens, his hips rolling in slow, deep circles, his cock hitting that spot inside you just right. "You’re so wet," he murmurs, his voice dark, hungry. "So tight. Fuck—you’re dripping on me, Y/n. Dripping for me."

You moan, your body betraying you as your hips rock up to meet his, your pussy clenching around him again. "M-Mingyu—!" Your voice breaks, your breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. "I c-can’t— I c-can’t breathe—!"

"Yes, you can," he growls, his hand sliding between you, his thumb pressing against your clit. "Breathe for me, Y/n. Fuck—breathe and take my cock."

You cry out, your back arching off the bed as pleasure coils tight in your stomach again, the sensation too much, too intense. "M-Mingyu—!" Your nails scrape down his arms, leaving red marks in their wake. "I’m gonna— I’m gonna—!"

"That’s it," he murmurs, his hips snapping forward, his cock pounding into you with deep, relentless strokes. "Come for me again, Y/n. Let me feel you."

You whimper, your body trembling as pleasure crashes over you again, your pussy clenching around him as you ride out your second orgasm. "M-Mingyu—!" Your voice is a broken sob, your body overwhelmed, overstimulated. "I f-feel weird—!"

Mingyu groans, his hips jerking forward, his cock pulsing deep inside you. "Fuck—what’s wrong?"

"M-My tummy—!" You gasp, your hands flying to your stomach, your fingers pressing against the bulge his cock creates inside you. "I d-dunno— I’m gonna cum again—fuck— I dunno, Mingyu—fuck!"

Mingyu’s eyes darken, his breath hitching. "Fuck—" His voice is rough, desperate. "Are you gonna squirt for me?"

You whimper, your body trembling as the sensation builds, intense, overwhelming. "I-I dunno— I’ve n-never—!"

"Fucking cum for me," Mingyu growls, his hands sliding down to press against your stomach, feeling the way his cock stretches you, fills you. "Let me feel you, Y/n. Fuck—let me see you."

Your body shudders, your back arching off the bed as pleasure crashes over you in a wave, your pussy clenching around him as you soak the sheets beneath you. "M-Mingyu—!" You sob, your body trembling, your vision blurring as pleasure overwhelms you. "I-I c-can’t— I c-can’t stop—!"

Mingyu groans, his hips jerking forward, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he follows you over the edge. "Fuck—Y/n—!" His voice is a broken rasp, his hands tightening on your hips as he fills you up, his cum mixing with yours as he empties himself inside you.

You can feel it—thick, hot, so much—his cum spilling out of you as he pulls back, only to thrust forward again, his cock dragging against your oversensitive walls. "F-Fuck—!" You whimper, your body trembling as pleasure overwhelms you again. "M-Mingyu— I c-can’t—!"

"You can," he groans, his hips snapping forward, his cock pounding into you with deep, relentless strokes. "Take it, Y/n. Fuck—take all of it."

You sob, your body trembling as pleasure crashes over you again, your pussy clenching around him as you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm. Mingyu groans, his hips jerking forward, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he empties himself completely, his cum filling you up, lugging you full.

Mingyu pants from above you, his arms shaking as he holds himself up just enough not to crush you. His breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps, his chest heaving against yours. You can feel his heart pounding, matching the frantic rhythm of your own.

Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in the damp strands of his hair. "Kiss?" you murmur, your voice soft, almost shy.

Mingyu exhales, a shaky laugh escaping him as he gently lowers himself down, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His lips find yours in a soft, lingering kiss—gentle, tender, a stark contrast to the feral intensity of just moments before. "You’re incredible," he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with awe. "So fucking perfect."

You hum, burying your face in the crook of his neck, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. "I can’t believe I just did that."

Mingyu chuckles, his arms tightening around you as he presses a kiss to your hair. "It was so fucking hot," he murmurs, his voice warm. "I thought I ascended for a second."

You groan, slapping his shoulder lightly. "Shut up," you mutter, your voice muffled against his skin. "It was weird and now my sheets are wet. It’s like I peed myself or something."

Mingyu laughs, the sound rich and warm, vibrating against your chest. "No," he says, his voice firm. "You squirted, and it was fucking hot. I’ll wash your sheets."

You peek up at him, your eyes wide with surprise. "...Really?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your forehead. "You’re so perfect, Y/n. Every inch of you."

You sigh, melting into his embrace, your body finally starting to relax. "You’re just saying that."

Mingyu pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his expression soft, sincere. "I’m not," he says, his voice gentle. "I mean it. Every word."

You bite your lip, your heart swelling with emotion. "...Thank you," you whisper.

Mingyu smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "No, thank you," he murmurs. "For trusting me. For letting me see you like that."

You hum, snuggling closer to him, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his back. "You’re ridiculous," you murmur, but there’s no heat in your words.

Mingyu chuckles, his arms tightening around you. "And yet."

You laugh, the sound light and easy. "And yet I let you spear me with your stupid big dick.”

Mingyu presses another kiss to your hair, his breath warm against your skin as he giggles and blushes. "Didn’t hear you complaining about my dick when I was–” 

“-Gah! Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!” You groan, hands covering your face as Mingyu laughs. 

It’s quiet between you two before Mingyu exhales slowly, his breath warm and steady against the damp skin of your neck, his lips pressing one last soft kiss to your shoulder before he begins to pull away. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles when he sees you flinch. 

The sensation of him leaving you is intimate in a way that makes your breath catch—the slow, deliberate drag of his cock as it slips from your body, the way his cum spills out of you in a warm, thick rush, the way his breath hitches at the sight of it. You whimper, your thighs trembling, your body still humming with oversensitivity, every nerve ending alight.

"Shh," he murmurs, his voice rough but gentle, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "I’ve got you." His touch is careful, grounding, as if he knows exactly how overwhelmed you feel right now. He presses another kiss to your temple, his lips lingering for just a second longer than necessary, before he reaches over to your bedside table.

The crinkle of Kleenex being pulled from the box fills the quiet room, and then his hands are between your thighs, his touch so gentle it makes your chest tighten. He cleans you up with slow, deliberate strokes, his fingers brushing against your skin like he’s handling something precious. You watch him, your heart swelling, your cheeks still flushed with the aftermath of what just happened—embarrassment, yes, but also something warmer, something softer.

"There," he murmurs, tossing the used tissues into the trash before turning back to you. His dark eyes meet yours, and there’s something in them—something tender, something proud. "All better."

You bite your lip, your fingers twisting in the sheets beneath you. "Mingyu—" Your voice is small, uncertain. You don’t even know what you want to say. Thank you feels too small. I love you feels too big. So you just let his name hang in the air between you, heavy with everything unsaid.

He doesn’t let you finish.

Instead, he scoops you up into his arms like you weigh nothing, lifting you effortlessly off the bed. You squeal in surprise, your arms flying around his neck on instinct, your laughter bubbling up before you can stop it. "Mingyu! Put me down!"

"Nope," he says, grinning down at you, his eyes bright with amusement. "You’re mine now. Gotta take care of you." His voice is light, teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of something deeper—something that makes your stomach flutter.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, your heart pounding in your chest. "You’re ridiculous."

"Thought you liked my ridiculousness," he teases, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he carries you toward the bathroom.

You groan, burying your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him—cedar and sweat and Mingyu. "Unfortunately," you mutter, but your arms tighten around him just a little.

Mingyu laughs, the sound warm and rich, vibrating against your skin. "Unfortunately for you, maybe," he says, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "But I think it’s pretty fortunate."

You don’t answer. You just let him carry you, your body relaxing into his as he sets you down on the edge of the sink. The cool porcelain is a shock against your heated skin, but it feels good. Grounding. Mingyu steps back just enough to turn on the shower, his fingers testing the water temperature before adjusting it. Steam begins to fill the small bathroom, the sound of the spray filling the silence between you.

"Too hot?" he asks, glancing back at you.

You shake your head, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the edge of the sink. "No, it’s perfect."

Mingyu nods, pressing a quick, sweet kiss to your lips before disappearing back into your room. You hear the rustle of sheets being stripped, the soft thud of them hitting the floor, and then his voice calling out, "Where do you keep spare sheets?"

"Top shelf of the closet," you answer back, your voice echoing in the small bathroom.

A moment later, he reappears in the doorway, his arms full of fresh pink linens, his hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it. His pants from the gala are back on, zipped but unbuttoned, low-slung on his hips. "Got ‘em," he says, grinning. You can’t help but admire how he looks with the dimmed backlight of your room haloing him. "Now, get in the shower. I’ll join you in a sec."

You raise an eyebrow, a smile playing at your lips. "Oh?"

Mingyu’s grin turns wicked, his eyes darkening. "Mhm," he hums, his voice dropping to a low purr. "Start showering."

You laugh, shaking your head as you slide off the sink and step into the warm spray.

The water cascades over you in warm, steady streams, washing away the sweat, the cum, the lingering tension from what just happened. You tilt your head back, letting the spray soak your hair, your fingers trailing through the wet strands as you close your eyes. The steam curls around you, thick and comforting, the sound of the shower filling the small bathroom with a quiet, rhythmic hum.

Your body still thrums with the aftershocks of what just happened—every nerve ending alight, every muscle loose and languid. You press a hand to your stomach, feeling the way your skin still tingles, the way your thighs tremble just a little. God. You can’t believe you just did that. You can’t believe how good it felt. How right.

The glass shower room door suddenly opens, and you open your eyes just in time to see Mingyu step in behind you. He’s lost his pants, cheeks flushed with a dusty pink as he grins down at you, hair pushed back. His eyes find yours, soft and warm, his lips quirking into a small smile. 

He looks like a dork, you think. A stupid, overeager, wondrously loving dork that makes you wonder how you held out for so long. 

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice low, rough from everything that just happened. He reaches towards you and curls a lock of hair around his finger before tucking is behind your ear. 

"Hey," you whisper back, your fingers brushing against the curve of his bicep. You swallow. 

God, you’re not strong enough for this man. 

Mingyu steps closer, his hands finding your waist, pulling you flush against him. The water sluices over both of you, his skin warm and slick against yours. "You okay?" he asks, his thumbs brushing slow circles against your hips. His fingers slowly massage your hips, waist, up your ribs, shoulders, then back down to your hips, kneading the aching muscles. You stare up at him, eyelids fluttering in exhaustion. 

You nod, your fingers tracing the droplets of water on his chest. "Yeah. Just... processing."

Mingyu hums, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Me too," he murmurs. "But I’ve got nowhere to be. Take your time," he giggles, a big hand coming to rest on the side of your face. 

You sigh, leaning into him, your forehead resting against his shoulder, his hand going to smooth down your wet hair. The water beats down on your back, the steam wrapping around you both like a cocoon. "You made the bed?" you murmur, your voice muffled against his skin.

"Yeah," he says, his hands sliding up and down your back. "Figured you’d want fresh sheets after..." He trails off, his fingers brushing against the small of your back.

You groan softly, your cheeks warming, mumbling into his chest, "After I squirted all over them?"

Mingyu groans, his hands tightening on your waist, pulling you closer. "Fuck, Y/n, don’t say it like that."

"Like what?" you tease, tilting your head back to look at him.

"Like- like- ugh I don’t know. Just don’t say it like that," he grumbles, his voice dropping to a pouty whine. 

You bite your lip, your fingers tangling in his hair. "It was embarrassing," you admit, your voice soft.

Mingyu shakes his head, pressing another kiss to your forehead. "It was hot," he corrects, his hands sliding down to cup your ass.

You hum, your heart swelling in your chest. "You’re biased."

"Damn right I am," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours. "But I’m also right."

You laugh, the sound light and easy, and Mingyu captures your mouth in a slow, deep kiss. The water pours over you both, the steam curling around you, the world outside this shower fading away until there’s nothing but the two of you.

Mingyu pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. "You sure you’re okay?" he asks, his voice soft.

You nod, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Yeah," you whisper. "I’m good."

Mingyu smiles, pressing one last kiss to your lips before stepping back just enough to let the water wash over you both. "Good," he murmurs. Mingyu’s hands linger on your waist for just a second longer than necessary before he reaches for the bottle of shampoo on the small ledge. His fingers brush against yours as he takes it, and you don’t pull away. Instead, you let your hand rest against his wrist, your thumb tracing a slow circle against his pulse.

He glances at you, his dark eyes soft in the dim light of the bathroom. "Turn around," he murmurs, his voice low.

You do as he says, turning so your back is to him, your hair heavy and wet against your skin. Mingyu’s fingers slide into your hair, his touch gentle as he begins to massage the shampoo into your scalp. You let out a soft, involuntary sound—a sigh, a hum, something between pleasure and relief—as his fingers work in slow, firm circles.

"God, that feels good," you murmur, your eyes fluttering shut.

Mingyu chuckles, the sound warm and rich, vibrating against your back. "Yeah?" His fingers press a little deeper, his thumbs rubbing against your temples. "You like that?"

"Mm-hmm," you hum, leaning into his touch. "Don’t stop."

"Wouldn’t dream of it," he murmurs, his voice teasing but sincere.

The water continues to pour over you both, the sound of it filling the quiet space between you. Mingyu’s fingers move with deliberate slowness, working the shampoo through your hair, his touch careful, almost reverent. You can feel the tension in your shoulders melting away, the last remnants of the night’s intensity dissolving under his hands.

"You’re good at this," you murmur, your voice lazy.

"Practice," he says, his fingers stilling for just a second before he continues. "Had to learn how to wash my own hair at some point."

You laugh, the sound light and easy. "Smartass."

Mingyu grins, his fingers resuming their slow massage. "You love it."

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you, comfortable and warm. "Yeah," you say finally, your voice soft. "I do."

Mingyu’s hands still for just a second, his breath catching. Then he presses a kiss to the top of your head, his fingers resuming their work. "Good," he murmurs. "Because I love you."

You hum, your heart swelling in your chest. "You better."

Mingyu chuckles, his hands sliding down to your shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the knots there. "Oh?" he teases. "Or what?"

You tilt your head back, your eyes meeting his. "Or I’m not actually gonna be your girlfriend until you ask me out with flowers."

Mingyu freezes.

For a second, his hands go still, his eyes widening in panic. "Wait, what?"

You burst out laughing, turning to face him, your hands pressing against his chest. "Oh my god, your face."

Mingyu blinks, his expression shifting from horror to realization. "You’re kidding."

"Yeah," you grin, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "I’m kidding."

Mingyu exhales sharply, his hands sliding back into your hair. "You little—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head, his lips quirking into a smile. "I almost had a heart attack."

You laugh, leaning into him, your forehead resting against his chest. "You should’ve seen your face."

Mingyu groans, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you close. "You’re evil."

"And yet, you love me," you tease, your voice muffled against his skin.

Mingyu hums, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Unfortunately."

You pinch his side, and he laughs, his hands sliding down to your waist. "Hey!"

"Unfortunately for you," you correct, grinning up at him.

Mingyu smiles, his dark eyes warm as he looks down at you. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Unfortunately for me."

You sigh, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. "You’re ridiculous."

"And you’re stuck with me," he murmurs, his voice soft.

You hum, your heart full. "Yeah," you whisper. "I am."

Mingyu presses another kiss to your forehead, his hands sliding up to cup your face. "Good," he murmurs. "Because I’m not letting you go."

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch, the water pouring over you both. "Promise?"

Mingyu’s lips brush against yours, soft and sweet. "Promise."

The water runs clear now, the last of the shampoo swirling down the drain as Mingyu tilts your head back under the spray. His fingers comb through your hair, gentle but thorough, making sure every strand is rinsed clean. You close your eyes, letting the warmth seep into your scalp, your shoulders, your bones. The steam wraps around you both like a blanket, thick and comforting.

When he’s done, he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for just a second. "Your turn," you murmur, already reaching for the shampoo bottle.

Mingyu hesitates, his hands still tangled in your wet hair. "Uh," he says, glancing at the showerhead, then down at himself. "I’m a little… tall for this."

You raise an eyebrow, a grin playing at your lips. "So? "

"I need a solution," he says, mock-offended. 

You laugh, nudging him toward the tiled bench built into the shower. "Sit."

Mingyu obeys, sinking down onto the cool tile with a dramatic sigh, his long legs folding up against his chest. He looks ridiculous. This tall, broad-shouldered guy crammed into the corner of your tiny shower, his knees nearly touching his chin. You can’t help but giggle as you step behind him, grabbing the shampoo bottle.

"This is undignified," he mutters, but there’s no real complaint in his voice.

"Shut up and let me wash your hair," you tease, squeezing a dollop of shampoo into your palm.

Mingyu tilts his head back, his eyes fluttering shut as your fingers slide into his hair. He lets out a low, contented sound, his shoulders relaxing almost instantly. "You’re really good at this."

"Not really. Maybe you’re just easy," you murmur, massaging his scalp in slow circles.

"Hm, maybe. But probably just for you," he says, his voice soft.

You roll your eyes, but your chest warms at the words. Your fingers work through his hair, the dark strands slipping between your fingers like silk. Mingyu lets out a happy sigh, his hands resting on your hips, his thumbs brushing absent circles against your skin.

"I take it back. You’re terrible at this," he mumbles after a minute, his voice muffled by the water.

"Excuse me?" you say, pausing.

"You’re supposed to be washing my hair, not just playing with it," he teases, cracking one eye open to look at you.

You pinch his side, and he laughs, squirming under your touch. "I am washing it!"

"Mhm," he hums, clearly unconvinced. "Sure you are."

You huff, but you resume your work, your fingers rubbing shampoo into his scalp with more purpose. Mingyu groans, his head tilting back further. "Okay, okay, that’s better."

"Thought so," you mutter, but you’re smiling.

The water runs over his hair, rinsing away the suds, and Mingyu lets out a long, slow breath. "You know," he says, his voice lazy, "I had this matcha latte a few weeks ago."

You pause, your fingers stilling in his hair. "Oh?"

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Oat milk, two pumps of hazelnut syrup. Just how you like it."

Your chest tightens. You remember that order. It’s your order.

Mingyu must feel the shift in you because he opens his eyes, his dark gaze meeting yours. "I was ignoring my coffee because I was too busy staring at my phone, waiting for you to text me back. And then the barista handed me the matcha, and I just… stared at it. Because it reminded me of you."

You swallow hard, your fingers trembling just a little against his scalp. "Mingyu—"

"It’s stupid," he says quickly, shaking his head. "I know. But I kept thinking about how you’d laugh if you saw me holding it. How you’d roll your eyes and say something like, ‘Of course you ordered that, you giant dork.’"

You let out a shaky laugh, but your eyes are burning. "I would have said that."

Mingyu smiles, soft and a little sad. "I know."

You bite your lip, your heart aching. "I’m sorry," you whisper. "For ignoring you. For making you feel like—"

"Hey," he cuts in, his hands sliding up to cup your face. "It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize."

"But I do," you say, your voice breaking. "I was an idiot. I was scared."

Mingyu’s thumbs brush away the tears spilling down your cheeks. "I know," he murmurs. "But you’re here now. That’s all that matters."

You nod, leaning into his touch. "Yeah," you whisper. "I’m here."

Mingyu’s smile brightens, his eyes warm. "Good," he says. "Because I have a brilliant idea."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Next week," he says, his voice light, excited. "We go to that café. Together. And we order matcha lattes. And you can make fun of me for ordering yours. And then we’ll get something else because I don’t actually like hazelnut syrup, but I’ll drink it anyway because it’s yours."

You laugh, the sound watery but genuine. "You hate hazelnut syrup."

"I know," he groans, dramatic. "But for you? I’ll suffer."

You shake your head, your fingers resuming their work in his hair. "You’re ridiculous."

"And you love me," he teases.

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you lean down and press a soft, slow kiss to his lips. Mingyu hums, his hands sliding back to your hips, pulling you closer.

When you pull away, he’s grinning. "So?" he asks. "Next week? Matcha date?"

You smile, your heart full. "Yeah," you whisper. "Next week."

Mingyu’s grin widens, his eyes bright. "Good," he murmurs. "Because I missed you."

You press another kiss to his forehead, your fingers tangling in his wet hair. "I missed you too."

: ̗̀➛ wrong thing, classic

His hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction, dark strands falling across his forehead. His mouth is parted just slightly, his lips soft and pink, and you can see the faintest shadow of stubble along his jaw. His lashes are long, casting little crescent shadows on his cheeks, and his breathing is deep, even, completely unaware.

You can’t help it.

You reach out, brushing a strand of hair from his face, your fingers lingering against his skin. He’s warm. So warm. You trace the line of his eyebrow, the curve of his cheekbone, your thumb brushing over his bottom lip. He stirs slightly, a soft sound escaping him, but he doesn’t wake.

So you lean in and press a kiss to his lips.

Gentle. Soft. Just a brush of skin against skin.

Mingyu exhales against your mouth, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His lips part slightly, his breath warm.

"Mmm."

His voice is rough with sleep, his eyes still closed, but his fingers flex against your hip, like he’s making sure you’re real.

You pull back just enough to see his lashes flutter, his dark eyes blinking open slowly, still heavy with sleep. For a second, he just looks at you, like he’s trying to figure out if he’s dreaming. Then his lips curve into a slow, sleepy smile.

"Hey, girlfriend," he murmurs, his voice rough, gravelly, perfect.

You giggle, your heart swelling in your chest. "Hey." You run a hand up his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breaths.

Mingyu’s smile widens, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your lower back. "Say it properly," he mumbles, his eyes half-lidded.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. "Hey, boyfriend."

Mingyu groans, pulling you closer, his face burying into the crook of your neck. "Fuck, that sounds good," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your skin.

You laugh, your fingers tangling in his hair. "You’re ridiculous."

"No, you’re ridiculous," he mumbles, his arms tightening around you. His breaths are warm against your neck.

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you press a kiss to the top of his head, your heart full.

Mingyu hums, content, his fingers tracing idle patterns against your skin. "What time is it?" he murmurs.

You glance at the clock on your nightstand. "Basically nine."

"Mmm," he hums, his lips pressing a slow, lazy kiss to your collarbone. "We should get up."

"Should we?" you tease, your fingers sliding down his back.

Mingyu groans, body tensing for a second before relaxing again. "Fuck, don’t do that."

"Do what?" you ask, innocent, fingers threading through his hair.

"You know what," he mutters, his hands sliding down to grip your hips.

You laugh, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Fine, fine. We’ll get up."

Mingyu groans again, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he rolls onto his back, pulling you with him so you’re sprawled across his chest, hand buried in your hair. "Five more minutes," he murmurs, his fingers tracing slow circles against your skin.

You sigh, melting into him, your cheek resting against his chest. "Five more minutes," you agree.

And for those five minutes, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing, the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his skin against yours.

The five minutes stretch into ten.

Mingyu’s fingers are slow, methodical, as he combs through your hair, his touch gentle like he’s handling something precious. The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the morning, the distant sound of birds outside your window, the occasional rustle of sheets as one of you shifts. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, steady and warm, and you let your eyes drift shut again, content to just be here, like this.

His lips press against your forehead, soft and lingering. "You awake still?" he murmurs, his voice still rough with sleep.

"Mmm," you hum, tilting your head up just enough to meet his gaze. "Barely."

Mingyu smiles, his fingers stilling in your hair. "Good," he murmurs. "Me neither."

You laugh softly, your fingers tracing idle patterns against his chest. "We’re such productive people."

"The best," he agrees, his voice dry.

You sigh, snuggling closer, your leg tangling with his under the sheets. "What do you wanna do today?"

Mingyu hums, his fingers resuming their slow path through your hair. "Stay in bed," he says, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. "Order food. Watch movies. What're the movies you wanted to watch again? Notting Hill? Two Weeks' Notice? Preferably stay here with you."

You grin, pressing a kiss to his chest. "Hmm, I like that. Notting Hill, probably. But you'd like Two Weeks' Notice."

"Yeah?" His voice is soft, hopeful.

"Yeah," you murmur.

Mingyu exhales, his arms tightening around you just a little. "Then we'll watch Notting Hill," he says. "We can deliver food. And then I can stay here with you."

You close your eyes, your heart full. "Perfect."

He hums. “Do you still think I’m the wrong thing?” he suddenly asks, quoting you from at least five months ago. 

“I said that months ago,” you mumble, hitting his chest lightly.

He chuckles. “I know. But still. Wrong thing?” 

“Classic,” you murmur. 

“What?” 

“I was afraid you’d be the wrong thing. Like a classic joke of my entire love life,” you explain. 

Mingyu mumbles something unintelligible in response, arms tightening around you. “I am not your wrong thing, classic.” 

You breathe out a puff of laughter. “Yeah, I know.” 

He buries his face in your hair. “I don’t wanna go.” 

“So don’t.”

His fingers keep moving through your hair, slow and steady, his lips pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, your cheek. You drift in and out of sleep, half-aware of the way his breath hitches when you shift against him, the way his fingers tighten in your hair just for a second before relaxing again.

At some point, the sunlight shifts, painting the room in warmer hues, and Mingyu’s stomach growls loud enough to make you both jump.

You burst out laughing, your head lifting from his chest. "Was that you?"

Mingyu groans, covering his face with his hands. "No."

"Liar," you tease, poking his side.

He catches your hand, pulling it to his lips for a kiss. "Fine," he mutters. "It was me. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," you grin.

Mingyu sighs, dramatic, but he’s smiling. "Fine. We’ll order food. But only because you’re making me."

You laugh, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Deal."

He rolls you onto your back, his body hovering over yours, his dark eyes warm and soft. "You’re lucky I love you," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours.

You smile, your fingers tangling in his hair. "Yeah," you whisper. "I am."

Mingyu kisses you, slow and sweet and perfect.

"Crazy how things change," he mumbled, lips moving against yours.

"Crazy," you whisper back, grinning, burying your face into the crook of his neck.

: ̗̀➛ wrong thing, classic

Kim Mingyu 김민규 – wrong thing, classic

your relationship with kim mingyu, sigma tau frat president and student council president has always teetered the line of friendship and enemy-ship. you know it, he knows it, and the entire school knows it. when you are both called in to plan the awaiting spring gala by the dean of student activities, you're forced to work together. each of you harbor a secret of sorts. yours: there's a certain dependency you have on your current relationship with mingyu; it gives you comfort. mingyu's: he's been in love with you since freshman year when he sat behind you during your required writing seminar class.

Character Sheet

Kim Mingyu - Sigma Tau President; Student Council President

Y/n Choi - Kappa Alpha Theta President; Deans’ Advising Board President

Chaewon Hwang - Kappa Alpha Theta VP

Choi Seungcheol - Sigma Tau VP

Jeon Wonwoo - Sigma Tau Communications

Bobpul - Mingyu’s dog (maltese)

Gureum - Y/n’s dog (Samoyed)