TRASH BLOG

Which means it’s exactly the kind of environment where you shouldn’t be noticing him.

Yet somehow, you keep doing it anyway.

Your members are chatting with a few idols from another team while the production staff set up the next game.

You nod along to the conversation, smiling politely, but your attention drifts.

Across the field.

Right where Mingyu is standing with his group.

He’s laughing at something one of his members said, tall frame bent slightly as he claps a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking with amusement.

Even from this distance you can tell exactly how he’s laughing, wide smile, eyes crinkling.

You quickly look away.

Because right when you looked up, he was already looking at you.

Not just glancing.

Looking.

Your stomach tightens.

“Are you even listening?” one of your members nudges your shoulder.

You blink, forcing yourself back into the conversation. “Huh?”

“We were saying if we lose the next game we’re blaming you.”

You scoff. “Why me?”

“Because you’re distracted.”

“I’m not.”

But the second you say it, your eyes betray you.

They flick up again.

He’s no longer laughing now. Instead he’s leaning back slightly, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he listens to one of his members talk.

But his gaze? It’s fixed right on you.

For a moment neither of you move.

His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying not to smile.

Your breath catches.

Then one of his members bumps into his shoulder and he finally looks away.

You exhale slowly, pretending to adjust the sleeve of your outfit.

God.

This is ridiculous.

You’re both adults. You’ve interacted at events before. There’s nothing unusual about making eye contact.

Except, there were cameras everywhere watching everything.

~

“Okay everyone, gather up!”

PD claps his hands, calling all the idols toward the centre of the field.

You stand with your members, brushing grass from your skirt as everyone begins moving toward the filming area.

Of course, with this many people, the groups start mixing together.

And of course, you somehow end up walking right beside him.

Your shoulder nearly brushes his arm.

You pretend not to notice.

He notices.

You can tell by the slight tilt of his head.

“Long time no see,” Mingyu says casually.

His voice is low, warm, and way too close.

You glance at him.

Up close he’s even taller than you remember, dark hair slightly messy from the breeze, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“We saw each other two weeks ago,” you reply.

He hums thoughtfully.

“Still feels like a long time.”

Your heart betrays you with one quick, stupid flutter.

You cross your arms lightly. “You’re dramatic.”

“And you’re avoiding looking at me.”

Your head snaps toward him.

“I’m not.”

He raises one eyebrow.

You realise, you are.

Because every time you meet his gaze, it lingers too long.

Because every time you do, something unspoken sparks between you.

The staff start organising things, shouting names and pointing at people.

Mingyu leans slightly closer to hear the instructions.

Close enough that you can smell his cologne, clean and warm.

You shift your weight, trying not to react.

“Try not to lose,” he murmurs.

You glance up at him again.

“Oh? Worried about me?”

His smile widens, slow and teasing.

“No.”

He pauses.

“I’m worried about me.”

Your brows knit together slightly.

“What does that mean?”

He tilts his head toward the field where everyone’s gathering.

“If we’re on opposite teams,” he says, voice quiet enough that only you can hear, “I might get distracted.”

Your stomach flips.

You stare at him.

He’s completely serious.

Well, half serious.

The other half of his expression is pure mischief.

“By what?” you challenge.

His gaze drifts over your face.

Slowly.

Then settles on your eyes again.

“You.”

Heat creeps up your neck.

You quickly look away, pretending to watch the staff handing out props for the next game.

You can feel his gaze still on you.

Heavy.

Amused.

Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Okay!” PD shouts. “Everyone ready?”

Cheers erupt across the field.

You step back toward your group.

Before you can fully turn away, Mingyu speaks again.

“Hey.”

You glance over your shoulder.

He’s already walking backward toward his team.

But his eyes are still locked on yours.

That same teasing smile spreading across his face.

“Try not to stare at me too much during the game,” he calls.

You scoff.

“As if.”

He laughs softly.

But just before he turns away, he adds,

“Good luck.”

And somehow the way he says it, makes your heart beat just a little faster for the rest of the day.

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7 | 11:09AM, SEOUL.  (1) Missed Call – Kim Mingyu.  (1) Voicemail – Kim Mingyu. 

Hey, it’s me.   Well, you know it’s me...right? [LAUGHTER.] God, I miss your voice. Even if it’s just your outgoing message...and your laugh. I miss that laugh. I miss you, baby.  I’m getting drunk in Chicago with Seungcheol, but I’m thinking about you and I know I shouldn’t. I know I should have some shame, but I’ve never done this. The...breaking up over something small. Well, it’s not small, because it means something to you. It meant something to you, the reason you dumped me, and it means something to me because I love you and everything that matters to you matters to me. I just don’t know how to function without being able to talk to you everyday, and that’s selfish of me. It’s selfish of me to even leave this voicemail...but I can’t help it. I know my job kept me so busy, and I know you’re still probably so pissed at me but I still love you – even when I’m in Chicago and you’re all the way back home, getting pretty for work. Even when I’m back home, I love you and I think about you. I’m not drunk, before you say that. I’ve only had one beer and it was straight ass, but I think I’ll have just a few more so I can excuse the fact that your name is all over my call log in the morning.  I love you.  I miss you.  I’ll see you whenever you want me back.  

When you think about it: not-drunk, not-sober Mingyu has a point. 

You did break up over something very small, but in the moment...it meant something to you. It meant so much to you – and it was only by a few minutes. He was late, again – only by a handful of minutes but you will always stick to your guns and say it’s serious, and he knows it is. You’d told him at the start of your relationship that you hate being late and you hate it when people are late to any event they may have planned with you; and Mingyu had been understanding for the most part. He was rarely late and if he was, he had a good excuse prepared the moment he got in your face for his kiss in greeting.  

You tried to settle your own stomach about it – he'd been in Chicago for work the week before your breakup, and you were convincing youreslf that he was just adjusting to the time difference. The whites of his eyes were pink with fatigue, and you felt the urge to run your fingers through his hair as he rested his head in your lap just for five minutes before he fell asleep. 

But this had been the third time in one week. He’d been late by twenty minutes to dinner on Monday, arriving with nothing but a breathless sorry falling off his lips as he pressed them to your hairline. He’d been sweaty, like he ran to your apartment – but you let it go, because you also told him that your building elevator was under maintenance. 

You still expected him to plan accordingly and arrive punctually – you'd told him that at nine in the morning, and dinner was at six in the evening. He should have planned ahead. 

The second time was on Wednesday. Your friends had hosted a quick game night, one you’d invited Mingyu to with their permission and they asked you to stop for a bottle of wine. You’d gotten the wine on your way home from work to save time, and texted Mingyu three times within your arrival at your apartment – reminding him that he was driving, reminding him at the game night started at eight, reminding him that you do not like to be late. 

He arrived at your apartment five minutes to eight, and your friend that was hosting the game night lived thirty minutes south. You couldn’t even dream of getting there by the start of it, and you got two text messages letting you know that they were starting a game of Monopoly and they’d start over when you got there. Mingyu’s jaw was as tight as yours was as he drove you both in silence, only for you to shoot a text off in the group (that had Mingyu in it) that you wouldn’t be making it. You made Mingyu pull over five minutes away from your friend’s apartment and handed him the bottle of wine, telling him you’d get a rideshare home. 

It was the first real fight the two of you got into, and in the middle of a gas station parking lot. You were embarrassed as people peered through his crystal clear windshield at your frustrated attempt to make him understand, only for him to tell you he tried. That you knew he was busy, that he was doing the best he could to show up for you and you weren’t cutting him any slack. You’d scoffed, asking him if he’d ever cut you slack when you attended his work events with him, when you’d go to dinners with him and his friends. 

“You don’t have to, and that’s because I plan accordingly! I tell you everything down to the minute and you can’t even give me a tapback reaction so I at least know you saw the message? Why are you acting like I’m being irrational for asking you to communicate with me?” 

Mingyu turned his read receipts on after that fight. The drive to your apartment was silent, and you held in your frustrated tears until he pulled into his visitor parking spot in the garage of your complex. You pushed your own door open and slammed it shut, your heels clicking against the asphalt of the garage – but you didn’t get very far as Mingyu rounded the side of the car and grabbed your arm gently, pulling you into him with a very soft whisper against the shell of your ear. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You ignored it, turning your face away as he held you close to his chest – the soft smell of his cologne filling your nose and making your knees stupidly weak.  

You don’t remember much about that night, but you do remember the way he’d hoisted you over one shoulder and carried you to your apartment. You remember the way he apologized on his knees inside your apartment, before pinning you under him on the couch and kissing you fervently. You remember how easily your anger melted away as he pulled your dress off, as he kissed down your body, as he sank his teeth into the flesh of your soft thighs before he made you forget why you were even mad to begin with. 

The bottle of wine was empty by the end of the night, and you had a horrible hangover that made you call in sick to work – only to lift up your blanket and see your legs littered with nips of your boyfriend’s teeth. 

Then, Saturday came. 

Date night. Starting at four in the afternoon and ending at eight in the morning on Sunday. 

Mingyu loved date night and he was never late to date night. He brought flowers, he’d kiss you stupid on your couch for a good hour before your plans took effect. Sometimes it was dinner, a walk, a movie. Other times it was staying in and snuggling together after a long week of being apart and bitching about your work schedules.  

Other times, though rare...Mingyu was all over you the entire night. From the moment he stepped foot into your apartment, his lips were on yours and his hands roamed any and every part of your body you allowed. It was, admittedly, one of your favorite types of date nights – and you always made it a point to wear a cute little set under your outfit just in case he was feeling froggy. 

Four came and went.  

Five in the afternoon, six in the evening. 

Seven rolled around and you stared at the new bottle of wine you’d gotten to share with him on your way home from work on Friday. A nice Merlot, bitter on the back of your tongue as you finished your second glass. You took the pretty clips out of your hair, tossing them onto the coffee table and doing the same with all your jewelry before grabbing the bottle by the neck. You tucked your legs beneath you as you grabbed your television remote, clicking around the screen before some boring news segment crossed the screen and you tossed it into the couch cushions.  

You drank from the bottle for a total of fifteen minutes – the news segment ending and a broadcasted dating show taking over before your phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. It buzzed twice, before it started ringing. It rang, and rang, and rang – and you felt tears prick at your eyes as you glanced down at your dress. Picked by Mingyu ages ago at a department store, one that he’d practically manhandled you into the dressing room over. 

You turned the television off at ten to nine – just  as Mingyu pulled your apartment door open. You could see the lines of sleep against his cheek, his eyes bloodshot as an apologetic look coated them. You’d pressed your lips together, before a laugh of disbelief fell from your mouth as you sighed. You shook your head as he toed his shoes off, guilt crossing his features as you slid the bottle onto the coffee table and grabbed your accessories in one hand. You didn’t care if your necklaces tangled – they had all been gifts from him anyway. 

You stood on wobbly legs, kicking the heels you’d planned to wear that day out of the way as you moved to stand in front of him. His fingers flexed at his sides, itching to touch you as you gave him a wavering smile. 

“Slept well?” You tilted your head, before holding your hand out and dropping the accessories in his hand, “you can have those back.” 

“Baby.”  “That’s not my name.” 

You shrugged, smiling wider still as you skipped to your bedroom. You pulled the dress over your head, tossing it onto the floor before pulling open all your dresser drawers and pulling out every article of clothing he’d ever given you and dropping it on top of the very same dress. Shirts, skirts, even a couple pairs of his sweatpants and a pair of his socks you’d stolen at the beginning of your relationship because you’d worn open-toed heels in winter. 

He stood in the doorway of your bedroom as you tugged on a pair of pajama pants, his lower lip trembling as you pulled a shirt that wasn’t his over your head. You beelined back out of your bedroom, grabbing a garbage bag from your kitchen and prying it open before shoving everything inside it. 

“Drive safe, Mingyu.”  “Baby, let me explain—”  “I waited like an idiot for five hours. I don’t do late. You know I don’t. You knew my one rule, and this week has just been a shitshow. Go home, get some rest and I’ll pick up my stuff next week.” You were fighting tears the entire time, covering your face with a trembling hand as he knelt in front of you, “stop! Go home, Mingyu!” 

“Please. Please, baby, don’t do this—”  “Go! Get out!” 

You were crying by the time Mingyu’s arms wrapped around your hips, burying his face in your shirt as he begged you to let him explain. You couldn’t hear him over your tears and the frustration festering in your belly, and you managed to twist yourself out of his hold despite wanting to melt right into him. 

He left reluctantly – his face blotchy with tears and his shoulders heavy with fatigue. You knew he was tired. You knew he had this trip to Chicago every year and it was hard on him. 

You had one rule. Don’t be late. 

However...as you laid in your bed that night, barely able to breathe through your tears – you came to the conclusion that you had been a jerk. You knew you had been a jerk, but you had pride and you weren’t going to beg him to come back. 

And now you’re sitting in your cubicle, a year later – wiping silent tears from your cheeks as you play his voicemail over and over. 

I miss you. 

I love you. 

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7 | 12:19 PM, SEOUL.  (4) Missed Calls – Kim Mingyu.  (1) Voicemail – Kim Mingyu. 

Hi, baby. It’s me again! I miss you.  Just realized I said I was drunk in that last message and then said I wasn’t, but it doesn’t matter anyay because I’d tell you all of this sober. Did you know I got a promotion? I didn’t get to tell you, but I had meant for it to be news that night we broke up. I was going to tell you but everything just crumbled and I should’ve said more. I should’ve fought you on it, I think.  You didn’t really look like you were ready to let me go.  Sometimes, I wish you hadn’t. But, I’m still here. Kind of like an anchor, I guess, and you’re the ship. I guess that’s why they call boats she, right?  I’m just waiting for you to pull me out of the water again and say you love me like you used to. Maybe kiss me, too. I miss your voice. I miss your lips, too, and your cherry lip balm. God, I miss you. I can’t sleep without you, and Chicago fucking sucks. I hate Chicago because all I can think about it you when I’m here. Three years strong, thinking about you when I see the damn Bean and eat deep dish at Lou Malnati’s.  [MUFFLED NOISES] Anyway, Seungcheol wants to take off. I’ll talk to you later. This is call number...four? I think, yeah. Oof, bad luck, huh? [SOFT LAUGHTER]   I’m six beers in, baby. Still in Chicago, still missing you, still loving you and still yours. I’ll see ya, sweets. 

Again, he was right. 

God, you hate when he’s right. 

He’s so smug about it sometimes, Kim Mingyu. He’s insufferable when he’s right – when he guesses something correctly, when he figures something out before you can, when he beats you at a damn game of Scrabble. You’d learned to roll your eyes at him, and really – it was endearing. Kim Mingyu was a champion, a master of all trades – and he’d won your heart over and over again. 

You hadn’t wanted to let him go.  

Your swollen eyes had been hidden behind a clunky pair of sunglasses and glued to the ground as you dropped off his last box of things on his stoop the following Monday, but he didn’t answer the door. You knew he was home – his car was parked in front of his apartment and the Ring camera clicked on and off. You knocked on the door for five minutes before groaning. 

“Give me my stuff, Mingyu!” 

He didn’t open the door, opting to talk to you through his camera like a coward. 

“You’re insane if you think we’re breaking up.”  “We are breaking up! Give me my shit before I break your door down.” 

He’d laughed through the camera, clicking it off before you heard the locks on his front door coming undone. He barely cracked the door open, holding a singular purse out to you and something about it made your gut churn. 

“Mingyu, let me in.”  “No, you said give you your shit. This is all you’ve got here. I know, I looked.” 

You shoved the door open further, only to see a mess of boxes in the living room piled up. Everything was labeled with your name, clothing of yours folded neatly on his couch – books you left there carefully wrapped in newspaper and pairs of your shoes neatly held together by black zipties. Your stomach hurt as you let your eyes scan over it, the room far too dark with your sunglasses on but you had too much pride to take them off and let him see that you knew you were making a mistake. 

“...You don’t have to be so nice about it.”  “Stop being a douche and take your sunglasses off, then. You’re indoors, it’s bad manners.” 

You hadn’t looked at him yet, but the thickness of his voice told you everything you needed to know. He was near tears and your shoulders tensed as your heart clenched in your chest, and you peered over your shoulder to see him thumbing at the strap of your purse in his hand. You pried it from his hands swiftly, your fist tight around it as he sniffled, blinking back tears as he shoved his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. 

“Are you gonna help me load this in my car or what?” You muttered, shoving the purse over your shoulder as he chuckled dryly. 

“I’ll just drop it off. It’s too much for you to carry back alone and I can’t let you do that.” He shook his head, and your ears picked up on the music playing in his living room. You looked around, before spotting his television on YouTube – playing I Don’t Know Why by NOTD and Astrid S. You trilled your lips them, shoving your hand under your sunglasses as hot tears spilled over. Your shoulders shook as you cried inwardly, and he tentatively slid his hands over them, making you jolt against him. 

“Don’t.”  “I’m sorry, Y/N. Please.” 

“Stop! Stop telling me you’re sorry, Mingyu!” You exclaimed, stomping your foot as you shoved yourself away from him then. You pulled the sunglasses off your face, haphazardly wiping your hand across your face as more tears spilled down your cheeks. You heard a crack in the plastic of the glasses from how tight your grip was, and you simply shoved them in one of the open boxes before facing him and blinking rapidly. He was blurry in your vision, but he was a mirror of you – splotchy eyes, pleading, begging... 

Don’t leave me. 

Fight for me. 

For us. 

“Please, Y/N.”  “I don’t even know what you’re asking for, Mingyu. Just...drop my things off with the doorman. And leave your key with him, too.” 

You sighed, running your hands over your face and feeling the warmth of your swollen eyelids beneath your fingers as you tried to walk past him. Your fingers urged to touch him, to feel him close and breathe in his scent – but he caved first, grabbing your hand and pulling you into him. He kissed you then, too – his lips chapped but you cared nothing of it as you melted into him like a fool. Your hands clutched at his sweatshirt like you needed him to stay grounded as he held you against the front door, his own hands gripping your waist like you were going to disappear. 

“Stop, stop.” You pulled back, your eyes staring into his. So full of love, adoration and hurt – a perfect image of you engrained in those molten brown irises. His pupils were dialated as he peered at you, but he blinked and let you go, pushing himself away as he cleared his throat with a mumbled apology. 

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Mingyu.” 

Those had been your last words to him as you slammed out of his apartment – booking it to your car with tears in your eyes and the taste you missed on your tongue. 

Him, him, always him. 

You’re still sitting in your cubicle as you listen to this voicemail – your eyes probably just as swollen as you poke around a bowl of oxtail soup you’d packed for lunch from your leftovers the night before. 

It doesn’t taste as good as when he used to make it. 

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7 | 2:11 PM, SEOUL.  (9) Missed Calls – Kim Mingyu.  (1) Voicemail – Kim Mingyu. 

Caller number nine! Claim your prize, me!  Hi, babe. I’m still in Chicago, but I’m in a different bar. Cheol is sick of me talking about you but I can’t bring myself to give a shit. This bar has a really nice plum blossom syrup they put in their lemon drops, you’d love it. Do you remember our first kiss, actually? In Japan?   It was under all those plum blossoms and I put one in your hair, and you were so nervous that you didn’t kiss me back for a good three seconds. I know that’s probably a bit embarrassing for you but it’s one of my favorite memories of us...of you. God, I miss you.  I made you dinner that night, too, and we had that nice gin that I can’t remember the name of. But, I do remember that you told me you’d never been in love and I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t think I had ever been in love, either. Looking back, though, I think I was in love with you, even then.  Pft, wait. No. I know. I know I was in love with you. I know because your perfume was still lingering on my pillowcase, and I remember begging you not to go back to your room because we weren’t together yet. Do you remember that? Mingyu, don’t book one room! We’re not together yet!  Ugh, but that ‘yet’ hit me so hard. It was such a huge risk for us to go on that trip together when we weren’t together, and that ‘yet’ really told me everything I needed to know. That I was for you, and you were for me, endlessly. Timelessly.  So...I think, no. Fuck. I don’t think, I know you were in love with me, too.  I am currently...six beers, one plum blossom lemon drop and three shots in the hole. Tequila, too. Horrible, I still hate it...but I miss you.  I’m still in Chicago, and hopefully...somewhere in your heart.  Later, winner winner. I love you. 

You do remember your first kiss, and you’re sitting at the cafeteria at your job with your hands wrapped around a mug of coffee with seasonal plum blossom creamer in it. You’re done with meetings, your coworkers worriedly patting your shoulders at the swelling in your eyes, your lips bitten raw from holding back your sobs in the ladies’ room. 

You’d been dating Mingyu for a few weeks at that point. Dating, not his girlfriend – you'd been on six dates and something about him made your skin prickle with excitement. His smooth words paired with clumsy movements, pouted lips that brought you to a steaming hot blush every time they brushed your cheek as he dropped you off to the door of your apartment... 

Hands that snaked around your waist every single time he tried to go in for the kiss, and you turned away.  

“You can wait a little longer,” you’d roll your eyes as he brushes his nose to yours, and you’d crinkle it as you patted his chest. He would wait, he’d been open about it – he'd wait as long as you needed him to...because Mingyu was absolutely smitten with you. 

It didn’t take a genius to figure that out, or to figure out that if he insisted just a bit more – he'd be in your bed before the word girlfriend even followed his introduction of you to his friends. 

You wanted Mingyu just as bad, if not more. 

He proposed the trip to Japan on the sixth of December, to leave by the eight and be back home by the fifteenth. Six days and seven nights, and he’d book you separate hotel rooms. 

“I just want to spend time with you...uninterrupted. God, that sounds perverted but I don’t mean it that way, I swear!” 

You’d only laughed then, and threw caution to the wind, accepting his invitation with a shy smile. The eighth came fast – and you were buckled into your seat on the plane next to him as he told you all the things he had planned for the two of you to do once you landed. You tried to argue that you’d need to take a power nap, only for him to roll his eyes and say there was no way you were going to waste time sleeping in Japan of all places. 

“We’ll have plenty of time to sleep, beautiful. Just trust me.” 

And you did. So blindly, so willingly. 

He took you all over Osaka, and you’d spent the ninth of December with your fingers intertwined between your hips and walking around an indoor arboretum, a giant greenhouse of sorts. Plum blossom season in Japan wasn’t for another handful of weeks, but he’d insisted he’d been to this garden before and they had them in December – and he was right.  

Again. 

“I haven’t kissed anyone in a while,” you’d admitted quietly, your hand rubbing your neck nervously as he shook his head, pulling you closer as the area seemingly cleared out of couples and families. You both stood looking at the trees surrounding you, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your skin before he pulled you slightly closer, “Mingyu.” 

“I heard you, honey.” He nodded, pressing a kiss to your temple as he picked a blossom off the tree, tucking it carefully into your hair. “You’re so pretty.” 

“Shut up.” You muttered, leaning your cheek against his bicep as he peered down at you. His fingers carefully pinched your other cheek between his knuckles, making you scoff as he leaned slightly into your space. Your eyes had darted down to his lips, pink and plump and smelling of cherry lip balm you’d given him on the train ride there... 

And you didn’t kiss him back for three seconds when you felt him press his lips to yours carefully. Your eyes were wide, before you squeezed them shut and kissed him back carefully. You’d both broken into giggles not even five seconds after, but he held your face in his hands gently and peppered chaste kisses all over it before asking if you wanted dinner. 

It was one of the first times he’d made dinner for you, and one of the absolute best to date. A beautiful white fish with roasted lemon and brown butter served over a bed of creamy risotto and broccolini. You’d both eaten in silence and on the floor, and you’d been amused at how much he’d been able to whip up on a two-burner hot plate he’d brought from home. He turned his nose up at you as you laughed at him, but smiled smugly as you were rendered speechless by the dishes he’d plated for you. 

You were both laying on his bed with the balcony doors thrown open when the words fell from your lips without thinking. 

“I’ve never been in love.” You blurted, and he stilled next to you. You'd cautiously peered at him out of the corner of your eye, only to see him deep in thought before he turned to look at you. 

“I don’t know if I have, either.” He offered, almost as if to soothe anything you maybe have disturbed. He furrowed his brows, folding his hands on his stomach as he hummed, “I have no idea what that’s like, but...I’m willing to find out.”  

You’d felt your face grow hot then, and you sat up abruptly, “with me?” 

“If you’d allow it.”  “We’re not together yet.” 

He smiled, his cheeks tinging pink as he grabbed the pillow you’d been laying on and covered his face with it, “stop saying that! It makes me nervous and then I can’t stop smiling like an idiot and I lose my cool guy demeanor.” 

“You have zero inkling of a cool guy demeanor, Kim Mingyu.”  “Nuh uh! You told me I looked cool when we met at that tangsuyuk place! That you liked my jacket.” 

You’d snickered then, crawling over him as his eyes widened. His fingers on the pillow tightened as he looked up at you through his lashes, lips parted as his ears burned bright red. You leaned down, pressing your lips to his carefully. He kissed you back almost immediately, his hands finding your hips just as you pulled back. 

“I said your jacket looked cool, not that you were cool. And you tripped after asking for my number, so I say that knocks a couple points off,” you murmured against his lips, only for him to pout as you laughed in his face. You pressed a chaste kiss against his mouth before patting his hip, “I’m going to my room. I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Kim.” 

“You’re such a tease.” 

You only smiled as you climbed off him, holding a finger up as you made your way to the door and looking over your shoulder with a scrunch of your nose. 

“Well, I suggest you learn to love it!” 

You stare down at the cup off coffee in your hands as the voicemail plays for a fifth time in your headphones. Your lipstick is on the edge of the ceramic cup, the very same lipstick you’d worn the day he kissed you.  

If you flipped the tube over, it’d say Plum Blossom Baby. 

And you’d remember every single time he kissed it off you like a man starved. 

“I miss you, too.”  

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7 | 4:46 PM, SEOUL.  (12) Missed Calls – Kim Mingyu.  (1) Voicemail – Kim Mingyu. 

Hi, baby! This is call number...twelve! Yeah!  That’s our anniversary date, by the way. December 12th. Mark your calendar, ‘cause it’s almost here!  Can you believe we broke up a year ago today, though? Well, it’s barely the seventh here in Chicago, but the seventh is almost over for you. Do you miss me? I miss you. Maybe that’s why the alcohol isn’t as bitter as it usually is, though.   Anyway, I know I’m probably not super intelligible right now because I’m now six beers, one plum blossom lemon drop, three shots and two whiskey sours in. Because of this information that I’ve just bestowed upon you, my love, I’m just gonna be honest, yeah?   Again.  I miss you.  You know, I probably would’ve introduced you to my parents this Christmas. I had it planned for last year, but then...well, you know. But, I wanted to bring you home, ‘cause that’s what you do when things get serious enough, right? When things feel right and you wanna pop the question, right? I wanted to bring you home because then that means the future holds that big ass ring you deserve. The ring and the beautiful dress and the nice house I want to buy you and maybe some kids, right? You still want kids with me, right? I would’ve been such a good husband. I’d never be late, either, because I’d be your house husband, too. I would have given up everything for you, even when you tried to say you were just kidding, I know you. I know that glint in your eye...I know you and I love you and I would’ve given up everything to make you happy.  I still would.  I still want to, just like I still want you. I still need you, Y/N.  [SLURRED WHISPERING]  Cheollie wants me to hang up, but I had to tell him you’re not even talking back! God, you’re not talking back and I miss your voice so fucking bad, Chicago feels like Hell right now. I miss you so much it pains me. My stomach hurts, actually, thinking about you right now and missing your voice. Missing you.  I think...I think this will be my last call.  It has to be.  I miss you...so much. Even in Chicago, especially in Chicago. I feel it worse when I’m here, and I’m positive it’s because I was in Chicago the week before we broke up. You looked so pretty in all the outfits and selfies you sent me when I was gone on my trip...God, and you were so beautiful in that little red set you got. Fuck, I can’t think about that. It’s not right.  [SILENCE]  Oh, I never gave you the snowglobe I got you when I was here last year! I got it personalized, it had a picture of you and me the day I asked you to be my girlfriend! It’s still in the trunk of my car, though, and it’s buried inside one last box of stuff I couldn’t bring myself to give you when I dropped it all off with Myungjae. How is that guy, by the way? Still flirting with you? Dipshit.  Sorry.  God, I miss you. I miss kissing you...holding your hand and making fun of you for crying at Shark Tale when Angie confesses to Oscar that she was in love with him when he was nothing.  You loved me when I was nothing, too.  I’d be nothing without you.  ...Do you think you’ll miss me too, someday? Maybe as bad as I miss you? Ever?  [SILENCE]  Bad question to ask. I’m sorry. I miss you.  Well.  My name is Kim Mingyu. I’m 28, and I am drunk in Chicago, Illinois. I am desperately missing you, I am irrevocably in love with you and I’ll see you as soon as you want me.  I’ll catch ya when I can, baby. December 12th, don’t forget. I love you. God, I love you.  Bye, baby. 

You’re thankful that you’re sitting on your couch when that voicemail comes in.  

You’re so grateful no one can see your trembling fingers as you press play on it, or the way you burst into tears the moment the word baby crosses his lips. You can hardly hear him speaking, but you turn the volume up as high as it will go and sob into your throw pillow. You cover yourself with one of the blankets you’d thrown over the edge of the couch that morning, and you feel your chest ache as you get a whiff of his cologne. 

You know Mingyu wanted to marry you. 

You’d seen the velvet box in his dresser a few months before the breakup. It wasn’t at all the reason behind it, and you were confident in that. You would’ve married him in a heartbeat, he wouldn’t even have to ask you. He’d have to do nothing of the sort like he did when he asked you to be his girlfriend – no fancy rented restaurant, no engraved bottle of gin, no begging to go down on you after finishing inside you for the very first time. 

You think it scared you, though. 

God, it scared you so much. 

To be Mingyu’s forever – it terrified you to know that you’d fallen so deeply in love with him that he wouldn’t even have to ask. You’d give him anything he wanted, anything he needed at the drop of a hat – just a kiss to your lips and you’d seal his fate forever. House husband, the kids, the house, the stupid fucking wedding that he’d talked about for a few weeks before he left for Chicago last year... 

You’d give it all to him. 

Every. Single. Thing. 

“I love you, Kim Mingyu.” 

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7 | 7:15 PM, SEOUL. 

INCOMING CALL – Kim Mingyu. 

You watch the phone ring from your couch. You’re still in your work clothes, your pantyhose torn at the knee from picking at it. Waiting for another call. 

Hoping for another call. 

It rings, and rings... 

And it starts going to voicemail before you grab it and slide the toggle to answer it, pressing it to your ear. Your skin prickles as you hear the crunch of snow under his boots, and a sigh from his lips – likely paired with tears beginning to coat his lashes. Seungcheol is hollering in the background, singing something about a girl from Ipanema. 

“Okay, I lied. This is the last call—” 

“Mingyu, you have to stop doing this.” You blurt, and silence follows your sentence. You dare yourself to peek at the screen, but he hasn’t hung up. He clears his throat, and you hear him stop walking. 

“What the hell? Baby?”  “Mingyu, stop calling this number.” 

You feel your throat tight, burning as you hear him sigh painfully on the other end, and a soft thud follows. He’s likely on the floor, sitting on a curb in the middle of Chicago....at almost five in the morning. 

“I love you, Y/N.” 

“I know. I know you love me, Mingyu. That’s why you need to stop.” You feel a rush of hot tears spill down your cheeks, and you don’t bother wiping them away as you sniffle, “Because I can’t promise you that I don’t love you back, and then we’re fucked. We’re in a mess if I can’t tell you that I don’t love you.” 

“That just means that you do love me.” He’s pouting, and Seungcheol has switched songs to I’m Your Baby Tonight by Whitney Houston. “You know we can be together. I’ll drop everything for you, right now. I need to be yours or I won’t understand the meaning of life.” 

You snort, the amusement feeing cynical as you shake your head, “we can’t.” 

“Why?”  “Because I have pride.” 

“Fuck your pride. Love me like I know you fucking do. I know you love me.” His voice grows soft despite the strong start, and you hear the ping of metal on metal. He’s probably leaning against a lamp post, “Love me, please.” 

“Mingyu.” You groan, your voice thick as you sink into the cushions. He hums as you sigh, “I shouldn’t have answered. I gotta go, Mingyu. Get back to your hotel safe, okay?” 

“Wait, wait. Don’t hang up, please. I miss your voice...so much.” He whines, before the sound of snow jostles around him, “What if I send you a ticket to Chicago right now? I’ll send you a ticket right now if you promise me you’ll come. Come see me. Love me.” 

“Mingyu, why would I do that? I work...I have commitments. You’re just drunk.” You hate how close you are to caving, to calling in sick and using your PTO to go rescue him. A twenty-hour flight over a drunken confession of completely and utterly missing you that you’re sure he’ll regret. 

“For closure, I guess. To prove you don’t love me. I’ll send you a ticket right now, and if you don’t love me...” Something akin to a sob rips through him, and you feel your lower lip tremble as the same burn settles in your chest, “if you don’t love me, don’t tell me. Just don’t get on the flight.” 

“You’re wasting money, Mingyu.” The waver in your voice betrays you, and his response lets you know that he knows he’s got you. Hook, line... 

“I was made to spend my money on you. My time. Give you all my love until I can’t anymore and when I can’t that’s when my time is up. But loving you...God, I'd never fucking die. I’ll love you in this lifetime, in the next one. I’ll love your lips and your face and your heart in every single time and space continuum, the Gods would be fucking sick of my ass yearning for you. That’s what this is. I’m yearning for you to love me from across the world while I’m drunk on a curb in Chicago and all the stars in the sky look like your eyes when you tell me you love me, too.” 

Sinker. 

“Good night, Mingyu.” You breathe out, and he hums again, his voice thick as he replies softly. 

Carefully. 

“Good night, Y/N. I love you...so much.” 

He hangs up before you can, and you look at your phone with a weight in your stomach. 

You stare at it for five minutes, your thumb hovering over the PLEDIS app your company had to put in paid time off or sick leave. 

NEW! 2 Messages from: Kim Mingyu  [7:31 PM] [1 Attachment]  [7: 31 PM] check your email. come to me. please. 

Your email pings as you press the photo. A screenshot – one first class ticket to Chicago through O’Hare, taking off at seven in the morning your time. A non-stop thirteen-hour flight, because you can’t stand waiting around an airport for a connection. 

NEW! 1 Message from: Kim Mingyu  [7:32 PM] i love you. 

You open the company app without a second thought. 

MONDAY, DECEMBER 8 | 5:34 AM, CHICAGO. 

Mingyu is nauseous as he paces back and forth in front of your gate, his hand nearly crushing the flowers he’s got gripped in his palm. 

He’s still hungover as fuck, and he has absolutely no idea what came over him the night before – but he doesn’t care, either. If you got on that plane...you’ll be here. 

Any minute now. 

Seungcheol scolded him the entire ride to the airport. He went on and on about how he can’t do things like that when he’s drunk, that he can’t just drop over two grand to get you to Chicago because he misses you – when Seungcheol had done the same thing the year you and Mingyu met, but for Jeonghan. 

Seungcheol argues he and Jeonghan have been in love longer than Mingyu has even known how to wipe his ass. Offensive, gross and not true...but slightly endearing as the older man flushes at the mention of his long-term boyfriend. 

Mingyu’s collar is too tight as he nibbles on his lip, watching people start trickling out the gate. Families, a couple. Another couple, elderly and wobbly as they hold hands tightly and carry light backpacks – a young girl screaming from behind him and running up to them. He stops pacing, standing next to a man obviously waiting for someone – maybe a her. A girl, a woman. 

He’s just as nervous as Mingyu is, holding flowers just like Mingyu. Lips bitten red, cheeks flushed...and Mingyu reminds himself to take a deep breath. He keeps looking over heads of people – more couples, more families... 

You. 

In a pink hoodie that belonged to him in college, with a black pair of his sweatpants tugged over your hips and almost too long. Wearing cable headphones, eyes swollen and sunglasses perched on your head. Your hands are stuffed in your pocket, and you’re chewing on your lip the way you always do when you’re nervous as you walk cautiously; your eyes slowly raking over everyone waiting before you drop them to the ground. 

Mingyu feels glued to the goddamn floor, and the guy next to him nudges his arm. 

“That’s your girl?” He utters, and you duck behind a couple, almost like you’re embarrassed. Like you’re not aware he’s there, and you don’t want to look like an idiot. 

“Yeah,” he breathes out, “that’s my girl.” 

The guy pats his arm, and Mingyu feels adrenaline start coursing through him like a wave swallowing him whole as your name leaves his mouth. 

“Y/N!” 

Your head darts up, eyes wide as you look all around. You spot him, covering your face immediately as your lip juts out in a pout and he bolts to you. He almost knocks you over as he wraps his arms around your waist, clutching the flowers to your back as he holds you close. Your hair smells like the same perfume that’s haunted him for the last year without you, and your tears are soaking through his shirt as he kisses the side of your face. 

“You’re here. You’re here...a-and I love you. I love you so much.” He stutters between kisses, your fingers gripping his jacket tightly as you sob into his neck. “I love you, God. It’s so good to see you, baby.” 

“Even when I broke up with you over something stupid?” You blurt, haphazardly wiping at your eyes as his hands come to hold your cheeks carefully. Your eyes are still as starry as ever, glossed over with tears as your fingers pull at his jacket, “I love you.” 

He smiles softly, nodding, “I know, baby. I know you love me.” 

He feels his eyes sting with tears, your face growing blurry as he pulls you into him. He buries his nose in your hair, inhaling deeply as his arms practically crush you in his embrace. Your arms wrap around his waist, your fingernails dragging lightly up and down his back as your sobs subside slowly. He kisses the crown of your head, “you’re really here?” 

“I’m really tired.” You whisper back, pulling your head back slightly to look up at him. His thumbs wipe the corners of your eyes gently, and you seemingly hesitate before glancing at his lips.  

A kiss. 

“Luckily for you...my hotel room has two beds.”  “Don’t tell me you’re sharing with Seungcheol.” 

“He’s a fucking cheapskate if it’s not about Jeonghan,” Mingyu jests, making you roll your eyes before they not-so-subtly land on his lips again. He nuzzles his nose to yours, “you’re mine, right? This, you coming. That makes you mine, right?” 

“Leave a message,” you shrug, before pressing your lips to his abruptly, your hands cupping his jaw carefully as you pull him to you. He kisses you back softly, pulling away after a few seconds as his hands hold your hips tightly. He smiles against your lips, giving you another chaste kiss before leaning near your ear and pitching his voice up. 

“Hey, it’s Y/N. Sorry I missed—”  “Mingyu, I'll get right back on that damn plane.” 

He laughs, grabbing your hand and pulling you flush to his hip as he shows you the flowers. Your eyes widen as you smile inwardly, holding them to your chest as you peer up at him through your lashes, “...thank you for leaving all those voicemails.” 

“Thank you for listening to them. And picking up...and getting on that flight.”  “I love you, Mingyu.” 

He can’t bite back his smile as his cheeks tinge pink, his skin hot as his fingers tighten around yours and you both step out into the cold Chicago air. He rocks on his heels for a moment, before spotting Seungcheol down the pick-up area. He leans down slightly, pressing a kiss to your temple before clearing his throat. 

“Hey, it’s Y/N. Sorry I missed your call, leave a message and I’ll get right back to ya! Hehehe.” 

You shove him away, beelining for Seungcheol as he snickers. The older man looks pleasantly surprised to see you, opening his arms to embrace you. You allow it, before he opens the passenger side door as Mingyu opens his mouth to argue. 

You both stick your tongues out at him, turning your noses up at him as you climb into the passenger seat while Seungcheol takes your carryon.  

“I told you she’d come.” Seungcheol scoffs, and Mingyu scrunches his nose, “no you didn’t, idiot.” 

“Be nice, Kim Mingyu. We’re kicking him out of his room later, we need to be in his good graces.” 

“No way you guys are just getting back together and already fucking.” Seungcheol gapes, and Mingyu feels his face grow even hotter as he just scrambles into the driver’s seat. Seungcheol scowls as he slips into the backseat, too tired to fight it. You reach your hand across the center console for Mingyu to hold as he peels out of the pick-up area, your lips pressing to his knuckles. 

“Mine?”  “Yours.” 

“Gross,” Seungcheol utters. 

“Shut up.” 

“I don’t see how going to a basketball court in the middle of the night when nobody is around is going to help convince people we are dating.” You grumble, wrapping Mingyu’s jacket that he so graciously lent you tighter around your middle. 

Keeping a few paces ahead, Mingyu turns and flashes a grin at you, dribbling a basketball on the ground. “Have you not heard of ‘soft launching,’ Mochi?”

You grimace at the nickname he created for you, trying not to puff your cheeks out to prove his observation correct of your fluffy mochi cheeks.

“I have,” you insist, “but-”

“We take a few pictures,” he interrupts. “Post them on our stories, and while we wait for it to set in and get views, we have fun!” He tosses the ball to the ring, and misses. “Simple!”

“Mingyu,” you sigh. “No one looks at my stories.”

“But they look at mine.” He grins. “And if I tag you in them, they will look.”

“We’ve been hanging out with each other for 3 weeks now,” you frown, blinking as Mingyu settles down on the edge of the court with you. “I think they already know we are sort of a thing, right?”

“I mean, probably.” He nestles his head against your shoulder, making you tense up. You’re not used to his love of skinship just yet. “But this will just solidify it for them. Look to the left for a second.”

You wordlessly follow his direction, seeing the front camera flash of his phone flicker. 

“Perfect.” He grins. “Now, c’mere.” He sits himself up straight, gently moving his hand to cradle the side of your head and rest it against his shoulder. “Take a selfie with my hand right…” his hands rests on your hair and you feel your cheeks begin to heat up. “... here.” 

You blink and quickly shake off the flush on your cheeks, reaching up and snapping the picture.

“My class ring is in the shot, see?” He points to the ring on his finger in the image reflecting off your phone screen. “They’ll know it’s me.”

“Mhm, and not for your hands themselves?” You give him a little smile.

“Yah!” Mingyu huffs and pouts. “I can’t help that my fingers are-”

Before Mingyu can finish, you point at a prominent little scar on the outside of his thumb. “A true Mingyu fangirl would know about your scar, right?” you ask softly, glancing up at him with wide eyes. He freezes. “I mean, the girls are obsessed with you, right? They would know it’s you straight away.”

A small flush makes its way up the back of his neck. “I didn’t think about that.” he mumbles dumbly as you shrug and push your glasses up your nose. He didn’t think that anyone paid attention to his smaller, insignificant features. He snaps out of his thoughts when you rise to your feet, looking at him expectantly. “Huh?”

“I said, did you want me to take more photos of you?” 

“Of me?”

You shrug again. “I mean, yeah, you usually do a little candid photo dump when you do your posts…”

His heart flutters slightly as you stand before him, your phone in your hands as you tilt your head curiously at him.

“You… noticed that?”

“Oh,” you laugh nervously, putting your phone back in your pocket. “Sorry, I’m.. I suppose I’m a pretty observant person.” 

“No, no…” Mingyu stands quickly, shaking his head. “No, it’s not a bad thing, Mochi. It’s actually… nice. Not many people notice things like that.” He gives you a little smile - a genuine smile.

“Oh..” You flush pink before nodding along quickly. “Okay, that’s a relief then.” You laugh, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Okay, since you asked, SO NICELY,” Mingyu bumps your hip with his, a cheeky smile forming on his lips. “You have won the opportunity to be both my photographer and my student.”

“Student for what, Gyu?” you laugh. “I’m the one tutoring you in math.”

“That is irrelevant, young lady.”

“I’m older than-”

“IRRELEVANT!” His hand waves at you, a grin fighting its way through at the sight of you giggling at him. “I’m going to teach you how to play one-on-one.” he holds the ball in front of you, a hopeful gleam in his eye.

“Oh lord, here we go.”

–

“And then you let your hand follow through,” Mingyu flicks his wrist as the ball bounces on the ground. 

“Uh-huh.” You hum.

“Here, let me show you.” He settles himself behind you, placing the basketball in your hands. 

You tense up at the feeling of his large warm hands encasing yours. His chin rests on your shoulder as he moves your hands upwards, throwing up the basketball towards the ring. As the ball leaves your hands, his fingers interlace yours. “See? That’s how you shoot a basket.”

“Is this what you do to charm all the girls, Kim Mingyu?” You laugh as he spins you to face him.

“Only the best ones, Mochi.” He winks at you. 

Before he can move, his eyes widen at the sight of you taking the ball from the ground, dribbling the ball up and tossing it into the ring with ease.

“I- what- huh-”

“You forgot the wide stance.” You grin at him, throwing the ball to him. He stares at you with his mouth wide open.

“How did…”

“I may be an only child but I grew up with 6 boy cousins.” You laugh. “Basketball was the only thing we used to do at family parties.”

“Alright, Y/L/N.” Mingyu glares playfully at you as he pushes the ball against your chest. “One-on-one.”

“Are you sure you want to do this, Kim?” You taunt, dribbling the basketball a few times as you speak. “I wouldn’t want the student to overtake the teacher.”

“Oh, it’s so on.” His eyes narrow. “Bring it.”

“Don’t go easy on me.” You wink at him.

–

“How the hell are you so good?” Mingyu pants, hands on his hips as you sink the ball into the ring once again. 

“That’s 16 - 7. Give up yet?” You wipe the sweat off your forehead with a grin. 

“One more shot!” He wheezes, holding his hand up.

“Alright then~” You sing, standing on the side before starting to dribble and move around him.

Mingyu steps into your path, reaching down to swipe the ball from you. He successfully takes the ball, turning to run. When he moves to run, he hears you let out a yelp. He immediately turns back to see you sitting on the ground with your hands around your left ankle, wincing.

“Oh my god, Y/N,” Mingyu rushes to you, kneeling down beside you and resting his hand over yours. “What happened?”

“I-I think I twisted it..” You whimper, and he feels his heart drop at the sound of your voice. 

“Fuck, okay, let me look at it..” He moves your hand and gently grabs your foot, twisting it slightly. “Does this hurt?” 

“A little..”

“It should be just a sprain- Huh?” Mingyu’s eyes widen as you quickly jump up, grabbing the basketball and tossing it in from the three-pointer line.

“THREE POINTS!” You squeal, jumping excitedly before letting out a shriek as you feel two arms wrap around your waist and spin you around.

“Yah!! You brat!” Mingyu scolds as your loud laughs fill his ears. “You made me worried, stupid girl!” He laughs with you as he keeps spinning you around before tossing you over his shoulder. “Foul! Disqualification!” 

“Yah!! All is fair in one-on-one!” You laugh, kicking your legs.

“‘I’m sorry, Mingyu,’ ” Mingyu keeps jostling you on his shoulder.

“Why would I- AH!” You squeal as he tickles your sides.

“‘I’M SORRY, MINGYU!’” he teases again, a grin on his face as you laugh heartily.

“Okay, okay!” You gasp between giggles. “I’m sorry for making you worry, Mingyu!” 

“That’s better.” He grins at you as he moves your body so you’re facing him, your legs wrapped around his waist with his arms around yours. “You’re forgiven for being a brat.”

Your giggles die down, your hands naturally resting around his neck. “Good.”

“Hm.” Mingyu hums in agreement as his smile reflects your own. His eyes search yours, occasionally looking down for a quick moment before looking back up at you. 

Your eyes follow his effortlessly, cheeks heating up as the realisation hits you of the position you both are in.

“I- umm..”

You blink in surprise at the sound of Mingyu’s phone pinging in his pocket, watching curiously as he checks the notification.

“Bingo.” He smirks, turning his phone to face you. 

SEUNGCHEOL: dude, you’re banging your tutor?

“How the hell did he come up with that conclusion?”

“Don’t underestimate the power of soft launching, Mochi.” Mingyu winks as he places you down on the concrete carefully. “Ooh, you got more followers too!”

“I did?” You pick up your phone, eyes widening at the sight of 7 new followers on your account. 

“Phase One is a go.” Mingyu chirps excitedly.

“Fine,” you sigh. “What’s next?”

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@misshale21 @etaerealboy @kawennote09 @im-gemmy @devinkelsey19 @Woozieeeee @loveless-lie @lixiel0ver @keymins @nen-nyy @lisaaaaamanobannn @i-dont-give-a-fok @miriamxsworld @jovialpartyneckoaf @jojowantstocry @roe-sinning @sarahisupset @sun-daddy-yoriichi @coveyland @side-angel @rinalouu @flwerrchild @apobangpowrld @ldysmfrst @Adeptiixiao @jiniesclub @lorde-oftherings @fairlyfayee @darlingz99 @doubleshoticedshakenespresso @back-tothe-moon @jihoonsbbygirl @kpopjackie @lucis-noctiana @ateez-atiny @codeinebelle @choco-scoups @bmo-bri

Mingyu Taglist

☆ warnings: alcohol consumption, smut with plot, sub mingyu, soft dom reader, pussy drunk mingyu, manhandling, mingyu is low key a simp, reader is so down bad for him it is embarrassing, reader is on birth control, both mingyu and reader are lowkey toxic, size kink, big dick mingyu, use of sex toys, squirting, masturbation, foul language, dirty talking, lots of making out, reader has a bit of difficulty reaching her high, a bit of dry humping, oral sex (f. receiving), body worshipping, cowgirl, edging, unprotected p in v sex, creampies, aftercare. pet names: baby, shorty, pretty, (hers)

☆ acknowledgements: first things first! big thanks to @nonuify who suggested the title for the series! thanks to @onlymingyus who suggested a cute pet name for reader (that is, sugar which will come in the future), @miniseokminnies, @bitchlessdino and @wonustars for helping brainstorming for ideas hehe ty ty 🩵

also thanks to vee and @wooahaeproductions who helped me proofread this 🩵

☆ author's note: helloooooo! welcome to the hannieverse! where every single fic i've written is connected somehow! this series is closely connected to heartbreaker. though i don't think it is necessary to read that one in order to read this one here, but if you haven't read that one yet, be my guest hehe

☆ author's note 2: we have another reader self-insert!! i wish i could start self-inserting the things that are actually nice about my life... and not angst, bad sleeping habits and heartbreak (┬┬﹏┬┬) anyway, i hope you all enjoy this one

☆ disclaimer: minors DO NOT INTERACT. this post is intended for 18+ readers. please have your age stated in your description and try not to look like a bot please or i will block you.

ladies' night

Lately, work had become your second home.

Not by choice, no. It was a thing that you forced into your life to keep yourself busy. Running a business was not easy, but you had reached a point in your life where you no longer needed to work 16 hours a day. Now, you felt like you needed to be working all day long. Or else, you would go insane.

Routine. You swore by it. Wake up, get ready, go to work, traffic, clock off, more traffic, come back home, sleep, repeat.

You could make time for yourself. But there was nothing else to dedicate your time to.

Coming back to a half-packed apartment was quite discouraging. Boxes piled up. The furniture you worked so hard to buy, gone, sold. You did not even bother to turn on the light, you had memorized your way through the maze of cardboard boxes.

Maybe I should get a dog.

The keys hanging from your fingers jingled as you reached your bedroom, tossing them on the nightstand to begin undressing yourself and getting ready to sleep.

There was a row of neatly folded clothes occupying one side of the bed, clothes that were ready to be packed away. Or donated. Whatever you wanted to do the following day.

You finished peeling off the last piece of clothing from your body, neatly disposing of it in the hamper, and dragged yourself to do your nightly skincare routine.

The biggest, and probably recurring challenge you had to get through was going to sleep. You faced your bed, half covered by small towers of folded clothes making you feel a deafening agony that you could not get rid of.

You set your phone on the side table before commanding yourself to sit on the bed, your back to the piles of clothes. You had to purposefully ignore your phone before going to bed if you wanted to get an interrupted sleep.

Lying on your pillow, you stared at the ceiling, your arms sticking to your torso, fingers curled on the bedcovers. The part you dreaded the most.

You closed your eyes, avoiding every thought completely. It was a difficult feat, it was impossible.

Slowly, and tentatively, you slid a hand beneath the bed sheets, reaching out to your side, feeling the weight of the piles of clothes pressing down on your arm. The side of the bed would remain empty, and you never dared to sleep on that side.

The side where your former partner used to sleep.

A part of you itched to grab your phone. What was the point, you concluded, retreating your hand and sticking it to your body again. There was no point in trying to reimagine a life in which you had not asked your ex to leave. There was no point in wanting someone that left you feeling so empty.

Maybe I should sell the bed too.

You stared at the ceiling once again, your gaze outlining the four margins of the bedroom. Whenever the night got bad, you would do this, over and over, until everything faded to black Until you fell asleep.

You woke up before your alarm went off.

It took you some moments to realize that you did not have to go to work that day. A heavy reluctance fell upon you, making it harder to drag yourself out of the bed you were planning to sell the night before.

You brushed the thought off. Okay.

You were okay. You were going to be even better.

The morning was bleak, the pale light making you squint your eyes as soon as you drew the blinds up. But you started working at once. The first task was putting the clothes in boxes, emptying space on the bed.

You wasted no time, removing the covers and the bed sheets without much thought. You did not want to think that even though you washed the pillowcases, you could still smell your ex's cologne in them. You did not want to think back to the time you bought the bed sheets with him when you moved in together.

It was too late.

Crushed, you closed the moving boxes, moving them into neat piles. The silence was nearly deafening.

You sat on the bed and waited.

The doorbell rang. People came in and stuffed a van full of all of the boxes and the bed. When it was time to go, you took one look at the place you swore you would live with the love of your life for a long while and closed the door behind you.

Three months later.

Your old routine started to tear you down. A silent killer, slowly destroying bits and pieces of your already fragile state. You were too slow or too ignorant to see it, but in protecting your precious routine, you were destroying yourself.

First, it was your sleep. Then, it was your closest friendships. Then, you could no longer pay attention at work. You were tired, and alone.

Enough is enough, you told yourself sternly.

You decided to do new things. Explore a bit more, distract yourself, pamper yourself. Watch a new show someone recommended to you ages ago, or actually read one of the books you bought and forgot.

Living in a new part of town should not be this challenging.

You knew every single corner of the neighborhood, yet you knew no one. And living in a city so vast and so populated demanded you to do activities in the company of someone.

Part of running your own business meant that you could manage your own time. That you did, shaving some hours off of your heavy and self-inflicted work schedule and taking some time for yourself.

The first thing you did was go shopping since it could be one activity you could do by yourself. And it was distracting. You went back home, and read that book.

Maybe I could put on this show while I unpack.

Some things were still kept in boxes from when you moved into the new apartment. Mainly those with stuff you did not require immediately. Clutter. Mostly bought by you to make your other apartment feel more lived in.

Time went by and you finished watching that show. You finished reading through the pile of books you got ages ago. You bought new clothes, and got rid of those that once occupied your ex's side of the bed.

You were slowly becoming someone else.

Waking up to a new reality happens in an instant. In the middle of the day. In the middle of traffic. It is realizing that in the past you is no longer present, and you need to become someone else to fit into that reality.

At least, that was how it felt.

The red light turned green, and you pushed yourself through the traffic slowly. Maybe I should sell the car. You turned left, driving past the badly lit gym that stood on the corner, its uninviting neon purple and red lights outside.

Abruptly, you pulled up. Grabbing your purse, getting out of your car and meekly pushed open the door to the place. The myriads of different noises startled you at first. The very loud speakers mounted on every corner, the clanking of the heavy weights hitting the floor, planks hitting each other, and the occasional loud grunting of men.

The person wearing the staff uniform greeted you. The young man, though seemingly your age, looked at you up and down with bright doe eyes.

“Hi,” he nodded politely, showing you a smile adorned by a couple of ring piercings. “Welcome! How can I help you?”

The question seemed to drive a dry joke in your mind, but you paid no attention to it. “I want to register.”

His expression broke in a downturned smile, almost as if this were a quick reflex of his. You realized then, you were being quite dry.

“Please,” you added two seconds later.

“Sure,” he smiled, recovering from the awkward exchange without issue. “Follow me.”

The gym was packed, it got hotter the more you entered the place. The guy wearing the staff uniform appeared to be quite the popular person around, waving at gym goers left and right with great attitude.

You thought of mentioning it but, you just kept walking behind him to an office room secluded in one of the corners. He turned on the light and went around the small desk, sitting down on the battered office chair with a heavy sigh.

“Okay, first things first,” he turned on the chair to one side, showing you with his hand to a table pushed to the corner of the office, an old coffee maker huffed as it finished brewing. “Coffee?”

You looked at the coffee machine, and then to him. An eyebrow lifted.

“It's Thursday,” he shrugged. “We serve coffee every Thursday.”

You huffed, a small smile appearing on your face. “And on Fridays?”

“Ah! Do not get ahead of yourself. Maybe we can find that out tomorrow, miss...?” he pushed his eyebrows up, pulled one pen from the pencil case, and clicked it on, ready to fill out a form.

You fought the urge to laugh in his face, the awkwardness from the whole situation making your tummy feel uneasy.

You sat down on the chair, robbing the pen from his tattooed fingers. His doe eyes snapped open in surprise when you pulled the form from under his hand and started filling it out.

“Tell me prices,” you muttered, eyes focused on filling out the form, so you did not get the chance to see him smile when he let out a small breath.

“Well, that didn't go to plan,” he whispered to himself, seemingly.

Cute.

“Has it ever?”

You darted a look at him through your lashes. The guy had his eyes slightly widened, probably not expecting you to strike up a conversation of this type.

“Uh, well, yeah, but,” he stammered, like a deer in the headlights. “Only when I don’t mean it to,” he smiled sheepishly, bringing a hand to scratch the back of his neck.

“Well, then, I suppose that you can give me your name so I can give you mine,” you offered, though amicably. You finished writing on the form, putting the pen down.

“Jungkook,” he nodded his head politely. “Jeon Jungkook, miss.”

You smiled at him and told him your name, pushing the form to him on the desk.

Jungkook read the details you penned on the form intently, his lips softly mouthing each word, and then he turned to the old computer sitting on one side of the desk. But then, he shook his head swiftly. “Shit, yeah. Right,” he hissed. “Prices,” he turned to you.

“You know what,” you blurted, heartbeat racing when you pulled out your card from your purse. “Just sign me up.”

“Okay,” he nodded once again, his smile growing into a more content one, leaving the shyness behind. “Welcome to Casa Pump House,” he announced proudly.

His whole face had lit up, even his eyes seemed to glimmer under the pale overhead lights. The pause that followed told you that he was expecting you to match his energy, to smile, to say something.

A stiff smile stretched the features of your face, you nodded back at him. “Thank you,” you said. However, what he did not know was that the last thing you wanted to get out of your registration to the gym was working out.

You just needed another distraction.

The man stood up at the same time you did. “Let me show you around,” he said, demeanor completely changed. He seemed nervous now.

“Oh, is it okay if we leave that for tomorrow?” you asked, suddenly feeling out of place in your work clothes.

His mouth hung open for a brief moment. “Sure,” he replied. “Of course. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” you echoed, walking out of his office promptly. “Thank you, Jeon!”

You rushed through the rows of all types of machines. The noise from the heavyweights clashing together, the loud music coming from the overhead speakers, and the noises coming from men, exhaling, grunting, and such had you taking a deep breath when you came out of the place.

The night was cold, slightly damp from the mid-summer breeze. It was a stark difference from the humidity inside Casa Pump House.

You snorted. I should learn to ignore my impulsive thoughts.

You found your car, unlocking the doors. But a flashing thought overwhelmed you even more: having to sit through yet another thirty minutes of traffic, alone with your thoughts.

Turning your back from your car, you locked the doors once again, walking down the street. It could be a Thursday night when your usual would be heading home and sleeping. But the city was very much coming alive with nightlife activities.

People were walking close together, laughing, chatting, or looking at their phones. All of them had somewhere to go, somewhere they were being waited for.

Two girls holding hands walked past you, they were giggling, talking about some innocuous thing, but it caught your attention, they were pretty and looked happy.

They stopped in front of an establishment that was clearly a bar. Namely The Spot, in big neon red letters and pushed inside the place, which was booming with loud music, and the buzzing from the people crowding the place.

Once again, you sighed.

Impulsivities.

You were not exactly a drinker. But as soon as you crossed the door, you realized that the place was the answer to your every prayer. Well, no. Not quite. But close.

The place was dark, only lit by neon signs and low-hanging lamps. A cacophony of various things filled your ears: the sound of music, paired with the chattering of the crowd, the billiards in the distance clashing with everything too.

The good part was that no one paid attention to you. You quietly and inconspicuously slid on one of the high-top chairs at the lacquered bar, being approached by a girl a second later to take your order.

“Can I have a coke, please?” raising your voice over the loud speakers made your heartbeat race. You rarely ever did such a thing lately, it felt weird to do something like that again.

The girl nodded and in seconds, she slid the can of coke and a glass with ice in it in front of you.

You were glad that you were not met with concern when you ordered a coke at a bar. But then you realized that no one cared.

The place was packed with mostly women, you realized as you familiarized yourself with its adorned walls and black and white checkered floors. The bar top held a chalkboard that explained it in neat handwriting: ladies' night, buy one get one free.

“Does it apply for non-alcoholic drinks too?” you asked the girl tending the bar.

She shook her head no. “But this one is on me,” she winked at you in a friendly way, when you sent her a questioning look, she just shrugged: “You look like you need it.”

Then the girl turned and continued working, tending to other orders in the bar quite skillfully. You wondered if you announced your sadness just by walking into the place, and people noticed. Or was it that being alone in a ladies' night instantly meant that you were going through a rough time?

You need new friends.

When you broke up with your ex, you hid from the world that revolved around you as a couple. The friends you shared, the places you used to go with him, the activities you liked doing with him… It all got shoved into a drawer at the back of your mind.

So now, you felt like coming back to life. Essentially, you were finding yourself after the pain of a heartbreak. The reason behind all your most recent life's decisions.

You would never go to bars alone, for instance.

Not that you did not enjoy a drink. You did. Though during the time with your ex-partner, it was a true rarity for you to go out and drink.

So being in a bar, on a Thursday was something you had not done in years.

It was quite overwhelming. The buzzing noise, the loud music, the clanking of glass and billiards, the booming laughter and chattering...

The mood was low, dimly lit in red neon lights, the noise seemed to die down upon laying eyes on the tall man going behind the bar, passing in front of you and blocking the sight of the huge neon red sign that read, HEARTBREAKER. The contrasting light against his tall frame made him alluring, you could not help but stare.

However, your trance was cut short. He might have sensed your eyes glued to him because his zeroed on your face, unsuspecting at first. You realized instead, you know this man, the thought fell heavily in your mind, settling in the pit of your tummy.

The dark eyes glinted with recognition, the corner of his lips rising to uncover the predominant fangs as he smiled politely at you.

Kim Mingyu took one step towards the spot you were sitting in, the smile fading at once as you jumped from your stool, swiftly slipping through the door and out of the bar altogether.

Once out, you released a puffy breath. Did you just run away from Kim Mingyu?

“But did he recognize you?” your best friend from college, Mona, asked. She toyed with the tail of a cherry, dragging it on the foamy surface of her pina colada.

“I don’t know,” you squished your cheek on your palm as you propped your elbow on the table. “I didn’t stick around to find out. I don’t think he did, though.”

“Are you sure about that?” she mused.

“I’ve changed a lot, Mona,” you explained, though pointlessly since your best friend already knew what you meant. “I’m not the same kid I was when I was seventeen.”

“True. So why did you run?” she asked, blowing a puffy air up her fringe to keep it off her long eyelashes.

“It was some sort of impulse,” you tried to explain but the truth was, you did not even know the answer to that question. Hence why you resorted to call in for a meeting with the person that knew you the most.

Though it was not a meeting. You had already set a date for you to meet with your best friend long before you found out that Kim Mingyu worked at the bar around the corner of your apartment.

It had been long since you saw your best friend, partly because you kept coming up with excuses to not meet with her.

“I think,” he started, now popping the cherry in her mouth. “That you have been so buried in your own shit that you’ve started to forget how to socialize.”

You coughed up a chuckle. “Right,” you said dismissively. “And what is your recommendation, doc?”

“You should return to the bar,” she shrugged. “You have been hiding for too long. It’s time you go out more, meet new people.”

Her dark eyes bore into your face. You could feel your own pulse in your tummy. “I know,” you confessed with a strangled tone. “I’ve gotten better. I no longer think about him, you know?”

This was the reason why you had been dodging your best friend’s calls. Or cancelling plans at the last minute. This conversation was one you had been putting off for far to long but could no longer keep inside you.

“Good,” she sighed with relief, her heart-shaped face lit up with a kindness that warmed you up. “And how do you feel?”

“I feel… I used to feel angry. At him. For failing his promise to me,” you pursed your lips, swallowing hard as your voice dropped. “But now I just feel like I’m letting it go. I think that things had to happen like that for a reason.”

“He did you a kindness,” she nodded with a wise expression on her face.

You huffed. Kindness is not the word you would use. In fact, you could not come up with words to use to describe what he did to you.

“Seriously,” she insisted, straightening on her seat. “Imagine you got married! Then you would have been a loser’s wife!”

That elicited a genuine chuckle out of you. “True.”

“Not only that, but you would’ve also gotten divorced. Or who knows. But he spared you the pity of being married to him, divorcing him, or having children with his sorry ass.”

You pondered over her words for a second. Mona was there for you when you broke up with your ex. She was the first person to know the news, dropped everything to be at your doorstep within the hour of that happening.

You were grateful for Mona in more ways than one. She gave you space to grieve when you needed it. You did not even have to say it.

“So, are you going back to that bar some time soon?” she pried, leaving the tail of the cherry on her napkin, a knot neatly tied in the middle.

“Yeah,” you admitted. “I chickened out. I think he did see me, and I don’t want to leave that impression.”

“Do you need back up?” she threw you a cheeky look.

Oh, she knows.

“No, I think I got it,” you reassured. “I’ll just pop in, say hi and that’s it.”

Sundays were the worst for you.

The bustling noise from the bar drowned out the heavy thumping of your heart. Keeping your head down, your eyes darted forth and then down to the glass you kept twirling with your fingers on top of the lacquered, pristine bar top.

Kim Mingyu was busy that night. Prancing side to side behind the bar, a white dishcloth resting on his shoulder. He went to pick up a new order, yanking it from the small printer and pretending to read it.

His chocolate brown eyes lifted, locking on you. With a nervous jolt in your chest, you looked at your hands again, grabbing your phone to hopefully distract yourself from the awkward but swift exchange.

“I know you.”

You drew in a breath, jolting so hard that somehow your hands pushed your drink, making some of it spill on the polished surface. “God,” you exhaled in both embarrassment and surprise.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Kim Mingyu blurted, grabbing the cloth from this shoulder and pressing it on the spilled drink. “Shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you like that.”

“No, it’s okay,” you blurted, equally nervous as him. “You caught me off guard.”

“You know what they say,” he said, pressing his lips into a smile and discarding the cloth elsewhere, setting the palms of his hands on the edge of the bar top. “People with naughty thoughts in their heads get scared easily.”

“Nobody says that,” you raised your eyes from his hands to meet his face, his smile had grown, showing now the beautiful fangs that crowned it.

“I'm pretty sure I’ve heard it before somewhere,” he tilted his head to one side.

“Or maybe you just made it up,” you arched one eyebrow.

“Maybe,” he conceded, biting his lower lip to try and hide his shy smile.

A wave of warm embarrassment washed over your face, but you found yourself smiling at the man. “It’s been a long time.”

“So you do remember me.”

“Of course I do,” you replied with a meek smile burning your cheeks.

“Then why didn't you just say hi?” he replied with some faux indignation, pursing his lips into a pout. “I thought you hadn’t recognized me and that’s why you freaked out and left.”

“You didn't say hi either,” you shrugged, shaking your head lightly when you realized it was a bad excuse. “And it hasn’t been that many years, Mingyu,” you giggled. “Of course I remember you.”

The low chuckle that came from him ignited many memories from the past. “Really? Haven’t I changed? Not even a little?”

You rolled your eyes. The very last memories you had from Kim Mingyu were when you were still in high school. Even after many years, he kept the kind smile and bright eyes, the dark long hair. The only different thing about him was that he looked huge now.

He crossed his arms, waiting patiently for your answer. It was funny to you that even when his biceps bulged beneath his black t-shirt impressively, the starry eyes brought that boyish charm he has always had.

“Nope,” you said, shaking your head slowly. “Still the same.”

“But you have changed,” he remarked, nodding his head once. You blinked at him dumbly, so he just added: “Your hair is longer. Braces are gone.”

You let out a chuckle, enjoying how the features of his face went lax at the sound of your laughter, much as if he were holding in a breath until the moment that he made you laugh.

“Spot on,” you mumbled awkwardly, grabbing your empty glass.

It was totally the opposite, though. You feel like you had lost half of your younger self when you entered your twenties. The baby fat from your face was long gone, your skin was leagues better after the brutal hormonal changes. And your body of course was not the same… there were some improvements.

“Sorry, let me refill that for you,” he quickly got to work, pulling out a new glass, filling it back up, and with one move, he slipped it into your hand. “One whisky sour.”

“Thanks,” you pressed your lips in a shy smile.

You watched as he parted his lips, pausing for a second before speaking out, until another voice, a powerful one, boomed from across the bar.

“Kim Mingyu! Get to work!”

He straightened up as if mentally being whipped by the firmness of the command. The man who called was leaning back against a pool table, arms crossed on his chest. But instead of wearing a frown on his face, there was a broad smile in it.

“Ah! Shit, I’m sorry,” he replied in a nervous stammer, wincing when the man handling the bar alongside him slapped him on one shoulder.

“Focus, Min,” the guy who slapped him playfully smiled in a mischievous way, directing a swift glance at you and pursed his lips to keep himself from smiling any wider.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he repeated, shooting an annoyed look at the guy and rolled his eyes at him. “I thought you had it for a minute.”

“Yeah, I did,” he shrugged. “But you don’t get paid to flirt. Plus, boss is watching,” the man pressed his lips into a sly smile.

“I’m not flirting–hyung,” Mingyu widened his eyes, gritting: “She is a friend.”

“Hi,” you raised one hand at the pair of bartenders, waving at them. “I’m a friend.”

“Oops, I’m sorry,” the tall man adjusted the watch sitting on his wrist before waving back at you. “Jeon Wonwoo. Also a friend.”

“Flatmate,” Mingyu gibed with faux dismissal.

 “So I’m not your friend anymore?” Wonwoo clicked his tongue, raising his eyebrows. “Good luck with flirting again on the clock without having boss complaining.”

“I wasn’t flirting!” Mingyu whined, grabbing the upcoming order expelled by the little printer behind him.

“Since I’ve been downgraded to just being a flatmate, I’m going to take a break,” he announced with an overly dramatic tone of indignation.

Mingyu’s jaw dropped in a sign of it being unjust. “Hyung!”

“I trust you can handle the bar on your own?” Wonwoo said, undoing the knot tying his waist apron that was previously wrapping him from the waist and left through the back door.

“Tsk,” Mingyu huffed, but then, despite his situation, he smiled widely. “I’m sorry about that,” he offered you a kind look. “He’s just teasing me. Please don’t mind him.”

“It seems like all of your co-workers like teasing you,” you pointed meekly, darting a look towards the other two people standing over the end of the bar.

Mingyu shot a look back, finding the girl that had welcomed you some nights ago, standing beside a tall man of pale blond hair. Both exchanged a smile, looking giddy.

“Tsk, aah,” Mingyu shook his head, and the couple laughed. “Don’t mind them,” he pleaded, resuming to focus back on his work, though part of you assumed that he was too embarrassed to face you.

So, you watched as he busied himself taking orders, handing them out to the pretty girl tending the tables. You continued sipping on your drink, distractedly looking at your phone and sending him glances, noticing that he too was looking at you. Every now and then, he would just shake his head at her in disapproval, which she ignored with a wide smile on her face.

Whenever he tried to stop in front of you to chat, he would be quickly swept away by a new order, or someone would call his name, and he would excuse himself with a quiet apology and a shy smile.

Later, the man that introduced himself to you as Jeon Wonwoo returned to the bar, slapping Mingyu on the shoulder to draw his attention. They exchanged some words, Mingyu looked aback for a second and the other pouted, mouthing: “I don’t know,” and shrugging with ease.

“Hey,” Mingyu came to you after thanking his friend. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Eh?” you tilted your head to one side, the question making your stomach drop.

“So we can catch up,” Mingyu let out a sweet giggle, realizing how his question sounded. “I’m getting kicked out for the night.”

Your eyes widened in bewilderment. “Oh, Mingyu, I’m sorry, that is not what–,”

“Relax,” he sighed. “My flatmate is covering me. He owed me one.”

“Oh,” you blurted. In that case…

“It’s been a while.”

Mingyu hummed thoughtfully, casting a look at the night sky. “Uh, eleven–ten, ten years?” he calculated.

You were exiting the bar, walking down the side of the street after you told him you were just gearing up to head home already, and he kindly offered to walk you home. “Yep. Ten years.”

“Wow,” he sighed. “We’re getting old.”

You braced yourself for one of those talks. As you entered the second half of your twenties, things got a little awkward for you. Once you would think they were stuff of fiction, something you would only see in romantic comedies or in tv shows: characters see the people surrounding their lives getting married, going on dates, honeymoons, having children while they remain a perpetual loner.

Now, you could not relate to that more.

But Mingyu was a person who did not care for those things. Even when you were both seventeen. He did not care for material things, or superficial things.

“Yeah. A little.”

You drew in a breath through your nose. The night was cold, and you could tell in the summer’s breeze that it would rain later. 

“I saw that you went in that fancy college,” he mentioned and then laughed. “And then you disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“Yeaaah,” you mumbled awkwardly. “I sort off eliminated all of my social media,” you frowned, remembering the reason why you had done that.

“I get it, it’s exhausting,” he shrugged.

“Did you go into that fancy college?” you returned, remembering Mingyu in those days in which he used to talk about the future, whenever you went out with your friend group. You remembered thinking that he had a bright future ahead of him whenever he would talk about studying mechanical engineering.

“Nah,” he clicked his tongue. “I quit those plans once I started working and making money. So, I’m not a mechanical engineer,” he let out a lazy giggle.

“Mmn,” you nodded. “Yeah, that happens. I’m not a graphic designer.”

“Why?” he frowned. “That’s all you talked about with your friends!”

You looked at him, perplexed to know that Kim Mingyu ever paid attention to you. Within your friend group, you were the least he had in common with. So even when you crossed paths, you never talked to each other aside from small friendly stuff.

“I started working as a translator… Started making money,” you sent him a knowing look.

“Yeah, I get it,” he chuckled. “But do you enjoy it at least?”

“Of course,” you smiled, though you could not ignore the way that your heartbeat faltered. “I work independently, though I do rent an office not far from here actually…” you said, pointing to the street where you were about to turn.

“Nice! I live in the area too, so maybe we’ll run into each other one day,” he mentioned.

“It’s nice to know I have a friendly neighbor,” you smiled. “I just moved here.”

“Oh, then let me show you around some day!” his eyes lit up. “There are a ton of places you probably don’t know of, like the bakery on the next alley, or the coffee shop right next to it, they serve really good breakfasts.”

“That would be nice,” you grinned.

Mingyu showed you a toothy grin, pausing in his step so you could catch up to him since he moved faster than you.

“Hey, about what happened back at the bar,” he motioned a finger to the bar. “I’m sorry about that. My friends can be a bit of dickheads.”

“No, it’s alright, I get it,” you shrugged. “A bit of in-work bantering can lighten up the shift sometimes,” you put simply.

“That and the fact that they have been teasing me for a while now. They try hard to distract me,” he rolled his eyes. But realizing how he came off, he added. “I had a nasty breakup not too long ago. It’s like they think I’m going to break soon. It’s annoying.”

“Can I ask how it happened?” you wondered, feeling your heartbeat falter when you finish uttering the words to a question that perhaps, might be too daring.

Kim Mingyu dug his hands in the pockets of his black denim jeans, sucking in a breath between his teeth. He pushed his shoulders up, that was when you noticed that the chill in the summer air was finally starting the get to him.

“She got into a new job,” he started, his eyes set far ahead on the way in front of you. “At the beginning, I thought that she was just happy from getting her big job. But then, she started saying things.”

As you walked beside him, you tried to keep your eyes trained on the tall man, but then he blinked rapidly, dropping his puppy eyes to his feet.

“She'd say things about my job,” he swallowed hard, and you could almost feel the pain he felt upon remembering. “I thought nothing of it at first, thought she was encouraging me to get a job with higher pay but...”

You nodded, and he sent you a glance in understanding. He did not need to say more about it, and he probably did not want to repeat the hurtful comments.

“And then,” he continued, and his tone dropped: “She started talking about her boss.”

He shook his head silently and exhaled through his nose, lifting his gaze up to the night sky.

“Time passed and the comments got meaner, she started ghosting me and I thought of breaking things off,” he swallowed hard once again, as if trying to mask his pain with it. “I got a call one day from a friend, telling me they saw her entering a restaurant with another man,” you saw him turn his hands into fists inside his pockets. “I guess she forgot that I had the day off that day, so she never thought I'd be waiting for her outside her apartment.”

“Did she...” you blurted out, your heart palpitating in your ears. You braced yourself to hear it, because you knew from before that his pain and yours were too alike.

“Yeah,” he croaked, blinking for a long second. “For weeks.”

“God, I’m so sorry,” you covered your mouth with one hand. “I'm sorry, Mingyu.”

“I'm alright,” he shrugged once more, nodding as if to himself. “I think I'm grateful for her mean attitude towards me because in a way she softened the blow, but it still hurts.”

“I know,” you conceded. “It isn’t easy.”

However, you were raging inside. Some nights, the worst ones, you wonder what you did wrong to deserve everything that your ex did to you. The broken promises, the lies, the ghosting, your trust being brutally shattered.

“The worst thing is the shame,” he sent a glance at you, dragging his foot on the concrete to kick one rock that stood in the way of the park.

You nodded in silence.

“I never told my friends,” he confessed, his eyes were outlining the tree branches. “When it happened, I just told them that she was the one who broke up with me... I've never told them the truth.”

“You are not obligated to,” you muttered, a cold shudder added to your already chilled body making you pause.

“I just couldn't do it,” he muttered. “And the reason isn’t to protect her image, though at the beginning I thought it was… I just don’t want to the pity.”

You crossed your arms close to your chest. “And how are you now?”

“I’m okay,” he said with a reassuring tone. “I like to think that I’ve let it go already.”

Something made your tummy twist. You were familiar with the feeling, but decided not to mention it, since you felt that your past with your ex was no longer relevant.

“I’m sorry,” Mingyu said.

You frowned at him. “What for?”

“For dumping all of this on you, I shouldn’t have done that.”

You realized that as you walked down the park, that you had remained quiet, and perhaps Mingyu mistook your silence for something other than you just pondering about how familiar his situation was to yours.

“Oh, please no, don’t worry, Mingyu,” you showed him a kind smile.

“I don’t want to bother you with that. I just…” he scratched his neck absentmindedly. “I had never talked about this with anyone, and the words just flew out of my mind, you know?”

You nodded; you knew that all too well. “It’s okay, Gyu,” you insisted. “I’m not bothered. I don’t think it’s wrong to talk about that. After all, it is part of you, and I asked because I was curious.”

Mingyu looked at you for a long second. “I appreciate that,” he kissed his own lower lip, nodding in gratitude. “Thanks for hearing me out.”

“Hey, it’s nothing. You’re walking me home, so consider us even,” you pointed.

“You owe me nothing for that,” he pouted slightly, pausing his step in the middle of the basketball court you both were crossing to get to the other side of the neighborhood.

“I’m just saying,” you shrugged. “Since you were kind to me, I guess what I can do is listen to your woes,” you added playfully.

“My woes,” he grinned, clicking his tongue. “Really? You’re a tease,” he insisted, his eyes spotting something on the far corner of the court.

He sprinted towards the forgotten ball, grabbing it with one hand and started to bounce it as he walked back to you.

“Remember when we used to do this?” he asked, standing outside the box and turned to look at you, raising his arms with the ball ready on one hand.

Your tummy fluttered at his words. “Course I do, Gyu. It wasn’t that long ago,” you pointed.

He referred to the times when you used to go out in your friend group, you would go to stroll and have picnic nights with booze right next to the river, and then you would go to the park to watch the boys play basketball.

“I feel like seventeen happened forever ago,” he sighed, confidently throwing the ball which dodged the hoop quite miserably.

You snorted.

Mingyu shot a sullen look at you. “D’you think you can do better than me?” he challenged, but a shy smile drew on his face.

“Oh, most definitely,” you chuckled, but caught the ball with your hands when he passed it to you.

“Right, show me,” he nodded to the hoop.

You grinned, getting ready to shoot your shot. “What do I get if it goes in?”

Mingyu blinked. “You get,” he paused to think. “A round of applause.”

“What?” you gasped.

“A chocolate bar,” he giggled but when you did not reply, he said: “And if you don’t, you’ll get a forehead flick.”

“What, why?” you asked with a faux scandalized tone. “You didn’t get a forehead flick, why should I?”

The giggled that bubbled in his mouth was high and cute at the same time. “Those are the rules.”

“Your rules suck,” you huffed, and finally threw the ball.

It of course, did not go even near the hoop. Mingyu laughed the second that the trajectory of the ball dived before it even went close to the hoop, the sound was so contagious you found yourself resisting to laugh.

“Rules are rules,” he said, locking his middle finger with the pad of his thumb, forming a circle with his joined fingers.

“No, wait—Mingyu!” you squealed then the tip of his middle finger clashed with your forehead, flicking you swiftly. Pain flashed across your skin, but it quickly dissipated, leaving a tingle behind.

“Those were the rules, you agreed!” he giggled again, dodging your hand as you tried to push his shoulders.

“Then you should get one too,” you struggled to keep up with him, every single one of the fists you threw at him dodged quite effortlessly.

“The rules were settled after I threw,” he let out a small squeal when one of your fists nearly collided with his shoulder, but he was still quicker than you.

“Come here you-,” you gasped, your body was neatly trapped in his arms.

Your gaze shot up to find his, overwhelmed by the very pressure of his skin against yours.

“Stay put,” he panted. The tips of his ears were painted red, his eyes had lit up. The smile he wore on his face was just as overwhelming as feeling his big arms surrounding you.

But you sneaked a hand between your bodies, flicking off his forehead with a triumphant smile. “Dummy,” you whispered, a giggle bubbling in your chest. Joy bloomed inside you, warming up your face.

He lifted a hand to rub his forehead, letting you go. “Ack, but you played dirty!” he complained, holding the pads of his fingers to his forehead.

“No, I didn’t, you did,” you remarked, looking at him as he gave you a lazy smile.

“So that’s how it’s going to be,” he kissed his teeth. “I’ll get my revenge on you.”

“Oooh, I’m so scared,” you lifted your hands, flickering them in a scared motion. 

The sky rumbled above you. Mingyu looked up and you followed. “We should get going,” he said.

As you left the park, you made your way along the sidewalk where your building was located. Then a hand came to your waist, gently prompting you to walk along the side of the buildings instead of along the edge of the sidewalk.

The touch was minimal, fleeting. But your mouth went dry, searching his face for any sign that he knew what he had done to you with such an insignificant gesture.

Your heart stammered against your chest, quite uncontrollably, it made it hard for you to breathe properly. You raised your head when you got to your building. “We’re here,” you stepped in the first step of the stairs that led to the door of the building, pausing to look back at his face. “Thank you, Min.”

The smile that drew on his face knocked the air out of your lungs. “You are welcomed,” he said, emphasizing each word adorably.

“I guess I’ll be seeing you,” you muttered awkwardly, hating that he had flustered you with so little and had no idea about it.

“Oh, yes,” he swiftly fished his phone from the pocket of his jeans. “We should exchange numbers, in case there is anything you need.”

You sighed shortly through your nose, a thing he did not notice. “Sure,” you said, pulling out your phone and gave him your number.

“I’m mostly busy at the bar but, maybe we could go out for coffee, so we can catch up properly?” he asked.

That gave you a reason to pause. You were certain that he was not asking you for a date, but why had you become so nervous at the thought of going out with Kim Mingyu?

“Of course, I’d love that,” you grinned. “Goodnight.”

And then you ran into your building. Running away from Mingyu for a second time.

You struggled to get sleep that night.

Staring at the ceiling, you grew more and more restless, and even more aware of the thing that lied beneath your bed, inside one of the drawers of the bed frame.

A long, whiny sigh of resignation spilled from you before you could get a hold of your actions. You rolled to the edge of the bed, flinging an arm over the mattress, and yanking the drawer open. Another sigh as your fingers reached for the pink satin bag and bottle of lube.

Tossing the covers off your already hot and pulsating body, fingers trembling slightly as you pulled the vibrator out of the satin pink bag you kept it in since you bought it. There had been only a couple of times that you had actually touched the pretty toy with your hands. The toy was pink, the material was soft, thick, and just about enough inches long to satisfy you. Or so you hoped.

Unsure as to how to go about this, you thought of removing just the lower part of your sleeping clothes, including your panties. Breathing hard, and feeling hot in the face and neck, you lied on your pillows, staring at the ceiling.

Your heart was banging fast against your ribcage, as if it wanted to get out. You liked your lips, before grabbing the bottle of lube you had tossed beside you and pumped the cold, thick lube on your fingers, gently applying it between your pussy lips.

You sucked in a breath through your teeth upon the chilly contact against your warmth. But wasted no time, grabbing the pink rabbit dildo from your sheets and holding the button with your thumb.

It came to life with rapid vibrations, the buzzing sound made you jolt in your bed again. But mustering some courage, you brought the tip in, pushing it inside your entrance gently at first. The fast mechanic motions of the vibrator made it hard to concentrate, or to even get pleasure out of it.

Your eyes outlined the edges of the ceiling, anxiously pushing a few more inches inside your needy walls. The thickness of the dildo made your mouth part, releasing a tiny moan of both pain and from feeling your pussy stretching and pulsating around it.

Slowly, you familiarized yourself with the feeling of it, and you grew to like it as the seconds went by and you found a mode that felt good. Your body responded naturally, coming alight with the mechanic patterns of the vibrator massaging your walls. You pushed it all the way inside you, to the part that met your clit.

A strangled moan came out of you, letting your body be submerged in a puddle of pleasure. You sank your head back onto your pillows and spread your legs more so that the dildo reached deeper inside your walls.

It was electrifying. You felt your muscles tighten, your legs burn and begin to tremble, you turned your head to muffle a moan in your pillow and closed your eyes.

Behind your eyelids, you saw him. You saw his tall frame, the beautiful way that he moved. You saw the outline of his lean torso, the t-shirt clinging onto his abdomen. The way he smiled when he noticed your eyes on him, winking at you knowingly.

The way that every nerve in your body sizzled when he laid his hand on your waist. The memory only contributed to the pleasure blooming inside your body, pushing you closer to the edge.

You slowly succumbed to waves of pleasure washing over you, you moaned and thrashed but made no attempt to pull out the vibrator continuing to pleasure you, taking you to the edge. Your orgasm became brutal, fast fiery waves consuming you, tearing through you.

It was hard to ignore the urge to remember his large hand on you, the way he lowered his gaze to meet yours, his seductive smile. You wanted his hands on you, all over you.

A series of airy moans resounded across the walls, you arched your back from the bed, legs shaking uncontrollably, the burning feeling spreading from your throbbing walls to every corner of your aching body.

You held in a breath, putting an end to your implacable moans. The intense feeling coursing through your body making it harder to stop, so when a warm and wet gush came out of you, your thumb pressed the off button, realizing that you had just wet the bed.

Breathless, and shaking, you sat up on the bed, looking at the wet spot in your bed sheets. It was the first time you squirted, the first time you even felt pleasure so abundantly like this. You pondered over how you had to resort to thinking about Mingyu to achieve your climax.

With a sigh, you gathered yourself, cleaning your bed, yourself, and your toys before throwing your ruined bed sheets in the washing machine. You placed new ones and tucked yourself back in and stared at the ceiling.

Though you were completely languid at the time, your vision faded to black, falling into a deep slumber but one thought remained.

I think I’ll accept that coffee.

Easier said than done.

As the following Monday rolled around, you fidgeted with the sleeves of your large hoodie as you approached the door of Casa Pump House. Nerves wrecked up in your system when you pushed the door open using your electronic key.

It had been some days since you saw Mingyu. Some nights since you dared to touch yourself thinking of him. And you were trying your best to keep him out of your mind. Utterly ashamed, you did not even want to think of what you had done.

Because you had enjoyed it.

In the back of your mind, a tiny voice begged for you to visit The Spot again. Whenever you went to the convenience store, a flashing thought warned you that you might run into him there. Or at the gym, even.

“Heyyyy,” Jungkook rasped, elongating the word. “You have been MIA.”

“Yeah,” you mumbled awkwardly. “Stomach flu.”

He made a face. “Ew. You’re good now?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t ew me,” you gibed. “Yeah, I’m good.”

But Jungkook did not know the stomach flu had a name, and you have been doing everything to not cross paths with him. So why were you at the gym, knowing full well that you could potentially run into him around that time?

“You’re here early,” he pointed, leaning his head to one side.

“It’s noon already!” you quipped.

“That’s early for you,” he remarked. “You always come here when I’m leaving.”

“Well, I missed you so I thought I could come here earlier to see your face,” you returned.

“You know what, I’ll take that. I missed your silly face too,” he said, smirking triumphantly.

“Shut up,” you rolled your eyes.

“Well,” he clasped his hands together, comically drawing in his eyebrows in a deep-set frown. “Let’s get to work, twinkie.”

“What did you just call me?” you demanded at him.

“Twinkie,” he shrugged, motioning a finger at your body. “You look squishy, like a cute twinkie.”

“Hey!” you frowned, pointing a finger at him impishly. “And you look like you were left alone with a sharpie started doodling on your skin.”

His mouth parted in a tiny o. “Touché.”

You giggled. “Okay, let’s get to work,” you rolled your eyes in resignation.

“Let’s start with some warmup,” he nodded to the elliptical machines behind you. “Ten minutes. And then you are going to do RDLs, okay?”

“Okaaaaay,” you mumbled, reluctantly taking your body to the elliptical machine.

You climbed the steps, pressing buttons to see what made the machine start. Once you found the button that made it work, you started moving. You dove into the pocket of your hoodie, looking for your earbuds and your phone to distract yourself from the monotony of the gym.

“Hands out of your pockets!” Jungkook yelped, a second later you saw the man rushing to your side. “You’re gonna get squished, twinkie.”

“Stop calling me that,” you giggled with embarrassment.

“I will when you get a nickname for me that suits me,” he negotiated.

“God, you’re terrible at flirting,” you pointed with a laugh.  

“I’m not flirting,” he chuckled, awkwardly moving away from you.

You let out a puffy breath, drawing out your earbuds out of your pocket.

“Mingyuuuu, it has been ages!” Jungkook chanted, his voice resounding across the lonely gym.

Your stomach twisted, an anxious rush of blood barrelling throughout your body. Your gaze snapped around the place, finding Jungkook pressing his phone to his ear. “This Friday? Uh, yeah, maybe I could. Let me check and I’ll let you know, okay? Okaaay.”

It could be anyone else, you reasoned, placing the earbuds inside your earholes with embarrassment controlling your body. However, it seemed all too likely that it was the same Kim Mingyu on the phone. After all, Jungkook and Mingyu seemed like the kind of goofballs that would get along.

 A probability that you did not want to find out yet.

As you continued your best to follow your routine, something had damaged it. And it was not that you were still ashamed of yourself. Or that you were still flustered about your last encounter with Mingyu.

The realization that you could feel something other than monotony. From the moment you broke things off with your ex, everything felt the same, tasteless, colorless. And you knew that you had put in the work to break out of that dullness in your life, you went out more, you were meeting new people.

But nothing compared to that night. And you found out that you wanted more.

However, it was not easy. You had drowned yourself in work in order to keep avoiding it. So there you were, trapped in your little office you rented for yourself, working yourself to exhaustion so that you could just get back home and sleep immediately.

You turned off the computer after reading the clock that it was three in the morning already. So you grabbed your phone, and your apartment keys and went out of the building.

Damn you, summer rains.

They always came when you least expect it, in the blink of an eye. The air felt so hot as you went out of your office that you could barely walk outside, but then the rain was pouring over you with no notice.

Walking down the sidewalk in working shoes was not the best idea. In fact, you were heavily contemplating removing them and just going back home barefoot.

You came to a reluctant halt in the middle of the deserted sidewalk, as heavy droplets of water fell on your face, on the back of your head as you stared at your shoes, getting wetter and wetter as you pondered over your dilemma.

“Lost something?”

Taking one big gulp of air, you shot a look across the sidewalk, only to find Kim Mingyu standing, wearing his usual attire for work. The features of his face looked relaxed despite the heaviness with which he approached you, carrying his fatigue in his limbs with each step.

His white T-shirt began to accumulate wet spots on his shoulders and chest. His cheeks were wet, as was his long messy hair.

You gaped at him in question. The dilemma occupying your brain dissipated into the void, quickly replaced by the shock of seeing him after days of keeping him at arm’s length without failure.

“Hi there,” he muttered once he stood one step before you.

“Hi,” you smiled, having to tilt your head to find his face.

“You’ve been gone,” he said with some air of urgency, much as if he did not want to lose you at some lazy excuse on your part. “I was starting to wonder that you didn’t want to hang out anymore.”

You hated his straightforwardness sometimes. “Sorry,” you scrunched up your nose in discomfort, receiving more fat droplets of water on your face. “I needed some me time.”

“Then you should’ve just said so, dummy,” he pointed, rolling his eyes at you as if his point were the most obvious thing in the world.

“I struggle to say things sometimes,” you retorted in a whiny tone. “Look, I’d love to continue this conversation but we’re literally just soaking in the middle of the street.”

Mingyu raised his eyebrows, as though he had not noticed the rain pouring down on both of you. “I’ll walk you home,” he motioned in the opposite direction from which he was previously coming.

And with that, he turned around and started to walk down the street.

You fell into step at his side, struggling to keep his steady pace. “Slow down,” you exhaled.

“Right,” he giggled sweetly. “Short legs.”

“Shut up,” you readjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “You just walk really fast.”

“Because I’m taller than you, my legs are longer,” he motioned to his legs, taking one big step that amounted to three of yours.

“Well, then walk slower, please,” you huffed with exhaustion already building up in your feet.

Mingyu noticed, still looking at your face as he walked. “Fine, sorry,” he conceded. “Are you just clocking off work?”

You nodded, noticing your ponytail heavier now that your hair was soaking. “I wanted to finish everything before the weekend.”

“It’s three in the morning,” he gasped in dramatic reprimand.

“Don’t give me that look,” you frowned, pointing a finger at him. “I could say the same to you! You also just clocked off.”

“But that is normal for my job! What you do is not something specifically for night hours,” he argued, matching your tone.

“What do you know about what I do?” you tried to argue but a smile fought to curve your lips. “I could hold office hours specifically from 11 pm to 3 am,” you giggled impishly.

“Ah, really you are…” he rolled his eyes but shook the thought from his head. “Could you finish?”

Droplets of water slid down the bridge of his nose, dropping from the tip and onto his cupid’s bow. You remembered the cute little beauty mark sitting on the tip of his nose. You wanted to kiss it.

It took you one second to understand what he was implying. “Oh, yes, I did,” you stammered, crossing your arms over your chest.

But Mingyu did not notice the meaning behind your gaze. “That’s good,” he nodded, pressing his lips together.

The short spasm returned in your chest, making you tear your eyes from his face and keep walking beside him, staring at the sidewalk.

“How was work tonight?” you returned the question, trying to get as much light conversation as you could without falling into the deep craving tugging in your insides.

“It was alright,” he shrugged. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“What would that look like?” you ventured.

“Ah, well, drunk people tend to be funny,” he showed you a toothy grin. “One guy celebrated his birthday at the bar one night, and after a few drinks he lost control, went insane,” he laughed in the memory of it. “He started thinking he was an idol, he requested a song and got on a top of the bar and started dancing.”

His laugh was contagious, you could not help but respond with a giggle of your own. “Oh, no, that sounds embarrassing. What did you do?”

“He lost his balance and fell to the floor,” his smile vanished, shuddering slightly. “He broke his nose, I had to call an ambulance,” he finished the story, scratching his nape absentmindedly.

“That’s not how I thought the story would end. Talk about a night to remember,” you huffed awkwardly.

“Well that is one story of many,” his eyes widened slightly.

“But you like it?” you raised your eyebrows. “D-do you like your job?”

“I do,” he reaffirmed with a nod.

The rain had completely succeeded at soaking your clothes, your button shirt felt cold against your skin, and your jeans were tight and damp, it was starting to get hard to move.

Whereas you felt like a wet ragged doll, Mingyu looked like a supermodel. His long dark hair was dripping wet onto his beautiful face. His white T-shirt was clinging to the muscles of his body, letting you view the well-defined lines of his abdomen.

“Were here already?” Mingyu asked when you came to a halt in front of your building.

“Yeah,” you said distractedly, sending him a look as you opened the door to the inside of the building, welcomed by the smell of humidity and dust. “Don’t just stand there.”

The man followed you inside without much insistence. You started machining in your brain your next movements while climbing the first flight of stairs to the door of your apartment, which you opened with a shaky hand.

You staggered awkwardly against the door frame, trying to keep your chin up to hold his gaze. One hand brushed the worn edges of the frame, resting on it as you caught your breath. Mingyu noticed your eyes this time around. And you almost did not want to realize that his eyes were on your body as well.

“Do you want to come in?” you asked meekly, darting a look at the dark interior of your apartment, aside from the little lamp you always left on when you went out. “I can make something to eat. And lend you a towel, fresh clothes, maybe.”

Much to your fortune, the man nodded with his head. “If you want,” he mumbled, so you slid back inside your apartment for him to follow inside. “Though I’d have to reject the clothes,” reluctantly, he strolled inside your haven, looking at the abandoned big frame and leaning against the hallway wall.

“Why?” you asked, still walking backward as he paced before you.

“Because they might not fit me,” he chuckled, his smile knocking the air out of your lungs.

“What do you know, I could have something that might,” you smirked, getting him a towel you had discarded earlier in the morning.

He gave you a light gesture of gratitude with his head, thanks, he mouthed before pressing the towel to his face.

“Do you…” you hesitated. “Can I offer you something?”

He sneaked a look at you with the towel pressed to the lower half of his face.

“Like water?” you suggested with a sheepish smile. “I have ramen–and rice in the fridge.”

He contemplated you as you swayed your body on the balls of your feet ever so gently. “You don’t need to do that,” he finally replied.

“It’s just food, Mingyu. You walked home with me,” you shrugged, motioning to the kitchen, your fingers grazing the rim of the dining table.

The man took one step towards you, making your step stutter. “I mean that,” he smiled. “You don’t have to repay nothing, shorty. That’s what friends are for.”

You stumbled against the edge of your dining table, a gasp leaving your lips that you quickly tried to replace with a muffled chuckle. “You know, I could say the same thing.” 

“How long are you going to keep this up?”

“What?” you breathed, completely perplexed by both the proximity and the question. “Ke-keep what up?”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” he muttered gruffly, pushing you to lean back against the dining table without laying one finger on you. He was just so close to you that you had no room to breathe.

“Noticed what? Mingyu–,” you giggled in utter shyness when he knowingly smiled at you. The blood rushing to your face made your skin tingle, you bit your lower lip.

“Am I making you nervous?” his voice dropped, his dark eyes reading the features of your face with avid curiosity.

“Yes,” you admitted, leaning back with your hands gripping the wooden rim of the table as he towered over you. “I like you, Kim Mingyu.”

His triumphant smile crushed your heart with its beauty. Damn you, Kim Mingyu.

“I like you too,” he whispered, leaning closer, the smile fading softly as you stopped moving back.

“Mingyu,” you whispered, hating how much you were flustered at his confession, your voice waning.

Mingyu paused, but it was not out of hesitance, his gaze swimming on your features quickly softened once you dared to reach out to him. Using the proximity of your bodies, you found his face with your hands, realizing how warm his skin was.

“Yeah?” he whispered back, nodding slightly with his head. Mingyu wanted this too.

You are not sure what happened, if you moved first or he did. You closed your eyes, breath hitching as his lips touched yours, your skin coming to life with a fiery rush of blood. From pressing his lips against your own, he quickly moved to kiss you deeper, using one hand on your chin to tilt your face to him.

Your heart stammered in your chest, his hand returning to park in your waist. Friends don’t kiss, you wanted to tell him.

Who were you kidding, you had never wanted someone like you wanted Mingyu.

But this is wrong, you thought over and over again.

“Mingyu,” you breathed when his fingers on your chin tilted your head for him to kiss the underside of your jaw, slowly pressing his lips twice.

“Mn?” he hummed really close to your skin, so you felt his short sigh, his breath brushing your skin.

“We should stop,” you brought a hand to the middle of his chest, feeling his hard pecs beneath your palm.

“Why? Am I doing something wrong?” he asked, backing away from you so he could take a look at your face.

“No, not at all,” you said, short of breath, rigid in your muscles in a weak attempt to resist what you wanted to do.

“Okay, if you want to stop, then we stop,” he offered with a kind tone, slowly following your gaze as you palmed his chest over his t-shirt.

“I- I mean if we do this…” you stammered, feeling stupid. “I don’t want us to change.”

A toothy grin spread on his lips. “How would this change us?” he shot a look to your eyes then your lips.

“I don’t want to cross a line we can’t come back from,” you explained, still not letting go of him.

He stilled completely; you saw it in his eyes when he started to craft a plan. “You draw the line.”

“Mingyu…” you whispered, your lips pouting around the last sound of his name.

This was not the same as playing basketball in the middle of the night with him. This could potentially tilt your world upside down. He did not know yet the way he made you feel just by being around you.

“You can draw it here if you want,” he offered, his tone was nothing but kind.

A smile stretched your lips slowly. He made things harder for you like this. Letting you be the one to choose was dangerous, if not stupid. But he did not know.

“I don’t want you to look at me differently,” you quivered. It was still hard to breathe since he was still within arm’s reach. Your hand lingered still right on top of his heart.

“I won’t,” he whispered back, gesturing a no with his head slightly. “I promise.”

Mingyu did not know that you were all too familiar with the pain that he carried. Even if he were not hurting at that moment, you knew what he was going through.

Mingyu looked at you as if he had just dipped into the stream of your thoughts but were left unbeknownst to your actual insecurities. “You’re safe with me,” he mumbled, offering you the ghost of a smile.

You thought of all the nights you wished for something like this to happen. The moments you wished to get a touch, to feel what you felt the first time he placed his hands on you.

Mingyu grabbed you by the waist, easily lifting you off your feet and placing you on the small dining table. He did this carefully, but you could sense that he wanted you in a position where he could kiss your face freely. His hands held your face lightly, while he continued pressing kisses on your lips, your cheeks.

This time, as he dives back in your lips, his tongue brushes against yours, lightly at first but enough to elicit a throaty moan from you. The frenzy pulsing in your throat turns into a warmth, blooming from your neck to your face.

He realized you liked that, and tried it one more time, his tongue lingering on the tip of yours before he pulled back. “I should go now,” he whispered, the pad of his thumb caressing your chin gently. “Or I won’t be able to stop.”

You grabbed his wrist. “Wait,” you breathed. “Please don’t. Don’t go. I don’t want you to leave.”

Did you want him? Or did you just not want to spend the night alone, wondering about him?

Mingyu seemed to desist, much as if the rigidness that he used to command himself away from your body had dissolved once he heard your plea. You caught sight of his throat bobbing when he gulped hard, searching your features as if he would find what to say in them.

“Stay the night with me,” you blurted uncontrollably.

“Sure,” he replied, grabbing the edges of the dining table as though he were withholding the urge to touch you again.

“Do you want to, Mingyu?” you asked, reluctant about his general lack of resistance to your offer.

He smiled as he tilted his head to one side. “I would’ve said no if I didn’t want to,” he raised his eyebrows in question. “If I stay, I do want to know one thing. Are you sure about this?”

Before you uttered the same quippy response he gave you, the flashing thought of sabotaging yourself crossed your mind. He knew this. Mingyu knew that you had a tendency to be a people pleaser, of trying to make everyone happy.

“I am,” you reassured, and it was the final blow to what little self-control you had left. “I want you, Mingyu.”

The words caused an impact on him. He breathed in slowly, but his eyes widened ever so slightly, shooting up a glance to your features. His eyes lit up, his beautiful lips curving in a small, but shy smile.

Finally admitting that aloud, and to him also caused something within you. Your pulse quickened, followed by a heat rushing inside you, stretching so far that it reached the tips of your fingers, commanding them to his face.

The pads of your fingers touched the line of his jaw in a gentle caress, urging him back to your lips before you could say something even more damming to your soul. The stammering of your heart was distracting, telling you to let go of this man before he could hurt himself in the tumultuous and dark path that led to your heart.

But you could not. Take the risk, the words echoed in the back of your mind.

“Mingyu,” you blurted, parting from his lips. “Couch, sit.”

You heard an airy chuckle left him as he broke away from the kiss, walking back and blindly falling on the couch, not bothering to look around to make sure where he was heading. You jumped from the dining table, crossing the space to follow him.

His hands pulled you in, his grip on your waist coming back to command you to sit on top of him, which you did willingly, pressing one knee on the couch, then the other, framing Mingyu’s thighs.

Now that you were straddling, a tiny voice in the back of your mind wanted to pull the breaks, but your hands found his face again, your palms caressing his cheeks as you slid your fingers in his long dark hair, brushing it back before sinking your lips in his.

His hands roved your back, starting from your waist up, his fingers getting caught in your hair when he reached your shoulder blades, pressing on your skin over your dress shirt. Your hands went around the back of his head, sliding down to find his thick neck.

Your tongue rolled inside his mouth, swiping a line on his lower lip in the process. Your body came alight with a shudder when a raspy moan coiled around his throat, you felt it beneath your fingertips.

A soft wet sound bubbled between your lips and his when you stopped kissing him, pausing for air. You thought of what to say, resting your forehead on his.

“Do you want to keep going?” he asked.

Every inch of your skin tickled when you heard how gruff his voice had turned. You nodded with your head.

“Yes,” you replied. “You? What do you want, Mingyu?”

The inner corners of his eyebrows twitched ever so slightly, but you noticed it. The question caught him off guard as if that had not been a consideration before. It broke you.

“I don’t want to stop,” he said with a sigh. But realizing that he only half answered your question, he added: “I want you. I’ll go as far as you let me.”

The tiny voice grew more alarmed, but you ignored it besottedly running the pads of your fingers to brush back a rebellious strand of hair back from his face. Mingyu was beautiful, the most beautiful man you have ever seen. But the pull you felt for him went beyond the physical. You needed him.

“Take control, baby,” he whispered.

And you obliged. The strangled sound that bubbled inside you was almost foreign to you. You were on his lips again, kissing him hungrily like you had never kissed someone else before. His hands grabbed your hips, bringing you impossibly closer to his body, pushing your chest flush against his.

You palmed his chest, appreciating the warmth radiating from him with a low hum, which he reciprocated, his hands daring to move farther down your back, cupping your ass and pulling you down on him, pushing your crotch against his.

“Mingyu,” you whimpered in his mouth. You grounded your hips on him, replicating the motion by swaying your hips back and forth on him once, then twice.

“Fuck,” he blurted, then shut his eyes tightly. “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered, continuing to ground your hips on him, rubbing yourself on the hard bulge beneath his blue jeans. “Do you like this?”

“Yeah, yes, baby,” he rasped. “But I want you to feel good, shorty. C-can I move you to the bed?” he shuddered.

You stopped grinding on him. “Sure-,” you gasped. Before you could finish your sentence, Mingyu was rising to his feet, scooping you up with him.

He giggled softly when you squealed in surprise. “I got you,” he wrapped your body effortlessly, his arms carrying you safely.

Your arms went around his neck by instinct, but he crossed your tiny studio apartment faster than your brain could even process. As he laid you on the mattress, you noticed that he had made sure that only your legs were hanging on the edge of the bed.

Mingyu placed a hand on the mattress, right next to your shoulder, then the other. “Stop me if you don’t like anything at all,” he muttered, climbing on top of you, and lowering his hips to meet yours.

He was heavy—heavier than you had expected or imagined in your most delusional nights. And he was not even lowering his full weight on you.

You swallowed thickly. But recovered when your hands found the hem of his t-shirt. “I want to see you without this,” you toyed with the damp cotton fabric, sending him a look.

Mingyu smiled and pulled back on the mattress, standing on his knees before you. He crossed his arms, grabbing the hem of his t-shirt to pull it up his torso, and off his head, showing his skin unabashedly.

A shudder flashed down your spine. You wondered before what was beneath that t-shirt, but what little you dared to imagine did not compare to the actual beauty he was. Before you could even take the image before you, Mingyu was already leaning over your body, propping a chaste kiss on your lips.

“Fair is fair?” he asked meekly, a thumb brushing over one button of your dress shirt.

“Yeah,” you showed him a smile, realizing you were jittery.

You watched his hand trail down as he undid each button, your shirt parting and slowly revealing the white bra you wore. It was nothing too daring, but it fit you well, accentuating your breasts nicely.

You darted a look at his face. Mingyu finished undoing the buttons of your shirt, his gaze lost in you as he palmed your tummy with a gentle caress to uncover more of your skin to him.

“God, you’re so pretty,” he gasped, leaning to press a hard kiss on your lips, his hand cupping your cheek.

Too astounded to even bring yourself to reply, you whimpered into the kiss, his tongue outlining your lower lip, his hand on your waist inched to your chest, setting your skin on fire. He cupped one of your breasts, groaning in desperation before hiking up the cup of your bra, to touch you freely.

Your hands flew to undo his belt, hastily undoing the button and zipper of his jeans too. “Get up,” you gasped, his thumb swirling your nipple, getting it to pebble, a tingle spreading on your skin beneath his touch.

Mingyu obliged, knowing where you were going before you even made a move. His gaze followed you as you pushed his jeans down, getting rid of them. In two full motions, your dress shirt was discarded on the floor along with your bra before you returned your back to the mattress.

He looked at you like no one else had before. There you were, splayed on your bed beneath him, and he was just taking you in with his gaze, making your heart flutter wildly.

His fingers grazed the skin of your thigh, inching closer to the band of your panties. You trapped his index and middle finger in your hand, his gaze snapping to yours.

“Fair is fair,” you reminded him with a grin.

He stood before your bed wearing a pair of grey boxers only. Pushing the inside of his cheek with his tongue, he sighed shortly. “You played dirty,” he pointed, but he removed his hand from your grasp.

You sat up, stopping him when you shot him a look, wordlessly telling him you wanted to finish undressing him yourself. You enjoyed the look on his face, his features going soft when you ran a finger from his belly button to the band of his boxers.

You palmed the outline of his cock, darting a quick look at his face when you felt the wet patch of precum on the last piece of clothing he wore. When your fingers finally curled around the waistband of his boxers, you could not help but conceal your smile by biting your lower lip.

Mingyu was fully hard, and he was big. A shudder tore through you. He stepped out of his boxers, looking at the bewildered expression on your face as he stood wholly naked, and proudly so.

Before you could even utter a word, he motioned you to lie back once more. You smiled, helping him get rid of your wet and ruined panties, which he yanked down your legs, tossing them to the floor, littered with your and his clothes.

“Gyu,” you whimpered, his lips pressing a sweet kiss on your lower, moving to capture it in a deeper kiss.

“Need you,” he whispered against your skin, his breath hot and quivering slightly as his hands palmed your breasts, his thumbs brushing your perked nipples. “I need you, baby.”

Your hands roamed on his back, feeling the outlines of his hard muscles. “Take me,” you blurted. “I’m right here.”

He placed a kiss on the underside of your jaw, and you tilted your head back for him to kiss your throat. “I want to eat you out,” he husked against the plain of your chest, kissing the swell of your breasts, taking his time with each as you raked your fingers on his scalp. “Can I?”

“God, yes, Mingyu, please,” you gasped, his mouth wrapped around one of your nipples, making you stir your back on your mattress.

Mingyu hummed as he licked your tits, his tongue swirling around your areolas, kissing your nipples and suckling at them. His hands caressed the inner side of your thighs, spreading them open as his mouth trailed down your tummy, kissing your skin, making it prickle.

A moan coiled in your throat. You needed him now. “Hurry,” you blurted with a whine.

Mingyu obeyed wordlessly, getting down on his knees. Kissing your mound, his hands cupping your inner thighs focusing solely on your pussy before diving in, his tongue swiping a broad stroke on your pussy lips, licking you fully. The feeling overwhelmed you at once, and you knew you would not last long.

“God,” you gasped, as he licked your folds sending you a look from between your thighs. The view was so lewd, beating any experience you had ever had in the past in a matter of seconds.

Silence flooded the room, aside from the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy, licking your folds, and your increased breathing. Your mouth had fallen open, and you forgot to breathe.

His hair tickled your skin, his warm hands holding you down as he licked, suckled, and nipped at your pussy, as though he were getting familiar with it, as though he just wanted to taste if first before moving his tongue to your clit.

And when he did, you knew there was no going back.

A breathy moan escaped, and you drew in a breath again. “Mingyu…” you called after his tongue swirled around your swollen clit. “Do that again,” you asked, your tone whiny and pathetic.

He did not skip a second before doing a figure-eight motion with the tip of his tongue, and again. And again. You wondered if you would come before he grew tired, but then you realized that he was not stopping, nor faltering.

You propped half of your body on the mattress, letting your eyelids fall shut for a brief moment, focusing on his tongue teasing your clit relentlessly. You caressed his long dark hair, drawing his puppy eyes to yours. “I’m almost there,” you choked out, your limbs tensing in response.

“God, Gyu,” you tilted your head back, a tiny giggle escaping you. “You’re so good at this,” you whispered aloofly.

Your fingers curled in his hair, feeling like you were falling, sinking into a puddle of pleasure. Arousal and drool dripped on the covers of the bed as the tension in your body brimmed you to the point you were shaking.

“Min-mingyu,” you choked out, so close to the edge you could barely hold out. “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m co-,” your orgasm rippled through you, body going limp with sweet pleasure, shaking, and whimpering pathetically.

He placed one final open kiss on your clit before rising from the floor, a satisfied look on his face. “Shorty?” he mumbled.

“I’m good,” you gasped dazedly.

“Want more?” he asked, climbing back on top of you.

“I need you,” you cupped his neck, pulling him into a fervent kiss. You tasted yourself in his mouth, his chin wet with your arousal, making your walls throb around nothing. “I need you now.”

That brought a wolfish grin from him. “How do you want me, baby?”

“Lie down,” you breathed, finding his hard chest with your hands.

You knew it was incredibly hard to push his body, but somehow you did. Pushing his broad shoulders as you managed to get on top of him again, but this time, as you were both utterly naked in your bed, it felt completely different.

“Oh god,” he blurted, his hands gripping your hips instantly as you lowered your ass to sit on him.

“You were amazing,” you husked, placing a chaste kiss on his lips that resounded with a lewd smacking noise.

His fingers dug into the skin of your hips in reaction to your praise, groaning as he captured your lips with his own again.

“Do you have a condom?” you asked, your tone weakened by the pleasure and the urge of feeling him.

He blinked for one long second. “No,” he rasped. “Do you?”

You shook your head. “I could suck you off,” you mumbled meekly, your gaze shifting between his eyes and lips. “But I’m on birth control.”

“I’m clean,” he mumbled. Your heart deflated just a little.

“I want you, Min,” you whispered, brushing his lower lip with the pad of your thumb.

A silent groan escaped him. “Please,” he replied in kind. “I want to feel you, baby. Now.”

The sound of his words emboldened you. You sat back on his thick thighs, once you straddled him you realized how big Kim Mingyu actually was. You raked the skin of his torso with the tips of your fingers, making him suck in a breath and shut his eyes close.

“Don’t tease me, please,” he choked out, kneading the flesh of your thighs. “Play later, baby.”

The whiny tone of his plea did not go unnoticed by you, but you kept caressing his skin, exploring it under the pads of your fingers until you reached his pelvis. Mingyu was well groomed, you found out when you grazed the short hairs with your index finger.

“Please,” he breathed, a hand shooting to circle your ankle.

“Alright,” you giggled.

You grabbed his hard cock with one hand, swallowing hard when you felt his soft skin, the thin vein trailing on the underside of his thick shaft. It was heavy and warm as you pumped him, spreading the precum leaking from its reddened tip.

Lifting your hips, your gaze locked on his, he trapped his lower lip behind his teeth, you guided his cockhead to your folds, a moan bubbling in your chest when his hands gripped you tighter. Mingyu sucked in a breath, swallowing a deep moan as you sank down on him.

“God,” you sighed, tears brimming in your eyes at the euphoric sensation of his cock stretching your walls deliciously.

But none of you broke eye contact, much as if neither wanted to miss the reactions you got from feeling each other.

“Fuck,” he whined once you bottomed out on him with a moan from your part. He closed his eyes, shuddering hard underneath you, his hands lingered on your hips, kneading your thighs as if that helped him cling to sanity.

“Okay?” you whispered.

“God, you…” he sighed, licking his lips. “You feel like heaven, baby.”

You smiled at him. “How long have you gone without getting fucked?” the question flew out of your mouth before you could even stop yourself.

“A while,” he admitted with a raspy tone.

You gave him a smile, before you anchored your hands on his chest, pulling your hips up, and then pressed them back onto his, feeling every naked inch of him. Your mouth fell open. “You’re so big,” you gasped.  

“Am I hurting you?” he whispered.

You shook your head, though the stretch had stopped hurting, you were enjoying it. You tucked your feet beneath you, propping them on his thighs to help yourself angle your hips on top of him. “Okay?” you asked again, riding him slowly.

“Perfect,” he replied, lifting his hands to cup your tits while his eyes explored every curve of your body.

You moaned, his fingers toyed with your pebbled nipples, making your hips buckle. “God, Mingyu…” you sighed, picking up the pace on top of him, enjoying the glazed look on his face.

“Fuck,” he gritted, pushing his head back on your fluffy pillows. “I’m gonna come. Baby, I’m g-gonna come.”

By pure instinct, you lifted your hips from his completely, making him sigh heavily but did not complain. You laughed impishly at the frown setting on his face.

“Please! Please, don’t stop, baby,” he whined, his hands clutching your waist. “I can keep going… just let me come, please. I need it.”

Oh, you could become addicted to this. You quickly realized.

You conceded without more begging from his part, sinking down on his cock again. Mingyu let out a long, whiny moan, shuddering when you started bouncing on him again. You leaned forward, managing to trap his lips with your own in a heated kiss. He hummed in your mouth, his hands roaming on your back. 

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped. “I swear, you feel like nothing else baby.”

You moaned, feeling your eyebrows pinch involuntarily. “You’re close, Min?” you asked, your tone going sweet and velvety for some reason.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Don’t edge me again, please.”

“Okay,” you giggled. “Wanna come inside me, Min?” you brushed his long dark hair back.

You caught sight of awe shooting on the features of his face. “Ye-yeah,” he breathed. “Please, please I’m so close, baby…”

You left a small peck on his lower lip, bouncing on him gently. “Come inside me, Mingyu,” you whispered.

“Oh god,” he gasped, grabbing your hips, helping you ground on him at the speed he needed to find his release, which came quickly, making him squeeze his eyes shut for a second before finding your eyes. “Baby, I’m coming, fuck, fuuuuuck…”

His mouth parted, a sharp intake of breath resounding across the walls right before a raspy moan came out of his pretty lips. The sight was so alluring that you feared the image would never leave your mind, you knew it would haunt you every night.

His grip became limp, and you stopped swaying your hips on him, kissing his lips as he came down from his high.

“Don’t stop,” he breathed, finding your thigh with one hand, then the other, caressing your ass before he motioned you to continue moving on him.

“Mingyu-,”

“I told you, shorty,” he said, showing you a lazy grin. “I can keep going.”

An ecstatic feeling rushed through you.

“It’s okay, Mingyu,” you said. “I’m good.”

“I want you to come,” he muttered, his voice thickened and gruff by arousal. “Do you want me to help you come, baby?”

“I- yes,” you sighed. “God, yes, Mingyu.”

Mingyu nodded, grabbing your hips as he shifted on the bed, planting the soles of his feet on the mattress to lift his hips, fucking into you, his cock reached deeper inside your walls, and deeper. A whiny cry escaped your mouth, your hands flying to grab onto his shoulders.

“Mingyu!”

Then he started plowing into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin becoming louder, impossible for the whole neighborhood to ignore. The headboard banged against the wall, mattress creaking with each of Mingyu’s hard thrusts.

He gritted his teeth, his eyes lost on the features of your face as you wailed, and cried out on top of him, nearing your sweet release.

“Fuck, fuck, Mingyu, I’m coming, I’m coming,” you cried out, a low whiny moan escaping you as you reached your second orgasm. This one was fiery, consuming you fast and mercilessly. Mingyu grunted, and you knew just by the fucked out look on his face that he was coming with you but kept fucking into you through your high, dumping his second load inside you.

You were panting, shaking, languid with pleasure as he lowered his hips back on your bed again, reaching out for you by putting a hand on the back of your head, prompting you to lie on his chest.

“You’re okay?” he asked with a sigh.

“Yeah, yes,” you breathed raggedly. “Perfect. You?”

Mingyu chuckled, wrapping his heavy arms around you in a warm embrace. “Perfect.”

You closed your eyes, ignoring the alarming voices in your head.

There was a thing you were certain of: you were playing with fire. But you wanted him, even if that also meant that you wanted to make him forget his broken heart. You wanted to ease his pain.

“We need to clean up,” you said, lifting your head from his chest.

Mingyu smiled, brushing your hair, tucking it behind your ear with his fingers. “Can’t we stay like this for a minute?” he said with a lazy drawl.

“Okay,” you whispered, leaning down on his chest again.

You listened to his heartbeat, caressing his chest with one hand. You smiled.

“What?” he asked, hearing your tiny giggle.

“Will you accept that ramen now?” you asked.

Mingyu chuckled, his eyes lighting up. “Yeah, I think I will.”

The following Sunday rolled around and you did not go to the bar this time, feeling like it was a little too soon to see Mingyu again after the night he spent at your place. And thankfully, you did not feel hollow for once, even as you sat quietly in your apartment.

That was until the loud buzzing of your phone broke the perpetual stillness of the living room.

[8:40 PM] min: Are you free tomorrow? [8:40 PM] min: Can I come over to yours? [8:40 PM] min: I can't stop thinking about you.

That drew a big smile out of you. You replied in an instant, letting him know that he could come to yours, sealing the deal with Mingyu, whom you never thought would make you feel something real again.

☆ author's note: hi there! (⁠•⁠ө⁠•⁠)⁠♡

don't hate shorty for her actions, she had to take risks lol. she is a hot ass mess but give my girl a chance, she'll get better (✿◠‿◠) this fic is lowkey inspired by the song two weeks by fka twigs and my personal life experience

the journey of this fic is. . . kind of long. i started drafting this fic back in december 2023. i originally intended it to be a one shot, only focusing on the rebound aspect. but for some reason i couldn't get myself to write it and then. . . my ex partner and i broke up after years of being together. i kind of understood why i couldn't write this fic. and so here it is.

not me oversharing on tumblrdotcom oh well you could practically see into my soul in all my fics, c'est la vie haha

also my general taglist is a mess so,

IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED FOR THIS SERIES, PLEASE COMMENT ON THIS CHAPTER, PUT IT ON YOUR REBLOG TAGS OR SEND ME AN ASK PLEEEEASE PRETTY PLS OR, JOIN MY TAGLIST

anyways,

toodles

☆ READ PART II! ☆ | JOIN MY TAGLIST | BUY ME COFFEE? ♡

CHAPTER 1: no longer who i used to be

Kim Mingyu never thought that a day would come where he’d step into his favorite restaurant in the town after a day of gruelling practice and his first thought would be that he’d rather die than face his friends over dinner. 

But life is full of surprises — it has its ways of blanketing the brightest of suns with a grey cloud of gloom. And as he tugs at the knot of tie for what seems like the seventh time in the last one minute as the hostess leads him in, Mingyu already looks exhausted. 

“You’re the first one of the party to arrive,” she looks over her shoulder, her maroon-coated lips stretched into a professional curve. 

He nods.

She shows him to the largest table draped in lilac satin as per Chaeyoung’s request and replaces the ‘reserved’ sign with a menu-card. 

“Should I get you some water?” she asks, wiping the table again, just in case. “Or anything to start. Your server will be here shortly.”

“No, I’m good for now.” he clears his throat and tries to unlock his jaw, “I’ll just wait for the others.”

She smiles and walks away like she has done multiple times in the last one year that he has been frequenting this place. 

It is one of his favorites, truly. 

Rustic interior drowned in darkness with moody lighting cascading only upon the things that matter. Familiar staff who humor him every time he shows up with his friends or his team after a game. Music tuned just enough to allow loud conversations of joy to echo while filtering out the ones weighed down by feelings that, in his opinion, do not belong over good food. 

But tonight feels…odd. Misaligned and misplaced. Just wrong.

The hostess never asks if he’d want something. The lights are never this bright and why does it clash with the color of his tie? Why is he even wearing a fucking tie in the first place—

Oh right. 

Birthday girl privileges and a request—threat—from Miss Chaeyoung herself to tidy up in formals and dress up at least once. 

Regardless, the tie needs to go. 

And so he tugs at it until the knot gives away. But as soon as the noose loosens and falls soundlessly in his lap, he feels his throat tightening again with yet another inconvenience. 

Why does the music sound different? Quieter, much more mellow and slower than usual. It ruins everything, he thinks, because what if he sighs differently and they catch it? What if there’s some obvious change in tone that someone latches on to? What if he scrapes his knife too harsh against the porcelain when someone says something cruel to get a reaction out of him? 

No. 

He’s never the one to complain or be grumpy, it is so uncharacteristic for him. But the music needs to be what it usually is…a tad bit louder. Just tonight, especially tonight. 

Just as he’s about to lift his head to inspect what’s up, his line of sight gets blocked by the server who usually takes their table whenever the ice-hockey team of the college or any of its members visit the restaurant. 

It is comical how quickly Mingyu is able to slip on his happy-go-lucky, ‘all-is-well in the world with sunshine and rainbows’ mask when Betsy, their server, smiles at him. 

“What’s the celebration tonight?” She asks, her wrinkled face deepening with delight when she notices the tailored-suit. “Seems quite fancy.” 

“Are you jealous Betsy?” he teases, a small smirk maturing on his face, “don’t worry I’m here for a birthday dinner. Not on some date.”

The older woman feigns surprise like she isn’t used to his effortless charm and flirtatious tendencies by now. She hits him lightly with her notepad. “I am married, young man.”

“And I score on defended nets all the time.” he winks. 

“Find yourself a suitable girl and stop wasting your charms on older women.”

“Talking like you are not my only perfect match in this whole wide world.”

Betsy gasps and shakes her head, ignoring his words but the blush creeps up regardless. “Flattery won’t get you free dessert, boy. Now quit playing around and tell me what you would like before your loud pack of hooligans arrive.” 

“Just water for now,” Mingyu allows himself to give her his actual, real smile. The kind which lights up his eyes and allows his jaw to relax more. 

“I will get you the cucumber one, it is better for you,” Betsy says, stuffing the notepad back into her apron, “in the meantime, enjoy the new addition we have got here.”

With that, she steps away just enough for Mingyu to see the epicenter of his earlier dilemma. The change in music. 

“A new, live singer in the house,” Betsy offers. She further says something about the name of the singer, about how she attends the same University as him, about how she’s the niece of the owner.

But it all fades. 

She is sitting on a bar-stool in a dark corner, her only companions being the mic-stand tangled up with haphazard wires at the base and an acoustic guitar in her lap. Her eyes are either downturned, or closed—it is hard for him to tell from where he’s sitting. But even from the distance, the view of her—small and contained in that little corner that already feels like it belongs to no one but her—it heals something deep within him. And for a moment, he feels like all is, actually, well. 

This soothing, balmy feeling. 

Like when he’d used to stare up at the moon that hung low outside his window. 

Her skin glows with its own mellow, moonlight too. Or perhaps it’s just the amber from the chandelier that falls with romantic shadows over her. Her hair, long and open in loose waves curtain half of her face away from his gaze. But he can hear, more than he can see, the anxiety undercutting her voice as she sings some old Billy-Joel song. All her words carefully clipped and never gliding over each other or over the music, as if the quiet control will undo the dread of doing something wrong on her new job.

“Do you like her?” Betsy asks, not out of the blue, but as a follow-up to something she must’ve said earlier. 

Mingyu feels the strain behind his eyes when he drags them away from the singer with the dreamy voice and back to Betsy as she stares at him with this unspoken look in her eyes—one that older people give you when they can foresee something that you don’t. 

Mingyu tries to play it cool, toying with his cufflinks. “Dreaming about setting me up with her or what? At least introduce me to her first.”

“Don’t even think about it, player, at least not while she’s at work.” Betsy warns, “I’m just taking feedback—do you like her?”

“She’s good,” Mingyu tries to physically shrug off the urge to look in that certain corner again, “a little nervous, I think.”

“Uh huh, well she is quite young.”

“When did she start?”

“Last month?” Betsy pauses to think, “yeah, last month. Said she needed some extra cash but had no experience in hospitality. Her aunt suggested we put a nice little set-up in the corner without the windows for her.”

A month. 

Mingyu hadn’t been anywhere since before that. In fact, this might be his first night out and about ever since the party where it all went down. Because since then, he had been cooped up in his apartment, just sketching and writing his feelings away and surviving on half-eaten bowls of ramen that he’d forget about before reheating it again for dinner. 

If Mingyu seems uncharacteristic tonight, it’s not a switch flipped. But a culmination of everything that had beaten it into his head that whatever he knew about love and affection had been just wrong. Impure. Insincere. Even when he didn’t mean for it to be. 

And without love, what else is there for him to even define his character upon? 

Betsy disappears just in time for Chaeyoung and Seungcheol to arrive with Dokyeom, Misty and the freshman named Chan who has been following Seungcheol around like a lost puppy. 

Chaeyoung squeals before she hugs him. “Oh my God, Gyu!” 

His palm flattens over her bare back—almost. He blames it on muscle memory before correcting himself by letting his fingers awkwardly rest over her lower back. 

“Happy birthday, Chae.”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” sincerity brims her eyes when she takes a moment to look at him, really look at him. 

Everyone else settles behind them, pretending they are not all thinking the same things or feeling the same tensed air weighing down upon them. 

She squeezes his hands as Mingyu nods once, his smile tight when he settles in the corner seat next to his ice-hockey team’s captain, Choi Seungcheol. The guy gives him a tight nod—formal and clean. 

The entire table of his friends falls back into that practiced chatter. Jokes from Dokyeom as he surveys the menu, hushed whispers between Seungcheol and Chaeyoung as they decide upon what dish they would like to share, Chan and Misty complaining about their own schedules. 

And he can hear it all because the music is too soft. 

Mingyu keeps on shifting in his seat, pretending to read the menu and failing at it…almost as if his own body doesn’t understand how to function at this moment. He is grateful for it when Dokyeom—ever observant and quick to read the room—orders the exact same thing for him. 

Wonwoo and Jihyo join them a bit late with a present wrapped in silver, blaming the delay on traffic. 

Mingyu doesn’t miss it though, the look that the two share when their watchful gazes shift from the interlinked fingers of Chaeyoung and Seungcheol on the table to Mingyu who looks like he is trying to swallow something down but failing gloriously at it. 

He looks away before he can detect pity in their eyes.

Leaning his head back, he thinks it is going to be a miracle if something can keep him afloat in the tsunami that is this night. 

He finds that anchor in the voice that melts into the music of an acoustic guitar like liquid gold. 

⸻

“Oh, I love her voice,” Chaeyoung mumbles mid-bite when Betsy asks her the same question about the singer. “Very fresh.”

Misty, who surprisingly hasn’t said anything peculiar throughout the night so far, no longer seems to be in the mood to hold back anymore as she watches Mingyu carefully chew down on the last bits on his plate. 

“Hey, Mingyu!” she calls for his attention, breaking some trance that the boy has slipped into. “Why don’t you go down there and ask her to play Chaeyoung’s favourite song, huh?”

Dokyeom interrupts, quickly dabbing his mouth, “I don't know if that is allowed…is it Betsy?” 

“Oh I’m sure Veronica would let it slide,” Misty says, referencing the manager of the property, “it’s a beloved patron’s birthday after all. So, Mingyu, would you?” 

There it is. The test. The show. The jibe. The thing he had been dreading all evening. Like something he hasn’t prepared for, but something he must excel at to prove he isn’t all that vain. 

Chaeyoung cuts in smoothly, trying to defuse the smoke before it overtakes all the airy lightness of the night. “It’s very unnecessary, really. We are not kids anymore…” But after taking a quick sip of the water, Mingyu is already getting up from his seat. Chaeyoung probably doesn’t think it through when she grabs his hand, “Mingyu really. Don’t.” 

Misty files the seemingly small but weighted interaction, reveling in how Seungcheol’s eyes oscillate between the two. 

“Come on Chae,” she pushes, “she sings so sweet and besides, Mingyu is good with people.”

Good with people. 

Good with feelings. 

The irony behind the words isn’t lost on Mingyu and the fact that they’re coming from his friend only makes him laugh. Just a small huff of air—something that he cannot hold back in unlike everything else he did all night. 

It is a humiliation ritual almost—because the song that is Chaeyoung’s favorite might just be the one that fits his situation perfectly. 

Something stupid by Frank Sinatra. Of course Misty would ask Mingyu to get it played. And if he says no, everyone would conclude what they have already been suspecting to be true—that he is still affected by it all. The rejection. The humiliation. The stupid confession. 

It leaves him with no choice but to oblige. 

Chaeyoung had long slipped her fingers off his wrist, yet he gently explains. “It’s your birthday…no big deal. I’ll go ask her.”

“Try not to get her number plastered all over your chest in red lipstick!” someone calls out from behind. Mingyu only shakes his head, playing along. That’s all he has learnt to be good at. 

CHAPTER 2: stand still like a hummingbird

“Hey—” Kim Mingyu says, standing barely a foot away from you. 

To say that it startles you would be an understatement when you almost slip off the stool. But your fingers instinctively curl around the mic, stationing your balance under the pretense of checking if it is off. 

“Oh, hi!” you squeak, a bit embarrassed. 

In your defence, being on a chair with no back support for three whole hours, trying to sing every word with perfection so that your being off-tune doesn’t ruin anyone’s dinner, all while carefully balancing your guitar over your thighs wasn’t the most comfortable position to be in. 

Especially not when someone whom you have avoided eye-contact with all night decides to knock all the air out of your system by hogging the space around you. 

For a moment, after you regain your composure, none of you speaks. He just stares at you like his vision has been blurry the entire night and you are the first thing he can focus upon. That he can anchor upon. You visibly see his uneven breaths slowing down when you tuck your hair behind your ear, blinking at him confused. 

“Can I help you?’

“Uh…I’m sorry if this is too demanding but it’s my friend’s birthday today,” he points back to the table and you assume the girl in the middle, who is currently busy talking to someone, is the one he’s talking about. “Can you maybe please sing something stupid by Frank Sinatra for her?” 

You almost turn him away by telling him you aren’t allowed to take requests from customers. That your aunt is very serious about you sticking strictly to the neat, organized playlist she carefully curates for every day of the week depending on the weather, the ambience, even factoring in the special menu items of the night to generate the ultimate dining experience at her diner. 

But he looks so…heartbreakingly small. 

You purse your lips together in contemplation and your eyes almost fall off his face as you gear up to mumble a careful rejection. But he interrupts you. 

“Please.” he says, so low and heavy that it falls on your lap like a plea you have no words to use to reject. 

Your fingers press over the guitar, surprised and confused. You look around—for Veronica, for a senior staff, for answers. But some of his friends are already getting up from their seats to see what’s taking so long. He nervously glances back at them, giving them an easy smile though nothing about him when he turns back to you seems easy. 

“Alright,” you nod. “Yeah, I can sing that.” 

His shoulders slump and he stands there for a moment like he needs to make himself breathe. Then, he nods at you with a small, tight smile before joining his friends and says something to them with the effortless cool he always sports—on and off the rink. 

You, like most people on campus, had never seen his armor creak. Mingyu has always been too easy to like, too tall to be ignored, too charming to not smile at and too easy to not talk to.

But tonight, right in front of you, you could swear you had seen him nearly crumble. Like everything you had known about him until now was a lie, a heavy mask that was making it hard for him to breathe. 

And you have never been the one to not care. Even if it meant nothing in return for you. 

So you strum the guitar and sing the song he had asked…no—begged you to sing. It is such a slow song. Simple lyrics. Easy cords. But it can be sung in so many voices and ways. 

You can make it melancholic and draw attention to his drooping lips as he sways in a corner with his friend—not the birthday girl though, because she is dancing with somebody else, your college’s ice hockey team’s current captain Choi Seungcheol. 

Or, you can make it more romantic for every couple who have joined the young crowd to dance along to your song. 

But then you remember the tender bruises denting his voice when he had spoken. And the decision finishes forming itself in your throat before you can rationalize it.

The song belongs to him. 

So you soften your voice and purposefully emphasize on the lighter lyrics while breezing past the wistful ones. You ensure to smile through it all, because one of the first lessons you had learnt in music was that listeners can hear the smile or the frown in your voice when you sing. And it has the tendency to rub off. 

You utter a small prayer under every word you sing with your most honest smiles, hoping that they land on and soothe whatever scars the dancing people in this dimly lit diner carry on their souls. 

⸻

Your head is swimming by the time you return back home. Not with exhaustion or delirium, but with the surrealist nature of everything that unfolded. 

Your ears still rang with the cheers that had followed after the song ended with everyone raising their champagne flutes to thank you. Some were wiping their eyes, while the others leaned more into their partners. The hundred dollar bill that Mingyu had quietly slipped into the tip-jar meant for you that still weighs down in your purse. 

When you come down for dinner, you wrap your hands around your stomach like you can somehow hold it all in and preserve it under your skin forever to return back to it whenever you feel too small or too lonely. Hold it from bubbling over and spilling at a home where there are rules associated with how his name must be spoken. 

Rule number one: well, it shouldn’t be. 

Because once uttered, Kim Mingyu’s name is enough to sour the moods of everyone in the family for days if not weeks. 

You don’t get it though. 

Sure, your twin brother and him might have had the fiercest of rivalries when it came to being drafted for your college's ice-hockey team throughout their junior and senior years in highschool. But it has also been almost two whole years since Coach Greer offered the opportunity to Mingyu and your brother had to go with his second choice at NYU. 

In theory, he should be over it by now. 

But he evidently isn’t, as can be seen at the monthly dinners for which he joins you and your parents, always grumbling about how it seems like he is the only one with a hockey-IQ on his team. 

“It’s like I am carrying that team throughout the season, and I am only a Sophomore.” he pierces the vegetables on his plate with more force than necessary, causing you to flinch. 

Your dad’s eyes dart between the two of you. Even though you are twins, you and Ethan couldn’t be more distinct from each other.

There is almost an inverted mirror between you both, reversing every image that reflects on it. 

You clear your throat, trying to deviate the topic of conversation before it crooks into something else. “Well, I don’t know if you know Ethan, but I got a job at Aunt Sylvie’s diner.”

“What do you need a job for?” he frowns. “Isn’t your course already too demanding?” 

“It is, which is why I want to save up to move into the dorms by next term…or maybe by Junior year at least. The workload would be harder then and I think living on campus would be better than commuting everyday—”

“On campus?” he scoffs, “you sure about that?”

You blink at your parents, confused, because you already had this conversation with them so you really don’t understand where this doubt is emerging from. 

“Yeah,” you say, “why?”

Ethan leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and dragging the air from around you and towards himself like he has always done. 

“I don’t know…the stories that come out of your campus are pretty wild. It seems like you guys are more famous for your parties more than anything.” 

You don’t think much before you scoff. 

“You’re just jealous.” 

The impact of your words is so loud, it’s deafening. You only meant it as a light banter, but you know just how Ethan—and even your parents—are going to perceive it. 

You study at a University Ethan had made vision-boards about. You attend classes that he only got to tour when he was sure Coach Greer would pick him. You walk the same hallways as the guy who took that chance away from him. In fact, you even sang upon his request tonight. 

You cannot begin to bring yourself to look up and tally the damage that your careless remarks have caused. Slowly, you put your fork down. 

“I…uh, I’m done,” you announce, voice small, “besides, I promised Cass I’d meet her today.” 

You grab your jacket and zip it in a blur, mumbling a quick promise to your mom that you’d come and help her clean up before bed. Once outside, you drag your palms down your face and groan hard. 

You barely make it to Cassidy’s front-poarch before you hear your brother’s truck roar in the driveway and see him leave—even though he had plans to stay the weekend. 

CHAPTER 3: promises, unkept

A year later. 

Here’s the thing about being exceptionally silent—everyone glosses over your existence.

Yours is a tiny dorm room that has just enough space for a bunk bed, a shared closet and two tables. And yet, with her entire life upturned onto her bed and the floor, your roommate moves around like she has a personal agenda to bump into everything that makes a sound. 

You have been lying on the top bunk, wide awake and occasionally flinching since six in the morning each time she drops her metallic flask.

Now you do not like checking your phone first thing in the morning, but you have been scrolling endlessly because there’s nothing else you can do. With Chaeyoung’s open suitcase and bags littered all over a floor which seems like it was hit by her wardrobe-blizzard, there simply isn’t enough ground for you to step on. 

You muffle a groan in your folded forearm when your bladder cramps yet again.

This is getting ridiculous, and no amount of distractions can make you look away from the fact that you need to use the restroom in the next five minutes or less. 

You accidentally hit play on a random video of Olivia Rodrigo on twitter, attracting your roommate’s attention. You hear her drop the notepad she had been reviewing her to-pack list from before you feel her take a step on the ladder that connects her bed with yours. 

“Hey,” her face pops up by your pillow and you instinctively scoot backward, “you’re awake!” 

“Uh, yeah…” you rub the heel of your palm over your eyes, trying not to make it seem like her commotion disturbed you out of your sleep even though it absolutely did. 

“Oh how long?” her face scrunches up with concern, “shit, did I wake you up?” 

“No, no,” you insist, getting up and fixing your sleepgown even though Chaeyoung doesn’t really seem to mind. “Just need to use the restroom.”

“Fuck, sure.” she clamors around to make way. 

You keep on smoothing over your nightgown as you climb down, making a mental note of buying some bunk bed friendly PJs. Grabbing your essentials, you pad down the hallway towards the bathroom and to your surprise, Chaeyoung follows you, mumbling endlessly about how totally overwhelmed and unprepared she is for this trip. 

“And I told Cheol that I can absolutely not shut my internet off for two whole months but he insists that it’s gonna be rewarding.” 

You adore your roommate, there is no reason for you to not do so. She has been nothing but welcoming and friendly since you moved in a few weeks ago. But you have also only known her for so long to express any personal opinions about her relationship with the college’s former ice-hockey captain and now Boston Bruins’ defenseman Choi Seungcheol. 

“Are you going to be completely offline?” you ask a diplomatic question instead as she leans outside. 

“Not totally…I mean I still need to take the classes I enrolled online for. But I guess that’s it because apart from that, he has told me he has planned a lot for the two of us.” 

“Sounds nice.” 

“It’s sweet, yeah. But also—he’s the celebrity, not me. Why am I hiding away in a cabin for eight weeks? All I wanted was to take some time off this semester, not go on a whole ass retreat.” 

You wash your hands and splay some water over your face, trying to jolt your brain awake to come up with an appropriate response, and preferably a conclusion, to this conversation. 

From what you have observed so far, Chaeyoung is one of those people for whom a ten minute walk to the class ends up taking twenty because of the amount of times she has to stop and say hi to a billion people she knows. Every night when you return from your shift at the diner, there is always a friend or two occupying your room as she brews tea or just gets ready with them for a night-out. And when it is just the two of you and you have succumbed yourself to your own corner, unable to entertain her anymore, she’s on her phone talking to her family or Seungcheol. 

It is hard for you to imagine Chaeyoung cut-off from the world in a luxurious but distant wooden cabin somewhere up North. 

But it isn’t so hard for you to imagine the relief of having the entire dorm room to yourself for such a significant chunk of time… besides, you do not want to be the reason behind a romantic getaway as this one falling apart. 

“I think it’ll be something new, fun, exciting,” you say, avoiding her eyes in the mirror as you melt your moisturizer between your fingers, “just the two of you, it could be quite romantic.”

Behind you, Chaeyoung leans her head against the doorframe of the bathroom, a little pout puckering her lips. “Ugh, I know. I could use some time away from all the chatter. Like I don’t wanna sound ungrateful but it can be quite loud sometime, you know? Everyone is always telling things to me or asking me stuff and it can get very overwhelming very quickly.”

Your roommate goes on yet another one of her fifty mile long rants about a topic that irks her while you hurry to finish up your morning skincare. 

“Which reminds me,” her voice booms another note all of a sudden—in volume and in speed—making you jolt. “Please tell me you have Heather’s phone number.”

It takes you some time to rack your brain and match a face to the name she’s referring to.

“Heather…as in, the girl on the third floor?” 

“Yes, her!” 

“I don’t.” 

“Ugh, yeah…why would you have her number? You barely know her.” Chaeyoung zips her last bag shut, lugging it over her shoulder, “I guess I’ll have to leave a task unfinished. I don’t even know what room she’s in.” 

“If you have a message, I can pass it on.” you offer.

Chaeyoung presses her knee over her mattress, gnawing at her lower lip and considering. It is so easy to read her, you think, as her forehead creases up with dilemma and she chews on her own skin harder. Then, she drops her shoulders like the weight of whatever it is isn’t worth carrying around like this. 

“Fine…but promise you won’t laugh.” she says.

You help her with her luggage as she pockets her set of keys and begins walking out. “I promise, I won’t.”

“Okay so I have a friend, you might know him,” she looks over her shoulder as you follow her down the stairs, “Kim Mingyu.” 

You stall halfway down a step, but the weight of the luggage in your hand swings your body forward regardless and you nearly topple down. 

“Woah woah woah,” Chaeyoung rushes to stabilise you, “are you okay?” 

“Yeah I just…slipped.” you do your best to hide your frozen face behind your hair. “I’m fine.” 

“Please don’t be another girl who falls for him — literally and figuratively.” Chaeyoung blinks, but takes one of the bags from your reluctant clutch. “Anyways, I was saying, Mingyu — he was just made captain of our ice-hockey team.” she says like she’s trying to polish your memory until some recognition of him sparks.

As if you can ever not know him. His existence has followed you around, completely unbeknownst to him, for five whole years now. 

And truth be told, you are tired. 

While leaving your home, you had thought you won’t have to hear that name again. Not because you hate him—that is a right only your twin brother can exercise—but because you have reached your limit. 

Despite your strongest desires against it, Mingyu is practically inescapable on campus. He’s the guy people ask about at parties — ‘is Mingyu gonna show up?’ or the one whose name girls use the brightest, boldest red glitter for in their banners which they bring to the home games in support of the team. His is the name that pops up so many times on your campus’ confession page, it is actually concerning that so many people fantasize about him all at once. 

Chaeyoung trails off, “it is insane how much clout each year’s hockey captain gets though. Like… What do you mean the guy who took ketchup shots with me is now some sort of campus deity?”  

“What about him?” you press your lips, dragging the suitcase outside. 

“Okay so ever since he was made captain, his workload significantly increased and I guess he is struggling with a few classes this semester. It’s not like he needs a formal tutor—he is freakishly smart. But just someone to help him out with the material when he can’t make it to classes. And with how busy this season is, he’s gonna miss a lot.” 

You nod, wrapping your arms around your middle and trying your best not to look absolutely disinterested at the mention of a boy who follows you around like a shadow, even in rooms he doesn’t belong in. Instead, you fix your eyes on the road, cursing Seungcheol internally for not being here already. 

“He asked me for help with finding someone who can assist him like that. And Heather once told me she has the biggest crush on him…they share most classes you know? So I thought why not play Cupid and have her ‘tutor’ him?” 

A chilly gust of morning wind sends your hair flying all over your face. You attempt to tug it back behind your ear and fail. 

“But wouldn’t it…I mean, doesn’t he need serious help?” 

Chaeyoung shrugs, “a glorified study-partner whom he pays.” 

“And do you think Heather would be the best for that given…y’know?” you can’t help but counter. 

“What?” 

You purse your lips hard, digging the balls of your feet on the ground like it would rescue you from this tumultuous mess you have hurled yourself into simply because you care too much.

“I don’t know Chae…from what I’m understanding, I think he needs some sure help and—”

“Someone consistent,” Chaeyoung finishes for you. She breathes thoughtfully, “huh, I guess I never thought about it that way.”

You nod. A small, careful movement. “Just a suggestion.” 

Chaeyoung exhales, long and dramatic, as if clearing her head. “Ugh, whatever. He’s gonna figure it out himself. But if you do see Heather, give her his number, just in case.” She taps quickly on her phone, “I just shared it with you.” 

Seungcheol’s truck revs in the driveway, getting visibly closer as you stand there stunned. Your phone blinks as it receives her text. 

Chaeyoung jogs over to the grinning guy who stepped out of the driver’s seat with his arms spread wide for her. 

You almost can’t believe what just happened. 

But he’s her friend, a part of her life whom she has autonomy over. And you’re nothing more than a messenger to be feeling this much about it. 

“I’ll pass it on to her.” you mumble when Chaeyoung hugs you goodbye and reminds you about Heather. “I will.” 

CHAPTER 4: miscalculations and misrepresentations

The first week after Chaeyoung leaves passes like smoke from between your fingers. Your days are like a bunch of sugar-cubes, clumped and melting into each other as you attended all your classes, finished your shifts at Aunt Sylvie’s diner, studied for the LSAT and applied for other jobs in your free time because the singing gig had begun costing you. 

The paycheck was good. But the management—too demanding. Even after you had told her that too much singing could damage your vocal chords for the long term from all the overuse, Veronica would insist you show up for almost all the major nights. 

And with nowhere else to turn to for your monthly income and with an aversion of upsetting your aunt, you’d almost always relent. 

But with your evening teas becoming more of a crutch for your sore throat than a relaxing ritual, you knew things had to change before you lost whatever remained of your already small voice. 

It is one of those nights as you rot over your mattress—tired down to the bone, nursing a warm cup of tea and reviewing the mock questions you practiced after another long day at the diner. 

The room, with you just in it, feels sterile. Like Chaeyoung took all the character away with her when she left. 

It is dimly lit, not in the comforting way that lulls one to sleep, but rather dull. The kind which makes you aware of how even your fairy-lights blink like it is taking an effort for them to glow. 

Meanwhile all of Chaeyoung’s expensive, quirky lamps lay cold and turned off by her bed. 

No one has been into your room since she left.

You tell yourself that you like it this way, that it’s better to focus. You’ve never had too many friends anyways—it was always just you and your quiet ambitions and dreams that sound awfully silly when spoken out loud. And you have been fine like that so far. 

But something about living on campus, in the dorms that are buzzing with girls getting ready with each other to spend this Friday night out and about, makes your solitude seem depressing. 

A small thought keeps poking its head in your mind… you wouldn’t mind if there was at least one other person here right now. Someone whom you wouldn’t have to invite. Someone who could talk your share of talk because you’re too tired to speak. 

A friend. 

A companion. 

You sip harder on the tea and tell yourself the bitterness at the back of your throat is the aftertaste of hibiscus and not your own self-pity. Squinting your eyes harder on the papers, you try to figure out just where you went wrong with eigenvalues. 

So far, nothing turns up. 

And just when you are about to give up and call it a night, a knock at the door rattles the entire still air of your room with an unwelcomed pulse. 

You’re barely halfway down your bed before whoever is on the other side knocks again—urgent and hard. 

You shouldn’t—because this is your room—but you rush towards the door at the commanding, insistent knocks. 

“Chaeyoung I swear to God if I fail—”

He is about to knock again when you open the door, evident from his fist raised halfway up. He instantly drops it when his eyes fall on you. 

“Oh hey—I’m sorry,” Mingyu quickly takes a step back, then checks the room number plastered on your door before looking at you again. “I…uh, I didn’t mean to—is this not Chaeyoung’s room?” his frown grows the more he stares at you, but not with accusation, more like you’re a puzzle that is occupying his entire mental-capacity right now.  

Something about the intensity of his gaze, the sheer heat of it as he studies you, thaws you out of your frozen, aghast state. 

“It is,” you mumble, “she’s not here though. I am her roommate—”

“The girl who sang the song.” he replies under his breath, his eyes softening as the recognition settles in. 

You blink, confused. “I’m sorry?” 

“Uh, like more than a year ago… at Lorenzo’s? I requested you to sing a song and you did…” he trails off. 

Your fingers over the door tighten inadvertently. You hadn’t expected him to remember that. Chaeyoung didn’t. It was just a night out of many. 

Why would he? 

Except that he did. And now, he stands there in front of you with a small, honest smile on his lips. This subtle look of victory almost. 

“Yeah,” you pause before quickly covering it up with a lie, “I mean, I don’t remember what you’re referring to but I do sing there sometimes. So I guess I must have.” 

Something further softens in him as he leans down to hear you over the noise emanating from the room opposite to yours. His shoulders drop and graze the door as he relaxes by it, already covering most of it with his broad frame. 

You clear your throat, trying to speak louder than usual. “Chaeyoung isn’t here though, can I help you?”

“Do you know when she will be back?” 

“Uh, like two months?” you answer. When you see his frown deepening, you realize he isn’t aware of your roommate’s little retreat. “She is on vacation with her boyfriend.” 

Mingyu’s eyes drop from you to the floor—so does his smile. But only momentarily. You don’t think Mingyu is the type of person who’s never not smiling, even if he has to fake it. 

He scratches the back of his head. “She didn’t tell me, I think.” but then, he hastily adds, “or if she did…guess I forgot.” 

You nod. That’s all you can do because this unplanned encounter with him is like being dragged out of your sleep and right onto the middle of a brightly lit stage. Something that people like Mingyu, Chaeyoung and even your brother Ethan have always been naturals at. But not you. You always freeze, you always forget your lines. You don’t know how to perform. 

Like he’s offering you a cue, Mingyu drives the conversation forward. “Sorry for disturbing your night,” he says, “but Chaeyoung told me she was going to help me find a tutor. She said she had someone—”

Your eyes widen when the memory hits you. 

“Oh yes! She told me about that.” you blurt out and instantly regret it. 

You were only supposed to pass his number on to Heather, not confess to him about knowing about Chaeyoung’s masterplan on hooking them up. A plan you are not too sure he’s in on or not. 

“She did?” He pockets his hands further into his jeans, leaning his head to a side more coolly now. Not curious, just aware of something more… “Interesting.” 

You walk back into your room, “I was about to—”

“I’m sorry but do you mind speaking up? I can barely hear you…”

“Oh just come in.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut the moment you yell that. Messy, messy, messy. What the hell are you doing inviting him in your room alone?

You’re fiddling with the scattered notes all over your table and mattress to look for your phone when you feel him enter the room and push the door just enough to leave it slightly ajar. 

“You know, I am just realizing I never saw you sing at the diner again.” he remarks. 

‘It’s because I never took the shifts on the nights after your games because I knew you’d be there to celebrate.’ 

Instead, you reply, “I have sporadic shifts. No specific schedule.”

Behind you, Mingyu nods like he is a bit unconvinced but is kind enough to let you have it. 

“You’ve been roommates with Chaeyoung since…?”

“Last month,” you answer before you finally locate your phone. 

You scroll through it in vain, praying that Heather’s number would somehow miraculously appear somewhere—in some group-chat or otherwise. 

Mingyu just takes a seat on Chaeyoung’s desk-chair, his long fingers fiddling with the paperweight on the table. The more he eases up, the more the room collapses around him, warping until it shrinks significantly. He looks cartoonishly big compared to all the dainty decor that there is, but nothing about the scene looks out of place. He is more like a giant teddy placed down between your little stuffed animals. It is almost as if there has never been a place he has not belonged in, made a home in. 

Unable to not speak for long, Mingyu hums again. “Chaeyoung and I haven’t been able to talk much, I guess that’s why I missed out on such major life updates from her. I mean the vacation and you.”

“Me?” you pause.

“Yeah, you.” he smiles, bright and polite, like he has to make you feel included even though you didn’t ask for it. “The last time I talked to her, it was only about my tutoring situation. Told her I was ready to pay double what the TAs earn hourly. She said she had a friend in mind.” 

You had tuned him out since the phrase ‘pay double what the TAs earn.’ Your heart picks up pulse as the gears behind your mind start churning with a newfound velocity. Suddenly, you feel like you can solve all the eigenvalues and as an extension, all your problems, if you just tweaked a few things just right. 

“Why don’t you ask the TAs for help?” you ask, your voice breathy and shallow. 

“I did, our schedules just never aligned. I captain the Ice-hockey team and the TAs only have so many spots and open slots.” 

“What subjects do you need help with?” 

“Eh…I can do most theory and research on my own. Just have to read up during my free time. It’s the Mathematics and Stats that are bothering me. Not that I’m bad at them, I just don’t get the time to follow through what’s happening in the coursework.” 

“Yeah Chaeyoung mentioned that.” 

“So you’re her?” Mingyu grins, “the ‘friend’ Chae was talking about?” 

“Wha–I…” you shut your phone off, then turn it on before shutting it off again. You toss it somewhere on Chaeyoung’s mattress, marinating in your own blunder. “I mean she spoke about your situation, yes. But—”

Mingyu’s attention drifts towards the reference book lying unopened on your table. “Hey, that’s the exact material Professor Blyth has recommended. You’re taking the same Calculus?” 

“I am.” 

He’s already flipping through your neat notes. The clean sheet of paper carrying the perfect score to your pre-mid terms from a few days back catches his attention. 

“I totally tanked it. But you have…a near full grade.” his thumb brushes over the unmistakable 98 marked in red on top of the sheet. 

Guilt begins clawing up your gut the more he stares at your answers and practice sheets with awe. 

This isn’t your glory to revel in. 

This isn’t how it is supposed to be. 

This isn’t what Chaeyoung had planned for it to be. 

This is going to ruin your plans of steering clear of Kim Mingyu…for Ethan’s sake. Why the hell would you ever even agree to help the guy who ruined the perfect trajectory of your brother’s professional hockey dreams.

Well, he didn’t do it directly…or deliberately. 

But still. 

“I won’t take a no for an answer,” Mingyu shakes his head, placing the papers back on your table, “you have to tutor me. You have to help me.” 

“Mingyu I—”

“Please.” 

There it is. 

That word. 

Spoken with the same cadence that he had carried over a year ago. Tender, polite…begging. It is as if he has mastered speaking a language that doesn’t contain anything equivalent to rejection. At least not in your books. And no matter how hard you try to contain it, freeze it, something in the very centre of your chest aches as it melts at the warmth of his voice. 

“It will be a huge favor,” he stands up from the chair, all serious yet still gentle somehow like he’s trying to persuade you, not convince you. “I will do anything in return. Your laundry, your dishes, I can even clean your room every weekend or be your date for all important appearances this term. I can make your exes jealous, heck I can even beat one up. Well, not if it’s a girl but you get the drill?” 

You stare at him with your eyes wide and jaw slacked. “I think…I think just money would be good for now.” 

The angel on your right shoulder that is in charge of keeping your conscience intact is practically drilling holes into your skull when you reach for a printed copy of your schedule and hand it over to him. 

“This is my schedule.” you murmur, not daring to meet his eyes, “I work most evenings from Tuesdays to Saturdays. But I guess I can cut a few shifts off at the diner if I’m going to be tutoring you now. Just tell me whatever works for you.”

Mingyu doesn’t mind your sudden aloofness or even if he does, he doesn’t comment on why you are trying to practically become one with the wall as you shrivel further and further. He just grins like you have handed him over the keys to the Universe. 

Before he leaves, he takes his phone out and asks you to give him your number. 

You don’t miss it though, how he repeats your name under his breath when you put it in there or how he stares at your face like he’s trying to match you to it. Like he’s trying to understand why you were named what you were named. All while that same, sweet smile blooms further and further over his lips. 

The sheet of paper, the same one where you were struggling with the eigenvalues problem on, slips and lands at his feet. 

He picks it up, briefs it over before handing it over to you and points out what you were doing wrong. 

Relief washes over you and you scratch your head. “Ah…I wasn’t even considering that.”

“See,” he winks, “we’re already one very strong team.”

CHAPTER 5: i swear i don't murder puppies

Your room is a warzone of sweaters and dresses at seven in the morning. Not because you somehow left your window open and a storm wrecked through your wardrobe, but because it is the day you meet Mingyu to decide upon a schedule that is in alignment with his practices. 

The September weather is always so confusing—all your sweaters feel too warm and your summer dresses flutter way more for your comfort with the rain-soaked wind. You cannot bring yourself to put on a plain old hoodie because it is only Monday, and all your giant sweatshirts and grays are preserved for anything post-Wednesdays. 

You wring your hands before pressing them to your face. 

“You’re just trying to distract yourself from your real problems by making up these stupid ones,” you whisper to yourself. 

It is the truth. 

You should have never agreed to this.

You should have never given him the impression that you were the girl whom Chaeyoung was talking about.

You should have gone out of your way to look for Heather and tell her what happened instead of waiting to run into her. 

You suppress another groan before your little guilts whirlwind into self-hatred. It's for the money, you tell yourself. And money often transforms people into someone unrecognizable.

You choose a mid-length dress that Cass made for you. No flashy colors, modest neckline but sweet strappy sleeves. It is formal without being strict. 

The bag of make-up sits untouched on your dresser. You tell yourself everyday that you will find time to put it on, look more presentable. But each day, it’s just your sunscreen, lip-gloss and kohl-liner against the world. 

As you massage the vanilla-scented lotion over your collarbones, you weigh upon the pros and cons of this situation. 

This tutoring gig is too lucrative for you to pass on. Not only it pays more than your singing job, but it would also mean that you won’t have to walk all the way out of campus, put heavy layers of pigment and glitter on your face, smile and sing until everything aches and come back half a corpse even during your busiest weeks. 

Not to mention, helping him review whatever happens in class would also make you revise simultaneously. 

You lift the mascara closer to your face and lean into the mirror. And perhaps, it is something about the reflection of your somber eyes in the dulled out mirror that makes you see the risks clearer than ever. 

Not only are you taking it away from someone else, but by agreeing to help him out with something—anything—you are in a way betraying your brother.

You do not harbour the same animosity in your heart towards Mingyu like Ethan does. But you had also planned on steering very clear out of his enemy's way the day you received your acceptance letter to the college and Ethan didn't. 

Besides, what the hell will you tell her when Chaeyoung returns with that expectant gleam in her eyes and asks you if you forwarded her message? 

You lose count of the amount of times you almost stab yourself in the eye with the wand. Eventually, you give up on it and just sit there on the floor with your knees curled up. 

By the time you are up and ready to face the day—and him—you have what seems like a fool-proof plan up your sleeve. You mentally rehearse it while applying the last coat of your gloss. 

You are going to head out, be stoic and get the job done with him hopefully before Chaeyoung returns.

You can even push harder and cut on more shifts to help him be ahead of the schedule in class so that you can get rid of him faster. 

You’re not going to strike a friendship with him—you are not even going to talk about anything beyond just what’s necessary. No mentions of a vengeful sibling, no mentions of the wicked game of ice-hockey. 

Whenever you run into Heather, you’re going to make amends by dutifully passing Chae’s message to her and give her his number. Hell, you might even make him warm up to the idea of her if that’s what it takes to have them go out together per Chaeyoung’s wishes. 

You will have this all wrapped tight and dusted in under seven weeks if you just manage to do what you’ve promised yourself to do. 

Just stick to the plan.

Exhaling deeper than usual, you take one last look at the mirror. 

You push down the thought that there is certainly an additional gilded glow illuminating your features today. 

You tell yourself it’s just the morning sun. 

⸻

(mingyu’s POV)

He sees you before you see him, and something within him hollows out. 

You are fiddling with your thumbs, letting your eyes lightly sweep across the space before promptly giving up and succumbing to your phone—most probably texting him. 

He quickly collects the orders from the counter and walks over to you. 

“There you go,” he says, extending the warm tea towards you, “I just took a wild guess that you’d prefer tea over coffee cause that’s what I saw in your room.” 

You look startled. Or maybe that’s just how you usually are. So calm and ethereal in your own world before he comes and disrupts it with his loud demands and ramblings. 

Yet, you accept it from his hand with a polite ‘thank you’. 

Small wins. 

He cocks his head towards the empty table in the café. “Shall we?” 

You walk ahead of him, something that he actually appreciates because it gives him the time—however small of a window—to stare at you longer.

Your hair fall over your smooth shoulders like curtains and your dress sways with the light breeze. 

You look so soft, you always do. He has to clutch his bag and his espresso harder than usual to avoid reaching forward and detangling your tresses that are catching up with the dainty chain of your locket behind your neck. 

But then, you put an end to it when you finally settle down into the booth and pull your laptop out along with a few loose sheets, some already printed or scribbled upon while the others are a blank canvas. 

“Did you fill out your schedule in the Excel file I shared?” you ask in that low, gentle voice of yours. 

He loves hearing you speak because your tone is so serene and tender that it requires him to put all his attention to it. Sometimes, he even has to physically lower himself, or lean closer, to hear you better. 

And Mingyu always thinks that there is something irresistible about people who require the world to bend and adapt to them. 

“Well?” you ask again, quirking your eyebrows up. 

“Wh—ah, yes, I filled it out.”

“Already losing out on attention?” you mutter, before throwing a pointed glance at him, “we can’t afford that.” 

He laughs to himself. “Didn’t peg you as someone who’d be so strict.” 

“You’ve seen my schedule. We’re already operating on a tight timeline.” 

“Fair,” he replies, “although, I would promise you that I am a quick learner.” 

“Don’t promise me, surprise me.” 

“You know what? I actually quite like it,” he leans back into his chair with an effortless ease, emptying a whole packet of sugar into the steaming coffee, “this whole strict teacher bit. It’s…compelling.” 

You shoot him a deadpan look and continue typing. 

You quickly breeze through all the hours of the week that you’d be able to meet with him and prepare a list of priority topics that he missed out on or needs to cover before the mid-terms. Mingyu meets you halfway through it all, giving his inputs wherever necessary and letting you know what all he could work upon alone. 

It doesn’t slide by him about how different you seem today compared to the previous times he has spoken to you. You are more guarded in the moment, like you took time to stitch an armour around yourself in the morning before coming to meet him. 

But it often slips out—that usual softness that he has begun associating with you. Like the time you accepted his request to sing or when you invited him into your room, unguarded and trusting. It’s there when he sheepishly apologizes for adding to your burden and you assure him it’s alright. It’s there when he goes blank about most topics you initiate and you quickly pivot to something he might know. 

You keep on covering up that softness each time he diverts from business though. Like throwing a wet-blanket over a warm hearth. 

This additional layer of caution. Another boundary etched. 

When Chaeyoung had told him she had someone in mind who might be interested in helping him out, she had completely omitted the information that that someone was her new roommate who also happened to be the girl whom he sometimes still thought about. Someone whose delicate voice still hummed in the back of his mind. 

Perhaps, if Chaeyoung hadn’t been too excited about telling him that the girl had a huge crush on him, she would have remembered to share that vital piece of information. 

But watching how you’ve been acting around him today, it seems like his friend probably exaggerated your fascination towards him. Why else would you be shooting down his attempts at being anything beyond just a chore if you did in fact like him like that? 

It’s not like it hurts his pride though, he had never really weighed down on the possibility of any romances with his tutor. All he desperately needed was for someone to help him and if a little charm and flirtation was gonna help him get there, then what was the harm? 

It is a relief that you don’t seem like you are interested anymore though—or at least that’s what he tells himself. 

Because telling himself that makes it hurt a bit less when he asks you if you’d like to stay back and chat over coffee after you’re done and you deny it without a second thought. 

Telling himself that makes it feel less cruel when he offers to walk you to your class and you look at him like he has just admitted to killing a million puppies. 

He doesn’t know what prompted it, but since the last time he saw you, it seems like you have made some judgments of your own. 

And he’s not too sure if he likes the idea of it. 

CHAPTER 6: truce? truce.

No matter how hard he runs across the campus from the ice-rink to the library, Mingyu is still ten minutes late to your study session. 

You are already in one of the study-rooms surrounded by two distinct sets of stapled papers and a workbook that you’re scribbling hurriedly upon with a short, dull pencil. His heavy, fatigued footsteps against the otherwise polished tiles startle you out of whatever it is that is making you frown and you look up at him instead. 

At once, his breathing significantly slows down. Like his body is trying its best to behave and be proper under the captivity of those big, soft, doe-like eyes of yours. 

“So sorry, Coach Greer had us run extra drills,” he pants, “and I couldn’t exactly show up here without a shower.” 

Despite all the exhaustion, he still flashes you that full grin that can make even a shrivelled flower blush and bloom as he drops his bag over the small table separating two chairs in the small room. 

He thinks you have completely ignored him when you return back to flipping through your book. 

But then, you slide your bottle of water towards him. 

“You should take five.” you suggest. “Catch your breath.”

And then, you go back to acting like you were before he showed up. 

Still, he thinks it is very sweet as he uncaps the bottle and takes a swig out of it. Not because he is particularly thirsty—but because you offered. 

His breath evens out as he studies the focus-pod. It is literally a box with a single small window and a giant glass door. Two squeaky chairs placed thoughtlessly with a table that looks like it would collapse from the weight of his arms alone if he leans over it. Sunlight filters in hot, rectangular slants, warming the scratched surface and making it a tad too warm for comfort. 

No one ever studies here. Not really. Unless they have an important meeting to attend or a call to take. 

“Why are we meeting here instead of the actual library, again?” he can’t help but ask. 

You look up from your work to briefly glance at him before returning back to it. “Because you talk too much.” 

“Right, but doesn’t the library have a much better ambience?”

“Not worth getting rebuked by people studying there because you won’t stop speaking.”

“I’m going to speak here regardless.”

“You can,” you answer, finally shutting your workbook, “because I’m getting paid to hear you speak. The others are not.” 

“You majoring in business?”

You correct him, “Economics.” 

“You should switch to majoring in business though.” 

“Are you calling me greedy and unkind?” 

“No, I am saying you would make a terrifying CEO. You are very practical and efficient.” 

You sigh, keeping your face uninterested as you speak, “as fun as this was, let us return to ANOVA, shall we?” 

Mingyu folds his hands over the table, resting his chin over his crossed fingers. “I was hoping to stall further.” 

Your knuckles tighten over the stack of books and for a moment, Mingyu thinks he toed a line he shouldn’t have dared crossing. But then, your eyes soften—just by a beat—and you suggest. “We can call a truce whenever you feel like it’s getting too much…y’know? You can just say the word and we’ll take a break.”

“Wait, really?” he perks up, just enough for his eyes to flash with something refreshing. Like hope. 

You shrug, “I don’t want to force you into doing something that you are too tired to.” 

“So like,” he nearly giggles—and it is fucking ridiculous watching a man as tall and buff as him giggle like that—before even finishing the joke, “a safeword?” 

Your face goes back to that blankness that feels like a curtain of indifference being drawn. 

“For studying,” you respond flatly, “don’t make it weird.” 

But the corners of your mouth give it away by curling up. Barely. Just a flicker that you quickly hide by looking in your bag for nothing. It is gone before he can be sure if it was even there. 

But he grins anyway because he decides that it was. 

“Right,” he nods like he’s signing a contract. “A truce.” 

“A truce.” you shrug, like it doesn’t matter.  

⸻

You both work in relative silence after that. 

Mingyu tries his best to focus each time you lean over to explain something to him. But he just can’t. He fidgets too much, stretches his arms too often, cranks his neck side to side even though there is no stiffness.

He isn’t his usual self and he can feel it. 

And something about you tells him that neither are you. 

You see, he might not have known you that well. But he for sure had observed you. And each time he said something stupid or attempted anything beyond just discussing the numerical problems on paper, it felt like you were restraining yourself. A smile, a retort, an answer. It wasn’t a mask, but a heavy door that you kept on shutting up with all your body-weight. 

His mind keeps on wandering back to try and figure out why. Just what did he do to make you insist on shutting out any possibilities of warmth between the icy territory that you're both navigating. So far, nothing has come up.

“Hey, did I do something?” 

He finally asks towards the end of the session when you have already briefed him over the concepts and given him a worksheet to practice upon until your later session. 

You blink, “No… why?” 

He doesn’t want to tense this up, doesn’t want to end a productive session on a needlessly confusing note just because of the faulty projections of his mind. 

So he lets out a little laugh, trying to lighten the weight of it when his observation lands, “I don’t know, you seemed a bit annoyed.”

He expects you to snap back at him that you are not some doll who’d always smile at him or shut him off by telling him that it’s because he is in fact—annoying. 

But your shoulders drop, “oh?” you tuck your hair behind your ear, “I… I am not annoyed at you Mingyu.” 

It is the first time you have spoken his name with a thoughtful breath. And he can’t understand why it feels like the first time anyone has ever spoken it right. 

“I am just a bit tired.” you further explain, avoiding his eyes as you begin fiddling with something inside your bag. "Work, classes and stuff."

He doesn’t prod further. Just lets the sound of your breathing thread through the tight-packed walls of the sterile room. 

But then, very cautiously, he adds, “You know you can always tell me to shut it if I’m speaking too much. I am a talker, but I get it.”

“I don’t mind you talking,” you interrupt him so quickly that he frowns. You bite your lip, “sorry if I made you feel that way. I guess I was just bickering earlier.” 

“No, no, really. I didn’t think much about it, just giving you a heads up that I can be quiet if you want me to be. We don’t have to continue meeting in these coffin cubes just because I can’t shut up.”

You nod, just a small movement. He feels at ease when he spots a small smile over your lips. Hidden and fluttering like a newly hatched butterfly. This strange sensation of pride surges behind his ribs—something on you that he can finally claim some possession at most and contribution at least, after all. 

Mingyu doesn’t know where this urge comes from—this almost need to give you something, anything, worthwhile in return. If he tallies all the hours he has known you, it might not even add up to a full day. Yet he feels like he already owes you half his lifetime for some reason. A debt of eons. 

You pile up on that debt when you slide a neat stack towards him. It feels warm in his hands. 

“I printed out a copy of my notes if you want to refer to them.” you inform as he looks through them with this undisclosed wonder. 

Around eighty sheets of material. You even printed out the pages with additional workings that explain the main solution better, along with the alternatives. The margins that people often hide because of the simplistic explanations that are meant for their eyes alone and no one else’s. 

But you copied it all out for him. 

“This is… wow,” he slowly gets up after you, “I really have no idea how to thank you enough for this.”

“Literally the least I could do.” you shrug. “I will meet you Friday?” 

“Yeah,” he repeats, his voice unstable, “Friday.” 

You don’t give him a departing smile or a ‘take care’ before turning around. But you do halt at the door, lingering for a suspended moment. 

“Just for the record…I like it when you talk." you pause, considering if you should add what you're thinking before deciding to do so, "I don’t speak much myself, but I also hate silences.” 

⸻

Ever since the beginning of senior year, Dokyeom hasn't hosted much. 

It wasn’t because he didn’t want to. But because of the giant golden retriever living in his drawing room who, through the virtue of his squatter's rights, had turned into a roommate Dokyeom didn’t sign up to have. 

Ever since a gnarly water-leak at his apartment some two months ago, Mingyu had practically moved in with him, taking refuge on Dokyeom’s worn-out couch. His place was all fixed now. Yet, whenever Dokyeom as much as even hinted at the prospect of him moving back, Mingyu reacted like he had lost all sensations in his ears. 

Tonight though, Dokyeom had invited a couple friends over and asked Mingyu to help him organize. 

“I really can’t believe you pay full rent for your own place and still break your back on this couch.” Jihyo, who had arrived a bit earlier than the rest, fluffs an additional pillow on Mingyu’s makeshift bed, “seriously dude, are you even getting the rest you need?” 

Mingyu snorts, “I sneak in and sleep on DK’s bed when he’s not home.” 

“I swear to God Mingyu, don’t even joke about it.” Dokyeom deadpans as he sets the dinner table. “You know I have that mild OCD shit or something.” 

“Move out bro, it’s getting embarrassing.” 

Pausing from the salad he is assembling, Mingyu tosses two olives at the both of them, “seriously? Can I not just live with my best-friend in the whole wide world for a few weeks? We’re all gonna graduate in under a year and I am already missing you.”

“Or,” Jihyo chimes, swinging her legs off the couch, “you were looking for excuses to move out of your apartment ever since the rejection-gate and now that you’ve found it, you’re using DK’s space like a crutch.” 

Mingyu’s fingers tighten over the cherry tomatoes he’s splitting in the middle. 

“It’s not like that.” he shrugs, despite it.

“Except for the fact that it is.” 

He lets out a light, airy laugh. Just a puff of it to make it seem like he can glide through this conversation like he does with all the other ones. 

But for some reason, today, he cannot.

“It’s fucking lonely in that apartment." he finally admits.

He turns his back to his friends, checking up on the cherry pie. In the reflection of the shiny surface of the oven door, just momentarily, he catches his friends exchanging a look behind him. He opens the oven before he can discern if it’s worry or mockery. 

The ceramic dish lands harsher than he intended on the counter top. He slides his mittens off like he needs his palms to feel air before they sweat so much that his skin melts off. 

He rests his fists over the marble, leaning all his weight over them as his eyes clench shut. He instantly regrets that little comment, feeling a sense of dread rising like bile up his throat as he hears them shuffle behind him. 

Here come the pitiful looks and careful words. 

He doesn’t need them—he hasn’t needed them for so long. 

“I will move out,” Mingyu announces just before Dokyeom can offer him another futile assurance. “I just need a little more time, I guess.”

Dokyeom doesn’t argue that. He can see just how a few weeks away from his apartment has helped bring the Mingyu he knew back into the body which had been rotting away in his place. Dokyeom had seen how Mingyu had cooped himself up. Depressed and dull. Curtains always shut off. His art-studio collecting dust. 

He barely ever cooked anymore. 

So when he had told Dokyeom about the pipe that burst in his apartment, it was a no-brainer for him to let Mingyu in. 

And by the looks of it now — and despite all the inconveniences — Dokyeom thinks that he wouldn’t hesitate to do it all over again. 

“You can be here for as long as you want, bud.” He slaps him over his back. “That’s what friends are for.”

Jihyo adds, “Yeah I guess I was just being a jerk…I think you needed this change. It suits you.”

Mingyu nods at them, the way one does when they’re overwhelmed to a point that even words fail them. 

He goes back to arranging the forks by the spoons on the table when Dokyeom clears his throat, leaning against the counter and announces to Jihyo, “It’s not just the change of place that’s suiting him though.” 

Jihyo reflects his playfulness, “Ahan? What do you mean?” 

“A little birdie told me our puppy has made a new lady friend.” Dokyeom answers, his voice sporting that dramatic lilt that makes Mingyu roll his eyes. “Chan saw him smiling like an idiot with a girl in the library the other day.” 

Mingyu protests, “she’s just helping me study—”

“No, wait.” Dokyeom interrupts, “my apologies, because Chan said he saw you smiling like an idiot at a girl in the library. She wasn’t even looking at you.” 

“I spy a little crush situation,” Jihyo squeals, hopping up on the marble counter between Mingyu and Dokyeom, “come on, spill. Who, when, why, where?” 

“There is no crush situation,” Mingyu scoffs, “besides, I think I learnt my lesson about not crushing on my friends.” 

“She’s not your friend.” Dokyeom corrects, “like I said, she doesn’t even look at you.” 

“And how do you know that?” 

“I have my ways.” 

Jihyo throws two napkins at the both of them, “Dokyeom, shut up. Mingyu, man up. Who is this new friend of yours? Tell me all about her.”

“There is nothing to tell." MIngyu shakes his head, "Dokyeom’s right, we aren’t even friends. She’s just someone…well, she’s Chaeyoung’s roommate, and we share similar classes so she’s helping me out with whatever I miss out on.” 

“Chae’s roommate?” Jihyo’s eyebrows arch, “well, that’s a new angle.” 

“It’s nothing serious. Really. I was talking to Chae the other day and I mentioned needing help with a few classes. She thought her roommate had a little crush on me and decided to set us up, I guess. I think she misread it though because the girl is farthest from interested in me. But it works. She's just a great tutor and nothing more.” he shrugs, like this entire rant and all the specific details he gave out mean nothing.  

“‘Just a great tutor,’” Dokyeom mocks, imitating Mingyu’s very hurried and very raspy tone, “then why the hell were you smiling to yourself while reading her notes like they were love letters at three in the morning?” 

“I was not.”

“You so were.” 

“I was admiring her penmanship.” 

Jihyo completely glosses over their back-and-forth and turns to fully face Mingyu with the same grin she has whenever she’s watching her favorite rom-coms. “What if Chae is right and the girl is indeed into you? What if she’s just playing hard to catch?” 

Mingyu leans down until he’s eye-level with Jihyo’s moony ones. “Or, what if, we all stop being so obsessed with this cause I don’t wanna creep her out.” 

Jihyo’s smile drops. Stoically, she asks. “Do you like her?”

“Not like that…”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s pretty…and seems like a good person. But that’s it. I barely know her.” 

“Then make an effort and get to know her!” 

“You guys don’t get it…” Mingyu finally says, “she is very distant and guarded and I don’t know what Chae has told her about me. I mean, for all I know—”

“Don’t even finish that thought.” Jihyo interrupts, “you and I both know Chaeyoung would never do that.” 

Mingyu sighs, placing his hands over his waist and letting his head drop with defeat. When he finally has the energy to look at his friends again, all the lightheartedness has evaporated out of the room. 

“Let’s just drop it. I can’t even enter my apartment on my own for fuck’s sake.” 

// lemme know if u wanna be tagged pookies <3 reblogs, asks and comments are not only appreciated but fucking threatened on here dont make me block u if i catch u just liking my fics smh!!!! happy early birthday to my man ugh i love him saurrrr much

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@novalpha @honglynights @eskoupe

MASTERLIST

You sweep the floors with your hair tied up in a red ribbon, humming songs no one else seems to know. You boil water in the back room, your sleeves rolled up past your elbows, wrists red from the heat. Sometimes you lean out the window to shake out a cloth, and Mingyu watches from across the street, heart in his throat, as if looking at you might somehow unmake the curse.

It doesn’t.

The Fifth King’s words still echo like older thunder in his ears. One lifetime for every sin, the king had said. He doesn’t remember what he did to deserve this; only that it was enough to curse him with memory, and longing, and you.

You, who never remembers him. You, who are always just out of reach.

Still, this life feels different. He’s not a lonely musician. He’s just Mingyu. Just a man in a wool coat with frayed sleeves and too many lifetimes folded into the lines around his eyes.

Somehow, that compels him to step inside.

The bell above the teahouse door is delicate and cracked, like it’s been broken and glued back together a dozen times. It tinkles faintly as he enters, and you glance up from behind the counter. He orders ginger tea. It’s too hot, a little bitter. He drinks it anyway.

You don’t say much to him at first, just slide the cup forward with a polite nod, fingers dusted with flour, and return to kneading dough in the back. Mingyu sits in the corner, watching steam curl from the rim of his cup, pretending to read a book he’s read a thousand times before.

He returns the next day. And the next.

Sometimes you smile at him. Sometimes you ask if he wants something sweet with his tea. He always says yes, just to hear your voice again.

“Do you work nearby?” you ask one morning, wiping your hands on your apron.

“No,” he says. “I walk a lot.”

You tilt your head. “Even in the snow?”

“Especially then,” he says, and you laugh. The sound cuts through every century he’s lived without you. It makes something ancient in him ache.

You tell him your name one day. He already knows it, of course, but he pretends it’s the first time. He says it softly, rolls it on his tongue like a promise.

He brings small things sometimes: a book of poems; a silk ribbon the same colour as the one you wear; once, a tiny jade rabbit charm that he leaves near the register when you’re not looking. You find it later and keep it in your purse. You never ask if it’s from him, and he never tells you.

Some days, he helps. He carries water from the well; repairs a broken chair leg; teaches you how to fold paper cranes when the shop is slow. You sit across from him at the low table, your hands awkward at first, and he watches you fold the wings silently.

You crease the edge of the paper with your thumbnail, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Mingyu doesn’t laugh, though the sight of you furrowing your brow over something as simple as a paper crane is enough to pull a smile to his mouth. He leans forward and gently adjusts the angle of the folded wing.

“Like this,” he says quietly.

Your fingers brush, briefly, barely. It’s nothing—but to him, it’s everything.

After that, you start leaving out an extra cup when you brew tea in the morning, even before he walks in. He tells you that he prefers ginger tea with honey, that he likes his bread warm and his jam unsweetened. Sometimes he hums under his breath when he reads, even though his eyes don’t always move across the page.

He learns that you braid your hair when you’re nervous, and that you’re saving up for a trip to Busan, and that you talk to the teapot when you think no one’s listening.

Sometimes, when it snows harder than usual, you don’t get any customers and the city stays quiet. On those days, you sit across from each other on the heated floorboards, sipping tea and listening to the wind rattle the windows.

Once, you fall asleep like that—cheek pressed to your folded arms, exhaustion shuttering your eyelids. Mingyu doesn’t wake you. He watches the snow gather on the windowsill and thinks about how peaceful your face looks in this life. 

He wonders if this is enough. If friendship is enough.

You wake, embarrassed, and he just smiles and tells you to rest more. You blink at him, still sleepy but shake your head, so he asks if you want to learn how to fold a lotus next. You do.

PARIS, FRANCE. SUMMER, 1890.

It’s your honeymoon. At least, that’s what the world thinks.

The hotel is charming in the way French hotels are supposed to be—wrought-iron balconies, velvet drapes, and wallpaper the colour of old pearls. The floorboards creak under his feet, and the hallways smell faintly of orange blossoms and candlewax.

Below, the Seine coils through the city, meandering long and slow. Gondoliers shout in lilting voices from the water. The bouquinistes have already opened their green boxes along the banks, selling secondhand poetry and crumbling maps to tourists who still believe Paris belongs to lovers.

Maybe it does. Just not to the two of you.

Mingyu stands by the window, shirt half-buttoned, tie discarded somewhere near the settee. The silk catches on the carved wooden leg. The breeze lifts the edge of the curtain, letting in the sound of clattering dishes from the café downstairs.

The light falls soft on your face where you sit at the vanity, brushing your hair in long, even strokes, the red ribbon that you’d used to tie your hair back wrapped around your wrist. Your nightgown is lace-trimmed and far too sheer for the cool morning. He thinks it must be uncomfortable, but you wear it anyway, spine straight, chin lifted, always composed. You don’t look at him. You haven’t looked at him all morning.

There are two coffee cups on the table. One is untouched. You didn’t like the roast, but you won’t tell him that. You’ll let it sit there and grow cold because indifference is your sharpest weapon, and you know exactly how to wield it.

The lace shifts again as you move, bare shoulders catching the gold light. It’s almost enough to make him forget; almost enough to believe this life could be different. Maybe, if he just reached out—if he touched your shoulder, softly, just once—you’d remember something. The way your fingers once curled around the fabric of his hanbok, or the way you said his name.

It’s your honeymoon, and you can barely stand to be in the same room.

TOKYO, JAPAN. SPRING, ONE WEEK AGO.

Mingyu promises to take you to see the cherry blossoms after work.

You’re half-asleep on the sofa when he tells you, legs tucked beneath you, your blouse rumpled and your slacks creased at the knees. Your fingers are curled around a mug of ginger tea you’ve forgotten to sip from, the steam long faded. The apartment glows in the evening light—low and golden, brushing everything it touches with warmth. It rests on your cheek, your collarbone, the line of your neck.

The window is cracked open just enough for the air to carry the sound of birds and distant footsteps. Someone laughs downstairs—the neighbour’s kid, maybe, or a passing couple. In the kitchen, the rice cooker clicks off with a soft chime, and the smell of jasmine rice begins to mingle with the faint perfume of laundry soap and honey.

The sakura have started blooming early this year, soft clouds of pink dusting every street, like the city’s been dipped in blush and left to dry slowly. He noticed them that morning on his walk to the train: the way petals clung to the sidewalk like confetti, the way one landed on the shoulder of your coat and you didn’t notice.

“Don’t forget,” you mumble without opening your eyes, voice warm and worn out, lips brushing the rim of the mug. Your feet are bare, and you wiggle your toes sleepily when he sits beside you.

“I won’t,” Mingyu says, and he means it.

He never forgets, not in this life.

He reaches over and gently lifts the mug from your hands, careful not to spill it, and sets it on the coffee table beside your phone and a half-finished crossword. Your handwriting is in blue pen—curvy, a little impatient. He glances at it, then turns his attention back to you.

“You should change out of your work clothes,” he says.

“M’comfy,” you whisper, not moving an inch.

He laughs softly. “You say that. Then you complain about the wrinkles in the morning.”

You hum noncommittally, already slipping towards sleep. Your head tilts until it rests against his shoulder. He shifts a little to make it easier. Your hair smells like lemongrass shampoo and the rose spray you use in early spring. Mingyu leans his cheek gently against the top of your head.

“Are we going tomorrow or Saturday?” you ask.

“Tomorrow,” Mingyu says. “I want to go before the crowds come.”

“You hate crowds,” you agree, nodding.

“You hate them more.”

You smile. “Smart man.”

Mingyu slides his arm behind your back, warm and solid and steady. He closes his eyes and listens—to your breath, to the tick of the clock on the wall.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA. EARLY SUMMER, 1972.

Mingyu slings his arm over your bare waist, and thinks that this might be the life.

Maybe the Fifth King took pity on him. Maybe this is a loophole, and it comes with jazz and heat and the way your lipstick smeared against his collar an hour ago. Maybe it’s not a trick. Maybe, for once, he gets to stay.

Your breath is steady now, but your skin is still flushed, slick with the last traces of sweat. The cotton sheets stick to your thigh where it’s thrown over his hip, and your fingers twitch against his ribs, still restless in sleep.

He lets his hand drift up the slope of your side, slow and gentle. He watches your lashes flutter, the corner of your mouth twitch as you stir.

“Are you awake?” he asks.

You hum without opening your eyes. “Barely.”

He presses a kiss behind your ear. “Should I stop?”

“If you’re asking that, you already know the answer.”

So Mingyu doesn’t stop. His hand moves, slow and familiar now, tracing the curve of your hip. You shift closer, still half-asleep, until your leg slides between his and your mouth brushes against the underside of his jaw.

It’s easy like this. Too easy.

Your bodies know each other even if your minds don’t. There’s no fumbling anymore, no pretending. Just heat and breath and the memory of his name whispered into the crook of his neck, again and again, like you’re trying to brand yourself into him. Maybe you are.

He holds you afterward, and listens to the rain starting up again outside the window—soft at first, then steadier. Jazz spills in from the bar two floors down, muffled by distance and glass, but still there. Like everything in this city, it lingers.

“You’re staring,” you say eventually, not unkindly.

“I do that,” Mingyu says.

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

You make a soft sound in the back of your throat, somewhere between amusement and disbelief, and burrow deeper into his chest. Your fingers trace a line over his collarbone, idle and absentminded, like you’re not really thinking about what you’re doing.

“You always act like you know something I don’t,” you mumble. “Like you’ve been waiting for me to figure it out.”

Mingyu swallows. “Figure out what?”

“Whatever it is you keep hiding behind your eyes,” you say. “You always look so sad, Mingyu.”

His arm tightens around you just slightly. 

You’re not wrong. You never are, not in any life. Even without memory, your intuition is as sharp as it’s always been. You’re like a compass that always swings toward the truth, even when the truth is something you have no idea about. 

Mingyu considers lying, or laughing it off. But you shift again, and your thigh brushes against his. You’re close—so close, close enough that he almost lets the truth slip past his teeth. You’ve died in my arms before. You’ve looked at me with your last breath. I’ve been cursed to find you again and again and again.

Instead, he says, “Maybe I just like the way you look when you sleep.”

“Poetic.”

“I try.”

You lift your head to look at him. There’s mascara smudged beneath your eyes, and a tiny crease on your cheek where it pressed against the pillow. Your mouth is a little swollen from kissing, and your voice is hoarse in the way that drives him insane.

“You know this isn’t forever, right?” you say, softly, like you’re offering him a kindness by saying it first.

“I know,” Mingyu says.

You nod, like that’s what you needed to hear. “Good.”

But you don’t move. You don’t pull away. You rest your chin on his chest and look at him like you’re memorising the shape of his nose and the colour of his eyes.

“God,” you whisper after a while. “This would be so much easier if you were an asshole.”

Mingyu laughs and says, “I can be, if it helps.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “You’re good. That’s the problem.”

He kisses your forehead and tries not to think about the way your voice cracked.

JOSEON, KOREA. WINTER, 1798.

It is snowing the first time Mingyu sees you, and your name forms on his mouth like habit.

It’s not the name you carry now—not the one assigned to you by court records and a royal appointment, or the one embroidered into the hem of your hanbok in gold thread. It is the name you’ve had in your previous lifetime. The name he’s whispered into your skin, into your dying hands.

Mingyu doesn’t say it aloud. He doesn’t dare.

He watches you from the far side of the courtyard, where the snow has muffled the world and the stone paths disappear beneath white. His breath fogs in the air. A court servant speaks beside him—something about a grain levy in Jeolla—but Mingyu isn’t listening. He couldn’t, even if he tried.

You walk gracefully, holding a lacquered tray to your chest, with your back straight. Your hair is pulled into a sleek bun, adorned with a single ornamental binyeo shaped like a plum blossom. It is the sign of a new concubine: favoured and untouched. The wind catches your sleeve and flutters it gently, and his chest clenches at the sight of your wrist. A thousand memories flicker through his mind like reeds in the current.

Yet, your face is unfamiliar in this first life. Younger, and softer. Your eyes don’t carry memory. You don’t look at him with recognition or contempt. You don’t look at him at all.

You pass through the courtyard, and Mingyu stands frozen under the shadow of a ginkgo tree, as though time itself has collapsed.

Later, in his private study, he asks about you. He pretends it’s nothing—an idle inquiry wrapped in courtesy, spoken to the right eunuch over warm rice wine.

“The girl who came last month,” he says, carefully. “The concubine gifted by the Governor of Gangwon. What do we know of her?”

“The new Lady?” The eunuch says your new name, the one that doesn’t feel right in Mingyu’s mouth. “She is quiet and well-mannered. Literate, I believe, though she comes from no family of rank. She entered the palace under the northern court’s petition—her village suffered a flood, and her people sought mercy. The Governor offered her as tribute.”

“Tribute,” Mingyu repeats, tasting the word like ash.

“She was chosen for her beauty,” the eunuch adds. “Nothing more.”

PARIS, FRANCE. SUMMER, 1890.

You married him because you had to.

It was a bargain struck behind closed doors, a compromise made with fathers and fortunes and convenience. He had wealth, and you had a family in debt. It was all very civilised, very French. The papers printed your photograph beside a headline that called it a union of elegance and fortune. They didn’t print the part where you refused to meet his eyes.

At dinner, you speak to him in French, formally, like a woman who doesn’t wish to be misunderstood, and doesn’t care to be known. You order for yourself. You never ask if he’s read the books you quote. You let the silence stretch until it breaks and sip your half-finished wine instead.

Mingyu lets you. He nods when appropriate, smiles when it seems polite, swirls his wine, and pretends not to watch the way you cut your food too carefully.

He thinks about how different your voice sounds in this life. How your laughter is a stranger to him. He remembers the you who laughed easily, the you who danced barefoot in the snow, the you who wrote him letters in the margins of books and left pressed flowers between the pages. That version of you isn’t here.

In this lifetime, you wear gloves to dinner and never once let your fingers brush his.

But you’re beautiful. God, you’re beautiful.

It kills him a little, every time.

You look like a painting he’s seen before and can’t quite place; one he’s spent lifetimes trying to find again. Now that you’re here—flesh and blood, name and ring and contract—you’re more unreachable than ever.

You don’t sleep in the same bed. The suite has two, and that’s something you requested specifically. He remembers the clerk glancing at him with a look that hovered between pity and apology.

The bellboy had asked, “Madame, shall I draw the curtains between the beds?”

“Yes, thank you,” you had said.

You don’t ask him questions: not about his work, not about his past. Not about the faraway look he sometimes gets when the light hits the Seine just right. He doesn’t ask you, either. The truth is, you are not his, in this life.

He wonders if you dream of him. He wonders if somewhere deep in your chest, beneath the silk and bone and flesh, something stirs when he says your name. He wonders if you ever wake in the middle of the night with a pang in your heart that you don’t understand.

Mingyu hopes so, because he has woken up like that every night of this life.

SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA. WINTER, 1937.

By the time Seollal passes and the paper lanterns are taken down, the people in the neighbourhood begin to notice—not with suspicion or idle gossip, but with a kind of slow, blooming fondness. They don’t whisper behind their hands or snicker when Mingyu walks by. Instead, they smile.

The old woman with the parrot—Madam Kwon, who lives above the fermented soybean shop—starts referring to Mingyu as your shadow. Every morning, as she feeds her bird sesame seeds and counts her prayer beads in the sun, she croaks out, “Your shadow’s early today,” when Mingyu turns the corner near the tea shop. The parrot repeats her, mangled and gleeful. Sha-dow, sha-dow!

You glance up from the window, smothering a smile.

The boy from across the alley, barely thirteen, who runs errands for the ink shop, has started tipping his cap at Mingyu each morning. One day, when he passes, he calls out with the overconfidence of youth, “She likes persimmons, you know. Bring her some. The kind with the wrinkly skins.”

Mingyu hides his amusement behind a polite nod. The next day, a small cloth pouch of dried persimmons appears on the tea shop counter. You don’t say anything, just tuck them into the cupboard—but you save one, and when Mingyu comes in at closing, you place it on a small plate beside his tea without a word.

The grocer, Mr. Baek, an older man with a permanent frown and a weak knee, lets Mingyu pick through the fresh vegetables first whenever he sees him on the path to the tea shop.

“You work too hard, boy,” Mr. Baek grumbles as Mingyu hoists a basket of firewood onto one shoulder.

“He’s not a boy,” Madam Kwon snorts from her usual perch. “He’s a man, Baek. Can’t you tell?”

“A man, huh?” Mr. Baek eyes Mingyu’s hands, callused from helping with the heavy work around the shop. “Well, even a man needs to rest his back before it breaks.”

Mingyu only smiles. “I’ll rest after I’ve swept the steps for her.”

They all approve of him, though none say it directly. The world is starting to tuck Mingyu into your corner of it without him needing to ask.

One afternoon, while the snow still clings to the gutters but the breeze carries a hint of plum blossoms, an elderly couple walks in from out of town. They speak in slow dialect, asking for ginger tea and warmth for their aching bones. Mingyu is seated by the window, sketching quietly in his notebook. As you prepare the tea, the woman glances at him, then at you.

“Your husband doesn’t say much,” she remarks.

You nearly spill the water. “He’s not— I mean, we’re not—”

Mingyu looks up, and the couple laughs kindly. “Ah, forgive us,” the man says. “You have that look about you.”

“What look?” you ask, wary.

“The look of people whose silence with each other is comfortable.”

You don’t respond, but when you set the tray down in front of them, you notice Mingyu watching you closely. After they leave, you go to clear the table. There’s an extra coin left on the tray, and the old woman has pressed a paper fortune beside it: “Love that arrives quietly stays the longest.”

You crumple it. But later that night, after the shop has closed and the windows are shuttered, Mingyu finds it smoothed out on the back counter, your handwriting scribbled in the margins: “Don’t get any ideas.”

He smiles.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA. AUTUMN, 1971.

Mingyu finds you by accident, really. 

He’s searching for a bar—any bar—on an unnaturally rainy Friday night, his collar turned up against the warm drizzle, the air thick with the smell of sweet olive trees and fried catfish. The city hums with life even in the storm. Neon flickers on puddles like oil slicks, and brass spills from half-opened windows.

He’s already passed three places too crowded, one too quiet, and a fourth that reeked of stale beer and cigarette ash, when he turns down a narrow side street he doesn’t remember the name of.

He finds a wooden door, warped with time and painted a moody red. It sits beneath a hanging sign with chipped cursive that reads: The Red Ribbon. A string of paper lanterns hangs overhead, glowing soft through the rain like a trail of fireflies.

Inside, the bar is low-lit and warm, a haven from the storm. The air smells like cinnamon smoke and lemon rinds, and something old—like velvet curtains and perfume that clings to skin. There’s a quiet hum of conversation, the clink of glass on glass, and music.

No—not music. A voice.

Low and rich, not quite singing, not quite speaking. Like honey melting in a warm cup of tea, it curls around the room before he sees you; dips into the cracks between shadows; holds him still.

You’re on stage, beneath a gold spotlight, wearing a black satin blouse tucked into high-waisted pants, one heel perched on the edge of the stool as you croon into the microphone. Your voice doesn’t beg for attention. It commands it, slow and sultry and effortless. You sing a cover of I’ll Be Seeing You, but it’s yours now, softer, smokier, as if the song’s always belonged to you.

In your hair, tied just above your ear, is a red ribbon.

Mingyu stops breathing.

You’re older in this life. Sharper. Your voice curls like cigarette smoke, and your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. But it’s you. Of course it’s you. He would know you in any century.

You don’t see him. You never do, not at first.

The room fades. Mingyu’s heart hammers.

The Fifth King’s curse, so old now it’s half-forgotten, curls tight in his ribs like a warning. This is the fourth time, he thinks.

The bartender is young, with freckles scattered across his nose. “What can I get you?”

“What’s her drink?” Mingyu asks, nodding toward the stage.

“She switches it up sometimes. But mostly it’s gin and tonic. Extra lime.”

“Then one of those. And whatever you recommend.”

He carries both your drinks over when you step off the stage, undoing the ribbon in your hair deftly and shaking your head. You wrap the ribbon around your wrist and raise an eyebrow when he stops by your table. 

“That for me?” you ask.

Mingyu sets the gin and tonic down. “Extra lime.”

“Let me guess,” you drawl. “First time here, heard me sing, got curious?”

“Something like that,” he says.

JOSEON, KOREA. SPRING, 1799.

It is well past curfew when you slip into the old library pavilion.

The moon is high, its light diffused through the paper lattice windows, casting soft patterns on the wooden floor. The scent of old parchment and ink wafts through the air. Outside, the plum trees stir in the breeze, petals tumbling like tiny, perfumed ghosts.

You shouldn’t be here. No one comes here anymore—not since the roof began to rot, not since the scrolls were moved to the new annex.

But you know the door that creaks just slightly less. You know which floorboards to avoid. Most importantly, you know no one will be looking for a concubine in the archive of forgotten histories.

You light a single oil lamp and walk the aisles barefoot, your skirts brushing against shelves of neglected poetry and old Confucian texts. You’re looking for something. You don’t know what; only that your chest has been heavy lately with something unnamed, and that reading makes it easier to breathe.

You’re so engrossed in a worn volume of Tang poetry that you don’t hear him until it’s too late.

“What are you doing here?”

You whip around, heart slamming in your chest, the book nearly slipping from your fingers. 

Mingyu stands in the doorway—half-lit by moonlight, half-shadowed, like something conjured from the very pages you were reading. He’s shed his ceremonial robes for the evening, wearing only a dark overcoat tied loosely at the waist. His hair is unbound at the nape, a sign that he, too, thought the night would pass without interruption.

You gasp. “I—I didn’t think anyone—”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says, though there’s no bite to it. Just curiosity, and a hint of wariness.

You lift your chin. “Neither are you.”

He arches a brow, and you realise your mistake. Of course he’s allowed anywhere he wishes—he’s one of the King’s closest ministers. But instead of correcting you, he steps further inside, eyes never leaving yours.

“What are you reading?”

“Poetry,” you say.

“May I see it?”

You hand him the book with reluctant fingers. He takes it carefully, as though it’s precious. You watch as he scans the open page. His lips move as he reads silently. Then, softly, aloud:

“At the foot of my bed, moonlight Yes, I suppose there is frost on the ground. Lifting my head I gaze at the bright moon Bowing my head, thinking of home.”

You say nothing.

“You miss it,” Mingyu says quietly. “Your home.”

“You can’t miss what you barely remember,” you say, shrugging.

“Still, you’re here,” he says, closing the book. “Risking punishment for poetry.”

“I thought this place was empty.”

“It is. Mostly. You’ve been here before,” he says.

“Will you report me?” you ask, finally meeting his eyes.

He watches you for a long moment, and shakes his head. “No. But if you’re going to read by lamplight, you shouldn’t sit so close to the paper screens. It casts a shadow.”

TOKYO, JAPAN. SPRING, ONE MONTH AGO.

On Mingyu’s birthday, you surprise him with a picnic beneath the sakura.

It’s a Monday, technically a workday, but you convince his supervisor to let him off early and drag him, half-confused, half-laughing, onto the Marunouchi Line. You refuse to say where you’re going, only grin over the rim of your coffee and tap your knee against his like you’re buzzing with a secret.

He figures it out by the time you’re walking down the path at Shinjuku Gyoen, past couples and families and students with cameras, every tree dripping in soft pink petals. The wind is light, enough to lift your hair and scatter a few blossoms onto his shoulder. You swipe them off with a delicate touch, fingers brushing his collar.

“Here?” he asks, looking around.

You point to a quiet spot beneath a tall cherry tree, where the ground is dappled with sunlight and pink. “Here.”

He watches you set the blanket down and unroll the bento boxes you packed that morning, tied in checkered cloth, still warm. Tamagoyaki, onigiri, simmered daikon, the pickled things he likes. There’s even a small chocolate cake hidden in your tote, which you keep sneakily tucked behind your legs like it isn’t obvious.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he says, sitting beside you. His voice is warm. He never quite knows what to do with being loved like this—not when it’s freely given.

“I know,” you say. “But I wanted to.”

Mingyu looks at you for a long second. You’re wearing that soft blue sweater he likes, the one that slides off your shoulder when you’re not paying attention. The sunlight hits your cheekbones and catches in your lashes, and he thinks—like he always does—that you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

You open a thermos, pour him tea, and he raises it in mock solemnity.

“To twenty-eight,” he says.

“Twenty-nine,” you correct.

“Am I?”

“You always forget,” you say. “You’ve been forgetting since we met.”

He laughs. “Feels like I’ve lived a hundred years already.”

You don’t say anything. Sometimes, when the light hits his face just right or he says something that echoes in your mind, you wonder.

You’ve always had strange dreams: places you’ve never been, languages you’ve never studied, and a man who always looks like him, even when he wears a robe, or a bloodied uniform, or a wool coat in the snow. You never tell him this. You’re afraid it will break the spell.

Instead, you offer him another onigiri and press a kiss to his cheek.

“Happy birthday,” you whisper. “I’m glad you were born.”

Mingyu closes his eyes and laces his fingers with yours, lets you lean your weight into his side; lets the breeze scatter petals in your hair; lets the warmth spread down his spine like he’s standing in the sun after a long, long winter.

MANCHURIA. WINTER, 1944.

It comes as no surprise, then, that when the war begins, you and Mingyu get married and business at the teahouse dwindles with every passing day.

The papers are signed quietly one late afternoon, in the cramped back office of the local administration hall: two names written in black ink, side by side, binding you together not by love but by survival. There is no time for anything else. The world is already falling apart.

The Japanese occupation deepens its grip. All around you, men vanish into forced conscription, women into labour camps, into silence. The air grows tighter with fear. Propaganda posters replace the poetry on the streets. The teahouse shutters for good.

You and Mingyu are sent away within the month. He becomes a soldier. You become a nurse.

You are not the only married couple split between posts, but somehow, impossibly, the army places you both near the front. You meet sometimes between camps. Once every few weeks, maybe. Sometimes longer.

Each time, your reunion is brief and practical. You sew up the tears in his uniform. He shares what little rations he’s stashed away for you. He never forgets to hand you a pair of gloves or wrap your scarf tighter, or tie your hair back with that red ribbon with shaking fingers. You always insist he sleep for at least two hours before returning to his unit.

There is no time for affection. There is barely time for sleep.

But sometimes, when you are alone—when the tents are quiet and the snow piles against the canvas—he touches your face in the dark, and you lean into him without a word. Sometimes you rest your forehead against his shoulder, and Mingyu runs his hand up and down your back.

The night you die, it is snowing.

The war has reached a new fever. There are no longer clear lines, no longer rest stations or warning signals or predictable patrols. The world is burning in patches, and no one can remember what day it is.

Mingyu is stationed near the ravine when the call comes—medics down, supplies hit, critical injuries. He runs before they finish speaking.

He doesn’t recognise the wreckage of the medic tent at first, just the shape of it, torn open by gunfire and winter wind, canvas flapping in the air. The snow is tinged red. Bodies are scattered everywhere.

You’re still alive when he finds you, but barely.

You’re half-buried beneath another nurse, shielding her even in unconsciousness. Your side is soaked through with blood, spreading dark and fast across your uniform. Your breathing is shallow, more rasp than breath. Mingyu drops to his knees beside you.

“Hey,” he says, voice breaking. “Hey—look at me. It’s me.”

Your eyes flutter open. Focus. Unfocus. Finally, they find him. “...Mingyu?” you breathe, your voice thready.

He laughs, because it’s either that or scream. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. You stubborn woman, what were you doing here? You were supposed to be safe.”

“I stayed.” You cough, wet and small. “One of the children… the boy with the bad leg…”

“I know,” Mingyu says. He does know. He always knew you’d stay. He presses his hand to your wound. His other hand cradles the back of your head. Snowflakes melt on your cheeks.

Later, they find him still holding you, long after the snow has buried your boots and the blood has dried stiff on his uniform. He won’t speak for days, won’t eat. When he finally returns to his post, he doesn’t say what happened; he only writes your name on the inside of his sleeve in black ink, where no one else can see.

Years later, when the war ends and the country forgets the names of its dead, Mingyu does not. He leaves a folded paper crane at every teahouse he passes, and he never remarries.

PARIS, FRANCE. SUMMER, 1890.

On the third day of your honeymoon, Mingyu takes you dancing.

It is a Friday evening, and the city glows with the kind of gold that never quite fades, even as dusk creeps in. From the hotel balcony, the streets below shimmer with laughter, carriage wheels clattering against cobblestones, parasols twirling, violins warming up in salons beyond shuttered windows.

He waits for you in the sitting room, dressed in pressed trousers and a charcoal waistcoat, a pale lavender cravat at his throat—the one you picked, absentmindedly, on your first day in the city. The silk still smells faintly like you.

You emerge from the bedroom without a word, gloves drawn tight over your wrists, gown cinched neatly at the waist. You’re beautiful, but distant.

Always, always distant.

“Shall we?” he asks, offering his arm.

The carriage ride is quiet. The air smells like summer rain and perfume, and Mingyu watches your profile in the glass—the slope of your nose, the way your eyes follow the shape of the Seine like it’s memory. You haven’t touched him since the day you arrived. Your hand rests lightly on his arm now, like you’re afraid even weight might give too much away.

He wants to ask about the letters.

The ones you receive from a different postbox. The ones you tuck away before he enters the room. He’s never opened one, but he doesn’t need to. The handwriting is always the same: slanted, and familiar only to you. He doesn’t ask. He never does.

Tonight, he only wants to pretend.

The ballroom is in Montmartre, crowded and warm, lit by chandeliers that make the dust shimmer. The band plays slow waltzes, the kind that ring in your ears even after the music fades.

Mingyu places a hand on your waist. You let him.

Your fingers rest against his shoulder, delicate as frost.

He draws you closer, searching for something in your eyes. He finds nothing. Nothing but the practiced smile of a woman doing what is expected.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, voice low.

You look away. “I’m tired.”

“Of dancing?” Of me?

You don’t answer. Mingyu guides you in a slow circle. You follow, graceful, perfect. A doll in silk and pearl. Yet, every few beats, your gaze slips towards the doors; towards the windows; towards something far away. He’s used to it now. The Fifth King’s curse has hardened him, but just because he is used to it, it does not make it any easier to be the consolation prize in this lifetime that never belonged to him.

“Do you love him?” he asks suddenly, before he can stop himself.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say.

You’re right. It doesn’t. Not in this life. Not in this world where your father sold your hand to erase a debt, and his name was the one on the contract. Not in a marriage made of cold sheets and polite lies.

Mingyu exhales slowly. “It does to me.”

You meet his gaze, then, and something flickers in your eyes. Not love, or forgiveness—just sadness, deep and quiet, like the kind that seeps into your bones and never quite leaves.

“You’re not a bad man,” you say softly. “You just aren’t mine.”

He closes his eyes. The music swells. Couples spin around you both like falling leaves.

Mingyu doesn’t say another word. He just holds you a little tighter, for as long as the song lasts, because after tonight, you’ll drift further away. He can feel it, that tide pulling you towards a life you’ll never have and a man he will never be.

But for this dance—just this one—he lets himself imagine you’re his.

The next day, the divorce papers are finalised and the money is settled. You move to Vienna the week after.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA. AUTUMN, 1972.

The bartender tells Mingyu you moved to Chicago.

He says it like it’s nothing, like you didn’t leave a hollowed-out space where your voice used to sit on stage at The Red Ribbon, smokey and golden and soft as dusk.

“Packed up two weeks ago,” the freckled boy says, polishing a glass. “Didn’t say much, just left a note for Missy in the back. Said she got an opportunity, somethin’ better. Maybe a record label.”

Mingyu doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t need them.

He nurses his bourbon in silence for a while, and lets the saxophone on the radio spill into the half-empty room. The walls feel thinner without you—less velvet, more echo. The stage is dark now, the piano covered in a wrinkled sheet.

When he asks for your address, the bartender raises an eyebrow. “You a friend?”

“I was her lover,” Mingyu says, and it’s not wrong.

The man shrugs and writes it down on the back of a bar napkin, sliding it over with two fingers. It’s smudged at the edges, ink bleeding from moisture left behind by someone else’s glass. But the words are clear.

South Side. Chicago. Apartment 2B. ℅ Langford Records.

Mingyu stares at it for a long time. He folds it once and pockets it.

That night, in his apartment above the bakery on Dauphine Street, he sits at the kitchen table with a cigarette burning low and a single lamp flickering behind him. Rain taps gently against the window, steady as a metronome.

He finds a sheet of paper, ivory and heavy. He doesn’t plan to write much.

October 12th, 1972 New Orleans

You left without saying goodbye.

That’s not a complaint. Just… an observation.

The bartender said Chicago. He said you packed light, but you always did. I used to wonder how someone could carry so much in them and still leave so little behind. I guess I have my answer now.

I keep thinking about that night on the balcony. You, with your lipstick smudged and your heels kicked off, humming some Ella Fitzgerald song that only you knew all the words to. You asked me if I believed in fate. I said no. You laughed like I was missing the joke.

I think I get it now.

Maybe it wasn’t fate. Maybe it was just timing. Bad, as always.

I don’t know what you’re chasing up there—music, love, a version of yourself you can finally live with—but I hope you find it. And if you don’t, I hope it finds you anyway.

I won’t write again. This feels like enough.

But if it ever rains in Chicago, and you think of me, just know I was thinking of you too.

– M.

Mingyu folds the letter carefully and slides it into an envelope but doesn’t seal it. He stares at it for a long time. Then he sets it on the counter beside his keys and goes to bed without turning out the lamp.

He never mails it, but every now and then, when the rain hits the windows just so, he reads it again.

JOSEON, KOREA. LATE SUMMER, 1799.

They charge you with treason.

No matter how many times Mingyu kneels before the King, no matter how many sleepless nights he spends rewriting every record, begging the court historian to leave your name out of the final script, no one listens.

It is easier to silence a concubine than to question a minister, easier to blame a woman for sin than to hold a man accountable for love.

So, on the last evening of your life, they dress you in white: a shade meant for funerals; for forgetting.

Your hair, once combed and oiled and pinned with mother-of-pearl, hangs unbound down your back now. The servants didn’t bother with ceremony. They gave you water, and left you in a corner of the gardens, as if you were already half-gone. You sit on the edge of the low stone wall, staring at the lotus pond, legs tucked neatly beneath you and wrists bound.

The ropes around your wrists bite into tender skin—tight, too tight—but you won’t ask them to be loosened. The guards know better than to keep an eye on you. You’re not dangerous, just inconvenient.

You know he’ll come.

You don’t look surprised when Mingyu appears between the carved columns, breathless, his topknot hastily tied and robes disheveled. His boots make no sound against the wooden floor as he drops to his knees before you.

“Please,” he says, his voice shredded down to the bone. “Please tell me you’ll hate me for this.”

You blink slowly. Your lashes are damp with the humidity. “Would that make it easier?”

“No.” Mingyu shakes his head. “But I want you to have something.”

There’s no moon yet, but the light from the lantern by the steps is enough to see him properly. His lips are chapped. There’s ink on his sleeves, on the soft crease where his palm meets his thumb. He hasn’t stopped writing letters, then. Petitions. Pleas.

“You should go,” you say quietly. “If they see you—”

“I don’t care.”

“They’ll strip you of your title.”

“I don’t care.”

His hands are trembling when they reach for yours. He cups your bound wrists with reverence. His touch is a contradiction—soft, but desperate. His thumbs brush over your bruises. You don’t flinch.

Between his palms, you feel something cool press against your skin, smooth and weightless. Your fingers twitch, instinctively curling around it.

A jade rabbit. The kind children carry for luck. The kind lovers carve when words aren’t enough.

You remember once, weeks ago, a charm just like it left behind on the counter behind the Queen Dowager’s quarters—no note, no name. You’d tucked it into the folds of your robes and told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Now, you understand. You clutch it tighter.

“You said once,” Mingyu whispers, “that you didn’t believe in reincarnation.”

You manage a faint smile, remembering his stories of the demon king and the curse of love and memory because of sins past. “I still don’t.”

“Well.” His eyes close briefly, lashes dark against his cheek. “I’ll believe for both of us, then.”

The cicadas outside scream like they know how little time is left.

“It’s just a story,” you say. “No one remembers their past lives.”

“I do,” he says, and something deep in you twists, aching. “And I will. I’ll find you again.”

“I don’t want to be remembered like this,” you whisper.

“I won’t remember the ropes,” Mingyu says. “I’ll remember the way you fold paper cranes, and recite poetry, and the sound of your laugh when you think no one’s listening.”

Your throat tightens. There’s a sob there, buried deep, but it won’t surface. You’re too tired for crying. “Don’t—”

“I’ll remember,” he says. “And one day, somewhere—when you are free and unafraid—I’ll press this rabbit into your palm again, and you’ll know.”

“Mingyu—”

He leans forward slowly, and presses his forehead to your bound hands. The lantern’s light glows between you. The cicadas hush. Far in the distance, a temple bell rings the hour. It’s almost time.

TOKYO, JAPAN. PRESENT DAY.

These days, you find it harder to sleep. The dreams are worse now, beguiling and long and sad. They stretch like old film reels behind your eyes, full of half-familiar cities and names that slip away when you wake. They end with Mingyu, always Mingyu—but not Mingyu at the same time. He wears different clothes, speaks in languages you don’t remember learning.

You shift in bed, sheets tangled around your legs, one arm heavy and warm across your waist.

This version of Mingyu sleeps with his mouth slightly open, his breathing even, steady. His chest rises and falls against your back, his palm curled gently beneath your navel. The window’s been left ajar, and the scent of sakura drifts in on the night air. You press your hand over his absentmindedly. His fingers twitch in his sleep and close tighter around you.

You sigh. Your forehead presses into the pillow. It’s too early or too late to be awake, and you’re tired—so tired—but your body doesn’t know how to rest anymore. Not when your mind insists on wandering. Not when you wake up crying into a man’s arms and can’t tell him why.

You almost speak, but he stirs before you can.

“Mmh,” he mumbles, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder. “You okay?”

“I… had that dream again,” you tell him.

Mingyu lifts his head. He’s groggy, eyes swollen with sleep, but he’s already frowning. Already reaching up to tuck your hair behind your ear.

“The one with the snow?” he asks.

You nod. “And the red ribbon. And a jazz bar.”

He doesn’t laugh, though you’d expect anyone else to. Instead, he kisses your shoulder. “Come closer.”

“I’m already close.”

“Closer,” he says again, like the space between you could ever be enough to stop the ache. Like if he holds you tight enough, he can keep the dreams at bay.

You turn to face him, legs brushing his under the blanket. He touches your cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“Do I do something wrong in the dream?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “But you’re sad. Like… you know something I don’t.”

His throat works. His thumb runs along the apple of your cheek, just once. “Maybe I’m dreaming it too.”

You stare at him. It’s too dark to read his expression clearly, but something in you catches at the thought. Maybe he’s dreaming it, too: the same ink-stained hands, the same gardens, the same unfinished goodbyes.

“You think so?” you whisper.

He nods. “Remind me,” he says. “I found this antique rabbit made out of jade yesterday at the market. It reminded me of you. Remind me to give it to you.”

“Okay,” you say, and bury your face against his chest and let him wrap both arms around you. You press your palm over his heart. 

“You talk in your sleep, too, sometimes, you know,” you murmur into the dark. “Who’s the Fifth King?” 

You’re teasing, mostly—half-asleep, your words loose around the edges—but there’s a small, curious lilt to your voice that makes Mingyu still for a fraction of a second. Barely perceptible, just long enough for you to notice.

You continue, lightly, unaware. “Should I be worried?”

He should’ve prepared for this. He’s had five lifetimes to come up with a better answer. Five lifetimes of choices and mistakes and prayers spoken into temples and alleyways and bomb shelters. Five lifetimes of watching you slip through his fingers, of losing you just when he thought he might have a chance.

He should’ve been ready.

Mingyu exhales slowly, letting his palm slide a little higher on your stomach, grounding himself in the warmth of your skin. Your breathing is calm now. You trust him.

He leans in and kisses your shoulder again, and says, “No one.”

You shift a little in his arms, not entirely convinced. “Sounds like a someone.”

He smiles against your skin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just a strange dream. One of those names that sticks for no reason. You know how it is.”

“We’re weird,” you mumble. “I mean… you and me.”

“I know,” Mingyu says, and he means it more than you’ll ever understand.

You don’t see the way his gaze always rests on you in the dark after you drift off. You don’t feel how tight his arms become, how he pulls you closer like he’s afraid you’ll vanish in your sleep.

You don’t know that he remembers everything.

The snow in Bukchon. The teahouse. The library in the palace. The battlefield and your name on the inside of his sleeve. Paris and silence. New Orleans and the ribbon in your hair. The prison courtyard and the jade rabbit you clutched until the rope took you. All of it.

He remembers the taste of your ginger tea; the colour of your blood on his hands; the sound of your voice in French; the way you looked at him in a jazz bar in 1972 and said, “Don’t fall in love with me.”

Too late, he’d wanted to say. Too many lives too late.

Now, in this quiet Tokyo apartment, with your fingers unconsciously curled into the fabric of his shirt, he knows the Fifth King has finally allowed him to keep you. He has grown tired of watching him suffer. That was the promise, that in this fifth and final life, he can keep you safe and warm, tucked into his side, where the only real concerns are whether he’s put the laundry to dry, or what to cook for dinner.

Mingyu watches the sky begin to pale through the window, watches your lashes flutter in sleep. He watches your mouth part like you’re about to say his name, even here, even now. He thinks about the red ribbon he keeps tucked inside his coat pockets, and the worn-out letter in his dresser, and the jade rabbit he keeps underneath his pillow, and he smiles into your hair.

You still care about him and love him, of course. You've been together for a long time, having met in art school where he studied architecture and you focused on painting in Fine Arts. From the beginning, there was a strong bond, and he quickly became your favorite person. You shared many things—chemistry, sex, and a connection that felt like meeting your twin flame. After only six months of dating, you moved in together, but it already felt like you'd been a couple forever. He understood you, loved you in the way you needed, and you supported him in his pursuit of his Master's Degree. He always made time to be present with you.

But lately, he hasn’t been present, as if his attention is elsewhere. The fire you felt at the start of your relationship—the vibrant colors you saw when he was near—has faded into gray over the past year. Mingyu was your inspiration, your muse, and now you’re forced to find it elsewhere. You’ve attempted to reignite those initial feelings by spending time together outside the house or cuddling, but often you were met with responses like “yeah sure, baby, let’s talk about it later” or “not right now.”

The reality is your heart doesn’t beat the way it used to when you think of him, and to be frank, it makes you fucking sad. 

You sit at the table, watching him make breakfast with a soft hum like nothing is wrong, like you don’t feel the way you do, and that you haven’t been trying for months to bring that spark back. Is he that oblivious? Is he happy with your lives now? Can he not see how tired you are of this? Of everything?

“Here you go, babe,” Mingyu announces, setting a plate of eggs and hashbrowns in front of you. “Are you sure you don’t want any more?”

“I’m okay,” you respond with a weak smile. “I’m not very hungry.” 

You mumble thanks while you sip your black coffee with sugar and heavy cream, while Mingyu sits across from you with his usual plate of bacon, eggs, and hashbrowns. He eats as he reads the latest news on his phone, not paying attention to you as you pick at your food and take small bites. The forecast calls for clear skies and high temperatures, yet winds and dark clouds are outside your window. You chuckle at the irony in this, thinking of the storm that has been brewing in your heart for the past several months. Can you two survive this? Should you even keep trying?

Losing your remaining appetite, you quickly drink your coffee and pack up your breakfast, hoping to eat it later. Outside, the wind picks up, clouds darken, and leaves swirl in circles. You look at Mingyu, wishing he would notice you didn’t finish your food, see the sadness on your face, or hear your broken heart.

“Hey, Gyu,” you call out to him. “Can we have some time for you and me when we get home tonight?”

Mingyu meets your eyes briefly, giving you a kind smile before returning to his phone. “Sure, whatever you want.”

You nod, then go into your shared bedroom and get dressed for the day ahead. With a distracted motion, you pull on a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans, tying your hair into a loose ponytail. You work in an art studio, and you plan to go in and work on your piece for your upcoming art show. It’s supposed to be a piece that showcases love and passion, and yet you are drowning in misery. 

The thunder makes itself known, followed by a lightning strike that hits too close to home. You hear his footsteps trodding in the hallway, barging into the bedroom, and shuffling around in the closet. It was like you weren’t even there.

Your alarm goes off at 8:00 am sharp, the horn blaring from your speakers and filling your large bedroom. Turning it off, you wait, as in any second now, like clockwork, Mingyu would come tumbling out of the closet with his shirt buttoned and his suit jacket barely on, and you would go in and save the day, fixing his tie and handing him his briefcase.

“Thanks, babe,” he says, on routine, planting a kiss on your cheek. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Before you can respond, he is already out of the bedroom, leaving you feeling desolate and cold. The sound of jingling keys echoed down the quiet hallway, a rhythmic clink that grew fainter with each step. You heard the door crank open and shut, confirming that you are once again left alone with your thoughts swirling in your head. There was no love in his exit, nor passion—just a transactional exchange, like has continued to be for several months now. You deserve to feel loved. Valued. Appreciated

And if Mingyu can’t do that, as much as it will hurt, you will leave him.

Mingyu knows you aren’t happy. He saw it in your eyes when he left this morning. The sparkle isn’t there, your glow is gone, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

He knows that he has been neglectful, distracted by work, and he has let it go on long enough. But he's been on a lucky streak with projects and is on track to get the promotion he has been longing for— to give you the life that you have always wanted. But still, seeing the sadness in your eyes makes him feel like shit. He hopes you can hold out for a little bit longer, and it’ll all be worth it. He loves you too damn much.

“Why do you look like your cat died?”

Mingyu spins in his chair and looks at his best friend Wonwoo, a fellow engineer who leans on your desk. They both work at an architectural firm, overseeing a riverfront project that requires him to be in and out of the field. Mingyu has been unofficially leading the project, drawing up blueprints from his office and visiting the site to make sure everything is up to code and to his clients ’ liking. This has led to more hours spent away from home and less time with you, adding more dullness to your lives.

“No one died, man,” he says, throwing a paper ball at Wonwoo. “It’s just some things going on at home with YN.”

“What do you mean?”

Mingyu sighs, looking up at the ceiling as his heart feels heavy. “I can tell she’s not happy. I haven’t exactly been the best boyfriend and available for her. But you know I have been working my ass off trying to get this promotion.”

Wonwoo doesn’t say anything immediately, letting the words sync in. He has never been a man of many words, always listening and observing, a contrast to Mingyu, who is always talking and philosophizing about everything.

“I love her man, you know that,” Mingyu confesses. “ She’s a part of me, you know? There isn’t anyone in the world who gets me like she does. I feel that getting this promotion can help us move out of our apartment and into the life we’ve always talked about. She deserves the world, and I want to take care of her.”

“Do you want my advice?” He finally says.

“No.”

“Well, you’re going to get it anyway, smartass,” Wonwoo quips, swatting him on his arm. “Does she know all of this? How do you feel about her? Why you’ve been working so much?”

“I mean sorta. But I have been so busy with work that I haven’t talked to her as much.”

Wonwoo raises a brow. “You know she can’t read minds, right? Talk to her before you lose her for good.”

Mingyu doesn’t answer. There was nothing else to say. Wonwoo was absolutely right.

“I know,” Mingyu lets out an exasperated sigh. “She asked me this morning to make some time for her tonight. I’m going to talk to her and show her I love her.”

“Good deal,” Wonwoo nods curtly. “Shit, here comes the boss.”

Mingyu heard his boss before she arrived, the sound of her heels tapping on the marble tile with each step. Chloe Kim was every bit the formidable CEO, barely hitting 5’5”, but was sharp, precise, and not afraid to stand up for herself or the firm. Mingyu and Wonwoo stood up instantly as she walked by with her assistant Anna, and it wasn’t lost on him that Chloe had a twinkle in her eye when she looked at him. Chloe has made subtle advances in the past, under the guise of work, of course, but he has always turned them down, as he has you at home. Plus, he doesn’t shit where he eats.

She made her way to the front of their desks, the only thing behind her being the picture windows that overlooked the city.

“Everyone,” Chloe announces, her throaty voice catching everyone’s attention. “I have an announcement to make.”

Mingyu and Wonwoo exchanged glances, folding their arms at the same time as they waited for the news. The chairs being pushed back and the paper being shuffled could be heard briefly before the sound of silence descended. Chloe’s expression did not indicate whether the news was good or bad, and that made him nervous.

“Great job, everyone, on the Riverfront project,” Chloe breaks into a smile. “I have gotten in contact with the owners of the building and the contractors, and they are willing to extend their contracts with us on other projects. Your hard work and professionalism have been attracting potential investors, and we are moving in the right direction. Also, thank you to Mingyu for leading this project like a fearless leader and keeping everyone satisfied.”

Mingyu bows slightly while everyone breaks into applause, his cheeks slightly turning red from the unexpected praise.

“As a thank you,” Chloe continues, her eyes staying on Mingyu. “I am treating everyone to dinner at the Hana Tori Steakhouse tonight. Reservations will start at 6:30 pm. You aren’t required to come, but it would be appreciated if you did.”

Her assistant Anna types on her phone and presses send, with everyone’s computer buzzing with an incoming email. “I have sent the directions to the steakhouse. I will see you all later.”

Chloe strides to her office, with Anna trailing behind her as she types on her phone, the smell of her honeyed perfume trailing behind her. Mingyu feels elated, knowing that his hard work is finally paying off. That promotion will be his in a matter of time, and he can give you the life you have always craved.

“Good job, bro,” Wonwoo praises, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder. “Do you think YN is going to understand about tonight?”

Shit. Tonight. Mingyu realizes he will not be home early enough, and his heart sinks to his chest. He promised, gave his word this morning, that he would give you the time you wanted, his attention that you deserved. It’s going to be another broken promise to you, and he is terrified of losing you. However, if he does not attend this dinner, it will not look good to the rest of the team. 

Fuck, he curses internally.

“I hope she does,” Mingyu mutters. “I’m going to call her now and let her know. Hopefully, she will not be pissed.”

His stomach is filled with anxiety and dread as he steps onto the balcony on his floor, thumbing through his favorites on his phone until he finds your contact and presses send. It rings a few times, and he holds his breath, hoping he wouldn’t have to hear the sadness in your voice when you reneg on your promise once again.

“Hey, babe,” you answer on the last ring. “Everything all right?”

“Y-yeah,” he stutters, slightly undoing his tie. “We got an extension on some contracts, and the boss said I did a good job leading the team.”

“That’s great, baby,” you cheer through the phone. “I am so proud of you. We have to celebrate tonight!”

“Uh, that’s why I’m calling,” he says slowly, his anxiety picking through him piece by piece. “The boss is treating us to a steak dinner tonight, and it will not look good if I’m not there, so…”

“Oh.”

He waits on bated breath, expecting an explosion of anger and shouting, even though that wasn’t in your nature. The call is silent for a while, and he is sure you have disconnected until he looks at his screen and sees you are still there.

“Fine,” you finally say, letting out a deep sigh. “I’ll see you later then.”

You hang up before he can respond, and he slumps on the chair, leaning his forehead on his phone. He would have preferred that you curse at him, scream, or do something that was deserving. Hearing the deflated joy that left your voice felt like a punch in the gut. Mingyu knows that you have been trying to spend time together for months, and he has just been too busy. He’s a shitty partner; he knows that. But he loves you more than anything, and he hopes he can convey that to you tonight.

It’s a quarter before 8, and Mingyu sits near the end of a long table surrounded by coworkers at the steakhouse who are half a glass too deep into company-sponsored alcohol. He sips his whisky slowly, looking at his phone every few minutes, hoping to see a notification from you, whether it's a text or a phone call. Instead, he just sees his lockscreen of you and him, kissing in front of the Eiffel Tower in Paris. The guilt was building in his chest. 

Wonwoo mouths if he is good from across the table, and he nods solemnly, finishing the last of his whiskey in his cup. 

“Are we done?” Chloe asks smoothly, pointing at your empty cup. “Do you want some more?”

“No, boss, I’m good,” he shook his head. “I still have to get home in one piece.” 

“On a Friday night?” she chuckles, her blouse brushing against his forearm. “Surely you can let loose for a little bit, right?”

“Eh—”

“To the man of the hour,” she raises her glass. “I meant what I said earlier. You carried that project with elegance. And vision.”

“Thank you,” he replies, trying to keep it light. “It was a team effort.”

Chloe smiles, eyes locking on his. “Don’t be modest. You’ve got more than talent, Mingyu. You’ve got presence.”

Mingyu lets out a chuckle, playing with his glass. “My girlfriend at home thinks the same thing.”

He notices her falter, just for a moment, scooting back slightly and knocking back another glass of wine. “Lucky her.” 

“Lucky me, actually,” Mingyu says absentmindedly. 

“You never talk about your girlfriend, Mingyu,” his colleague, Hana, chimes in. “Can we see a picture of her?” 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, showing another picture of you before handing it over. It was a picture he took of you last summer when you weren’t looking. You walked barefoot in the sand, walking towards the water towards a hidden cove that he discovered randomly on a work project. You looked relaxed, carefree, and at peace. It’s his favorite version of you.  

“God, Mingyu, she is beautiful,” Hana says, blinking. “How long have you been together?”

Mingyu hesitates, his thumb still on the screen, watching the light of the image flicker in the reflection of his glass. “Almost 10 years. We met in college.”

The number tastes heavier than he expected. He’s shared his life with you for over 10 years. The good, the bad, and sometimes ugly. 

“That’s a long time,” Hana acknowledges, handing the phone back. “It must be nice, having someone in your life for that long.” 

“It’s the best,” Mingyu reminisces. “She is the best.”

He meant every word. You are the best thing that has ever happened to him. Ever since you walked into the Survey of Art History in college, he couldn’t take his eyes off you. He noticed the way you tapped your pencil on your lip when you were lost in thought or the way your nose wiggled when you laughed. He wanted to know you and be in your orbit one way or another. You were mesmerizing to him; the Galatea to his Pygmalion. When he finally worked up the nerve to talk to you and started hanging out more, he even told you that. You didn’t laugh or think he was being silly or melodramatic. Instead, you kissed him heartfeltedly, and told him you felt the connection too. 

You always believed in him, saw him for who he was, and he would be crazy to let you slip away from him. 

Mingyu and Wonwoo exchange a glance, unspoken words from his best friend that only meant one thing: Go home to your girl. 

“I’m going to head out, guys,” Mingyu announces, pushing out his chair and grabbing his coat. “Thank you for treating us, Chloe. And great job, everyone. Have a good weekend.”

There are a few scattered goodbyes as he walks out the door, Chloe not saying anything but watching him with unreadable eyes. Outside, the night air is cool, a light breeze brushing his cheeks as he unlocks his car. He checks the time—8:06 PM. He taps open his messages and sends one to you: 

Dinner rang later than I thought. Be there soon. I love you.

He puts the phone down, starts the car, and pulls away from the glowing steakhouse windows—chasing, for once, the thing that matters most.

It’s after nine, and you finally decide to stop waiting for him, resolving to shower and go to bed. You still cooked his favorite meal, braised ribs, hoping that he would somehow come home early, and you could finally talk. Be centered with one another. Figure out what is going on in that head of his. But once again, you are left alone, having to pick up the pieces of your already fragile relationship.

Where did you go wrong? This isn’t the Mingyu you fell in love with, or the life you both promised to each other. You used to talk to each other, hold hands just because, kiss because he wanted to feel his lips against yours, or touch in the ways you both craved. Did you do something wrong? Are you not pretty enough? Is there someone else who is taking up the space in his heart that was supposed to be yours? You feel the crevice of your heart break at the very thought.

With a resigned breath, you gathered the leftover food, its fragrant steam curling upward as you carefully ladled it into neat containers. You glanced at the empty chair across the table, imagining him there. With gentle hands, you set aside a portion just for him, wrapping it in a colorful napkin, your fingers lingering for a moment over the fabric. Maybe he’ll see your sincerity then, or at least appreciate that you care about him enough to make sure he eats every day.

Mingyu used to cook for you all the time, and you still remember the first meal he prepared for you. You love pasta, and one day, you told him that your favorite meal was something simple: spaghetti and meatballs. You're a hopeless romantic; you’ve seen Lady and the Tramp a thousand times, and as a little girl, you always wanted to experience a love like that. You told Mingyu about it, who thought it was adorable, and you didn’t think much of it. But the next weekend, he invited you over to his place and made your childhood dream come true—a candlelight dinner with spaghetti and meatballs, with the movie playing on the screen for you to watch when you were finished.

You fell in love with him that night.

You wish you could get back to that.

The bathroom light casts a faint glow when you walk into your bedroom, a reminder that you forgot to turn it off earlier when you came home. You look at your bed, spacious and yet empty, mirroring the way you’ve been feeling lately. You let out a low laugh, finding humor in the irony of this situation. As much as you want it to be, this house is not a home.

You turn on the shower, letting it be as hot as you can handle, as you slowly slip out of your clothes. Stepping into the stall, you stand under the water with your eyes closed, letting it hit your skin, allowing it to drown out the loud thoughts in your head and the pounding of your heart in your ears. You were born in the summer, and you have always felt a deep connection to water, especially the ocean. For the first time today, you experienced a sense of peace.

Slowly opening your eyes, you are met with a familiar figure unbuttoning a light blue shirt and letting it fall to the floor. Rubbing your eyes softly, your vision clears, and you confront the source of your heartache.

“Mingyu,” you breathe. “I thought I was expecting you later.”

“I came as soon as I could,” he says, continuing to undress. “The dinner ran longer than I thought it would.”

“That seems to be a recurring theme lately,” you mutter. You grab the soap and start to lather, washing over your body. “I made you dinner anyway. You can take it with you to work tomorrow.”

Mingyu pauses, your icy demeanor catching him off guard as you intended. You turn your back towards him, attempting to finish your shower without breaking down. You hear the door open, and you feel his presence and warmth wrapped around your waist. He kisses your neck, holding on to you like his life were on the line. This is the closet that you've been in together in months, and your walls are tumbling down. You miss it, crave it, and you slowly feel the sadness uncurling from your skin.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says tenderly. “I’ve been a shitty boyfriend, and you don’t deserve that.”

“You’re awfully perceptive,” you sniff, holding back your tears. “A simple sorry doesn’t fix things. Mingyu. I’m tired.”

“Baby, I know,” he agrees, turning you around to face him. “I’ve been caught up at work, working long hours, trying to get this promotion, and I know I haven’t been here much. But once it happens, I will give you the world and everything you want. I love you.”

“Gyu,” you sigh heavily. “It’s not about wanting things. I have things, I can always get things. I want YOU. Our life back, the connection we used to have.” You place his hand on your heart, hoping he could feel it beating heavily in his hands. “Don’t you miss this? Miss me? This is the most we have spoken to each other in months. That’s not okay.”

You didn’t intend to cry. You wanted to hold it together and give him a piece of your mind, to unleash the hurt and displeasure that you have felt in this relationship for so long. But instead, you sobbed, letting him hold you close as your water gates broke and your chest heaved. He kisses your forehead and holds you close, his hands caressing your back, giving you the comfort you've wanted for so long. It brings you back to the happier times, when you had him unconditionally.

“I want to get back to us,” you sniffle. “The way we used to be. We used to talk all the time, and we were one and the same. I know you’re busy, and I get that this promotion is important to you, but what happened to us? How do we get that back, Gyu?”

“I will be more present,” Mingyu avows, moving your wet hair from your face. “Anything you want to talk about, I’ll be available. If you need me to be anywhere, I’m there. If you need me to hold you, I’m in your arms. I love you so damn much.”

He kisses your lips unexpectedly, deeply, and with a need that makes your knees buckle. But you kissed him back, returning his vigour with all your might, walking him until his back hits the shower walls. His hands ravenously caress your body, finding your derriere and giving it a nice squeeze. You moan in his mouth, your tongue playing with his as it fuels your carnal desire for him even more.

“I need you, Gyu,” you purr, looking into his eyes. “Please, take me.”

“Tell me what you want, baby,” he breathes. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

He slowly bends down, your breath hitching as he becomes face to face with your creamy center. Lifting your leg over his shoulder, he kisses your thighs, trailing his kisses dangerously close to your nectar, aching for it to be touched.

“Do you want me here?” He whispers, placing a wet kiss on your thigh.

“Mmhmm,” you nod fervently, your hands grabbing his hair.

“Use your words, baby,” he coos, licking his lips. “What do you want?”

“Your mouth, baby. I need it.”

You feel him grin against your thigh, giving it a small bite that feels electric. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He blessed you with his lips, kissing your clit with a reverence that made your entire body jolt. The sensation is overwhelming, not just because of the way he is touching you, but because of how present he is. How his eyes stay locked on yours, how his hands grip your thighs, his nails slightly digging into your skin like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go.

Soft moans escape your lips, your fingers curling in his hair, grounding yourself in him — in the warmth, the pressure, the way he moves like he knows every part of you.

Your head tipped back as he gave you more, his tongue lapping your juices with no rush, like he has all the time in the world to unravel you.

“Just like that,” you whimper. “Please don’t stop.”

His voice was low, almost a growl. “Never.”

He slips a finger inside of you, watching your eyes roll to the back of your head when he inserts another, your hips slowly whining with the rhythm he sets. Despite this lewd act, he looks at you with love, those puppy dog eyes telling you he’s sorry more than his words can, and he is going to please you until you believe him.

“You look so fucking angelic,” he murmurs, teasing your clit with his tongue. “I’d do anything for you, you know that, right?”

You bite your lip, unable to form a sentence as he increases the pace, your arousal coating his fingers as you let out broken moans. You’ve entered into a state of delirium, unable to hold back as the pleasure coils tightly in your stomach, winding and winding until it finally snaps. A cry tears from your throat as you fall over the edge, your back arching off the wall, his name mewls from your lips while he eats you with a fervor that leaves you breathless. He doesn’t stop until he’s satisfied, leaving you with one last lick before he slowly lets down your trembling leg.

When he finally rises, his face is flushed, lips glistening, eyes soft with something that almost feels like love— the way he used to look at you.

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips. “I promise to do better. Don’t give up on me.”

You want to believe him, you really do. Because in this moment, wrapped in the warmth of his body and the aftershocks of pleasure, he feels like the Mingyu you first fell in love with. Present. Gentle. All in.

“Are you still up for giving me some time tonight?” You kiss him softly.

“Of course, babe,” Mingyu says, grabbing your soap and the sponge, rewashing you. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

It was more like you cleaned each other up, the comfort in silence meaning more than any conversation that could have been said. You let yourself hope—just a little, that he actually heard you, and things could change.

He leaves the bathroom before you do, promising to spend some time with you, and you begin your nightly routine, your heart swelling with a little more joy. You keep replaying the moment in the shower, where you connected with him, felt his sincerity, and your love for him deepened. You feel like you finally got your lover back.

It wasn’t even twenty minutes when you finished, coming out of the bathroom expecting him to be sitting up in bed and waiting for you with open arms. But instead, you stare at him with furrowed brows, finding him already asleep, clinging to the pillow that was meant to be yours.

Your heart sinks.

All the hope and ideas that you had for the rest of the night deflate out of you like a balloon. Another promise broken by Mingyu, color you shocked. Shaking your head, you slip into the other side of the bed, the anger you thought you had dissipated earlier rearing its ugly head again, stirring something deep within you. Did he think one fleeting moment where you had to beg to be loved like you wanted was enough to be forgiven and forgotten?

You curl towards the edge of the mattress and press your hands to your ears, trying to drown out the voices in your head, screaming at you to leave. Tonight was supposed to be a turning point, but somehow, it feels like the end.

Part 2

Thank you for reading <3 I would love to know what your thoughts are on this part of the series 🥺

You didn’t call—you never did, and he told himself it was because you had stopped caring. You chose that, and Mingyu found it unbearably hurtful. Sometimes, when his gaze lingered on the band wrapped around his finger, he thought of you—the version of you who loved him fiercely, who would have done anything for him. And when you stopped doing that, when you stopped caring, something in him made a quiet decision: he needed to protect himself.

Kim Mingyu was an aspiring painter when he met you. You were radiant the moment you walked into the meeting room, introducing yourself as the curator of the gallery where his work would be displayed. When he heard your name, recognition struck immediately—he knew you were one of them.

And yes. You were the daughter of the former prime minister.

His career flourished with your help. He had always believed his work would reach its peak someday—and it did. His pieces became widely known, his name circulating through galleries across the world, until Kim Mingyu was no longer just an aspiring painter, but one of the most sought-after artists globally.

“This is An Angel Who Couldn’t Paint.”

He said it the way he introduced all his recent works, calm and practiced. The angel on the canvas was adored by everyone—soft wings, gentle light—yet her expression was unmistakably sad.

You stood beside him as the gallery emptied. Footsteps faded, lights dimmed, until there was no one left but the two of you, both too nervous to be the first to leave. Tomorrow was a big day.

“Why couldn’t it paint?” you asked, turning toward him.

He looked at you then, smiling softly.

“Her family didn’t let her.”

Mingyu hadn’t expected to win your heart that night. Yet when you looked at him—really looked at him—it felt like a confession made without words. Your gaze carried an offering, quiet and devastating, as if you were placing your heart in his hands along with your soul, your bones, everything that made you whole.

And yet, here he was—sitting on the couch with the curtains drawn open, staring into the night with a glass of whiskey in his hand. There was no you here, and lately, there had been no you in his life at all.

The man he was five years ago wouldn’t have believed this version of himself if someone had told him: the woman you think you love the most will change. And so will you.

On the table lay a fresh print of the divorce papers, waiting to be signed. Finally. His lawyer had notified him countless times—about the plan to divorce you, about how it had been inevitable since the first fight a year ago. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had been too naive to understand that the two of you had lost each other long before this moment.

And there was no reason left to stay.

Even your family—your powerful, conglomerate family—couldn’t be the reason he stayed. He was adored there, praised for his easy charm, his manners. But was any of it genuine? Honestly, he no longer knew.

He had witnessed the way your brother-in-law was spoken about behind closed doors, criticized for being too absorbed in his own law firm, for refusing to fold himself into the family company. And Mingyu couldn’t forget that one night either—the way your brother’s wife had broken down during a family gathering, crying quietly because five years of marriage had passed and she still hadn’t conceived.

Three years of marriage—to an artist. No children. Would your parents still treat him the same?

*

“Is she with you? We couldn’t find her.”

It was late when Mingyu received the call from your parents. He sighed as he pulled on his shirt and coat, grabbing his keys before heading toward their house.

“We found out you two were fighting,” your mother said gently. “She came here a week ago. Was it that bad?”

Her voice was soft, but Mingyu could hear the worry beneath it.

“I’ll be there, Mother,” he replied, already driving away from his studio.

There were only a few places you might go at this hour to clear your mind. He had lived through this before. When you weren’t in bed, when the house felt too quiet, he would find you somewhere close, in the garden, or walking through the neighborhood under the dim streetlights.

“It’s dangerous,” he had told you once, rushing out of the house after realizing you were gone—only to find you returning, an ice cream melting slowly in your hand.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Mingyu had sighed then, the tension draining from his shoulders.

“Wake me up, love,” he’d said softly. “I’ll walk with you.”

Mingyu immediately typed out the places where your parents’ people might find you. He drove carefully, his mind running through scenarios—what would happen once he found you, what he would say to your parents afterward.

He sighed again, for what felt like the hundredth time.

Your parents had spoiled you too much.

Mingyu had never been the type to celebrate every moment extravagantly—if at all. He expressed his gratitude, acknowledged the milestone, and kept moving forward.

Your family, however, lived by a different tradition: everything was celebrated, and always with excess.

Your engagement was meant to be intimate. Instead, your parents insisted on renting out a hotel ballroom, inviting nearly everyone they knew—most of whom Mingyu didn’t—and turning the day into a spectacle.

The wedding was no different. Whatever imagination he had left of a small ceremony—one with only the closest people present—disappeared the moment your parents took over the planning. A grand venue. An expensive dress. Hundreds of invitations, while his side amounted to barely ten.

They loved you. And they loved spoiling you.

He tried calling your phone as he drove toward the park near your parents’ house—the one you used to run to as a child whenever your parents fought or your siblings became too much. You didn’t answer. Not once.

Mingyu parked the car and immediately scanned the area, his steps quick and restless as he searched the park. He called your name a few times, voice cutting through the night, but there was no sign of you—only a group of teenagers smoking near the benches. When he asked if they had seen a woman walking alone, they shook their heads, irritation clear in their faces.

He called your parents’ security team next. They hadn’t found you near the lake either—the place you had mentioned before, half in passing.

“Check the gazebos too,” he told them. They moved at once.

He started running then. He wasn’t sure why—whether it was the need to find you quickly so he could take you back to your parents, or simply to end the search and the fear gnawing at his chest.

He exhaled sharply when he spotted a familiar figure walking ahead. His pace slowed without thinking, steps cautious now as he drew closer.

“Ji Y/n…”

As if summoned, you turned your head at the sound of your name.

“Kim Mingyu..”

“Why are you here at this hour?” Mingyu asked, breath still uneven from the run.

You didn’t answer right away. Your gaze drifted past him, circling the trees, the dim lamps, the path beneath your feet—until something in your expression shifted, like recognition arriving late.

“I was just out for air.”

Mingyu swallowed. “Your parents called me because they couldn’t find you. I thought we were done talking about this—”

He stopped himself too late, only then realizing the edge in his voice.

“Don’t yell at me.”

The words were quiet, but they landed heavy.

Mingyu exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not,” he said, softer now. “Let’s go home.”

He reached out, fingers closing around your wrist. You looked down at his hand. Then back up at him.

“Which home?”

He froze.

For a moment, the park seemed too quiet—no wind, no footsteps, no distant traffic. Mingyu loosened his grip and turned to face you fully.

“Our home.” he said.

The two of you walked toward his car in silence. Mingyu moved a few steps ahead, hands shoved into his pockets, mind already elsewhere. It wasn’t until he reached the door and turned back that he realized—

You were wearing nothing but a thin sleeping dress and with no shoes. Bare feet touching the cold pavement.

He cursed under his breath.

Mingyu shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders, movements careful now, almost hesitant. “Where are your shoes?” he asked, already sighing as he opened the passenger door for you.

You stared at the ground, brows knitting together as if the answer were buried somewhere just out of reach.

“I don’t know,” you said quietly.

As Mingyu got into the driver’s seat, his eyes drifted back to you. Only then did he notice the bruises and dirt smudged along your feet, as if you had been running barefoot long before he found you. His jaw tightened.

He called your mother and spoke quietly.

“She’s with me now. She’s safe.”

A pause.

“I’m taking her home.”

Another pause, heavier this time.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

You leaned back against the seat, exhaustion overtaking you as your eyelids fluttered shut. Sleep claimed you quickly, as if your body had been waiting for permission to rest.

Mingyu sighed and started the engine, guiding the car back toward the house. A place the two of you used to call home.

*

Mingyu entered your home office after months of doing nothing more than walking past it. It was one of the rooms you treasured most—a space you had insisted on keeping for yourself when your father was choosing the house you would live in after the wedding.

You were already asleep in the bedroom after tonight’s walk. He had carried you in from the car, careful and slow, yet you hadn’t stirred at all. It surprised him. You had always been a light sleeper.

He stood by the bed for a moment before leaving, watching you breathe, watching the familiar rise and fall of your chest. You were still you when you slept—soft, unchanged, untouched by the distance that had grown between you.

But when you were awake? He realized with a quiet ache, he had started to hate that version of you.

He closed the door of your office and stepped inside with a carefulness only a cautious husband could muster. Once, he had never knocked. He would barge in without warning, a photograph of a new painting already in his hand, words tumbling over one another as he spilled every concept crowding his mind.

“It must be nice to be a genius,” you would say, leaning back in your chair, eyes warm as you smiled at him.

“I’m far from a genius, love,” Mingyu would reply shyly, brushing off the compliment even though you both knew he enjoyed it.

“I’m just good.”

You would laugh then—soft and unguarded. It had been a beautiful, gentle love. One he realized how much he missed.

He sat in your chair, its familiarity unsettling, and wondered how busy you had been lately. You barely stayed in the house anymore, choosing instead to live with your parents. He told himself it was practical—the gallery was closer to their place. A project, maybe. An exhibition.

He used to witness the way your eyes lit up when you worked, the passion that consumed you so completely.

Since when had he started to hate your work?

It was your work that had once lifted his name, carried him into rooms he never imagined entering. But now—now it felt like nothing more than the current pulling the two of you farther apart.

The next morning, Mingyu sat by the counter after a night without a wink of sleep. He had meant to rest on the couch, but his body never followed his intentions. His thoughts wandered everywhere except toward rest.

A cup of coffee sat untouched beside him. Freshly brewed. Something he used to miss every time he stayed away. Coffee in his own house used to feel grounding. Familiar. Safe.

He heard the bedroom door open. He didn’t turn. He already knew the questions that would usually follow—why he drove you home, why he was here, why he crossed a boundary you both had drawn after the last fight. He knew you hated this house now. Hated the two of you existing in the same space.

However, none of that came.

Instead, you stepped into the kitchen in the same thin sleeping dress from the night before. Bare feet against the floor. Your voice came soft, almost fragile.

“Morning.”

Before he could react, your hand rested briefly on his shoulder. Your lips brushed his—light, absent, almost instinctive. A peck that lasted less than a second. Months.

That was all it took to freeze him in place.

You moved away as if nothing had happened, opening the fridge, taking out fruits, eggs. Normal. Too normal. As if this was still your routine. As if you hadn’t shattered him just now.

“You want some?” you asked, casual. “I can make you a sandwich too.”

You went on tiptoe to reach a cup.

The sound of a sharp wince—and glass crashing to the floor—snapped Mingyu back into motion.

“What’s wrong?” He was already beside you, hands hovering, instinct kicking in. “Careful. Don’t move—there’s glass.”

You looked at him for a moment, then down.

Your feet.

Bruised. Scraped. Dirt still clinging faintly to your skin—marks he had cleaned in silence while you slept.

“I didn’t realize it,” you murmured. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer.

“Sit down,” Mingyu said instead, steady but firm. “I’ll make your breakfast.”

You didn’t argue. You walked away while he cleaned the broken glass, movements practiced, controlled—like he hadn’t spent the entire night watching you breathe, wondering when everything had gone so wrong.

He placed the plate in front of you not long after. Boiled eggs. Fruits. Toast.

Your favorite.

He watched you quietly, already planning to knock some sense into you later—once you’d eaten, once the color returned to your face, once he was sure you were really here.

Mingyu waited. Not because he needed time, but because he was afraid that if he spoke too soon, the morning would crack completely. The kettle clicked softly on the counter. Outside, the day went on like nothing inside this house had shifted its axis.

“You were out last night,” he said slowly, as if pacing the truth would make it easier to swallow. “Where were you?”

You sat across from him, legs tucked under the chair, toast held loosely between your fingers. You took another bite, chewing carefully, eyes unfocused—not avoiding him, but not looking either.

“I was home,” you said. “Waiting for you.”

The words landed wrong. Too neat. Too certain.

Mingyu felt his chest tighten. “You weren’t.”

You paused. Just for a second. Then you tilted your head, confused, almost amused by his contradiction. “I fell asleep,” you replied. “I remember sitting there. I must’ve dozed off.”

He searched your face for cracks. For hesitation. For guilt. There was none.

That was when he noticed it—the darkness beneath your eyes, heavier than fatigue alone. Your skin looked different too. Not sick, not pale. Just… muted. Like someone had turned the saturation down little by little and no one had noticed until now.

“Were you high last night?” he asked quietly, the question tasting wrong in his mouth.

Your brows pulled together immediately. “What?”

He didn’t explain. His mind had already run ahead of him, replaying the night before—your office, untouched. The drawers he opened slowly, the shelves he scanned twice. No medication. No substances. No signs of panic or recklessness. If you had taken something, you had hidden it well. Or it wasn’t there at all.

“You were at your parents’ house,” he said instead, voice firmer now. “For a week. They called me. They couldn’t find you.”

You blinked.

Once.

Then again.

“Really?” you said, a small laugh slipping out. “I was in my office. I’ve been finishing my work.”

There it was again. That certainty. That calm insistence.

Mingyu stared at you like he was looking at a stranger wearing your face. The way you spoke wasn’t defensive. You weren’t lying the way people usually lied—not rushed, not evasive. You believed in yourself.

That frightened him more than any argument you’d ever had.

His eyes drifted down unconsciously. To your hands. To the faint tremor you didn’t seem to notice. To your bare feet resting against the cold floor, still marked faintly with bruises that hadn’t been there before last night.

He followed his own gaze down the hallway, back to your office. On your desk—exactly where he had found it last night—lay the resignation letter.

Your resignation.

You were going to leave the job you loved most. The one that kept you alive when everything else felt heavy. And he didn’t know why.

The question had been drilling into his head since last night, since he folded that paper with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. Why? It followed him to the couch, to the kitchen, to the sound of you saying morning like nothing was wrong.

Why would you give this up?

Was it for him?

For us?

The kitchen suddenly felt too familiar this morning—like a version of home Mingyu hadn’t visited in a long time.

You said it casually. Too casually during breakfast. “Maybe…” you started, as if you were commenting on the weather. “Maybe raising a kid would help us. Change how we see things.”

The words caught him off guard. Mingyu looked up slowly, as if he hadn’t heard you right. For a moment, he just stared.

Surprise came first—sharp and unguarded. His mind scrambled, trying to match this calm version of you with the memory of how firmly you had once said no. How your voice shook, not with anger, but fear. Fear he hadn’t understood then and hadn’t bothered to ask about since.

Why now?

You weren’t looking at him the way you used to when you tried to compromise. There was no hesitation in your posture, no defensive edge. Just a stillness that unsettled him more than anger ever did.

Then came the nervousness.

His fingers curled slightly against the counter, grounding himself. He wondered if this was something you had been thinking about for a while, or if it was something you decided this morning—born out of exhaustion, out of guilt, out of wanting peace at any cost.

Was this your way of reaching out?

“Maybe raising a kid would help us.”

As if that conversation hadn’t torn something apart last year. As if it hadn’t ended with silence stretching for months, with him leaving more often, with you learning how to sleep alone in a marriage.

The words hung in the air. You didn’t mention the fear. Didn’t mention hospitals, or test results, or how your hands had shaken when the doctor spoke too gently. You just stood there, calm on the surface, offering the idea like it hadn’t once broken you.

He searched your face for signs—hope, reluctance, sincerity—but all he found was calm. A calm that scared him more than resistance ever had.

*

Mingyu had once thought it was a coping mechanism. You had this way of waving away guilt—of smoothing things over without ever touching them. Every time a fight stretched too far, too heavy, you would return the next day as if nothing had happened. As if the night before hadn’t existed at all.

He first noticed it during your first anniversary. Mingyu had prepared everything himself that night. A quiet dinner, nothing extravagant—just the two of you, the way he preferred it. The table was set long before the food began to lose its warmth, candles burning lower with every passing minute as he waited.

You were working late at the gallery. At first, he told himself it was fine. You had always been passionate about your work—he loved that about you. But as the hours passed, as his messages remained unread and your calls went unanswered, something inside him began to tighten.

You had forgotten. Not just the dinner. Not just the time. Him. When you finally came home, the apology came easily from you—too easily. Soft, quick, almost practiced. Mingyu had been upset then. Not loudly, not enough to start a war, but enough. He told you to be more mindful. To keep track of time. To think about the person waiting for you. To think about him.

You listened. Nodded. Stayed quiet. He thought it had meant something. But the next morning, you kissed him like you always did. Sat beside him at the breakfast table, close enough for your shoulder to brush against his, asking him something trivial—what he wanted to do that day, maybe, or whether he would be at the studio. Your voice was light, untouched, as if the night before had slipped cleanly out of your memory.

Mingyu stared at you, something sharp and burning settling behind his eyes. There was no trace of it. No hesitation. No guilt. No attempt to fix what had been said. Just you. Normal. Warm. Unchanged.

And that was the first time it unsettled him, how easily you could wake up the next day and act as if there had never been anything to fix at all.

The last real fight you had—before everything turned into silence—was about a child. It wasn’t even supposed to be a fight. Mingyu had brought it up casually that night, almost carefully, like testing the temperature of something fragile. The house had been quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel heavy yet. You were sitting across from him, absentmindedly scrolling through something on your phone, half-listening.

“Have you ever thought about it?” he asked.

You looked up. “About what?”

“A kid.”

The reaction was immediate. Not loud. Not explosive. But immediate. Your expression changed in a way he couldn’t quite name back then—something closing off behind your eyes, something pulling away from him before he could even reach it.

“No,” you said. Too quick.

Mingyu frowned slightly, leaning back in his chair. “No?” he repeated, softer this time, like maybe you hadn’t understood the question.

“I don’t want one.”

There was no hesitation in your voice. No room left for discussion. And that—more than the answer itself—irritated him.

“Why not?” Mingyu asked, the edge slipping in despite himself. “We’ve been married for three years.”

You let out a small breath, setting your phone down slowly. “Because I don’t want to.”

“That’s not a reason.”

Your eyes flickered then, something sharper surfacing. “It is.”

Mingyu exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t trying to start anything. He just—didn’t understand. “People don’t just decide they don’t want kids for no reason,” he said, voice tightening. “You’re not even willing to think about it?”

“I have thought about it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

Silence stretched between you for a second too long. When you spoke again, your voice was quieter—but not softer. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Something in him bristled at that. “Try me.”

You hesitated. And for a moment—just a moment—he thought you wouldn’t say anything at all. That you would brush it off the way you always did, walk away, let it dissolve into nothing.

But you didn’t.

“I don’t want my body to change like that,” you said finally.

Mingyu blinked. “What?”

“Pregnancy,” you continued, more steadily now, even if your fingers had begun to curl slightly against the table. “The weight gain. The way your body stops feeling like yours. I’ve seen it. I’ve—” You stopped yourself, jaw tightening. “I don’t want that.”

He stared at you, the explanation settling wrong in his chest.

“That’s it?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

Your head snapped up. “That’s it?” you echoed, something incredulous slipping into your voice now.

Mingyu shook his head slightly, already frustrated. “You’re saying you don’t want a child because you’re scared of gaining weight?”

“It’s not just weight.”

“Then what is it?” he pressed.

You looked at him then—really looked at him—and whatever was in your eyes made him falter for half a second.

“Exactly,” you said quietly. “You don’t get it.”

The conversation went nowhere after that. It circled. Tightened. Broke in places neither of you tried to fix. Mingyu remembered the way your voice had risen—not loud, but strained, like something was pulling at it from the inside. He remembered the way you kept repeating the same thing in different words, as if you were trying to explain something bigger but couldn’t quite bring yourself to say it.

And he remembered how, at some point, he stopped listening. It sounded trivial to him. Avoidable. Something that could be reasoned through if you just—tried. But you didn’t.

You shut down instead. And the next morning—the next morning wasn’t normal.

There was no quiet greeting, no soft kiss pressed against his lips like a habit you refused to break. No gentle presence beside him in the kitchen, no small attempt to smooth over what had been said.

Mingyu woke up to silence. The kind that felt wrong the moment he opened his eyes. He found you already dressed, standing by the door with your bag slung over your shoulder. Your shoes were on. Your hand rested on the handle, like you had been about to leave for a while now.

“You’re going already?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep.

You didn’t turn immediately.

“I have work,” you said. Simple. Flat. No mention of last night. No mention of anything.

Mingyu pushed himself up slightly, frowning. “You’re not going to eat first?”

“I’m not hungry.”

That was it. No pause. No glance back to check if he would say something else. No hesitation in the way you opened the door and stepped out.

The sound of it closing lingered longer than it should have. Mingyu sat there for a while after that, staring at nothing in particular, something unfamiliar settling deep in his chest. It wasn’t anger—not fully.

It was something quieter. Colder. And it didn’t stop there. Days turned into a pattern he didn’t remember agreeing to.

You left early. Came home late. Sometimes not at all. And when you were there, you weren’t really there.

Conversations shortened. Then it disappeared. Meals became optional. Shared space became something you both moved around carefully, like stepping through a room filled with fragile things neither of you wanted to touch.

Mingyu stopped asking after a while. Stopped waiting, too. The house—once something warm, something grounding—began to feel unfamiliar. Too quiet in the wrong ways. Too empty, even when you were inside it.

So he stayed at the studio more often. At first, it was just to work. Then to think. Then, eventually… to breathe.

The smell of paint, the unfinished canvases, the silence that didn’t expect anything from him—it all felt easier than walking into a home that no longer felt like one.

Somewhere along the way, without either of you saying it out loud, the studio became his place of rest, and the house you shared became somewhere he only returned to out of habit.

*

“What is this?”

Mingyu froze at the sound of your voice. He hadn’t expected to find you there—standing in the middle of his studio, as if you had every right to be. As if this place still belonged to both of you.

His gaze dropped to your hand. The papers. A copy of the divorce documents his lawyer had prepared, edges slightly crumpled where your fingers held them too tightly.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

It had been—what—almost a year since you last stepped into his studio?

A year since you last stood among the canvases, the smell of paint, the quiet that used to feel like a shared language between you.

Mingyu had stopped expecting you to come back. Somewhere along the way, he thought you had forgotten this part of him existed. That the version of him who painted, who stayed up all night chasing colors and light and meaning—had slowly disappeared in your eyes. All that was left was a husband. A role you had grown tired of. A man you no longer looked at the same way.

And yet, here you were. Holding the proof of everything he hadn’t said out loud.

Mingyu exhaled slowly, setting his keys down on the nearest surface, the sound sharper than intended in the stillness.

“It’s exactly what it looks like,” he said. His voice came out calmer than he felt. Controlled. Practiced.

Like this moment had been waiting for him long enough that he had already rehearsed it in his head. But something in your expression made that composure feel fragile.

Because you weren’t angry. You weren’t even upset in the way he expected. You just… looked lost.

Your eyes moved over the paper again, slower this time, like the words refused to settle properly in your mind.

“What do you mean?” you asked, quieter now.

And that made something twist in his chest. Mingyu frowned, confusion flickering through the irritation he had been holding onto for months. “It’s a divorce, Y/n,” he said, the words landing heavier than he intended. “What else would it mean?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your grip on the paper loosened slightly, like your hands had forgotten why they were holding it in the first place. Your brows pulled together—not in anger, not in hurt but in something closer to disbelief.

“No,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

Mingyu’s jaw tightened.

He had expected resistance. Denial, maybe. Even anger. But not this. Not the way you looked at him like he had just said something that didn’t make sense. Like the idea itself didn’t belong to your reality.

“We’re not—” you started, then stopped, your voice faltering in a way he hadn’t heard in a long time. “We’re not at that point.”

Mingyu let out a short, humorless breath.

“Aren’t we?”

The question hung between you, sharp and unforgiving.

You looked at him like he was saying something unreal. Like the ground beneath you hadn’t already been breaking for months.

Mingyu watched that expression linger on your face, and for a second—just a second—something in him wavered. Then it settled. Back into something heavier. Quieter.

“I’m tired, Y/n.”

The words came out low. Not sharp. Not accusing. Just… tired. He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly as if even speaking took more effort than it should. “I don’t think you understand how long I’ve been tired.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.

So he continued. “I’ve been trying to figure us out for a year now,” Mingyu said, his voice steady but worn at the edges. “Trying to understand what went wrong. What changed. What I did—what you did—what we did.”

His gaze dropped briefly to the floor before returning to you. “And every time I think I’m getting somewhere, it just—” He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. “It just resets.”

There it was. The thing he never knew how to explain without sounding irrational.

“You act like nothing happened,” he went on, slower now, choosing his words carefully. “Or you disappear. Or you come back and it’s like we’re not even talking about the same things anymore.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“I don’t know how to keep up with that.”

The studio felt smaller with every word. Mingyu took a step back, more for himself than for distance between you.

“I feel like I’m the only one fighting,” he said. “The only one holding onto them. The only one trying to fix something that—” He stopped, swallowing. “—that you don’t even seem to think is broken.”

Silence pressed in again. Heavy. Unforgiving.

“I used to think you stopped caring,” he admitted after a moment, his voice quieter now. “That maybe you just… fell out of love. And I tried to accept that.”

His lips pressed into a thin line.

“Because at least that would make sense.”

But this? This didn’t. Mingyu looked at you then—really looked at you—and whatever he saw didn’t ease anything inside him. It only made him more tired.

“I don’t recognize us anymore,” he said. “I don’t recognize you.”

The words weren’t harsh. But they landed harder because of it.

“And I don’t want to keep living like this,” he added, almost gently. “Coming home and not knowing which version of you I’m going to get. Wondering if anything we say to each other is going to matter the next day.”

He let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for months.

“I can’t keep doing that.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the papers again, but you still hadn’t said anything.

That scared him more than anger would have. So he finished it.

“I just…” Mingyu paused, his voice dipping lower, quieter—like the truth had finally settled into something he couldn’t avoid anymore. “I just want it to end.”

A beat. Then, softer—

“I want a divorce.”

No anger. No raised voice. Just a man who had run out of ways to hold something together on his own.

*

Your head was spinning by the time you stepped out of Mingyu’s studio.

The air outside felt different—too open, too sharp against your skin—as you made your way toward your car. Each step came a little uneven, like your body hadn’t quite caught up with everything that had just happened.

Your breath hitched. Something tight lodged itself in your throat as you reached for the door handle, fingers fumbling for a second before finally pulling it open. You slid into the driver’s seat, the quiet inside the car closing in around you almost immediately.Too quiet.

You shut the door. And for a moment, you just sat there. Your hands came up to your face instinctively, pressing against your eyes, your temples—like you could steady the spinning inside your head if you just held on tight enough.

Take a breath. Just—breathe. You tried.

But it came out uneven. Shallow.

“Divorce…?” The word felt wrong in your mouth. Unfamiliar. Like it didn’t belong to you.

Your brows pulled together, confusion settling deeper as you leaned back against the seat, staring blankly at the windshield. You didn’t understand. Not really.

Why would Mingyu—out of nowhere—want a divorce? The question circled, over and over, but never landed anywhere solid. Out of nowhere. That’s what it felt like.

There hadn’t been a conversation. No warning. No moment where things felt that broken. Yes, you’d been busy. Yes, things had been quieter between you. But that was normal, wasn’t it?

It had to be.

Your fingers tightened slightly against your sleeves as you tried to retrace your steps—last night, the days before, the past week—

But the thoughts didn’t line up the way they should. They slipped. Blurred at the edges. You exhaled shakily, pressing your lips together. This didn’t make sense. None of it did. Mingyu looked serious. Tired. But that didn’t match the version of things in your head.

Because in your mind, you were still trying.

You drove to the gallery on autopilot.

The roads blurred past you, familiar turns taken without thought, your hands steady on the wheel even as your mind refused to settle. By the time you pulled into the parking lot, the tightness in your chest hadn’t eased—it had only sunk deeper, quieter.

You couldn’t afford to think about it now. Not here. Not when people were waiting. You stepped out of the car, smoothing down your clothes, forcing your expression into something composed—something professional. The moment you walked through the doors, the noise of the gallery wrapped around you. Conversations. Footsteps. The low hum of a place alive with people.

Normal. Everything looked normal. You held onto that as you made your way toward your office.

But then—

Seungkwan. He was standing a few steps away, already looking at you. Not casually.bNot like he’d just noticed you. He was staring. And something about the look on his face made your steps falter, just slightly.

Before you could reach your office door, he moved—quickly, cutting you off.

“Y/n,” he called, breath uneven like he had rushed over. “What are you doing here?”

You blinked at him. “What do you mean?” you replied, frowning slightly. “I have work.”

His expression didn’t change. If anything, it deepened.

“How are you?” he asked instead, his tone shifting—careful now, like he was testing something fragile.

The question threw you off more than it should have.

“I’m fine,” you said, a little too quickly. “Seungkwan, I have a lot of things to do. No time for—” you waved your hand slightly, searching for the word, “—casualty.”

His brows furrowed.

“What?” he said, almost under his breath. Then louder, more certain, “What are you talking about?”

A pause.

Then—

“It’s been a week since you resigned.”

The words didn’t land all at once. They hit, then echoed—like your mind needed time to catch up.

You stared at him.

“…What?”

Seungkwan didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh it off like it was a joke. He just looked at you—really looked at you this time, something serious settling into his expression.

“Y/n,” he said slowly, “you said it yourself.”

Your chest tightened. “No,” you interrupted, shaking your head immediately. “Why would I do that?”

He didn’t answer right away.

And that hesitation, that was worse.

“Babe,” he said softly, the word sounding more like concern than familiarity now, “you told me you were trying to conceive. That you wanted to focus on that.”

Your breath caught.

“That’s why you resigned.”

Something in your stomach dropped.

Hard. You shook your head again, more firmly this time, even as the movement felt disconnected—like your body was reacting before your mind could.

“I never said that,” you insisted, your voice tightening. “And I never resigned.”

The words came out certain. Too certain. Because the moment they left your mouth, something flickered.

A fragment. A feeling. Not quite a memory. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides.

“That doesn’t make sense,” you added, quieter now, like you were trying to convince yourself as much as him. “Why would I resign?”

Seungkwan didn’t respond. He just watched you. You noticed it. The way he was looking at you. Not confused. Not annoyed. But worried.

“You know I don’t want to get pregnant and get those morning sickness again, Seungkwan…”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

They hung in the air—wrong.

Your own voice sounded distant to your ears, like it didn’t quite belong to you. The moment stretched, thin and fragile, as something inside your chest tightened sharply.

Seungkwan froze.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just—still. His expression faltered in a way you had never seen before, the concern in his eyes shifting into something heavier. Something that made your stomach drop before he even said a word.

“Again?” he asked quietly.

Your breath caught. You blinked at him, confusion knitting your brows as your mind scrambled to catch up with what you had just said.

“I—” You stopped, swallowing. “That’s not what I meant.”

But it was. Wasn’t it? The word lingered in your head now, louder than anything else.

Again.

Your fingers curled slightly against your palm, nails pressing into your skin as if that could ground you, anchor you to something real.

“I’ve never—” you started, your voice unsteady now, “I’ve never been pregnant.”

Seungkwan didn’t answer immediately.

And that silence—

it was too long. Too careful. Too heavy.

Your heart began to pound, slow and uneven, as something cold crept up your spine.

“Y/n…” he said finally, his voice softer now, like he was approaching something breakable. “You don’t remember?”

The question didn’t feel like a question. It felt like a confirmation.

Your head shook almost instinctively, small at first, then firmer. “Remember what?” you asked, the words coming out sharper than you intended. “What are you talking about?”

But even as you said it, your chest tightened. Your body knew. Before your mind did.

A flicker, white walls. A smell you couldn’t place. Your hands gripping something—hard. Pain.

A sharp inhale tore through your throat as you staggered back a step, your hand reaching blindly for the edge of a desk to steady yourself.

It slipped. Gone before you could hold onto it.

“What—” you whispered, your voice breaking, “what is that?”

Seungkwan moved closer instinctively, but stopped himself just short of touching you, like he wasn’t sure if he should.

“You…” He hesitated, jaw tightening. “You were pregnant.”

The world tilted.

“No,” you said immediately. Too fast. Too desperate.

“No, that’s not—no.”

But the denial didn’t settle the way it should have. It didn’t feel solid. It felt like something you were trying to force into place over a crack that had already split open.

Seungkwan’s gaze didn’t leave you. “You miscarried,” he said, gently.

The word hit harder than anything else.

Miscarried.

Your breath left you in a shaky exhale, your grip tightening on the desk as your knees threatened to give out.

“That’s not possible,” you whispered..

Seungkwan didn’t say anything for a while after that. Like he had already said too much. The space between you stretched thin, fragile, filled with things neither of you seemed ready to touch. You weren’t sure how long you stood there—seconds, minutes—time felt… off. Slower. Heavier.

“They’re recruiting a new director,” he said.

Your head snapped up. “What?”

His gaze softened, but it didn’t waver. “Management made the announcement three days ago. I thought you knew.”

You didn’t. Of course, you didn’t.

“I…” Your voice trailed off, the words refusing to come together. “No one told me.”

Seungkwan hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “You weren’t here, Y/n.”

That again. That same sentence, dressed differently. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides.

“I packed your things,” he added after a moment, gesturing toward your office. “Just in case you needed them.”

You didn’t respond. You just walked past him. Each step felt heavier than the last as you pushed the door open and stepped into your office—your office. The space looked untouched at first glance. Clean. Organized. The way you always kept it. But something was off. Too neat. Too… finished.

There, on your desk, sat a box. Simple. Brown. Sealed loosely, like it had been opened and closed more than once.

You approached it slowly. Your hands hovered for a second before finally lifting the lid. Inside was your things. Files. Notebooks. Small personal items you barely registered as you shifted them aside, your movements growing more restless, more urgent—as if you were looking for something without knowing what it was.

Anything that would make sense. Anything that would prove this was wrong.

Your fingers brushed against a document. You pulled it out. Your name. Printed clearly at the top. The rest of the words blurred for a second before your vision steadied, your eyes tracing the lines slowly—too slowly, like your mind was resisting every letter.

Patient Name: Y/n.

Date: two weeks ago.

Your breath caught. And then, there it was.

Miscarriage.

The word sat there, unchanging. Unforgiving. You stared at it. Waiting for it to make sense. Waiting for something—anything—to connect. But nothing came. No memory. No image. No feeling strong enough to claim it as yours. Just… emptiness.

Your grip on the paper tightened slightly, the edges crumpling under your fingers without you realizing. Two weeks ago. You tried to think back. Tried to force your mind to go there,to that day, that moment, anything. But it was like reaching into a void. Nothing.

Your lips parted slightly, a breath escaping you that didn’t quite feel like your own.

“…No.”

It came out barely audible. Because if this was real, if this had happened, then what else had you forgotten? And why, why did your body feel like it already knew?

*

You woke up with a sharp inhale. Dark. For a second, you didn’t move. The ceiling above you felt unfamiliar—too high, the corners of the room too shadowed. Your body was stiff, like you had been lying there for hours, unmoving.

Your breath came uneven as you pushed yourself up, the sheets falling from your shoulders. The room slowly came into focus. You knew it. Your parents’ house.

The realization settled in, slow and heavy, as your eyes moved around the space. The furniture. The curtains. The faint scent lingering in the air—familiar in a way that made your chest tighten.

How did you get here? You couldn’t remember. Not the drive. Not arriving. Not even deciding to come. Nothing. A flicker of unease crept up your spine.

You swung your legs off the bed, your bare feet meeting the cold floor as you stood. The house was quiet as you stepped out of the room, the hallway dimly lit by a single lamp left on somewhere in the distance.

You checked the time. Midnight. Your brows furrowed. Why… were you here?

The thought came quickly, almost instinctive—

Mingyu.

Wouldn’t he be waiting for you? At home. The idea felt solid. Certain. Like something you could hold onto.

You stepped outside without thinking much of it, still in your pajamas, the night air brushing against your skin as you wrapped your arms around yourself. It felt colder than it should have.

Your phone was already in your hand before you realized it. You called him. It rang once. Twice.

“Hello?” His voice was there. Low. Tired. Familiar.

Your throat tightened slightly.

“Can you pick me up?” you said, the words coming out softer than you intended. “I’m at my parents’. I don’t know why I’m here…”

There was a pause on the other end. Short. But heavy.

“…Alright,” Mingyu replied finally. “I’ll be there in ten.”

The line went dead. You stood there for a moment longer, staring at your screen before lowering it slowly, something uneasy settling deep in your chest. You couldn’t name it. Only that it didn’t feel right.

Mingyu arrived exactly ten minutes later. His jeep pulled into the driveway, headlights cutting through the darkness before the engine went still. You didn’t wait. You moved toward the car immediately, opening the door and slipping into the passenger seat.

The warmth inside hit you all at once. You shut the door quietly. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The engine started again. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

He looked… tired. More than usual. His grip on the steering wheel was tight, his jaw set in a way that made something in your chest twist.

“You seem tired,” you said gently, trying to ease the silence. “Long day?”

The words felt normal. Casual. Like something you had said a hundred times before. Mingyu didn’t answer right away. The car kept moving. He turned his head slightly, just enough to look at you.

“Really?” he said. His voice wasn’t loud. But it wasn’t soft either. There was something under it. Something sharp.

“Are you acting right now, Y/n?”

The question didn’t land all at once. It hit. And then— everything followed. At once. Too fast. Too much. The fight. Your voice—strained, repeating the same thing over and over. The door closing. Silence stretching for days. Getting lost, No—Walking. Barefoot—Cold pavement—Hands shaking. White walls. Pain. A word. Miscarriage. Paper. Your name. Seungkwan’s voice— You resigned. You were pregnant. Mingyu. The studio. The papers in your hand. Divorce.

Your breath caught violently, your fingers gripping the edge of the seat as your head spun, the pieces crashing into each other without order, without mercy.

You froze. Completely still. Because none of it— none of it lined up. Not cleanly. Not clearly. Some of it felt real. Too real. But some of it— felt distant. Blurry. Like something you had dreamed and then half-forgotten.

Your chest rose and fell unevenly as your mind scrambled, trying to sort through it—trying to separate what was real from what wasn’t.

The car felt too small, like the air inside had been sucked out. Your breath came uneven, fingers gripping the edge of the seat as if that was the only thing keeping you grounded. Something was wrong—deeply, terribly wrong. “Mingyu…” your voice trembled, barely audible. “I… I don’t—” The words dissolved before they could form, because it started.

Not like remembering. Not clean, not whole—but like something cracking open inside your head.

A flash of white. Too bright. The sharp, sterile smell hit you first, making your stomach twist violently. You flinched, your hand flying to your abdomen without thinking. Pain followed—sudden, overwhelming—your body curling into itself as if reliving it. “Mingyu—” your voice echoed weakly in your head, breaking, but no one answered.

The car slowed, Mingyu glancing at you, saying something—your name, maybe—but you couldn’t hear him. The memories kept coming.

A phone screen. Your own reflection staring back—pale, hollow-eyed. A message half-typed: Where are you? Deleted. Typed again. Deleted again. The door closing—his voice, distant, muffled like it was underwater. I need space.

Your chest tightened painfully. “No…” you whispered, shaking your head, but it didn’t stop.

The floor was cold beneath your knees. Your hands clutched your stomach, breath breaking into uncontrollable sobs. Something warm. Wet. Your vision blurred as you looked down.

Red.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your body recoiling as if burned. “Mingyu—” this time louder, desperate. Still, the memory didn’t release you.

Voices—strangers. Panic, urgency. “Stay with me, ma’am—” “Call someone—does she have someone—?” Your head felt heavy, your fingers weakly gripping someone’s sleeve. “Mingyu…” barely a sound.

Then silence.

A room too quiet. Your hands resting on your stomach, and you already knew. Before anyone told you, before any words were spoken—you knew. Empty.

Time blurred. Hours, days—you couldn’t tell. Curtains drawn, your phone lighting up beside you. His name on the screen. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Another shift.

You stood in front of the mirror, staring at someone who looked like you but didn’t feel like you. Your lips moved, forcing a smile that didn’t belong. “Everything’s fine.” Again. “Everything’s fine.” Again. Again.

“Y/N!”

The world snapped back violently.

The car. The road. Mingyu’s voice, closer now. His hand gripping your arm, his face tight with something between fear and disbelief. “Hey—hey, look at me—what’s wrong with you?” Your breathing came in short, broken gasps as you stared at him, not fully seeing him, because the last piece settled in—slow, heavy, unavoidable.

The paper in your hand. Miscarriage. Your name printed beneath it. Two weeks ago.

Your lips parted, but no sound came at first. Your eyes trembled as they searched his face, like you were seeing him for the first time—or finally understanding. “I…” your voice came out hollow. “I was pregnant.” The words felt distant, unreal. “I—” your breath hitched sharply. “I lost it.”

Silence filled the car, thick and suffocating.

Your fingers curled into your clothes, shaking. “And you…” your voice cracked—not accusing, not angry, just broken. “You weren’t there…”

The moment the words left you, something shifted again. Your expression faltered, confusion creeping back in, fragile and disoriented. “I…” your brows furrowed weakly. “Why weren’t you there?”

Not blame. Not yet. Just a question. A real one.

Like you didn’t remember asking it before. Like you didn’t remember living through it at all.

And that was when it truly broke—not just the memory, not just the loss, but the realization that you had lived through something that shattered you… and your mind had decided you couldn’t survive remembering it.

*

Mingyu didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he couldn’t.

His hand was still wrapped around your arm, fingers tightening without him realizing, like if he let go you might disappear right in front of him. His eyes searched your face, scanning every inch of it as if the answer was written somewhere there, hidden beneath your expression.

“I—what?” he let out a breathless, disbelieving sound. “What are you talking about?”

His voice came out sharper than he intended, confusion laced heavily through it. There was something else too—something unsettled, almost uneasy.

“You’re… pregnant?” he repeated, the word sounding foreign in his mouth. “Y/N, what—”

He stopped. Because you didn’t look like you were lying. You didn’t look like you were avoiding him, or deflecting, or doing that thing he had grown so used to—smiling like nothing happened, brushing everything under the rug until he was the only one left holding onto it.

No. You looked… lost. Completely, terrifyingly lost.

“I lost it,” you said again, softer this time, like you were trying to convince yourself more than him. Your eyes drifted away from him, unfocused, like you were seeing something else entirely.

Mingyu’s grip loosened slightly. Something about this felt wrong. Not wrong like your usual fights. Not wrong like miscommunication or stubbornness or hurt pride.

This felt off. Like he had walked into the middle of something he didn’t understand, something that had been happening without him even knowing.

“Y/N,” his voice dropped, slower now, cautious. “What are you saying?”

You didn’t answer him directly. Instead, you looked back at him, your expression fragile, almost childlike in its confusion. “You left,” you murmured. “You said you needed space.”

Mingyu’s brows pulled together immediately. “Yeah, I—” he started, but stopped halfway.

Because the way you said It didn’t sound like you were recalling a recent argument. It sounded like you were reliving something.

“And then…” your voice wavered, your hand instinctively pressing against your stomach again. “It hurt. I was alone.”

His stomach dropped. A strange, cold feeling crept up his spine.

“Alone?” he echoed, quieter now.

You nodded faintly, eyes glossing over. “I called you,” you whispered. “I think I did… I don’t—” Your breathing picked up again, panic slipping back in. “I don’t remember if you answered.”

Mingyu froze.

“I didn’t—” he said quickly, almost defensively. “You didn’t call me.”

But even as the words left his mouth, they didn’t sit right. Did you? He would’ve remembered, wouldn’t he?

His mind raced back, trying to piece together the timeline—the fight, him leaving, the days after. Everything felt… blurred. He remembered being angry. He remembered ignoring a few calls—no, not calls, messages. Or were they calls?

His chest tightened.

“Y/N,” he said again, but his voice had changed. Less certain. “When… when did this happen?”

You blinked at him. Slowly. Like the question itself didn’t make sense.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice small, trembling. “I thought it was just today. But…” Your fingers curled into your clothes again, shaking. “They said two weeks.”

Two weeks. The words echoed in his head. Two weeks ago. Mingyu’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles paling as something heavy began to settle in his chest. Two weeks ago, he wasn’t there.

He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering back to you. You were still looking at him like you needed him to make sense of it. Like he was supposed to explain what happened to you.

But he couldn’t. Because none of this made sense. Not the pregnancy. Not the miscarriage. Not the way you were remembering things in pieces—out of order, like broken fragments that didn’t quite fit together.

And most of all, ot the way you were looking at him right now. Like he was both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

Like you knew him, but didn’t fully remember what he had done. A quiet, unsettling realization crept into his mind, one he didn’t want to touch, didn’t want to fully form.

“This isn’t…” he started, his voice low, uncertain. “Y/N, this isn’t you just… pretending, is it?”

The question hung in the air. Fragile. Dangerous.

You didn’t answer him. Not right away.

Your lips parted slightly, like you wanted to say something—explain, maybe—but nothing came out. The words were there, somewhere in your head, but they felt out of reach, slipping further the harder you tried to grab them.

“I…” your voice cracked, barely holding together. “I don’t know.”

And that was it. That was the last thing keeping you from falling apart.

Your breath hitched sharply, your chest tightening like something inside had finally snapped loose. The fragments in your head—voices, images, pain, silence—crashed into each other all at once, too loud, too overwhelming.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” you whispered, but it quickly broke into something heavier, something desperate. “I don’t know what’s real, Mingyu—”

Your hands came up to your head, fingers tangling in your hair as if you could physically hold yourself together. “I remember things—but then I don’t—and it hurts and I don’t know why it hurts and I don’t—”

Your voice collapsed into a sob. Raw. Uncontrolled.

“I don’t understand,” you cried, shaking now, your whole body folding in on itself. “Why can’t I remember? Why does it feel like I forgot something important? Something really important—”

Your words dissolved into broken sobs, your breathing uneven, almost choking as you tried to take in air.

“I feel like I lost something,” you whispered weakly, your voice barely there now. “But I don’t even remember losing it…”

Mingyu didn’t think anymore. Didn’t question. Didn’t try to piece anything together. Because seeing you like this—breaking right in front of him, not pulling away, not pretending, not brushing it off. It did something to him. Something heavy. Something sharp.

“Hey—hey,” he said quickly, his voice dropping, panic threading through it as he reached for you.

You didn’t resist. Didn’t even react. Your body leaned into him the moment his arms wrapped around you, like you had nothing left to hold yourself up. His hand came up to the back of your head, pressing you gently against his chest, the other arm tightening around you as if he could keep you from falling apart any further.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, though his voice wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be. “Hey… it’s okay. It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t. He knew that. You knew that. Still—you clung to him.

Your fingers gripping onto his shirt, clutching it tightly as your sobs broke freely now, muffled against his chest. Your whole body trembled, each breath shaky and uneven, like you were trying to breathe through something too heavy to carry.

“Mingyu…” his name came out broken, barely recognizable. “I’m scared.”

That did it.

His arms tightened around you instinctively, his jaw clenching as something painful twisted deep in his chest.

“I know,” he whispered, his hand gently pressing against your hair, trying to soothe you even though he had no idea how. “I know… I’m here.”

Your grip on him only tightened.

“Don’t leave,” you said suddenly, the words spilling out in a fragile, desperate plea. “Please don’t leave me again—I don’t… I don’t think I can handle it if you—”

Your voice broke completely. Mingyu froze.

Again.

The words hit him harder than anything else had.

Again.

His throat tightened, something heavy lodging itself there as his mind flashed back—to the door closing, to his own voice saying he needed space, to the silence he left you in. To two weeks ago. To the time you said you couldn’t remember.

He swallowed hard, his hold on you tightening almost protectively now, like he was trying to make up for something that had already happened.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly, but this time there was something different in his voice.

“I’m here,” he repeated, softer, his hand moving gently against your hair. “I’m right here, Y/N.”

You didn’t question it. Didn’t pull away. You just held onto him tighter, like he was the only thing that still made sense in a world that suddenly didn’t.

*

The hospital felt too bright—too clean, too unforgiving. Mingyu sat outside your room, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging loosely between them. They were still trembling, though he barely noticed anymore. Everything felt distant, like he was sitting behind glass, watching someone else’s life unfold.

You were inside. Unconscious.

Again. He didn’t know how it got to this point. One moment you were in his arms—shaking, crying, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you together—and the next, your body went slack. Your voice disappeared. Your grip loosened.

And just like that, you were gone.

The doctor said it wasn’t physical. Not entirely. “Severe stress response,” they called it. Something about your body shutting down because your mind couldn’t handle it anymore. Mingyu didn’t fully understand, but he knew one thing—this wasn’t normal. This wasn’t you avoiding fights or pretending nothing happened. This was something deeper. Something he had completely missed.

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling shakily. His chest felt tight, like something was pressing against it from the inside. How long has this been happening? The question wouldn’t leave him alone. How long had you been like this… and he just didn’t see it?

Footsteps approached from the end of the hallway—soft, careful, familiar. Mingyu lifted his head slightly.

Your parents. Your mother looked like she hadn’t slept. Your father stood beside her, quieter, but just as tense. The moment their eyes met Mingyu’s, something shifted—something uneasy, something unspoken. They already knew.

“Is she awake?” your mother asked, her voice low, controlled, though the fear beneath it was obvious.

Mingyu shook his head. “No… not yet.”

Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating. Your father nodded slowly, like he expected that answer—like this wasn’t new. And that made something twist painfully in Mingyu’s chest.

“…Has this happened before?” he asked, his voice quieter now, careful.

Your parents exchanged a look—not confusion, not surprise, but hesitation. And that alone told him more than he wanted to know.

Mingyu straightened slightly, his brows pulling together. “Please,” he said, more firmly this time. “I need to know what’s going on with her.”

Your mother’s lips parted, but no words came out at first. She looked at your father, like she needed permission—or strength. Your father exhaled slowly, then spoke.

“She’s had episodes like this before.”

The words landed heavier than they should have.

“Episodes…?” Mingyu echoed, his voice tightening.

“Not exactly like this,” your mother added quickly, her tone fragile. “But… similar. When she was younger.”

Younger.

Mingyu’s stomach dropped. “How young?”

A pause. A long one.

“After high school,” your father said quietly.

Mingyu frowned, confusion deepening. “What happened?”

Your mother looked away this time, her fingers tightening around each other. “She went through… something,” she said carefully. “Something that affected her deeply.”

The vagueness only made his chest tighten more. “What kind of something?” Mingyu pressed, his voice sharper now. “She’s losing her memory, she collapsed in my arms, she thinks she was pregnant and lost it but doesn’t even remember when it happened—how am I supposed to understand any of this if you keep—”

“She was assaulted.”

The words cut through everything. Clean. Immediate. Mingyu went completely still.

“…What?” The word barely left him.

Your father didn’t look away. “When she was a teenager,” he said. “She didn’t tell us right away. We only found out later… when things started getting worse.”

Mingyu’s mind struggled to process it. Assaulted. You. His gaze flickered instinctively toward your hospital room door, like it didn’t match the person lying inside.

“She developed severe depression after that,” your mother continued softly. “She was on medication for a long time. It affected her body… her weight. And people weren’t kind.”

Mingyu clenched his jaw, something sharp twisting in his chest. He could almost see it now—pieces of you he never knew existed. Pain you never spoke about.

“We sent her abroad,” your father added. “A change of environment. It helped… for a while.”

“For a while,” Mingyu repeated under his breath, because clearly—it didn’t fix everything.

“Why didn’t she tell me?” he asked, quieter now, no anger left—just confusion.

Your mother gave a sad, knowing look. “She doesn’t talk about it,” she said. “Not even to us. She tries to move on. Pretend it doesn’t exist.”

Mingyu let out a hollow breath, leaning back slightly as everything started connecting—slowly, painfully. The way you avoided certain topics. The way you reacted to your body. The way you held onto control. The way you forgot.

“And the memory loss?” he asked, more hesitant now.

Your father paused, then answered, “It’s happened before. Not this severe. But when she’s under extreme stress… she dissociates.”

Mingyu closed his eyes briefly. Dissociates. So this wasn’t new. It was just worse now.

And suddenly, everything you said in the car came rushing back.

His chest tightened sharply. It wasn’t that you didn’t care. It wasn’t that you were ignoring things. It was that your mind simply couldn’t hold them—not when they hurt too much.

“And the pregnancy?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer. “Did you… know about that?”

Your parents fell silent. Your mother looked down. Your father didn’t answer. And that silence said everything.

Mingyu’s breath hitched.Because that meant—you went through it. Alone. While he was gone.

His jaw tightened, something heavy and suffocating settling in his chest. Not anger. Not frustration. Something worse. Regret.

Your mother hesitated, like she was debating whether to say more. Her fingers twisted together, eyes briefly flickering toward your hospital room before returning to Mingyu.

“Sometimes… she comes home. To us.”

“She shows up late. Sometimes in the middle of the night.”

Mingyu’s brows pulled together, confusion settling deeper. “When?”

Your mother let out a small, shaky breath. “Recently. The past few months.”

Something in his chest dropped.

“She comes crying,” your mother continued, her voice wavering now despite her effort to stay composed. “Saying you’re not home. That you haven’t been home for days. That she can’t reach you.”

Mingyu’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Because that didn’t make sense.

“I was home,” he said, almost instinctively. “I mean… not always, but I—” He stopped himself, his thoughts tangling. There were days he stayed longer at the studio. Nights he didn’t come back until late. Times he ignored your calls because he was still upset.

But days?

“…I didn’t leave for days,” he finished, though the certainty in his voice had already weakened.

Your father didn’t argue. Your mother only looked at him—sadly.

“She believed it,” she said. “Every time she came to us, she was convinced you were gone. That you left her.”

Mingyu felt something cold settle in his stomach.

“She would cry for hours,” your mother went on, her voice quieter now, like each word was getting harder to say. “She kept asking what she did wrong. Why you wouldn’t come back.”

His chest tightened painfully.

“She said you were upset,” your father added. “That you were tired of her. That you needed space.”

Mingyu’s jaw clenched. Because he did say that. Not once. Not lightly.

“I need space.”

The words echoed in his head now, heavier than before.

“But then…” your mother paused, her voice breaking slightly. “The next morning, she would wake up and act like nothing happened.”

Mingyu’s breath caught.

“She’d smile,” she continued. “Talk normally. Ask us why we looked so worried.”

Your father exhaled slowly. “Sometimes she didn’t even remember coming to us.”

Silence fell heavily between them. Mingyu stared ahead, but he wasn’t really seeing anything anymore. The hallway blurred slightly, his mind trying—failing—to process it all.

“She forgets?” he said, barely above a whisper.

Your mother nodded. “Not everything. But… the parts that hurt the most.”

Mingyu’s hands slowly curled into fists, resting against his knees.

Because suddenly, everything made sense in the worst way possible. The nights you accused him of being distant. The mornings you kissed him like nothing happened. The way your arguments never seemed to carry over. The way he thought you just didn’t care enough to hold onto them.

It wasn’t that you didn’t remember. It was that you couldn’t. A sharp breath left him as something twisted painfully in his chest.

“And the night…” your mother hesitated again, then continued softly, “the night she lost the baby…”

Mingyu’s head snapped up.

“She came to us,” she said. “Crying. In pain. We told her to go to the hospital, but she kept saying she needed to wait for you. That you’d come home.”

His stomach dropped.

“She kept calling you,” your father added quietly.

Mingyu froze.

“She said you weren’t answering,” your mother whispered.

His mind went blank for a second. Then, slowly, memories started creeping in. His phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Again. He remembered glancing at it. Your name lighting up the screen. And him— turning it face down. Because he was still angry. Because he needed space.

Because he thought, it could wait. Mingyu’s breathing grew shallow.

“She left after a while,” your father continued. “Said she didn’t want to bother you anymore. That she’d handle it herself.”

Your mother’s voice broke this time. “We didn’t know it would get that bad.”

Silence. Heavy. Unforgiving.

Mingyu couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

Because now, now he knew. You didn’t just go through it alone. You tried to reach him. And he wasn’t there.

Not because he couldn’t be. But because he chose not to be. His throat tightened painfully, something sharp pressing against it as his gaze slowly dropped to his hands.

And for the first time Mingyu realized that the moments he thought were small, the ones he brushed off as just another fight were the same moments you were breaking and reaching for him at the same time.

*

You noticed it. You had always noticed. At first, it was small. So small you could still pretend it was normal.

You would forget things—little things. Where you placed your keys, whether you had eaten, what day it was. You laughed it off, brushed it aside, told yourself you were just tired. Overworked. Distracted. But then it wasn’t just things.

It was moments. You would be in the middle of a conversation and suddenly feel like you had stepped out of your own body, like you were watching yourself speak from somewhere far away. Your voice would continue, your lips would move—but it didn’t feel like you anymore.

Like someone else had taken over for a second. You noticed it. The way time slipped. The way hours would pass without weight, without memory, without anything to hold onto when you tried to look back.

At first, you caught it. You would pause, frown, try to retrace your steps. What did I just do? What did I just say? Sometimes you could piece it together. Sometimes you couldn’t.

And when you couldn’t, that was when the fear started.

So you learned to fill the gaps. You smiled when you were supposed to smile. You spoke when it was expected of you. You followed routines, patterns, anything that could make you look normal enough so no one would notice the spaces in between.

Especially him. Especially Mingyu. You noticed how he would look at you sometimes. Confused. Frustrated. Like he was trying to hold onto something that kept slipping through his fingers.

And you hated that look. So you got better at pretending. Better at stitching things together. Better at acting like nothing ever happened. Like the fights never happened. Like the words you couldn’t remember saying were never spoken. Like the nights you cried yourself to sleep didn’t exist the next morning.

You told yourself it was easier that way.

Safer.

If you didn’t acknowledge it, then maybe it wasn’t real. If you kept moving, kept smiling, kept being—then maybe you wouldn’t have to face whatever was breaking inside of you.

But the shifts got worse. Longer. Deeper. There were days you couldn’t remember at all. Faces that felt familiar but distant. Places you didn’t remember going. Conversations that were thrown back at you like accusations, and all you could do was stare—blank, lost, guilty for something you didn’t even know you had done.

You started to question yourself. Your own mind. Did I say that? Did I do that? Or was it just… someone else wearing your skin? You noticed it.

You noticed the way fear slowly turned into something heavier. Something quieter. Something you couldn’t quite name. Until one day, you didn’t notice anymore.

The gaps stopped scaring you. Because you stopped seeing them. They became your normal. Your routine. Your way of surviving. And that terrified you more than anything ever had.

Because this was what you had been running from all along. Losing control. Losing yourself. Becoming something you couldn’t recognize. Something fragile. Unstable. Broken.

You had spent so long trying not to be that girl again. The one who needed help. The one people whispered about. The one who was too much, too heavy, too complicated to love without exhaustion.

And yet, without realizing it, without even noticing when it truly began, you became her again.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just slowly. Quietly. Piece by piece. Until there was nothing left of the version of you that knew how to stay.

*

Someone knocked on your door at nine in the morning. The sound felt… distant. Like it belonged to a place you hadn’t fully arrived in yet.

“Come in,” you said, though your voice came out softer than you expected.

The door opened, and a woman in a white dress stepped inside, pushing a small food cart. The wheels made a quiet sound against the floor as she approached you.

You were sitting on the bed. You noticed that. But the question came anyway. Why are you on the bed? And then, where are you?

“Ms. Ji, it’s time for breakfast,” she said gently. “I brought your favorite.”

She stopped beside you, lifting the cover from the tray. Cut fruits. Boiled eggs. Toast. Simple. Plain.

You stared at it for a moment. You felt like you should recognize it. Like your body knew something your mind didn’t.

“They look boring,” you murmured honestly. Then, after a small pause, “But… I think I like them.”

The woman smiled softly, like she had heard that before.

“I don’t remember having a favorite food,” you added, your eyes shifting to the small name tag pinned to her chest.

Suji.

“That’s okay,” Suji said, her voice calm, practiced in a way that didn’t feel cold. “You don’t have to remember anything today.”

She helped you adjust the tray on your lap, her movements careful, unhurried.

You picked up the toast. Took a bite. It was good. Not special. Not overwhelming. Just… right.

You chewed slowly, quietly, while Suji moved around the room. She reached for the remote and turned on the TV, letting the sound fill the silence just enough. Channels flickered one after another. Colors. Voices. Faces that meant nothing. Until it stopped. A news channel.

“Oh,” Suji said lightly, glancing at the screen. “That’s where you used to work. Remember?”

You paused mid-chew. You worked?

The question formed in your head, but it didn’t feel important enough to ask out loud. Instead, you shifted your gaze back to the screen, your hand reaching for a piece of fruit.

A man appeared on the screen. Well-dressed. Tall. Standing under bright lights as cameras flashed around him. There was applause. An award being handed to him. Your eyes lingered. Something, something moved. A small, quiet pull somewhere deep inside your chest. And then, before you could think—

“Kim Mingyu.”

The name slipped out of your mouth like it had always belonged there.

Suji froze slightly.

“…You know him?” she asked, her tone shifting just a little.

You nodded slowly, your eyes still on the screen. There was no confusion in your expression this time. No hesitation. Just certainty.

“Kim Mingyu,” you repeated softly.

A small pause.

Then—

“My husband.”

The words settled into the room. Heavy. Out of place. Too certain for someone who couldn’t even remember her own favorite food.

Suji looked at you, something unreadable passing through her eyes—surprise, maybe, or something closer to concern. But you didn’t notice. Because your attention stayed on the screen. On him. On the man you couldn’t remember, but somehow, your heart still did.

Suji didn’t bring it up again that morning. But she remembered. The way your voice changed when you said his name. The certainty. The quiet conviction that didn’t match the rest of you—the rest of the woman who couldn’t remember what she liked, where she worked, or even why she was there.

My husband.

It stayed with her. Later that day, during her break, Suji sat in the small staff room with your file open in front of her.

Name: Ji Y/N

Age: 56 years old

Condition: Severe dissociative amnesia with recurring identity disturbance

Guardian: —

Emergency Contact: —

Empty. All of it.

She frowned slightly, flipping through the pages again like something might appear if she looked hard enough.

Nothing did. No family listed. No spouse. No one.

For ten years, you had been there—admitted, treated, stabilized, relapsed, stabilized again. Notes written by doctors, observations by nurses, small fragments of who you used to be scattered across clinical language.

But no one had ever come. No one had ever claimed you. Suji leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the file.

“…Kim Mingyu,” she murmured to herself. It didn’t take long. Articles came up almost immediately. Interviews. Exhibitions. Photographs. A man stood behind most of them—tall, composed, carrying an air that only came with years of recognition.

Kim Mingyu. A maestro painter. Renowned. Respected. Sixty years old.

Suji’s brows furrowed as she scrolled further, eyes scanning quickly until something caught her attention.

A profile. A short personal history. And there is a name. Yours. Listed not as current. But as something that had already ended. Former spouse.

Suji went still.

“…Former?” she whispered. Her gaze flickered back to the photo of him. Then to your name beside his. Then back again. It didn’t line up.

Not with the way you said it. Not with the way your eyes had looked at the screen. My husband. Not was. Not used to be.

She closed the file slowly. Her mind wandered back to the small things you had said over the years.

Fragments. You worked at a gallery. You liked quiet mornings. You didn’t like being alone—though you often were. You had mentioned painting once. Or maybe twice. Never clearly. Never consistently. Like pieces of a story that refused to stay in place. Ten years. You had been here for ten years.

And somehow, in all that time, that name stayed. Out of everything your mind had lost, everything it had rewritten, everything it had buried. He remained. Not fully. Not correctly. But enough.

Enough for you to recognize him without remembering yourself.

Enough to call him yours—even when the world had already written him as something else.

Suji exhaled slowly, her grip tightening slightly around her phone. There was something about it that didn’t sit right with her. A gap. A missing piece.

Or maybe too many pieces that didn’t fit together anymore. She glanced back at your file one more time. Then at the name still on her screen.

Kim Mingyu.

*

The visiting room was quiet when you stepped in. Sunlight stretched across the floor, pale and distant. The chairs were arranged neatly, untouched, like no one ever stayed long enough to leave a trace.

And then you saw him. Sitting by the window. Older. Time had settled on him in quiet ways—grey threaded through his hair, the sharpness of his youth softened into something heavier. But there was still something unmistakable about him.

Something your chest recognized before your mind could. You walked toward him slowly. He looked up. And for a moment, everything in him stilled.

Mingyu hadn’t expected this. Not this version of you. Not the softness in your eyes. Not the absence of anger. Not the way you looked at him like you were trying to place him into a story you couldn’t fully remember.

He had come here with something else in his chest. Old resentment. Old confusion. Questions that had stayed unanswered for decades. Because back then, he thought he knew. He thought you were distant.

Careless.

Cold.

He thought you chose to forget. Chose to walk past every fight like it meant nothing. Chose to leave him alone in a marriage that felt like it only existed on paper. So he left. He signed the papers. He told himself it was the only thing left to do. He never once thought you were sick.

“…Y/N,” he said, your name unfamiliar after so many years.

You stopped a few steps away. You studied him. Carefully.

“I know you,” you said softly.

Mingyu’s breath caught.

“My husband,” you added.

The word hit him harder than anything else. Not because it was wrong— but because of how easily you said it.

Like nothing had ever broken. Like nothing had ever ended.

Mingyu swallowed.

“…I was,” he corrected, his voice quieter now.

You blinked.

“…Was,” you repeated, like you were trying to understand it. There was a pause. Something flickered behind your eyes. A shadow of something heavier—

A studio.

Raised voices.

His voice—

I’m tired. I can’t do this anymore.

A paper in your hand.

The word divorce.

Your chest tightened—

And then it slipped.

Gone.

You smiled instead. Small. Polite. Like you always did when something didn’t make sense.

Mingyu felt it. That shift. That disappearance. His brows pulled together slightly.

“…Do you remember?” he asked, more carefully this time.

You looked at him again. “I think I do,” you said. Then softer— “but it doesn’t stay.”

Your fingers curled lightly against your palm.

“I was trying to tell you something,” you added suddenly.

Mingyu stilled.

“What?” he asked.

Your lips parted. This time you felt it more clearly. The weight sitting in your chest. The words pressing against your throat.

I was scared.

I was hurting.

I didn’t understand what was happening to me.

I wasn’t ignoring you—I was losing myself.

Your breathing faltered slightly.

“I—” you started.

Mingyu leaned forward just a little.

For the first time he was listening. Really listening. Not judging. Not assuming. Just waiting.

“I think… I was sick,” you said, your voice trembling faintly.

His chest tightened. “Sick how?” he asked.

You tried.

God, you tried.

“I…” Your fingers pressed against your temple, like you could hold the thoughts in place. “There was something wrong with me. I couldn’t— I couldn’t remember things. I couldn’t stay… I kept… disappearing.”

Your voice cracked.

Mingyu’s expression shifted. Confusion. Then something closer to realization.

But you weren’t done. You couldn’t be. You needed him to know.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you whispered, your eyes glistening now. “I think… I think I was trying to tell you. Before.”

Mingyu’s breath hitched. Before. All those times you brushed things off. All those mornings you acted like nothing happened. All those empty spaces he filled with his own anger.

“…Why didn’t you?” he asked, his voice low, almost breaking.

The question wasn’t sharp. It was tired.

You shook your head weakly. “I tried,” you said. And you meant it. You really did. You tried in the silence. In the hesitation. In the moments where you looked at him, hoping he would see what you couldn’t explain.

“I just—” your voice faltered again, your thoughts slipping, unraveling even as you reached for them. “I just can’t…”

The words blurred. The meaning faded. The weight disappeared. Like it always did.

You blinked. And suddenly there was nothing. No explanation. No memory. No pain. Just emptiness.

“…I forgot,” you finished quietly.

Mingyu stared at you. At the woman in front of him. At the way your shoulders sank slightly, like even you were tired of failing to hold onto your own thoughts. And something inside him broke. Not loudly. Not suddenly. Just—quietly.

The kind of breaking that comes too late to fix anything. All those years. All those assumptions. All those times he thought you didn’t care enough to try— when you had been trying all along. Alone.

“…I didn’t know,” he said finally.

Your eyes lifted to him.

He shook his head slowly, his voice heavy with something he had never allowed himself to feel before.

“I thought you just… didn’t love me the same way anymore.”

The words hung in the air. You frowned slightly. Love. The word felt distant. Familiar. But not something you could fully reach.

“…I think I did,” you said softly.

And somehow, that hurt him more.

Silence settled between you again. But this time, it wasn’t empty. It was full of everything that had been missed. Everything that had never been understood. Everything that had come too late.

“…You liked toast,” Mingyu said after a while, his voice quieter now.

You looked at him. A small smile appeared. “I think I still do.”

When it was time to leave, you stood first. You always did. You looked at him one last time. Not holding on. Not letting go. Just… looking.

“Goodbye, Mingyu.”

He watched you walk away. And this time, he knew. He hadn’t lost you because you didn’t love him. He lost you because you were already disappearing, and he never saw it.

However, you wanted him to know, you always wanted him to know. You just couldn't. You couldn't. And you didn't remember since how long. . .

Since how long you've imagined him to know.

The second the apartment door shut behind you silence wrapped around you immediately. It was warm, dark and quiet.

You exhaled quietly, slipping your shoes off near the entrance before rubbing both hands over your face. You slowly entered the bedroom on your tiptoes to look after Bin, but you found the bed untouched – as if no one had ever laid in it.

You furrowed your eyebrows, wondering where he went off to. You left the bedroom, when you noticed the faint glow slipping through the curtains near the balcony door. You paused. The apartment heater hummed softly somewhere behind you while cold blue city light spilled across the floorboards ahead.

Then you walked toward it, without making any noise. And there he was.

Changbin sat outside on the balcony wrapped in a dark hoodie and one of the thicker blankets from the couch, elbows resting on his knees while the city stretched endlessly below him. His phone rested facedown beside him untouched.

He didn’t move much when you stepped closer. Just turned his head slightly at the sound of the balcony door opening. When he laid his eyes on you, his expression softened immediately.

“Hey”, he said quietly. The wind pushed cold air against your skin and you folded your arms instinctively. “Why are you sitting out here?”, you asked sleepily.

Changbin glanced back toward the skyline. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten slightly. He looked exhausted. The kind of exhaustion no sleep could fix.

“Any particular reason?” you asked quietly and he glanced at you. Without sayong another word he raised his hand toward you, signaling you to come closer. You did. His hand wrapped around yours, quickly pulling you on his lap and wrapping the blanket around you as well in the process. It happened so fast, you could barely register what just happened.

“You’re going to freeze”, he whispered, ignoring your initial question. You knew he didn’t want to talk about it, so you decided not to push him and just be there for him. Whatever occupied his mind, you would try to distract him from it.

You leaned back into him and felt immediately warmer, as a tired sigh escaped you. “My feet are officially never recovering from tonight”, you muttered.

You could feel him smile against your neck as he tightened his grip around you. “Bad party?”

“Not bad. Just too many people. I was slightly overstimulated.”

He hummed quietly, pressing his cheek against your shoulder. “You ok now?”

You nodded lazily against him. “Now that I am here, yeah.” That answer seemed to relax him a little. You rested your head against his shoulder and closed your eyes briefly. Changbin’s hoodie smelled just like him. Familiar. Comforting. Your almost could’ve fallen asleep right there if not for the tension still lingering in his body.

His leg bounced faintly beneath the blanket and his fingers tapped absentminded rhythms against your hip.

You noticed everything. Changbin always underestimated how obvious his exhaustion became around you.

“You’re been sitting out here long?”, you asked softly.

“A while.”

“How long is a while?”

He let out a quiet breath through his nose.

“Since midnight maybe.”

Your eyes opened immediately. “Bin.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” You turned slightly on his lap to look at him properly. “When was the last time you actually slept more than five hours?”, you asked carefully. Changbin looked away almost instantly. “That’s not important.”

“That means you know the answer.”

A small smile pulled weakly at his lips, but it disappeared just as quickly. You studied him for a moment, before nuzzling your nose into his shoulder, engulfing him into a proper hug. His hands wandered around your back, pulling you closer. “Binnie, you’re exhausted”, you concluded lowly against his skin.

“I’m okay, baby”, he whispered weakly. “You always say that when you’re not okay.”

That made his shoulders tense slightly beneath your hands. The wind curled colder around the balcony and instinctively Changbin pulled the blanket higher around both of you. “You should go inside”, he murmured. “You’re cold and tired.”

“So are you.”

“I’ll sleep eventually.”

You stayed quiet for a moment before speaking again. “Did something happen today?”

He hesitated. Too long.

“Not really.”

“You’re such a terrible liar.”

That earned the faintest huff of laughter from him. “Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.”

The silence settled again afterward, but this time heavier. You could feel him thinking. Feel the tension sitting beneath his skin like he was trying to decide whether to say something or bury it again. Eventually, quietly, he spoke.

“I saw something online earlier”, he admitted quietly. You waited. He swallowed once before continuing.

“There were clips from some rookie group going around.” Your brows furrowed slightly, not fully understanding yet. “They’re good”, he said quickly. “Like really good.”

You stayed silent, sending there was more. He laughed quietly under his breath. “Everyone was talking about how they’re the future.” The way he said future made something twist painfully inside your chest. “Bin-“

“I know how stupid it sounds.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does”, he muttered. “I’m a grown man sitting on a balcony at 3AM because younger idols are talented.”

“That’s not why you’re upset.”

Silence.

“I think I’m scared people will move on eventually.”

The vulnerability in his voice nearly broke your heart. You stared at him for a second. “Move on?”

He nodded.

“New groups debut every year. New music. New trends. New people to pay attention to.” His jaw tightened slightly. “What if one day I’m just … not needed anymore?”

You could feel how ashamed he was for even admitting it out loud. Changbin laughed softly afterward, but there wasn’t anything amused about it. “I know how it sounds.”

“No”, you whispered gently. “I think that sounds lonely.” That made his expression falter slightly. He leaned his head back against the chair behind him with a tired sigh. “I’ve spent so much of my life trying to keep up”, he admitted quietly. “Trying to work harder. Be better. Improve more. Be the best version of myself.”

His fingers tightened unconsciously around the blanket wrapped around both of you.

“And later it feels like no matter how much I do, there’s always someone newer, younger and better.”

“Bin-“

“I know they deserve success too”, he interrupted softly. “That’s not the problem.”

His voice lowered further. “I just don’t know who I am if people stop needing me someday.” Something about his words shattered something inside of you. Because suddenly everything made sense.

The constant schedules. The inability to rest. The exhaustion he wore like armor. He wasn’t just scared of failure. He was terrified of becoming replaceable.

“You really think the people who love you only stay because of what you provide for them?”, you asked softly. He looked away instantly.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“But it’s what you fear.”

His throat bobbed slightly before he admitted. “Maybe.”

The word came out barely audible. And somehow that hurt more than anything else. You lifted your hand slowly, brushing your fingers gently against his cheek. “Seo Changbin”, you whispered carefully, waiting until he looked at you again. “You’re not replaceable.”

Something in his expression cracked slightly at that.

You continued softly: “Your music is not replaceable. Your voice is not replaceable. The way you care about people is not replaceable. You as a person are not replaceable.”

His gaze dropped for a second. “You say that because you love me.”

“I say that because it’s the truth. And yeah I love you too, but that’s not the point now.”

He stared down at his hands resting against your waist. “I think I forgot how to separate who I am from what I do”, he admitted quietly.

“That’s not your fault.” You brushed your fingers through his hair softly, feeling him relax slightly beneath your touch. “You know what I think?”, you murmured.

“What?”

“I think you’ve spent to long trying to stay needed that you forgot people already love you without conditions.” His eyes flickered slightly. “You don’t have to constantly prove why you deserve space in people’s lives.”

He looked at you quietly after that, digesting your words.

“You know what scares me the most?”, he asked suddenly. You shook your head slightly.

“That one day people will stop looking for me.” The confession landed softly between you.

You moved one of your hands to rest against his chest beneath the hoodie. He flinched at the contact with your cold hand, but nevertheless his eyes stayed glued to your face. His heartbeat felt fast and restless.

“Do you know what happens when people truly love someone?”, you asked quietly. Now his one of his hand found yours underneath his hoodie, warming the cold skin.

“What?”

“They grow with them.” His brows furrowed faintly.

“People aren’t standing beside you because you’re trendy”, you whispered. “They stay because of who you are.”

The city lights reflected in his eyes as he listened silently. “You’ve made people feel understood”, you continued softly. “Comforted. Safe. That doesn’t disappear just because time passes.”

He looked visibly emotional now in a way he was trying hard to hide. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not easy.”

Your hand drew reassuring circles on his skin, almost absentminded.

“I think I’m tired of feeling like I always have to fight to stay relevant”, he added quietly and the honesty in his voice shattered you. You wrapped your arms around him tighter immediately. “You shouldn’t have to warn your worth every single day”, you whispered. His face buried briefly against your shoulder and you felt him exhale shakily.

“I don’t know how to stop thinking like this.”

“You don’t have to fix it overnight.”

The city glowed endlessly beneath you – alive, restless. But up here, hidden away from it all, Changbin finally looked tired enough to let himself be honest.

“You know my favorite thing about you?”, you asked softly after a while.

He lifted his head slightly. “What?”

“The way you care. Your laugh. The way you always manage to make me laugh. The way you make sure everyone around you is ok. Your talent. Your creativity.  Your patience. Everything.”

You brushed your forehead gently against his. “You care about people so deeply that sometimes you forget you deserve the same kind of care too.”

He stared at you quietly. “You really don’t think I am not replaceable?”, he asked softly. Your heart nearly broke at how genuine the question sounded. You cupped his face carefully in your hands. “Never. You’re one in a trillion.”

His eyes closed briefly at your words. And for the first time all night, the tension in his shoulders finally eased. Not completely, but enough.

“I love you so freaking much”, he whispered weakly, nuzzling his nose against your throat, making you chuckle. You stayed like this for a while. Minutes passed in silence, where you didn’t say anything. But words weren’t needed in that moment. The only thing that mattered was that you were by each other’s sides, holding each other. Letting the other know they were not alone.

Your face fell into his neck and your body grew heavier. Both of your breaths seemed to be in sync – slow and peaceful. You felt him turning his face to yours and press his lips on your temple. “My tired baby”, he cooed and got up on his feet, carrying you carefully in his arms.

“I cn wak”, you murmured.

“What?”

“I can walk”, you mumbled again and he laughed quietly, while carrying you inside the warmth of the living room. “I know you can, baby. But let me take care of you”, he replied and carried you into the bathroom.

Seating you gentle onto the edge of the bathtub, which you barely processed because your eyelids were about to shut fully, he reached for the cabinet with your facial cleanser.

“What are you doing?”, you asked sleep drunk, gripping the edge of the bathtub tightly to not fall in. He grabbed the item he was looking for and knelt in front of you, applying the content on your face. “Removing your make up, before bringing you to bed”, he whispered, fully concentrated on his doing.

You couldn’t help but start smiling. “You’re the most amazing boyfriend ever, do you know that?”, you mumbled and leaned a bit forward, to give him an easier access to your skin. He chuckled lowly. He took a cotton pad and gently removed the eyeshadow and mascara.

Eventually he grabbed your moisturizer and applied it to your face. “I’d need your help with brushing your teeth”, he laughed and you opened your eyes again, seeing his frame blurred for a second before coming back to normal.

“What?”, you mumbled, almost falling into his arms. “Oh, baby”, he cooed and helped you up to the sink. “We’re almost done”, he added softly and you came back to your senses, while reaching for your toothbrush and toothpaste. You grumbled quietly and started brushing your teeth in slow circles.

You could see Bin standing behind you in the mirror and leaned back only to be held by him. It was quiet except for the sound of the brushing and you noticed that your movements started to slow down again.

He laughed again and gently grabbed your hand holding the brush and started helping you to move the brush. “Just like that. In slow circles.” After a while you bent over, spitting the paste into the sink and washed out your mouth.

“Good job”, he praised you and took your hand, guiding you to your bedroom. The lights were dim, almost warm. “Think you can manage to get dressed yourself or are you going to fall asleep mid getting changed?”, he joked with a warm smile.

You nodded tiredly, grabbing your pyjamas while he turned around, respecting your privacy. You shook your head in amusement and changed into your pyjamas on your own and climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up around yourself.

“You can turn around now. Even though there is nothing you haven’t already seen”, you chuckled. His ears turned red, while he turned around and sat down on the edge of the bed next to you. “I am just trying to be a gentleman”, he claimed and you smiled in satisfaction. He shot a smile to you, while he grabbed your hand, softly squeezing it. “Now go to sleep, you look exhausted”, he whispered and you squeezed his hand back.

“So should you”, you said, turning to your side to look at him properly. “Think you can sleep now? Will you give it a try?”, you added and he nodded. “Yeah, I am going to brush my teeth and get changed and then go to bed.”

“Okay, I will wait for you”, you said, but he was quick to shake his head. “No way, you should rest now. I promise I will be with you shortly. Now go to sleep, okay?”, he leaned down and pressed his lips on your forehead. You didn’t fight back, but you knew you would wait for him, because you wanted to make sure that he was really going to sleep tonight. Even if you had to fight sleep.

You watched him leave the bedroom and laid there in silence. You could barely hear the water running in the bathroom, probably coming from the sink. It got harder and harder to keep your eyes open, but you were determined. You didn’t know how many minutes had passed, when the door to the bedroom opened again and you could hear his soft footsteps tapping against the wooden floor.

When he saw that you were still awake, his gaze softened with a hint of something taunting. “Oh, didn’t I tell you not to wait for me?” He got rid off his t-shirt, only having his pyjama pants on when he climbed into bed next to you. He quickly engulfed you into a tight hug – warm and welcoming.

“Gosh, did I ever tell you how much I love your arms? They are like soft clouds”, you mumbled and snuggled into him. His bare chest vibrated against you as he laughed. “And your back, hmm, so strong, I can feel the muscles”, you continued, while your fingers caressed his back.

Before he could even say anything, you added some more. “And the way you smell. Hmmm.”

You could feel his body heating up, and it was exactly your intention. You keep him distracted from his thoughts and to let him know how amazing he actually was. You combed your fingers through his hair, gently pulling on it. “And your hair is so soft, I love that new shampoo that you’re using . And-“

He was now full on laughing – from his whole chest. And it was the most beautiful sound ever. It was your favorite sound on his planet, in the whole galaxy.

“Okay, okay, if you keep continue doing this, I am going to combust from embarrassment”, he chuckled and you were satisfied with his reaction for now. “Ok, I am done for tonight, but I will keep reminding you how amazing you are. Now go to sleep and don’t you dare to get up before noon. You should get a normal amount of sleep this night”, you mumbled with your eyes closed.

The second the apartment door shut behind you silence wrapped around you immediately. It was warm, dark and quiet.

You exhaled quietly, slipping your shoes off near the entrance before rubbing both hands over your face. You slowly entered the bedroom on your tiptoes to look after Bin, but you found the bed untouched – as if no one had ever laid in it.

You furrowed your eyebrows, wondering where he went off to. You left the bedroom, when you noticed the faint glow slipping through the curtains near the balcony door. You paused. The apartment heater hummed softly somewhere behind you while cold blue city light spilled across the floorboards ahead.

Then you walked toward it, without making any noise. And there he was.

Changbin sat outside on the balcony wrapped in a dark hoodie and one of the thicker blankets from the couch, elbows resting on his knees while the city stretched endlessly below him. His phone rested facedown beside him untouched.

He didn’t move much when you stepped closer. Just turned his head slightly at the sound of the balcony door opening. When he laid his eyes on you, his expression softened immediately.

“Hey”, he said quietly. The wind pushed cold air against your skin and you folded your arms instinctively. “Why are you sitting out here?”, you asked sleepily.

Changbin glanced back toward the skyline. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten slightly. He looked exhausted. The kind of exhaustion no sleep could fix.

“Any particular reason?” you asked quietly and he glanced at you. Without sayong another word he raised his hand toward you, signaling you to come closer. You did. His hand wrapped around yours, quickly pulling you on his lap and wrapping the blanket around you as well in the process. It happened so fast, you could barely register what just happened.

“You’re going to freeze”, he whispered, ignoring your initial question. You knew he didn’t want to talk about it, so you decided not to push him and just be there for him. Whatever occupied his mind, you would try to distract him from it.

You leaned back into him and felt immediately warmer, as a tired sigh escaped you. “My feet are officially never recovering from tonight”, you muttered.

You could feel him smile against your neck as he tightened his grip around you. “Bad party?”

“Not bad. Just too many people. I was slightly overstimulated.”

He hummed quietly, pressing his cheek against your shoulder. “You ok now?”

You nodded lazily against him. “Now that I am here, yeah.” That answer seemed to relax him a little. You rested your head against his shoulder and closed your eyes briefly. Changbin’s hoodie smelled just like him. Familiar. Comforting. Your almost could’ve fallen asleep right there if not for the tension still lingering in his body.

His leg bounced faintly beneath the blanket and his fingers tapped absentminded rhythms against your hip.

You noticed everything. Changbin always underestimated how obvious his exhaustion became around you.

“You’re been sitting out here long?”, you asked softly.

“A while.”

“How long is a while?”

He let out a quiet breath through his nose.

“Since midnight maybe.”

Your eyes opened immediately. “Bin.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” You turned slightly on his lap to look at him properly. “When was the last time you actually slept more than five hours?”, you asked carefully. Changbin looked away almost instantly. “That’s not important.”

“That means you know the answer.”

A small smile pulled weakly at his lips, but it disappeared just as quickly. You studied him for a moment, before nuzzling your nose into his shoulder, engulfing him into a proper hug. His hands wandered around your back, pulling you closer. “Binnie, you’re exhausted”, you concluded lowly against his skin.

“I’m okay, baby”, he whispered weakly. “You always say that when you’re not okay.”

That made his shoulders tense slightly beneath your hands. The wind curled colder around the balcony and instinctively Changbin pulled the blanket higher around both of you. “You should go inside”, he murmured. “You’re cold and tired.”

“So are you.”

“I’ll sleep eventually.”

You stayed quiet for a moment before speaking again. “Did something happen today?”

He hesitated. Too long.

“Not really.”

“You’re such a terrible liar.”

That earned the faintest huff of laughter from him. “Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.”

The silence settled again afterward, but this time heavier. You could feel him thinking. Feel the tension sitting beneath his skin like he was trying to decide whether to say something or bury it again. Eventually, quietly, he spoke.

“I saw something online earlier”, he admitted quietly. You waited. He swallowed once before continuing.

“There were clips from some rookie group going around.” Your brows furrowed slightly, not fully understanding yet. “They’re good”, he said quickly. “Like really good.”

You stayed silent, sending there was more. He laughed quietly under his breath. “Everyone was talking about how they’re the future.” The way he said future made something twist painfully inside your chest. “Bin-“

“I know how stupid it sounds.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does”, he muttered. “I’m a grown man sitting on a balcony at 3AM because younger idols are talented.”

“That’s not why you’re upset.”

Silence.

“I think I’m scared people will move on eventually.”

The vulnerability in his voice nearly broke your heart. You stared at him for a second. “Move on?”

He nodded.

“New groups debut every year. New music. New trends. New people to pay attention to.” His jaw tightened slightly. “What if one day I’m just … not needed anymore?”

You could feel how ashamed he was for even admitting it out loud. Changbin laughed softly afterward, but there wasn’t anything amused about it. “I know how it sounds.”

“No”, you whispered gently. “I think that sounds lonely.” That made his expression falter slightly. He leaned his head back against the chair behind him with a tired sigh. “I’ve spent so much of my life trying to keep up”, he admitted quietly. “Trying to work harder. Be better. Improve more. Be the best version of myself.”

His fingers tightened unconsciously around the blanket wrapped around both of you.

“And later it feels like no matter how much I do, there’s always someone newer, younger and better.”

“Bin-“

“I know they deserve success too”, he interrupted softly. “That’s not the problem.”

His voice lowered further. “I just don’t know who I am if people stop needing me someday.” Something about his words shattered something inside of you. Because suddenly everything made sense.

The constant schedules. The inability to rest. The exhaustion he wore like armor. He wasn’t just scared of failure. He was terrified of becoming replaceable.

“You really think the people who love you only stay because of what you provide for them?”, you asked softly. He looked away instantly.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“But it’s what you fear.”

His throat bobbed slightly before he admitted. “Maybe.”

The word came out barely audible. And somehow that hurt more than anything else. You lifted your hand slowly, brushing your fingers gently against his cheek. “Seo Changbin”, you whispered carefully, waiting until he looked at you again. “You’re not replaceable.”

Something in his expression cracked slightly at that.

You continued softly: “Your music is not replaceable. Your voice is not replaceable. The way you care about people is not replaceable. You as a person are not replaceable.”

His gaze dropped for a second. “You say that because you love me.”

“I say that because it’s the truth. And yeah I love you too, but that’s not the point now.”

He stared down at his hands resting against your waist. “I think I forgot how to separate who I am from what I do”, he admitted quietly.

“That’s not your fault.” You brushed your fingers through his hair softly, feeling him relax slightly beneath your touch. “You know what I think?”, you murmured.

“What?”

“I think you’ve spent to long trying to stay needed that you forgot people already love you without conditions.” His eyes flickered slightly. “You don’t have to constantly prove why you deserve space in people’s lives.”

He looked at you quietly after that, digesting your words.

“You know what scares me the most?”, he asked suddenly. You shook your head slightly.

“That one day people will stop looking for me.” The confession landed softly between you.

You moved one of your hands to rest against his chest beneath the hoodie. He flinched at the contact with your cold hand, but nevertheless his eyes stayed glued to your face. His heartbeat felt fast and restless.

“Do you know what happens when people truly love someone?”, you asked quietly. Now his one of his hand found yours underneath his hoodie, warming the cold skin.

“What?”

“They grow with them.” His brows furrowed faintly.

“People aren’t standing beside you because you’re trendy”, you whispered. “They stay because of who you are.”

The city lights reflected in his eyes as he listened silently. “You’ve made people feel understood”, you continued softly. “Comforted. Safe. That doesn’t disappear just because time passes.”

He looked visibly emotional now in a way he was trying hard to hide. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not easy.”

Your hand drew reassuring circles on his skin, almost absentminded.

“I think I’m tired of feeling like I always have to fight to stay relevant”, he added quietly and the honesty in his voice shattered you. You wrapped your arms around him tighter immediately. “You shouldn’t have to warn your worth every single day”, you whispered. His face buried briefly against your shoulder and you felt him exhale shakily.

“I don’t know how to stop thinking like this.”

“You don’t have to fix it overnight.”

The city glowed endlessly beneath you – alive, restless. But up here, hidden away from it all, Changbin finally looked tired enough to let himself be honest.

“You know my favorite thing about you?”, you asked softly after a while.

He lifted his head slightly. “What?”

“The way you care. Your laugh. The way you always manage to make me laugh. The way you make sure everyone around you is ok. Your talent. Your creativity.  Your patience. Everything.”

You brushed your forehead gently against his. “You care about people so deeply that sometimes you forget you deserve the same kind of care too.”

He stared at you quietly. “You really don’t think I am not replaceable?”, he asked softly. Your heart nearly broke at how genuine the question sounded. You cupped his face carefully in your hands. “Never. You’re one in a trillion.”

His eyes closed briefly at your words. And for the first time all night, the tension in his shoulders finally eased. Not completely, but enough.

“I love you so freaking much”, he whispered weakly, nuzzling his nose against your throat, making you chuckle. You stayed like this for a while. Minutes passed in silence, where you didn’t say anything. But words weren’t needed in that moment. The only thing that mattered was that you were by each other’s sides, holding each other. Letting the other know they were not alone.

Your face fell into his neck and your body grew heavier. Both of your breaths seemed to be in sync – slow and peaceful. You felt him turning his face to yours and press his lips on your temple. “My tired baby”, he cooed and got up on his feet, carrying you carefully in his arms.

“I cn wak”, you murmured.

“What?”

“I can walk”, you mumbled again and he laughed quietly, while carrying you inside the warmth of the living room. “I know you can, baby. But let me take care of you”, he replied and carried you into the bathroom.

Seating you gentle onto the edge of the bathtub, which you barely processed because your eyelids were about to shut fully, he reached for the cabinet with your facial cleanser.

“What are you doing?”, you asked sleep drunk, gripping the edge of the bathtub tightly to not fall in. He grabbed the item he was looking for and knelt in front of you, applying the content on your face. “Removing your make up, before bringing you to bed”, he whispered, fully concentrated on his doing.

You couldn’t help but start smiling. “You’re the most amazing boyfriend ever, do you know that?”, you mumbled and leaned a bit forward, to give him an easier access to your skin. He chuckled lowly. He took a cotton pad and gently removed the eyeshadow and mascara.

Eventually he grabbed your moisturizer and applied it to your face. “I’d need your help with brushing your teeth”, he laughed and you opened your eyes again, seeing his frame blurred for a second before coming back to normal.

“What?”, you mumbled, almost falling into his arms. “Oh, baby”, he cooed and helped you up to the sink. “We’re almost done”, he added softly and you came back to your senses, while reaching for your toothbrush and toothpaste. You grumbled quietly and started brushing your teeth in slow circles.

You could see Bin standing behind you in the mirror and leaned back only to be held by him. It was quiet except for the sound of the brushing and you noticed that your movements started to slow down again.

He laughed again and gently grabbed your hand holding the brush and started helping you to move the brush. “Just like that. In slow circles.” After a while you bent over, spitting the paste into the sink and washed out your mouth.

“Good job”, he praised you and took your hand, guiding you to your bedroom. The lights were dim, almost warm. “Think you can manage to get dressed yourself or are you going to fall asleep mid getting changed?”, he joked with a warm smile.

You nodded tiredly, grabbing your pyjamas while he turned around, respecting your privacy. You shook your head in amusement and changed into your pyjamas on your own and climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up around yourself.

“You can turn around now. Even though there is nothing you haven’t already seen”, you chuckled. His ears turned red, while he turned around and sat down on the edge of the bed next to you. “I am just trying to be a gentleman”, he claimed and you smiled in satisfaction. He shot a smile to you, while he grabbed your hand, softly squeezing it. “Now go to sleep, you look exhausted”, he whispered and you squeezed his hand back.

“So should you”, you said, turning to your side to look at him properly. “Think you can sleep now? Will you give it a try?”, you added and he nodded. “Yeah, I am going to brush my teeth and get changed and then go to bed.”

“Okay, I will wait for you”, you said, but he was quick to shake his head. “No way, you should rest now. I promise I will be with you shortly. Now go to sleep, okay?”, he leaned down and pressed his lips on your forehead. You didn’t fight back, but you knew you would wait for him, because you wanted to make sure that he was really going to sleep tonight. Even if you had to fight sleep.

You watched him leave the bedroom and laid there in silence. You could barely hear the water running in the bathroom, probably coming from the sink. It got harder and harder to keep your eyes open, but you were determined. You didn’t know how many minutes had passed, when the door to the bedroom opened again and you could hear his soft footsteps tapping against the wooden floor.

When he saw that you were still awake, his gaze softened with a hint of something taunting. “Oh, didn’t I tell you not to wait for me?” He got rid off his t-shirt, only having his pyjama pants on when he climbed into bed next to you. He quickly engulfed you into a tight hug – warm and welcoming.

“Gosh, did I ever tell you how much I love your arms? They are like soft clouds”, you mumbled and snuggled into him. His bare chest vibrated against you as he laughed. “And your back, hmm, so strong, I can feel the muscles”, you continued, while your fingers caressed his back.

Before he could even say anything, you added some more. “And the way you smell. Hmmm.”

You could feel his body heating up, and it was exactly your intention. You keep him distracted from his thoughts and to let him know how amazing he actually was. You combed your fingers through his hair, gently pulling on it. “And your hair is so soft, I love that new shampoo that you’re using . And-“

He was now full on laughing – from his whole chest. And it was the most beautiful sound ever. It was your favorite sound on his planet, in the whole galaxy.

“Okay, okay, if you keep continue doing this, I am going to combust from embarrassment”, he chuckled and you were satisfied with his reaction for now. “Ok, I am done for tonight, but I will keep reminding you how amazing you are. Now go to sleep and don’t you dare to get up before noon. You should get a normal amount of sleep this night”, you mumbled with your eyes closed.