SYNOPSIS: You and Mingi have been friends since the time your brain first learned to hold on to memories. An inseparable pair born from a bitter feud over a mango flavoured juice box. You shared everything. Did everything together. You even got matching haircuts once. Proper bros through and through. It’s been eight years since Mingi last saw you. He expected you’d be taller. Maybe a little broader. Or maybe you’d finally stop dressing like you lost a bet to Winnie the Pooh. Change was only natural, after all. But what he didn't expect was this...were you always this pretty of a guy?
WORD COUNT: 3.4k
TAGS: @decaffeinatedmom01 @bluberrymuffinn
At age four, you swore Mingi would be your lifelong nemesis.
Mainly because he stole the only pack of Mango juice left on the round table during kindergarten.
Everyone else got the flavours they wanted.
Except you.
He deprived you of that.
How dare he.
And you even remember him shoving it in your face, slowly sipping his mango juice-box whilst you were stuck with orange.
Plain, old, boring orange.
You remember tackling him to the ground not long after, but that was the extent of your memory for that day.
Then, at age eleven, you realised that Mingi was a helpless idiot.
This was after you had already somehow managed to build a strong enough friendship where the both of you would refrain from killing each other purely based on stolen juice-boxes and instincts.
“Hey! Go away! LEAVE HIM ALONEEEE!”
Little feet hurried over with manic flailing arms. A tiny you jumped to the rescue at the piglet squeal of your best friend.
“Ugh! Great. It's this weirdo, again. Let's get out of here before—”
It all happened so fast.
You taking flight.
The main bully's eyes widening in fear.
Your smoothly connected shoe against his stupidly dumbfounded face.
With a pained grunt, the bully tumbled on the ground, hand clasping his jaw as streaks of tears began to trail down his cheeks.
“You better stay away from him! OR I'LL—”
Your small fingers signalled a knife to your throat before pointing towards them menacingly.
With a dirty glare, the bullies gathered themselves before making their stumbling escape.
“That's right! Run away you COWARDS!”
You stood tall and proud in your little dungarees and brightly spotted Iron-Man shirt, hands resting comfortably on your hip like some off-brand superhero.
Soft sniffles broke your concentration.
A curled-up Mingi was left cuddling himself on the ground. His clothes tattered, skin dirtied, and a growing bruise on his forehead.
Finally taking in his sight, you gasped, running towards him like a dramatic heroine.
“Mingi! Can you hear me? MINGI DON'T LEAVE ME! DON'T Do tHiS TO mE! NOOO—”
“SHUT UP YOU IDIOT! YOU'RE GOING TO MAKE ME GO DEAF!”
You immediately shut your mouth.
“Ha...” A frustrated sigh. “Those cheaters ambushed me. I was totally going to win if it was one on one like we originally agreed.”
You blinked.
“You agreed to fight those bums?”
He stayed silent. Nothing but a stupidly proud smirk to his lips.
Well. Turns out he proposed the fight.
Huh.
“But you're weak as hell—OW!”
He threw a punch to your shoulder and shot you a soft glare.
“Sheesh...” you pouted, massaging your arm. “I didn't even lie though.”
“I wanted to prove myself without you butting in!” He stood up, his height just about the same size as you.
“Yeah, well...well you should've won then!”
“I was going to do that before you came flying in like Columbus!”
“Columbus doesn't fly! He was an architect or something, so you got that wrong!”
“WHATEVER! My point is—”
You watched his chest rise and fall as he threw his hands up in the air, his pent up frustration spilling out all at once.
“I wanted to win that fight. I wanted to be strong...like you. I wanted to be able to jump in and help you, one day.”
Your breaths slowed at his words.
“And you ruined that.”
“What, you wanted me to leave you there and watch you get beat up like a loser?”
“Maybe!”
“I hate you!”
“I HATE YOU MORE!”
You both shared an ice cream after that. Completely forgetting the harsh words you spewed towards each other.
At age fourteen, you noticed that Mingi was starting to grow a smidge taller than you.
You also noticed that he was far too up-his-own-ass to notice the bare minimum.
Like, the bare minimum.
“And then Betsy, you know, the pretty one, called me over and said she likes my highlights. I think she's totally into me."
You snorted.
He raised a brow. “Woah, what's with the reaction? Just because you're Mr. Popular with the girls doesn't mean I don't get my fair share of attention!”
Your footsteps halted. Pursing your lips in thought, you replayed his comment, bathing further in your ego.
“Wait... I'm popular with the girls?” You questioned, loosening the grip of your collar whilst sending a lazy smile to one of your passing female classmates.
She blushed within seconds and took off running after a shy wave of the hand.
“Wipe that stupid smirk off your face before I do it for you.”
You obliged.
“Anyway, I'm not interested in the girls.” You nudged him gently, making sure to keep eye contact as you said so.
“You aren't? Well then tell them to come my way. I think it'd be the world's greatest man with just a fraction of your—”
“You're hopeless.”
“Hey! Where did that come from? What did I do?!”
You pulled him off to the side, his back hitting the wall. Your hands held his shoulders in place as you inched your face closer to his.
You gazed deep into his eyes.
“Mingi. Look at me. Really look at me. Don't you get it? Haven't you noticed?”
An owlish blink.
Then his lips started.
“Do you...”
His ears began to redden at the intensity of your stare. Mouth suddenly feeling dry.
Up close you were more...soft-looking(?) than he thought. No wonder you were popular with the girls. Heck, he'd probably have fallen for you too, in different circumstances.
He cleared his throat, trying again.
“Are you—”
Your eyes shamelessly followed his lips.
...Yes.
“Maybe...”
Your eyes widened with hope.
...Yes!
“Did you get a new haircut or something?”
...
What.
Closing your eyes, you patted his arm twice, before walking off wordlessly, leaving a clueless Mingi behind.
“Wait! I'm sorry, come back! If it's not your hair then...did you forget to shower or something? You wore your boxers inside out? WHAT IS IT?!”
Just a few years later, around age sixteen, you realised your feelings for Mingi were probably one-sided.
It was also the year your family decided to move away.
You had told him during your routinely hang out session after school.
The park was too crowded, so you both opted to visit your home instead.
He was hanging upside-down on your bed, scrolling through his phone when your voice spoke up.
“What would you do if I had to move away?”
He nearly fell off the bed.
“What do you mean, what would I do, obviously I'd move with you.” He struggled to reposition himself and after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, he lay flat on your bed instead and looked at you.
“What's with the sudden question, anyway?”
Your silence suddenly felt off.
“No reason. Just curious—”
“Liar.”
You flinched at how fast he caught you out.
He was always good at that. Knowing when you were lying. For such an idiot, he was surprisingly perceptive, at times.
“Why did you really ask?”
You mindlessly looked around your plain room.
You wanted to avoid answering that question so bad.
“You're leaving. Aren't you.” He said it like a definite statement. Like he could see through you.
The silence in the room grew suffocating.
“I mean...define 'leaving'” you tried to joke, but neither of you laughed.
Mingi stayed quiet for a long time. Something you weren't used to from him.
Then, he slowly got up from your bed, and walked out of your room.
That was the last time you physically saw him.
He had called you up, a few days later. Spurred by your absence from school and the guilt gnawing at his stomach from his immature behaviour that day.
He asked whether it'd be okay to see you again.
You know. To apologise. Face to face.
But it was too late.
You were already gone.
You didn't know, but he already knew that.
His phone hung loosely in his arm as he stood in front of your family home. Your voice on the other end.
“I'm sorry.” You had said. And for a split second Mingi's frustrated resentment from the other day came bubbling up all over again.
He was mad at you.
For leaving him in such a short notice. For getting his hopes up for years, thinking you'd always be together.
His eyes stared past the glass windows of the house, blankly looking into the empty property.
He was mad at himself.
For never growing strong enough to be honest with you. For never fully appreciating the time he had with you. For feeling mad at you even though he knew it wasn't your fault.
His fingers rose to ring the bell.
The bell he had been pointlessly ringing for the past two hours.
Even if he knew no one would answer.
Just because.
Maybe. Just maybe... you'd magically appear behind the door and say that it was all a stupid joke.
But you never showed up.
The silence dragged on for another minute.
“It's okay.” He said.
Calmly.
Accepting.
Broken.
His best friend. The only person that truly knew him through and through.
The person he had started to unmistakably grow feelings for despite trying so hard to ignore them for so long.
“It's okay.” He repeated, more so to himself.
His head hung low as he rested it against the wooden door to your past home. Tiny droplets slowly decorated the top of his school shoes.
His shoulders shook silently.
And that was the last time Mingi had spoken to you.
And then came the day where he heard your name being mentioned.
Eight years later.
At a random paint-balling event where he was trying his hardest to live his 'best life' because Wooyoung wouldn't stop pestering him about making his twenties “worth it.”
Whatever that meant.
At first he thought he was hearing things. But then it got repeated again and he was convinced it might've just been another person with the same name.
“Are you even listening to me?” Yunho raised a questioning brow his way.
“Huh?”
“I said, we need to move in close, otherwise we'll never eliminate them.”
“Oh.” Was all Mingi could say.
He didn't even want to be here in the first place, so his lack of enthusiasm wasn't too surprising.
“Right. At my count, you move to the left, and I'll move to the right.”
The tall male just shrugged.
“Sure.”
Holding his gun in a way that was too serious for paint-ball, Yunho signalled his count, quickly crouching and making his run to his designated direction.
Mingi followed at half his speed, splitting off to the left, as discussed. Sighing, he checked the magazine of his gun, getting ready to aim at the person that hid behind the bush, around twenty metres away from him.
“I could be playing on my pc right now.”
A swift movement caught his eye.
The person behind the bush had changed cover.
Great. Now he actually had to play the game seriously.
Keeping his gun close, he quietly neared his target.
He was now just on the other side of the bush.
He got his gun ready.
Aimed.
And—
“OW! Mother fu—”
“Nyahahaha! I win!” The stranger continued shooting a tremendous waterfall of bullets, completely ignoring Mingi's pained laments.
“Hey! Cut it out, you psycho!”
The shooting only ceased due to the person's magazine running empty.
And as the freshly labelled "psycho" that they were, they continued to pull the trigger regardless. The constant subtle clicks of the gun filling in the silence.
“Gosh, this is why I didn't want to come in the first place.” A grumpy Mingi rose from his position, standing tall in front of the other stranger.
Without much thought, he removed his helmet and shades, carelessly tossing them on the ground as he tousled his hair in mild irritation.
For once, the clicking to the gun stopped.
At the uncharacteristic silence, Mingi lifted his gaze to meet the stranger's. Their helmet was clearly too big for them, shades hiding the majority of their face.
He lazily took one long look up and down, then started walking back towards where he knew Yunho would be.
“Woah, hey. Wait!”
“No.” Mingi said without even turning back.
A confused sound left the stranger.
“Huh?”
“Whatever you want to ask, I refuse it.”
A beat of silence. Then the stranger spoke up.
“Ayo, what a fricking weirdo.”
Mingi felt one of his veins pop.
“Come again?” He growled under his breath, turning to stand face to face with the person.
He was already annoyed at the way his day was going. He didn't need another catalyst riling him up right now.
“I said,” the stranger started, beginning to remove their own gear. First the helmet, then the shades.
You ruffled your sweaty hair, then stared straight at him with no particular emotion.
“You've become a weirdo.”
Stupefied.
That's what Mingi looked like.
With wide eyes and a hanging jaw, he stared at you endlessly.
Meanwhile, you stared back, the smallest spec of surprise behind your casual gaze.
“Dang. You don't look happy to see m—”
You were engulfed in a hug before you could even finish your sentence.
Warm arms squished you tightly, reluctant to let go.
“Actually, wait.” You were pulled back. “Why do you look like that?”
You deadpanned.
“Like what, Mingi.”
His heart did a flip.
Woah.
Did you always say his name so smoothly?
Mingi cleared his throat, nudging his jaw towards you like some sort of secret code.
“You know.”
You wordlessly blinked at him.
“...Like that.”
Pretty.
Were you always this pretty of a guy?
And why were you so...normal sized?
Soft, even.
He half expected you to resemble Dwayne Johnson by now. Especially with the way you were down to fight just about anyone, when you were younger.
And your hair.
He gasped.
Your face!
“Dude...”
A quiet pause.
“You look like a girl.”
You genuinely hit the hardest facepalm you've ever hit in your entire life.
Lord have mercy.
For a moment, you stood there, hand still on your face whilst Mingi watched you with conflicting emotions.
“I—” You started in disbelief. “I genuinely don't even know what to say.”
“Yeah, no. Me neither.”
You refrained from punching him in the mouth.
“Mingi. It's been eight years...”
“Yeah,” he nodded.
“And that's the first thing you say to me? ...Are you dumb?”
“Oh! I didn't mean it in a bad way. I just meant you look...” he appeared troubled, searching for the right word to say until—
“Pretty.”
You froze.
“Like, really pretty. I'm not even sure if that's the way I should be saying it but... that's how I feel so.” His dark orbs followed the way your expression buffered.
“Oh! Funny thing, actually—I mean, we have a lot of catching up to do—but before that, I wanted to tell you real quick—”
You came back to your senses at his yapping.
“Spit it out, Mings.”
His face sprouted in a bright blush at the familiar nickname.
“I like you.”
Silence.
Oh.
Oh?!
You opened your mouth to say something but he urgently interrupted you.
“I mean, I liked you. Back then, you know. I know you might not be into that kinda thing— I don't even know if I am, but I just wanted to let you know because I mean—oh, actually now that I think about it, that was dumb of me, forget what I sa—”
“MINGI! Shut the hell UP for a second, DAMN!”
His lips quickly straightened into a thin line.
Well, at least you knew he was still a yapper. That didn't change despite it nearly being a decade later.
“First of all. I am NOT a guy. I have no idea how this much time has passed and you genuinely didn't notice that.”
His brain stopped working.
“You didn't think it was weird that I wouldn't go to the toilet with you? Or that I'd have to use separate changing rooms to you?”
His eyes were practically hazed over at your revelation.
You sighed.
“And second, yeah, I liked you too. But you never even made it seem like you liked me back, and now I'm mad because you deprived me of my cliché teenage romance era.”
Your face grew red the more you spoke.
Both out of disbelief at the audacity of this guy truly going this long without realising the obvious, and at the fact that you were embarrassed to admit you liked him back then. Especially since it had been so long ago.
Mingi, the poor guy, was still stuck on the brand new information that you were, in fact, not just a suspiciously female-looking male.
“Wait...so I'm not gay?”
“Is that seriously all you took away from this?”
He didn't answer you.
“And considering you liked me despite thinking I was a guy, I'd double-check that claim.”
“Wait...” he continued, his selective hearing once again being triggered.
“You liked me back?”
You stood there quietly, watching this big, six foot, broad-shouldered dumbass try to get his thoughts into a coherent timeline.
After a while, you simply said.
“You make me want to cry.”
And started to walk off to where you hoped your game partner was likely waiting for you.
Of course, much like old times, Mingi tailed you like a lost puppy, assaulting you with a barrage of unanswered questions he'd been marinating for eight years.
Why did you leave so suddenly?
Where did you go?
Why did your contact change?
And most importantly: Did you still like him now?
Because he liked you.
He never stopped liking you.
Never stopped thinking about you.
He practically went through life on auto-pilot after you left.
But now you were back.
Would you leave like last time?
Would you tear him apart and isolate his feelings again?
Would you like him back?
“I can hear your yearning thoughts. Stop that.”
“Oh.” He gave a very slow blink. “My bad.”
You were both back at the main centre.
Someway, somehow, both your partners were still having probably the most intense battle of paint-ball known to man.
“So,” he started, repeatedly stealing glances your way. “Hypothetically speaking...”
You cocked your head towards him, watching him struggle to form a sentence. Your eyes naturally flitted to his lips.
He swallowed down harshly.
“Do you—no. Would you be open to explore our past feelings?”
Repeated blinking. Sweat pooling at his temples. A nervous smile.
You watched on without a word for what felt like minutes, to Mingi.
Then, finally.
“That depends on you.”
His arms languidly flew in the air, shrugging in false nonchalance.
“If you're that eager, who am I to refus—”
You pulled his collar towards you, swiftly connecting his lips to yours.
It didn't matter how many years passed, Song Mingi could never, and would never be able to sustain his cool demeanour around you.
He melted into the kiss like he had been starving for it. Lips moving in perfect sync to yours whilst following your lead.
As always.
His hand went to gently tilt your face. He deepened the kiss, softly melding against your touch. He was so ready to give you anything and everything. You just had to name it.
His joints grew weak as you put some distance between you, breaking the intimate moment after the shortest seconds Mingi has ever felt.
A brittle whimper slipped past his lips.
You raised an egotistical brow.
He furiously coughed, trying to play it off like nothing happened.
“Does that answer your question?” You spoke in a calm tone, eyes boring into his.
Sheepish, yet all the more shameless, Mingi gave you one of his signature smirks. His pearly white teeth matching perfectly with his goofy smile.
“I think I might need to revisit your answer. For research purposes—”
“—Oh. There you are.”
The two of you separated like you were contagious to one another.
A confused Yunho stood before you both. His eyes roamed to you, then slowly made their way to lock with Mingi's. He took one look at the state of both your faces, took a step back, and faced another direction.
“Erm...was I...interrupting something or?”
Another head popped up from behind Mingi's partner.
Your friend waved at you, looking like an Art Attack presentation.
“We lost.”
You awkwardly sent a thumbs up, trying to hide your plumped lip.
“Well... if you're done here, we can go?”
Angling his face to the both of you, Yunho's eyes waited on Mingi, who was furiously crossing his legs and nodding like an automated Christmas toy.
He hurried over to you, stole your phone from your back pocket, punched in his details and promptly bolted out the door in search for a safeplace.
Well then.
Your eyes fell to your phone screen.
'Mings >:3 ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️'
You had to hold back your laugh, because what the hell was that? Who needs that many hearts in a contact name?
“What's with the grin?” your friend materialised next to you, shoulder-bumping you gently.
You immediately straightened your face.
“What grin?”
“...You're joking.”
“No, seriously. What grin?” Having paid for your experience, you walked back to your car with your friend in tow, still playfully arguing.
A stupid grin on your face.
And a new stupid contact that you were sure to never let go of again.
At today years old, you finally realised that you'd long forgiven Song Mingi for stealing your mango juice box.
yall this is so fucking cute im in tears this is such a goooooooooooood awesome great amazing (spiderman) read for me who has been in reading drought recently im just yearning for some adorable romcoms like this please nerdy awkward silly cutie mingi is everythiiiinnngggg 😫 im gonna cry brb i need more of these two omfg
trigger warning: minors do not interact. sensitive content ahead, read at your own risk.
word count: 22,5k
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y/n:
hey, it's san, you already know that. okay, you know i'm bad at this, so i'm sorry in advance. there might be a right way to write this and i don't think i know it, but for you i'll try. please don't judge the handwriting too much. or the wording, or how short or long it is. i rewrote the first part four times and it still feels bad. anyway, i'm sorry, here's the letter. i guess i should start from the beginning, no? is that stupid? i don't know. [scribbled] the first time i saw you was in that class we both didn’t want to be in. i don’t even remember what the professor was saying, but i remember you. you were leaning over the desk, hand on your cheek, resting your head. i remember thinking you looked easy to be around. i don’t know why, but it did. this is embarrassing but i think i knew i wanted to marry you way earlier than i probably should have. i didn’t say it, obviously, that would've been creepy. i just knew you looked so so pretty and now that i know you, you became so beautiful. not that you weren't beautiful before being with me, you always were, i'm just saying from my perspective just how mesmerized you had me from the start, you know? you are just so smart, so creative, so diligent. [scribbled] it's like when you balance numbers and they finally add up the way they’re supposed to, that's what it kind of felt like, but in the romantic way. i'm sorry i'm not good at expressing my feelings and all that, you know that better than anyone else. but i want you to know that choosing you has never felt like a decision i had to force myself into. i want this more than anything, with you. we have this apartment now. it’s small and the walls are kind of thin and the kitchen light flickers sometimes, but it’s ours. i keep thinking about how this is the place where everything will start. mornings, dinners, normal days, hard days, all of it. and i like knowing you’ll be here at the end of the day. i like knowing i get to come home to you. i promise i’ll take care of you. i promise i’ll work hard. [scribbled] i know i don’t always say what i’m thinking, but i feel things even when i don’t show them right. does that make sense? well, [scribbled] i’m really proud to be your husband. that still feels strange to write, but in a good way. i hope we grow old together. i hope we don’t stop choosing each other, even when life gets busy or complicated. i hope you always know that you’re my favorite person in the world, even if i forget to say it out loud sometimes. i’ll always try to try, even if i’m bad.
i love you.
san
tucked beneath the neatly folded cashmere sweaters, exactly where you left it. lace covered box, meant for letters he had promised to fill with, yet a year and a half later, only the first one stood alone. you weren't angry, not even sad. it actually made you chuckle a little. just a quiet grief for what had been started to root deep inside, for the vibrant colors that had softened into pastels, for the soft reverence in his eyes that had slowly faded into habit. you often found yourself staring at the box, a wry smile touching your lips.
the paper, once crisp, now yielded to countless revisits. you knew every word by heart, the rhythm of his awkward sincerity etched into your memory. you traced the faded ink. his handwriting, usually neat in ledgers, was a little clumsy here. each letter formed with an almost painful deliberation. it was short, a simple promise. a quiet declaration of his intent to build a life with you, to be your home. no extreme pronouncements of undying passion, but a solid foundation of devotion. san had never been one for grand gestures, at least not in words. his love manifested in the certainty of his presence, the steady rhythm of his life intertwined with yours. in fact, you had asked for the letter in the first place, at that diner right before receiving the keys to the apartment.
"a letter?" he'd shifted on his seat, a blush creeping up his neck. "i'm not... good with words, y/n."
you shook your head with an endeared smile. "you don't have to be shakespeare sannie, just you."
he seemed in thought for a moment, trying to resist looking at your puppy eyes asking pretty please before straightening his back, accepting the challenge. and he did. pen clutched tight, brows furrowed in concentration. you’d watched him, your heart swelling with a love so potent it felt like a physical ache. then when he finished, he slid it across the booth table, eyes avoiding yours with his shy offering.
now, the paper, soft as old linen, whispered between your fingertips. you didn't rush. each sentence, each carefully chosen word, you read them slowly, precious memory reexperiencie. tasting the hope, the fresh promise of that day when he later bought you the box, saying he'd get better at it and you'd have it spilling out with his loving written words. you ran your fingers over the intricate patterns of the lace, delicate threads contrasting the hollow space.
you folded the letter along it's original creases, the paper folding easily, and placed it back before checking your thight bun in the mirror, perfect posture, every single hair placed where it was meant to be. he still looked at you, of course, but the spark, the raw wonder, had dimmed. it wasn't his fault. life had a way of sanding down the sharp edges of infatuation, leaving behind the smooth, enduring stone of work life.
silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant city chorus. you tell yourself he just forgot. got busy, or thought one was enough. you're good at explaining things away. but when did trying turn into remembering? when did the promise of a future become the past?
the aroma of roasted chicken and rosemary filled the air, a comforting scent that tonight told a solitary performance. table was set, candles unlit, everything waiting for a moment that kept getting delayed. the antique clock sat on the mantelpiece. seven thirty, again. you waited for the familiar click of keys in the lock, the sound that usually signaled the end of day and the beginning of us.
when he comes in your head lifts before you even realize. smoothing your dress automatically, fingers brushing over fabric that was never wrinkled in the first place. a small smile already forming, reserved for him. san already halfway out of his shoes, shoulders slumped, a dark suit jacket draped over his arm. he didn’t glance at the table set for two, but knows everything looks exactly as it always does.
"hey," his voice tired, worn down. like business of the city still clung to him.
"hi," you answer, softer.
he leans in, presses a quick kiss to your temple. familiar, practiced.
"sorry i’m late," he adds, already loosening his tie as you walked towards the dining table. "we had to redo part of the quarterly report because... how do i put this- there was a discrepancy in one of the ledgers, and it threw off the whole reconciliation process. so we had to go back and..."
pulling out his chair. the heavy oak scraped across the polished floor. he loosened his tie, then unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. "had to redo a section. whole damn thing.” he ran a hand through his hair, already tousled from the day. “hours. just… hours.”
you watched him, spooning roasted vegetables onto his plate. you pushed his plate closer, then sat across from him. "must be frustrating," you offered, a soft murmur.
he picked up his fork, turning the chicken over. "frustrating doesn’t begin to cover it. the whole team, scrambling. for a single misplaced figure." he took a bite, chewed slowly. "it’s done now. mostly."
he keeps talking about work, deadlines, numbers, something about a client. you listen, always do. you don't understand every word, but you understand him in the way he talks when he’s tired. the slight edge in his voice, the way he explains things like he’s still in the middle of solving them. it’s easier for him to talk about numbers than about how his day actually felt.
nods at the right moments. hums of acknowledgement. small "and then?" once in a while, just to keep him going.
"…where did those come from?" he signals behind you at the counter. a faint lift of an eyebrow. a hint of a smile, almost.
you glance back, even though you know exactly what he’s looking at. the vase sits neatly by the sink, filled with fresh flowers. soft colors, carefully arranged.
"oh," you say, turning back to him, a warmth creeping up your neck. "mrs. jones gave them to me. i brought her some brownies earlier."
he paused, fork halfway to his mouth and exhales a small breath through his nose in genuine bewilderment.
"y/n," he says, setting his fork down for a second, "you need to stop baking so much."
you blink at him. "why?"
"i don't know, it's just..." he gestures vaguely, like the answer should be obvious. "it's every day. there's always something new. brownies, cookies, that cake from yesterday. the whole building must be swimming in your desserts." he didn’t sound angry, just... resigned.
"i like baking," your voice still gentle, picking at a loose thread on the tablecloth
"i know, i know," he says quickly. "i'm just saying… it's a lot, isn't it?"
a small pause settles and you shrug, barely lifting your shoulders. "it keeps me busy."
he reached across the table, covering your hand with his. his palm was warm, calloused. "tell you what. how about i book you a day at that salon you like? the one on fifth street. hair. nails. the works. i can tell my sister to join you."
"what? am i starting to look like a hag?" you managed a weak laugh.
his grip tightened slightly. his eyes, usually so guarded, held yours with an intensity that surprised you. "you know that’s not what i meant." his voice was firm, no trace of humor.
the small joke withered and you nodded, slowly. "okay." you swallowed. "okay, that sounds... nice."
the candle flickered, casting dancing shadows across his face. he picked up his fork again, the brief moment of connection already fading.
later, the apartment settled into it's nightly quiet. you lay in bed, the soft glow of your reading lamp illuminating the pages of a novel you couldn't quite focus on. normal people by sally rooney, but the words blurred. beside you, san lay on his back, eyes fixed on the small screen in his hands. the blue light painted his face in stark contrasts. his thumb scrolled, scrolled, scrolled. numbers, probably. reports. another discrepancy.
you watched the subtle movements of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brow. he was so focused, so far away. still, you reached out, tentative touch to his forearm. his skin was warm beneath your fingers.
he didn’t stir, didn’t look up. his thumb kept scrolling.
you moved your hand, gently, up his arm, over his shoulder, until your fingers brushed the nape of his neck, then threaded into his hair. soft, dark strands. you leaned closer, your breath stirring the air near his ear.
a soft sound escaped him and it almost seemed like he was leaning into it. a yawn. deep, stretching. he lowered the phone, placing it face down on the nightstand. his eyes, heavy lidded, met yours. fleeting moment, again.
"long day," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. he gave you a quick short peck on your cheek then turned onto his side, facing away from you, the duvet pulled higher. "good night."
lamp clicked off. darkness enveloped the room, thick and immediate. you lay there, listening to the soft, even rhythm of his breathing, soon turning into soft snores. beside him but alone in the quiet. the book lay open, unread. words still blurred.
୨୧
acetone and something floral, both sharp and comforting. hum of dryers and low chatter fills the space, blending into a steady background noise that makes everything feel easy. normal.
you sat in the middle chair, hands resting neatly on the small cushion in front of you, fingers relaxed but still. a sigh escaping your lips before you could stop it. the manicurist, a young woman with a bright, knowing smile, took your hand, her touch cool and precise. she filed your nails into neat, elegant ovals. you picked a soft, clean color without much thought. something simple, safe, that goes with everything.
across from you, two of your friends leaned into each other, their overlapping voices a stream of gossip. too loud and uncaring. the others chime in, voices overlapping. one of them threw her head back, a peal of laughter echoing, the other one nodded, eyes wide with feigned shock. they talked about a mutual acquaintance’s recent engagement, the scandalous details of a breakup, the endless parade of societal expectations.
"he actually said that?"
"no, stop-"
"i'm serious, i swear-"
to your left, rhythmic snip of scissors. noeul, san's older sister listened quietly, sat under a cloud of foil, her head tilted back as a stylist worked through her dark hair. but her attention drifts back to you more often than not. she owned a warm, reassuring glint. offering a small, conspiratorial smile whenever you caught her gaze in the mirror, silent acknowledgment of the shared escape.
a few chairs down, a woman with kind eyes spoke in hushed tones to her stylist. "she just graduated middle school with the highest scores," her voice, thick with a mother’s proudness, drifted over.
the stylist hums a singing note. "you must be so proud."
"oh, more than that" the woman exhales. "she's even already thinking about what she wants to study after high school."
she spoke of her daughter, a girl she’d poured her heart into.
your fingers still for a second on the cushion. the stylist murmurs something gentle back, and the conversation folds into the background. but it lingers.
your gaze drifted from the woman’s satisfied face to the neat row of polish bottles, then to your own hands, at the careful brush of polish gliding over your nails. you imagined those hands, smaller, softer, reaching for yours. a child. a son, perhaps, with san’s dimples and your own tendency to blush when surprised. or a daughter, with san’s quiet strength and your expressive eyes. the thought bloomed in your mind like a fragile hothouse flower.
you try to picture it. years stacked quietly on top of each other. a child in your apartment. toys where there are now empty surfaces. noise where there is now silence. san, coming home from work. would he pick them up? would he be too tired? would he talk to them the way he talks to you now, half there, half somewhere else? or would it be different? the thought catches you off guard. unfamiliar.
because you've never talked about it. not seriously. not beyond passing comments, vague things people say because they’re supposed to. someday. eventually. no timelines, no plans, no want or don’t want laid out clearly between you.
you don't even know if he wants kids. and for a second, that realization feels heavier than it should. there’s a whole future on a limbo sitting out of reach. not because it’s impossible, but because it’s never been named.
"y/n? you’re miles away!" the brightness of your friend's voice cut through your reverie.
the other leans forward slightly, "how’s married life treating you?"
you don't look up right away, only tilting your hand slightly when the nail tech asks you to. a practiced tug at the corner of your lips masked the tremor beneath.
"it's good, really good." you offered, voice light and airy.
"ugh," someone groans playfully. "of course it is. you guys were always like... perfect for each other."
you let out a soft laugh. "thank you, emma."
"it is," the friend grins. "seriously though, what have you guys been up to lately? anything fun?"
there’s a pause. you glance up for just a second, like you're checking your memory for something recent, something worth telling. "not really," tone still light. "just... normal stuff."
"that's adorable," another friend says, laced with genuine admiration. "no drama or chaos. must be so peaceful to marry an office guy."
"yeah," you nod, smile a little wider. "exactly."
the conversation shifts easily after that, flowing like a meandering river to other topics, someone starts talking about a coworker, someone else about a trip they want to take, and you listen, add comments here and there, smile when you're supposed to. their voices rising and falling in a comfortable rhythm. you watched them, their easy camaraderie, the way they finished each other’s sentences, and a familiar pang of loneliness pierced through the carefully erected wall around your heart.
noeul’s voice, soft but firm, cut through the din. she leaned closer, her perceptive eyes, meeting yours.
"how’s he been?” she asks.
you turn slightly. "san?"
a small nod. "yeah."
your smile didn’t falter. it felt glued on now, a permanent fixture. "he’s good," you say. "just busy with work, you know how he is." the words came out a little too quickly, a little too smooth. you avoided her gaze, focusing instead on the manicurist applying the top coat, making sure each nail was perfectly glossy.
noeul scoffs and tilts her head. "i do." a faint, wry smile touched her lips. "you know, i’ve known my brother a long time. longer than you, even." she paused, letting her words hang in the air. "i know how he gets. when things pile up and he forgets the rest of the world exists."
for a second, the façade threatened to crack. the truth, the bitter, stinging sensation, rose in your throat. you wanted to confess, to unburden yourself, to say, he’s not here, noeul. even when he’s here, he’s not here. i’m so lonely. i feel like i’m drowning in this calm. but the words remained trapped. fearful of conflict, ingrained habit of presenting things softly. you forced a small, reassuring nod. "yeah, it's nothing." the lie tasted like ash.
she watches you for a second longer, like she’s weighing something, then hums lightly and looks away, letting the moment dissolve back into the room. as the conversation drifts away again, your gaze lowers, unfocused.
the manicurist finished, buffing your nails to a high shine. she applied a cuticle oil, the scent of almond and rose a delicate perfume. your hands, now impeccably groomed, felt foreign.
"all done, dear." she announced, her smile bright.
you lift your hands slightly, turning them under the light. they’re perfect. smooth, even, untouched.
"thank you," you say, smiling.
for a moment, you imagine asking him. should be simple. do you ever think about kids? it doesn’t feel like a big question. it's not.
and yet, you can’t picture the moment clearly. when you'd ask, how he’d answer, whether it would feel natural or out of place, like introducing a topic that doesn’t belong in the quiet shape of their life. so you let the thought go.
you reach for your phone absentmindedly. no new messages. thumb hovers over the screen for a second, like you might type something, then you lock it instead and set it back down.
"do you guys want to grab something after this?" a girls asks. "coffee?"
"perfect! i’m craving that new lavender latte."
"oh, i can't," you say quickly, forcing another regretful smile. "i really should head home. dinner, you know." you gestured vaguely, as if the very concept of an empty fridge was an urgent, looming threat.
"alright, wifey," someone teases.
you simply smile again in a thin line as you stand, smoothing down your dress out of instinct and reach for your bag. giving everyone a small goodbye hug. as you pass behind noeul, there’s a brief brush of hands, intentional to pause you.
"hey, if it’s ever not nothing," she says quietly, a hint of concern still lacing her words. "you can tell me."
you hold her gaze for a second. then you smile. soft, reassuring, effortless. "i know." and you mean it, you just don't use it.
blur of city sounds and hurried footste. you stepped out, the cool afternoon air a sharp contrast to the salon’s warmth. rose scented oil on your nails, faint blush of pink, it felt like a disguise. you walked, footsteps echoing on the pavement, toward the quiet of the apartment, toward the silent kitchen, toward the dinner you had to make. the thought of it, a weight in your stomach, settled in with the dull ache of loneliness. the calm awaited.
୨୧
the last of the suds swirled down the drain, taking with them the faint scent of tonight’s braised short ribs. you wiped down the counter, movements precise, methodical. the clinking of ceramic plates against the drying rack was the only sound in the kitchen. you dried your hands on a towel, folding it neatly over the edge of the sink when you're finished. dishes done, kitchen clean again.
san's in the living room, laptop open, the soft glow of the screen lighting his face. he's not typing much. just staring, scrolling, thinking. you paused at the archway, shoulder pressing lightly against the cool plaster. the conversation from the salon, a snippet of motherhood, rang in your mind. it had all been a gentle nudge, a question mark in the back of your thoughts all afternoon. you hadn't realized how much space the idea of a child, of your child, could occupy until that moment.
the future, once a vibrant tapestry you and san wove together with eager hands, now a blank canvas. you’d painted the college days in bright, bold strokes, the wedding vows in shimmering gold. but the years beyond, the ones stretching into a quiet domesticity, remained unsketched. you found yourself wondering if san even saw that canvas anymore, if he still held a brush.
you watched the muscles in his forearms flex as he began typing, the subtle ripple beneath his shirt. his dark hair, a little longer than you usually liked, fell across his forehead. he didn’t look up, his focus absolute, a tunnel vision you’d come to recognize.
"still have a lot to do?" you asked, your voice softer than you intended, a whisper against the keyboard’s clatter.
his fingers stilled for a beat, then resumed their pace. "almost," he murmured, eyes still fixed on the screen. "just finishing up these projections for the morning."
a breath, deep and slow, air cool in your lungs. you watch him for a second. the way his brows pull together slightly, the way his attention narrows into whatever’s on the screen. focused. distant. the question, the real question, the one that had been brewing since you left the salon, fell heavy on your tongue. it wasn't just about kids. it was about us. about the unspoken, the unasked, the growing chasm of silence. you wanted to ask if he ever thought about them, about a future that wasn’t neatly tied to quarterly reports and spreadsheets. you wanted to ask if he still saw you, really saw you, beyond the perfectly made bed and the carefully planned dinners. maybe, just maybe, this question could be the key, a small crack. it could lead to an actual conversation, a real one, not just about work or groceries or the weather. your heart beat a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
"hey," you start.
he hummed, signaling acknowledgement without breaking concentration. his head tilted slightly, silent invitation to continue.
do you ever think about kids?
words once so clear in your mind, so simple in your head, at least, suddenly tangled. they became a knot in your throat, a lump of unspoken fears and resentments. the image of him, so engrossed, so far away, solidified the doubt. what if he says no? what if he doesn’t want them? what if he thinks it’s a silly question? the fear of that disappointment in his eyes, was a known, suffocating weight. you’d spent years perfecting the art of soft landings, of avoiding any ripple in the calm surface of your shared life. to shatter that now, to introduce a potential disagreement, felt like a betrayal of your own carefully constructed peace. the question of children, of your future, of his love, dissolved into a vague, unformed anxiety.
"do you…" you began, then faltered, sentence dying on your lips. "do you want some tea?"
he looked up then, slanted brown eyes meeting yours, a faint smile touching his lips. the blue light softened the edges of his face, highlighting the dimples that appeared only when he was genuinely pleased. "yeah," he nodded. "sounds nice."
and just like that, the moment passed. the opportunity vanished. you offered a small, tight smile in return, then turned and walked back into the quiet kitchen, already reaching for the kettle. behind you, the quiet settles back into place. the question dissolves somewhere between the sink and the stove, blending into the rhythm of water filling, mugs being set out, something warm being made and offered instead of something uncertain being asked. by the time the kettle starts to hum, you can’t even tell if it would’ve been the right moment or if there would ever be one.
୨୧
the supermarket was colder than you'd expected when the automatic doors whispered open, spitting out artificial chill. paused just past the entrance, adjusting your grip on the heavy cart as the air settled unwelcome against your skin. for a moment, you just stood there, letting the quiet hum of refrigerators and distant chatter fill the space around you. a shiver traced it's way down your spine, cold reminder that you had to move, and so you pushed the metal basket forward as it's wheels squeaked faintly.
there was no reason to rush. you followed the aisles in a pattern you didn’t have to think about anymore. chicken first, hand reaching for the familiar white tray. then the vegetable section. flour, again. sugar, constant drain on the pantry, always seemed to run out faster than it should. everything found it's place in the cart without hesitation, each item chosen with the same steady certainty. each line on your shopping list crossed off with a decisive stroke of the pen. at some point, you realized you had already walked down the same aisle twice.
nothing missing, nothing forgotten. the necessities secured, a small indulgence felt earned. you slowed, then stopped altogether at the snack aisle. eyes drifted over the shelves, lingering on things you didn’t need. brightly colored packaging, a mental tally forming: which ones you wouldn't you buy, which ones would san wrinkle his nose at? the familiar ritual offered a brief, quiet comfort. you imagined his polite imperceptible nod of approval when you presented his favourite chocolate covered crispy biscuits, or the slight, teasing lift of his brow if you dared bring home something too exotic.
"y/n?" the voice came from behind, uncertain but enough to make you turn, the cart creaking in protest. you couldn’t place him until the crooked smile appeared and recognition settled in.
seonghwa.
he stood a few feet away, a half basket hooked over his arm. the boy you remembered, all sharp angles and adolescent angst, had softened around the edges, but the core was undeniably him. the piercings that once studded his ears and lip were gone, leaving only ghost like indentations. but new ink snaked up his forearms, dark tendrils against his skin, a testament to a life lived beyond high school hallways. his wolf cut, a shaggy, artfully dishevelled frame around his face, was longer, wilder than you remembered. his round eyes, still piercing, held a glint of surprise, then something else, something assessing.
"oh...hi," you said, a small, surprised smile breaking through. "wait, hi."
"wow, it's really you." he smiled back, a little wider, like he’d been more sure of it than you were. "i almost didn't recognize you. you... look good, exactly the same," he added, almost as an afterthought.
you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "that’s not true."
"it is," he said lightly. "just... older. in a good way."
you smiled again, more out of politeness this time, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as if to give your hands something to do.
"what are you doing around here?" he asked. "do you live nearby?"
"yeah," you nodded. "not too far. i just came to... groceries."
"right," he said, glancing at his own cart. "same."
there was a brief pause, the kind that should have felt awkward, but didn’t quite. not yet.
"so... are you still in touch with... what was her name? sarah? no- samantha?”
you smiled faintly. "no."
"right, yeah," he said quickly, waving it off with a small laugh. "i always mix those up."
you didn’t correct him. his gaze shifted then, catching on your left hand, lingering for a fraction on the thin band around your ring ringer. you followed his eyes, as if you hadn’t noticed it until that moment.
you offered a practiced smile, a smooth, well rehearsed performance. "oh, yeah. met him in college." the words came out light, airy, almost dismissive of the years of shared history, of the dreams whispered in dorm rooms, the silent promises.
"college, huh? that's nice," he said, and it sounded genuine.
"it is," you replied, too quickly. "his name is san, he's an accountant." the description felt flat, inadequate, a pale shadow of the man you loved.
"an accountant. fancy." he chuckled. "so, what have you been up to? still arguing about about freud versus jung for fun?"
"no, not really." you corrected gently. "i mean, i got a psychology degree but i'm… i'm a stay at home wife now." the phrase almost felt embarrassing on your tongue.
his eyebrow shot up. "huh... i always pictured you, like, running a therapy practice, saving the world from going insane."
you shrugged. "well, it’s nice, though. i get to... manage the house. bake. plan meals. save him from going insane, you know?" the words hollow, even to your own ears.
"i bet san’s a lucky man. always coming home to fresh cookies." he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
small, tight knot formed in your stomach. you baked when you were anxious, yes. but san rarely came home early enough for the cookies to still be warm. and most of them, you gave away to the neighbours, offerings of surplus comfort. "something like that," you murmured, deflecting. "what about you? still making music?"
his face lit up, a genuine, unadulterated passion sparking in his eyes. the words lingered between you for a second before dissolving into something lighter. you talked after that. nothing important, nothing that would be remembered in detail later. work, vaguely. life, in broad strokes. the kind of conversation that filled space easily without asking too much of either of them. he asked questions and waited for the answers. reacted in the right places. kept things moving without letting them settle too long in any one place. you found yourself talking more than you expected to.
"a few of us get together sometimes," he said, almost casually. "nothing big. just... hanging out. you should come, we’re going to a friend's house next week. old times' sake."
you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because you did. your mind immediately conjured a mental checklist: the laundry basket overflowing in the utility room, the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun on the living room floor, the intricate dinner you had planned for san, a quiet attempt to reignite a spark that felt increasingly dim. the thought of all those small, domestic duties, waiting patiently for your attention, made a familiar pang of guilt twist in your gut.
"i don’t know," you said lightly, automatic refusal on your lips. "i might be busy."
"with what?" he asked curiously.
you searched for something immediate, something obvious.
"just… stuff," you said instead, smoothing it over with a small smile.
he nodded, accepting it without question.
"well," he added, "if you’re not, you’re welcome. it’d be nice to catch up properly. it’s good to break free sometimes and let loose, you know?"
a small yearning stirred within you. the idea of an afternoon free from chores, from the quiet hum of your own thoughts, from the subtle ache of loneliness, held an unexpected appeal. "okay," you said, the word simple.
"yeah?" his eyes amused.
"yeah."
you exchanged numbers. nothing ceremonious about it, a small addition, barely noticeable in the moment. "well, it was good running into you, y/n. don’t be a stranger." he offered a quick, easy smile, then turned, his basket still hooked over his arm, and disappeared down the aisle towards the dairy section.
that night, you work through the knots in your hair in front of the vanity mirror. each stroke of the brush pulls a small discomfort. the rush of water from the tap in the en suite bathroom ceases. the door creaks open and san emerged, a towel draped low around his waist. water still clings to the dark hairs on his chest, glistening under the low light. he moves with a quiet efficiency, his broad shoulders filling the doorway for a moment before he crosses to his side of the bed, carrying the clean scent of his soap. he doesn’t look at you, not directly, as he peels the towel away, letting it drop to the floor. your gaze, however, finds the smooth expanse of his back, the hard lines of his muscles shifting as he reaches for the pajama drawer. you note the way his bicep flexes, the familiar curve of his neck, the slight slump of his shoulders that wasn’t there when you first met him.
you continue brushing, rhythmic scrape of bristles against scalp filling the silence. your heart a persistent bird, flutters.
"i ran into someone today," you say, your voice almost lost in the rustle of san pulling on a shirt.
a low hum sound from inside the fabric, he pulls the shirt down, smoothing it over his chest. he turns then, his eyes, dark and heavy lidded, finally finding yours in the mirror. a flicker of something unreadable passes through them before settling into a tired affection.
"at the market?" he asks as he pulls back the duvet on his side of the bed.
you nod, watching his reflection as he settles onto the mattress, propping himself up against the headboard. "an old friend. from high school." you pause, the brush still in your hand, it's bristles splayed. "apparently some of them still hang out, and i was invited."
the bed dips as he adjusts the pillows. "that’s good. you should go." his voice is calm, even. he picks up his phone from the nightstand, it's screen glowing blue for a moment before he sets it back down.
you turn fully then, the brush forgotten on the vanity. your bare feet touch the cool wood floor. "really? you don’t mind?" you walk to your side of the bed.
he looks up, his brows furrowed slightly. "why would i mind? it’s good for you to see people. you’re always here." his gaze sweeps around the room, then back to you. "you should get out more."
the words, meant to be reassuring, land with a surprising weight. always here. a small, sharp ache begins in your chest. you climb into bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin. the sheets, cool against your skin, feel vast tonight.
"i mean," you start, choosing your words carefully, "i haven’t seen them in years. since graduation, probably." you watch his face, searching for something, a hint of curiosity, a flicker of concern.
he just nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "people change. that’s okay. it’ll be nice to reconnect." he reaches over, his hand finding yours under the duvet. his fingers, warm and strong, intertwine with yours, a familiar comfort. "you’ve been cooped up. it’s good to have plans."
his thumb strokes the back of your hand, it’s a connection, yes, but one that feels practiced, automatic. you want to tell him more, to say, it was seonghwa, the boy with the emo hair, the one who used to draw skulls in his notebook during history class, but the words catch in your throat. the moment feels too delicate, too easily broken.
"i guess so," you murmur, your voice barely a whisper. you squeeze his hand, a silent plea for more, for him to ask, who was it? what did you talk about?
soft exhalation that sounds like relief escapes him. he leans over, his head dipping. his lips, warm and soft, brush your forehead, then your temple, then your mouth. it’s a brief, chaste kiss, a familiar closing to the day. his lips taste faintly of mint. he pulls back, settling deeper into his pillow.
"good night, y/n," he says, his voice already thick with sleep.
eyes closing and breathing deepening almost immediately. the rhythm of his breath fills the room, steady and even. his hand, still holding yours, loosens it's grip. fingers, heavy with sleep, slide away.
darkness pressed in as you layed there, the silence amplifying the quiet hum of the city outside. your eyes trace the familiar contours of his face in the dim light. his eyelashes, thick and dark, rest against his cheekbones. faint smile, ghost of a dream, plays on his lips. he looks peaceful, untroubled.
he hadn’t asked. he hadn’t asked anything beyond the most superficial. he hadn't asked who. he hadn't asked if you wanted to go. he just assumed.
you turn onto your side, facing away from him, pulling the duvet tighter around you. the warmth of the blankets does little to chase away the chill that has settled deep within you. still, you tried to push the thought away. it’s not fair. san is tired. he works hard. he provides. this is what you agreed to. this is the life you built. you chose this, to be here. for him. but the loneliness curls around your heart. the perfection of the bed you made this morning, the carefully planned dinner, the unspoken anxieties baked into the pastries you gave away, all of it feels like a silent scream swallowed by the vast, quiet expanse of your days.
tears won’t come even if the knot in you throat screams for a cry. instead, your mind drifts to the closet, to the neat rows of clothes, the perfectly folded sweaters. tomorrow, you think, you’ll reorganize the winter section. it needs it. you need it. a small, manageable task to fill the endless hours.
y/n choi: hi, it's y/n from the store. i think i'm free that day if the invite still stands
seonghwa park: hey!
seonghwa park: yeah of course 😉
seonghwa park: glad ur coming, heres the address
seonghwa park: [location]
୨୧
the building wasn't what you expected. grimy canvas of faded brick and peeling paint that slightly unnerved you. you pulled your phone from your pocket a third time, checked the address, then glanced up at the entrance like it might correct itself if you stayed waiting long enough.
no, this was it.
bass vibrated through the pavement, pulse beneath your feet. for a second, you consider leaving, then you adjust your grip on the small container in your hands and step inside. the hallway swallowed you whole, narrow canyon that smell suspiciously of gasoline. when you reach the graffiti painted door, it was already slightly open. you knocked anyway.
there's a small shuffle inside before seonghwa emerges, his grin a flash of white teeth.
"y/n! thought you weren't gonna make it." he stepped aside, his arm sweeping an invitation.
you offered a small, polite smile, stepping into the room. the air hit you first, thick with a cloying sweetness you couldn't recognize and the acrid bite of stale cigarettes. the apartment was a controlled chaos. art adorned every available surface, canvases leaning against walls, sketches tacked to corkboards, a half finished sculpture draped in cloth in a corner. the room swam with bodies. girls, their midriffs bare, navel piercings glinting under the strung fairy lights. men, their arms drawn with ink, sprawled on beanbags or perched on the worn, leather couches. they moved with an easy, unhurried rhythm, as if the space molded itself around their presence. your modest linen shirt, a soft ecru, felt suddenly like a costume, an ill fitting disguise.
"hey everyone, this is y/n, from high school." seonghwa’s voice cut through the haze, a casual announcement.
a few heads turned, a couple of languid nods, but most remained immersed in their conversations, their laughter echoing off the high ceilings. your gaze swept across the room, searching for a familiar face, a flicker of recognition. nothing.
"it’s... nice to meet you all," you murmured, voice a little too soft, a little too formal for the raucous atmosphere. you clutched the clear container in your hands, the weight of it suddenly grounding.
a girl with a constellation of tiny tattoos climbing her neck, her hair a violent shade of fuchsia, pointed a perfectly manicured finger at your hands. "what’s that?"
you felt a blush creep up your neck. "oh. cookies. i made them." you held the container out, a silent offering.
a woman with striking, dark eyes and a generous smile detached herself from a group near the window. she wore spiked hair and her eyebrows seemed to be gone, but her presence offered a quiet anchor. "cookies! how cute. anna, by the way." she extended a hand, her grip firm and warm.
"y/n." you returned her shake, a surge of relief washing over you.
"i didn't know this was a bake sale," a gravelly voice grumbled from a corner, followed by a snort.
anna turned, her dark eyes narrowing playfully at the fat guy with a mohawk. "shut up, mark. you never bring anything." she gave his arm a quick, sharp shove. despite his joke, he came up as well.
a fresh wave of embarrassment hit you, cheeks burning as you began to stammer, "i just thought, you know, as a... a thank you for inviting me..."
anna waved your apology away. "no, it’s great! we love snacks. what kind?" she peered into the container, her eyes sparkling.
"chocolate chip. with sea salt." you offered, a small smile tentatively forming.
the lid popped open with a soft click. the aroma of warm chocolate and vanilla wafted through the air, momentarily cutting through the other scents. it was like a siren song. suddenly, a small crowd materialized around you, drawn by the scent. hands reached in, fingers deftly plucking cookies from their neat rows.
"someone brought cookies?"
"wait, i want cookies."
"no way, cookies?"
"save me one. i said save me one!"
the conversation dwindled, replaced by the soft sounds of chewing and contented murmurs. a lanky guy took the last cookie, giving you a between apologetic and grateful look and you laugh it off. within minutes, the container lay empty, a few crumbs clinging to it's clear sides. you felt a genuine smile spread across your face. the tension in your shoulders eased. "i’m glad you liked them."
for a moment everything was filled with overlapping conversations and easy movement, people drifting in and out without much structure. you sat at the couch with anna and mark. being spoken to, responded to, included without having to work for it. she asks you what else you like to bake. he asks where you live. the questions aren’t deep, but they come one after another and you answer, laugh and nod. the silence you've been carrying around doesn’t follow you in, it stays somewhere outside the door you walked through.
after a while, when the rhythm starts to feel harder to follow and topics shift quickly, you find your way back to seonghwa in the kitchen. he’s near the counter, talking to someone, but he glances over when you approach, like he’s been keeping track of where you are.
"hey," he says, turning slightly towards yo.
"hi," you answer before a small pause, then casually, "are any other people from our school coming?"
he doesn't hesitate. "nah," he says, shaking his head. "couldn't come."
"oh," you felt a pang of disappointment, small knot tightening in your stomach. you’d envisioned friendly faces, shared anecdotes, a comfortable bridge to this unfamiliar landscape. "okay."
"why?" he adds. "were you expecting someone?"
"no,no. i just thought maybe-" before trailing off, you shake your head lightly. "it's fine."
he watches you for a second, then nods once, like that’s enough.
"you’re good," he says. "don’t overthink it. come on, let’s get you a drink." seonghwa grinned, his hand briefly brushing your lower back as he steered you towards a cooler overflowing with ice and bottles.
you chose a sparkling water, the chill of the can a welcome sensation against your palm. you gravitated towards anna, who was now engaged in a lively discussion with mark about a band you’d never heard of. you hovered at the edge of their circle, listening, slowly piecing together fragments of their world. they spoke of gigs, of art installations, of obscure films, their words painting a vibrant, chaotic picture of lives lived on the fringes of convention.
as the evening continued it's slow, winding course, the hours passed by without warning, suddenly, it was later than you thought. through the subtle buzz in your veins and lightness you hadn't realized you were missing, the image of san already in bed, alone, stirred something in you. your small bag and empty container already in your hands.
"you can come in anytime, even if seonghwa isn't here." anna said before hugging you goodbye.
as you made your way towards the door, seonghwa intercepted you. "leaving already? come on, just one more drink." his voice was persuasive.
"i really should go. it’s getting late." you offered a polite, but firm smile.
he stepped closer, his hand briefly touching your arm. "you know, you’re really something, y/n. a real breath of fresh air." his eyes held yours, flicker of something unreadable in their depths.
"thank you, seonghwa. for inviting me." you pulled your arm away subtly.
"anytime. seriously. we should hang out again, just us two." his voice dropped, a low murmur intended only for your ears.
you felt a shiver, a faint unease prickling at your skin. "maybe," you said, voice noncommittal, then slipped out the door, back into the cool night air.
the street was quieter now, the bass from the building still a faint thrum in the distance. you walked and thought of the laughter, the music, the easy camaraderie, and a strange sense of longing settled in your chest. it was a world so different from your own, a world where boundaries seemed to blur, where emotions were worn on sleeves, where life felt raw and immediate.
stale cigarette smoke clung to your clothes, a new perfume you hadn't anticipated, but somehow, it felt less offensive than the lingering scent of dish soap from your day to day. your sensible sedan, parked a block away, seemed almost out of place among the battered vans and motorcycles. once you got in safely, you pulled out your phone, the screen illuminating your face with a single text from san from an hour ago: 'home. have a good time, night.' short, efficient, just like him. you stared at it and felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to talk to him, to tell him about the fuchsia hair, the tattooed arms, their reactions to your cookies, the melancholic music, anna’s kind eyes. but you tucked your phone back into your purse, the small, bright screen now dark.
you unlocked the apartment door, the click echoing in the silent space. the air inside was still, heavy with the scent of your carefully chosen strawberry cake diffuser. a half eaten bowl sat on the kitchen counter, remnants of the chicken stir fry you had prepared earlier, the pan still on the stove, a few grains of rice clinging to it's surface. a small sigh of relief escaped your lips. he had eaten. the simple act, a confirmation of your effort, brought a satisfaction to you. you moved through the kitchen, the soft clink of ceramic and metal as you rinsed the bowl, scrubbed the pan. it was a mindless task, your hands working on autopilot, while your mind drifted back to the vibrant chaos of anna's house.
the bedroom was a hushed darkness. san lay sprawled on his side of the bed, a rumbling snore escaping his lips, his face buried in the pillow. the sheet, pulled up to his waist, outlined the broad expanse of his back, the familiar curve of his spine. a sight you knew intimately, a tableau repeated almost every night. he worked hard, you reminded yourself, always.
you untangled your hair from the neat french twist, the pins scattering like tiny metallic insects onto the polished wood of your dresser. soft fingers massaged your scalp, releasing the tension that had gathered there throughout the day. you stripped off your clothes replacing them with silk pajama shorts and a matching camisole. teeth brushed and bathroom light off, the bed dipped slightly as you eased yourself in, careful not to disturb san. he remained a dark, unmoving mass beside you, his breathing deep and even.
sleep, usually a welcome embrace, felt elusive tonight. your mind buzzed, a kaleidoscope of new faces, loud music, and unfiltered laughter. the freedom of it all, the raw, unpolished authenticity, contrasted sharply with the quiet, ordered life you had carefully constructed.
shifting restless, silk rustling against the sheets. the image of the girl's fuchsia hair, defiant and vibrant, flashed in your mind. her confident stride, her easy smile. what did she worry about? did she ever feel this profound, aching quietness? you turned your head, watching the gentle rise and fall of san's back. the moonlight, filtering through the gap in the curtains, painted a silver line along his broad shoulder, the muscle defined even in repose. he was strong, reliable, your rock. yet lately, the rock was a mountain you couldn't climb.
a pang of something sharp, something akin to longing, twisted in your gut. you wanted to feel. you wanted to be seen. not just as the wife who kept the house, who cooked the meals, but as you, again. the you who had laughed tonight, unburdened. the one you knew san had fallen in love with.
your hand, almost without conscious thought, slipped beneath the silk of your pajama shorts. the fabric parted, your fingers, tentative at first, found the soft mound of your grown pubic hair, then the slick, warm folds beneath. a small gasp escaped your lips, swallowed by the quiet room. your core, already sensitive, pulsed beneath your touch. you stroked, slowly, deliberately, soft pressure building.
subtly, your hips began to tilt, involuntary movement, pressing into your palm. your fingers worked with a quiet urgency, tracing the delicate ridges, circling the peak of your clitoris. a moistness spread, warm, slick rush that dampened the silk shorts beneath your hand. the sensation intensified, a delicious ache blooming deep inside you, spreading through your belly. your breathing hitched, growing shallow, ragged.
wake up, i'm here.
you closed your eyes, a torrent of images flashing behind your eyelids. san, the warmth of his touch, a vague, undefined hunger. you pressed harder, your thumb finding a rhythm, a steady, insistent pressure. a low moan, barely audible, escaped your throat, a sound of pure pleasure. your whole body tensed, arching slightly into your hand. the climax a sudden, exquisite release, wave of heat that cascaded through your limbs, leaving you trembling, breathless.
୨୧
the shrill ring of the alarm ripped you from a dreamless sleep. your eyes fluttered open, the room still shrouded in pre dawn gloom. a glance at the clock sent a jolt of panic through you. 6:45 am. san left at 7:30. you had overslept.
you scrambled out of bed, the silk shorts clinging briefly before you shed them. the floor was cool beneath your bare feet.
"san, wake up," you whispered, nudging his shoulder. he grunted and slowly, reluctantly, stirred.
you moved with practiced efficiency, a whirlwind of motion in the quiet kitchen. the scent of brewing coffee began to fill the air, mingling with the sizzle of eggs in the pan. toast popped, butter melted, and the rhythmic thud of a knife chopping fruit filled the space. san emerged from the bedroom, showered and dressed, his black hair still damp, clinging to his forehead. he looked tired, his eyes still holding the remnants of sleep, but his movements were precise, methodical.
"morning," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. he poured himself a mug of coffee, the steam curling around his face.
"morning," you replied, already assembling his lunch. a neat stack of sandwiches, a small container of cut fruit, a handful of almonds. you wrapped it all meticulously, fitting it into his lunch bag.
"did you sleep okay?" he asked, taking a sip of his coffee. he leaned against the counter, watching you.
"yeah, eventually," you said, trying to keep your voice light. you packed a small thermos of tea. "i went to that thing last night, you know, the hangout thing?"
he nodded before picking up a slice of toast, spreading jam onto it. "how was it?"
"it was...different," you began, a small smile playing on your lips. you wanted to tell him everything, about the fuchsia hair, the tattoos, the unexpected warmth. "it was in this old building, kind of grungy, but everyone was so nice. there was this girl, sally, she had the most incredible hair, like, bright pink and her face was like a strainer, filled with piercings, it was so cool. and then i met anna, she had these dark intimidating eyes but she was actually really sweet. she’s a photographer for bands."
he turned to you with a slight frown. "y/n?"
"yeah?" you cleaned your hands with a kitchen towel.
"you're not... getting into anything dangerous, are you?"
you tilted your head, looking at him confused. "what? no, no. they were really nice people, they had this energy, like they just didn't care what anyone thought. it was kind of... inspiring."
"hmm..." he took a bite with a raised brow. "be careful y/n, you know how those types can be."
the warmth you’d felt, a flicker of shared experience, began to cool. "i am. but listen, there was also music, not like the music we usually listen to, more like a band sound," you continued, a little more emphatically, trying to inject some of the excitement you had felt into your words. "there was this guy, he had these huge arms filled with tattoos and he had a mohawk, i'd never seen one of those in real life."
he looked away again, finished his toast and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "just don’t get into anything foolish." he reached for his briefcase and lunchbox, already moving towards the door.
your shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly, there was so much you still wanted to tell him. but there was also no time, you knew. there never was. he was already halfway out the door, his hand on the knob.
"i'll make your favorite soup for dinner tonight," you offered, a last ditch effort to connect, to anchor him for just a moment longer.
he paused, turning his head slightly. a small, tired smile touched his lips, revealing the faint indentations of his dimples. "thanks, that sounds great, i'll try not to be too late. love you."
"love you," you mumbled as the door shut and he was gone, the click of the lock echoing in the now silent apartment. you stood in the kitchen, surrounded by the lingering scent of coffee and eggs.
y/n choi: hi, it's y/n, i had a really good time yesterday.
seonghwa park: hey, me too
seonghwa park: everyone loved u btw, they were all talking about how sweet you were when you left
y/n choi: really? that's so nice to hear
seonghwa park: ur coming next week, right?
y/n choi: again?
seonghwa park: yeah
seonghwa park: we hang out every weekend
seonghwa park: always at annas
seonghwa park: come ooon, ull have t come
seonghwa park: ur a part of the group now
the words, simple and direct, landed like a soft blanket on your exposed nerves. a part of the group now. the phrase resonated, a balm to the quiet ache san’s rushed departure had left behind. it wasn’t profound, not a declaration of affection, but it was an invitation, a recognition. it felt like a small hand reaching out in the growing expanse of your solitude.
y/n choi: i’d like that, thanks seonghwa.
the next week crawled by, each day a slow, methodical march of chores and quiet anticipation. the perfect bed, the planned dinners, the reorganizing of the linen closet. each task a meticulous attempt to fill the hours, to ward off the encroaching loneliness. but seonghwa’s words, hummed beneath the surface.
a part of the group now.
as saturday evening approached, nervous flutter stirred in your stomach. you pulled out a simple, soft cotton t-shirt, one you usually wore for lounging. then, a pair of well worn dark jeans. your fingers went to your hair, letting it fall, then found a simple black velvet hairband, pushing back the front strands.
the grungy building loomed, a concrete behemoth adorned with a tapestry of peeling posters and vibrant graffiti. the door stood ajar again, inviting light spilling onto the cracked pavement. but politeness, ingrained deep within you, compelled your knuckles to tap softly against it.
the door swung open further, revealing anna. her spiked hair, dark halo around her face, seemed to defy gravity. thicker eyeliner from the last time, you noticed. a cigarette dangled from her lips, thin wisp of smoke curling lazily into the air.
"well, look who it is," anna’s voice, raspy like gravel, held a surprising warmth. a slow smile spread across her face, revealing a glint of metal in her upper teeth. "you bring cookies this time, wifey?"
you laughed, unforced sound that surprised even yourself. "i didn’t, i’m afraid." faint blush touched your cheeks.
anna leaned against the doorframe, taking a drag from her cigarette. "shame. your hair looks good though, so i'll let you in." she winked, a playful glint in her dark eyes.
you stepped inside murmuring a small "thanks." she led you into the living room as seonghwa, who was meticulously cleaning something that looked like a round bottom flask, rose from the couch.
"hey, you. where's my hug?" he grinned, a flash of genuine pleasure in his expression. he offered a thight hug, quick squeeze that felt surprisingly comforting. "glad you came back."
"come on, i’ll show you my current obsession." anna, having stubbed out her cigarette in a makeshift ashtray, clapped you on the shoulder and led you to a corner of the living room, where a makeshift studio was set up. a flash unit sat on a tripod, and a black backdrop hung from a makeshift frame.
she showed you her new lighting techniques, her raspy voice softening as she spoke about her craft, explaining each of the series of prints tacked to the wall. the subjects, all punk, stared out with an intensity that pulled you in. low groan emanated from the other side of the room. mark, with his pants that perpetually threatened to slide off his ample frame, was getting another tattoo. the machine buzzing like an angry bee.
you watched, a strange mix of fascination and unease stirring within you. the raw intimacy of the moment, the deliberate pain, the permanent mark being etched into skin. it was so far removed from your carefully ordered world. visceral, unapologetic. you thought of san, of his disciplined body, his aversion to anything that might disrupt his carefully constructed order. a tattoo, to him, would be an act of reckless abandon, an unnecessary defacement.
anna exchanged a few words with the tattoo artist and you followed seonghwa and sally into the kitchen.
"tacos?" you asked, a sudden urge to ground yourself in something familiar, something productive.
"attempting to," seonghwa repeated, a wry smile playing on his lips. sally, armed with a knife, was making a valiant but clumsy effort to chop an onion. tears streamed down her heavily made up face.
"this is harder than it looks," she sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing eyeliner.
"i don’t even know if this is cooked enough. it still looks… pink."
you stepped forward with quiet confidence. this, you knew. this was your domain. "let me help," you offered, already reaching for the cutting board. you gently took the knife, demonstrating a quick, efficient chop that produced even dice.
you moved with an easy grace, hands finding their rhythm. chicken seasoned, a blend of spices from the overflowing spice rack that seemed to surprise even seonghwa. you showed sally how to properly dice tomatoes and shred lettuce, your voice soft but instructive. the kitchen, which had been a scene of mild culinary disaster, slowly began to transform into an efficient workspace.
"wow," sally beamed, her fuchsia hair bouncing. "seriously, my mom just nukes everything."
it was a simple thing, a small act of connection, of contribution. but you felt useful, appreciated. the feeling was a pleasant counterpoint to the quiet solitude of your own kitchen at home, where your culinary efforts often met with san’s polite, but often silent, approval.
the group gathered at the living room again, something being passed from hand to hand. you saw it before you recognized it, it wasn't tobacco.
the joint made it's rounds, anna took a long drag, her eyes closing in apparent contentment. seonghwa inhaled deeply, then exhaled a plume of smoke that dissolved into the dim light. sally giggled, her eyes a little brighter, her movements a little looser.
then, mark’s hand, big with his new tattoo, extended towards you, holding the burning joint. the tip glowed orange, small pulsating ember. a hush fell over the group, subtle, expectant. no one said anything, but their gazes, soft and encouraging, rested on you.
your breath hitched. your mind, usually so clear, swam with conflicting thoughts. weed. the word echoed in your head, sharp and disapproving. san’s voice, clear as day, cut through the hazy atmosphere.
disgusting. it’s not a gateway. it destroys lives.
his lectures, delivered with a quiet intensity, about the dangers of drugs, of anything that clouded judgment, that compromised control. he hated it. he hated all of it. smoking, drinking to excess, any form of escape that wasn’t productive, wasn’t measured.
your gaze flickered to mark’s hand, then to seonghwa, who offered a small, reassuring nod. a strange defiance, a tiny spark of rebellion, ignited within you. san, with his rigid rules and his unspoken expectations, felt miles away, a distant, fading echo. here, in this room, with these people, there was an unspoken permission, an acceptance of difference.
you thought of the quiet mornings, the unasked questions, the emotional chasm that had grown between you and san. you thought of the lingering loneliness, the slow, insidious fading of sparks. you thought of his hurried goodbye, his preoccupation, his casual dismissal of your small joys.
a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped your lips. it wasn’t about wanting to get high. it was a quiet protest. a moment of reclaiming a sliver of yourself that felt lost, submerged under layers of wifely duty and unspoken disappointment. it was a fleeting, irrational thought, but it felt powerful in it's simplicity.
trembling fingers, usually so steady, reached for the joint. your eyes met seonghwa’s, then anna’s. they offered soft, almost imperceptible smiles.
the joint touched your lips. the paper felt rough against your skin. the smell, pungent and earthy, filled your nostrils. you hesitated for a fraction of a second, a silent battle raging within. then, you inhaled.
the smoke, harsh and acrid, scraped your throat. you coughed between involuntary gasps. tears sprang to your eyes. the group chuckled softly. your lungs burned, heat spread through your chest, then a dizzying lightness in your head. it wasn’t pleasant, not yet. but as the initial shock subsided, a curious sensation began to bloom. a loosening. a letting go.
the world around you, already vibrant, seemed to soften at the edges. the music, a low thrumming before, now seemed to pulse with a deeper rhythm. the faces around you, previously distinct, now blurred into a warm, accepting tableau.
you exhaled, a shaky, uneven breath. the smoke drifted upwards in a cloud, carrying with it a rebellious whisper.
the taco shell crumbled in your fingers, a warm, messy embrace of seasoned chicken and melted cheese. a laugh, sharp and high, tore from your throat. it wasn’t your laugh, not really, but it escaped anyway.
"y/n, these are..." sally kissed the tips of her fingertips at once. a piece of tomato, vibrant red, clung to her chin. you watched it, mesmerized, as it wobbled precariously. like a tiny significant event.
"no, for real. this is the best shit i've ever eaten," someone grunted as they took another bite, cheeks bulging. the sound of their chewing a symphonic rhythm, wet crunch that filled the room.
you smiled, you think, a wide, unbidden thing that stretched your face. your cheeks felt warm and tingly. the praise, usually a balm, now felt like a spotlight, too bright, too focused. you didn't need to respond. the air itself seemed to hum with approval.
seonghwa leaned in, his hair brushing your shoulder. the scent of his cologne filled your nostrils. it was a new smell, suddenly potent, a story in itself.
"you have to come over more often," he murmured. his words were slow, stretched out, like taffy. "we’d starve without you."
you nodded, or thought you did. the room swirled, a gentle eddy of color and sound. the soft glow of the fairy lights strung across anna’s living room became individual, shimmering points, each one a tiny sun.
anna, perched on the armrest of a worn armchair, watched you, her eyes unblinking. she held a half eaten taco, but she wasn’t eating. she was just watching. a flicker of concern crossed her face, or maybe it was just the way the light caught her smudged makeup.
you turned your head, the motion slow, deliberate, like moving through thick syrup. seonghwa’s face was inches from yours. his eyes liquid and half lidded. a tiny mole, small and innocent on his ear. you had never noticed it before.
"you know," he began, his voice dropping, a conspiratorial whisper meant only for you, "i actually lied to you."
the words themselves were like individual pearls, strung together on an invisible thread that made your breath hitch.
"about what?" you managed a reedy whisper. it sounded like someone else speaking.
he chuckled like it was obvious. "about keeping in touch with people from high school. i don't. not really. i just... wanted you to have a reason to come."
the confession ignited a fresh burst of laughter. bubbled up from deep inside, unrestrained, joyful. it felt like a new sensation, a freedom you hadn't known existed. the idea of him lying, out of all things, struck you as profoundly hilarious.
he smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips as his hand, warm and calloused, covered yours on the couch cushion. his thumb traced a slow, hypnotic circle on your skin. it wasn't unpleasant. it was just... there. a sensation.
"y/n, i know you’re unhappy."
unhappiness? that was a concept. right now, there was only the incredibly soft fabric of the couch, the taste of spices on your tongue, the intricate pattern on anna’s rug.
"you deserve so much more," he continued, voice thick and low, "than whatever you’re settling for."
you blinked. his face, so close, seemed to waver, like a reflection in water.
"i want you so bad," a whisper you didn't caught on the movements of his lips, his grip tightening on your hand. "i want to make you happy."
you don't know why he kept making sounds with his mouth. the words drifted past, like smoke. meaningless vibrations in the air. your mind, untethered, floated above them, observing.
then, the world tilted. a wave of warmth, heavy and comforting, washed over you. the trip slowed, the colors blending into a soft, indistinct haze. the universe faded into a gentle lullaby.
୨୧
rough wool blanket against your cheek, smelling faintly of incense and something vaguely sweet, covering you. your eyes fluttered open. the room was bathed in a dim, pre dawn light, a pale grey filtering through the blinds. you blinked, trying to orient yourself. the couch. anna’s couch.
a low snore rumbled from the floor. you peered over the armrest. mark, a lumpy silhouette, was sprawled on a pile of blankets, his mohawk flattened. sally was curled up near him, a splash of fuchsia against the muted tones. anna was nowhere in sight. seonghwa? you scanned the room. no.
dull throb resonated behind your eyes. your mouth felt like sandpaper. you pushed yourself up, the blanket slipping to your lap. the memories of the night were a jumbled mess, like a deck of san's numbers scattered on the floor. flashes of laughter, the taste of tacos, the feeling of warmth. but specific words, specific moments, they were gone, swallowed by the haze.
you fumbled for your purse, slung precariously over the back of the couch. chocolate. a small, dark bar, your emergency comfort. you tore off a piece, the rich, bitter sweetness a welcome shock to your tongue.
you pulled out your phone. three forty seven a.m.
your heart gave a sharp, painful lurch. san. you could almost hear the silence of your apartment, the empty space beside him in bed. a wave of guilt, cold and sharp, washed over you, chasing away the last vestiges of the warm fog.
as careful as you could be, you rose quietly to not disturb the sleeping figures. your movements quiet, deliberate.
the drive home was a blur of streetlights and silent roads. each turn of the wheel felt like a small act of atonement. the city was asleep, a vast, dark canvas. then you finally pulled into your parking spot, the apartment building quiet and imposing.
apartment dark, save for the faint glow from the digital clock on the microwave. you slipped off your shoes, the sink. a plate, crusted with dried sauce, sat precariously on the edge, a half empty mug beside it. san. he had eaten, gone to bed. done.
straight to the bathroom, you stepped under the spray, letting the hot water cascade over your skin. it wasn’t just the smell, but the night itself. the laughter, the forgotten words, the unsettling intimacy. you scrubbed, hard, as if you could scour away the memory, leaving your skin, and your mind, clean and blank once more. you wanted to emerge, refreshed, as if the night had never happened. as if you hadn’t tasted that strange, momentary freedom.
୨୧
the sound pulled at your teeth. tremor in the soles of your new sneakers, premonition of the chaos within. this weekend, anna's apartment building pulsed with an unholy rhythm. this wasn't the hazy, languid hum of last week. this was a beast unleashed.
seonghwa’s band, the ruptured veins or something like that, thrashed in the living room. how they’d squeezed a drum kit, a full amp stack, and three guitarists into the already cramped space remained a mystery. mark, sweat plastering his mohawk to his skull, pounded the drums with a primal ferocity that threatened to crack the plaster. sally contorted over her bass, each pluck a sharp jab to your eardrums. seonghwa, all flailing limbs and guttural shouts was at the center. the sound wasn’t music. it was a wall of noise, an excuse of distorted guitars and ear splitting percussion that clawed at your sanity.
bodies, too many bodies, swayed and thrashed in the dim light, a sea of black leather and ripped denim. you felt like an alien even if you tried dressing in your darkest clothes. a hand, sticky and warm, brushed your arm, offering a glass. you instinctively recoiled, the smell of cheap beer and something cloyingly sweet, making your stomach churn.
seonghwa’s eyes flashed you a grin across the room, a feral baring of teeth, and gave a thumbs up. you forced a weak smile back, the corners of your mouth feeling stiff and unnatural. the volume intensified, a new wave of sound washing over you, drowning out thought, drowning out everything.
a bong, you learned, it's glass bulb milky with smoke, appeared before your face. a girl with tangled dreadlocks and eyes that swam in their sockets pushed it closer.
"hit it, y/n!" she slurred a shout, her voice a gravelly whisper against the roar.
you shook your head, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "no, thanks!"
she shrugged, apathetic, and passed it to the next person. another, a lean guy with a spiderweb tattoo crawling up his neck, who had earlier complained about the brownies you brought not being the "fun ones."
the words felt like pebbles in your throat. you had enough, you needed quiet, needed to escape the relentless assault on your ears. you navigated the throng, each step a battle against jostling elbows and oblivious revelers. you reached the bathroom and pushed open the door for the now muffled sound to lower, then you saw her.
sprawled on the cracked linoleum, half hidden by a discarded shower curtain, lay a woman. her head rested at an awkward angle against the toilet bowl, a thin stream of saliva tracing a path down her chin. she looked older than the others, perhaps in her early thirties, though the lines etched on her face spoke of a life lived hard, not necessarily long. two distinct scars stood out against her skin. her face, even in repose, held a weary resignation, map of battles fought and lost. she wasn't breathing right. shallow, ragged gasps punctuated the silence, each one a struggle.
panic seized you. you knelt beside her, your fingers fumbling for her pulse, finding a weak, thready beat at her neck.
"hey," you whispered, shaking her shoulder gently. "hey, are you okay?"
no response. her eyes remained closed, her lips slightly parted. this wasn't a drunken nap. this was something else, something far more sinister.
your hand instinctively went for your phone, pulling it from your pocket. 911. ambulance. you needed to call an ambulance. your fingers, trembling, navigated the screen.
"i wouldn't do that if i were you."
a hand, heavy and surprisingly strong, clamped around your wrist. your breath hitched. you looked up, startled. a man stood over you. he was burly, with a shaved head and a face like hammered iron. his eyes, dark and flat, bore into yours.
"unless you wanna be trouble," his voice cut through the residual band noise. it wasn't a suggestion. it was a command, heavy with unspoken threat.
your heart hammered against your ribs. you tried to pull your wrist free, but his grip was unyielding, almost bruising. "she needs help," you managed barely a squeak. "she’s not breathing right."
mirthless chuckle rumbled in his chest. "she’s fine. just had a little too much fun." his gaze flickered to your phone. "you call anyone, you’ll regret it."
the warning hung thick and menacing. you met his stare, a shiver running down your spine. the flat emptiness in his eyes, the casual cruelty in his tone, left no room for doubt. he meant it.
slowly, reluctantly, you let your hand drop, your phone clattering softly against the tiles. his grip loosened, then released. you scrambled backward, away from him, away from the unconscious woman, from the suffocating threat. he watched you, unsettling smirk playing on his lips, then turned his attention back to the woman, nudging her with his foot.
you burst out of the bathroom, the music now a mocking roar. you needed anna. anna would know what to do. anna would understand. you pushed through the bodies, eyes scanning the faces, a frantic desperation clawing at your throat. "anna!" you shouted, the word swallowed by the sheer volume. "anna!"
no one heard you. no one even seemed to notice your distress. they just continued to push each other, lost in their own discordant revelry. you spotted a doorway, half hidden behind a towering speaker, and instinctively veered towards it, hoping to find a quieter space, a less crowded corner where anna might be.
it led to a short, narrow hallway, mercifully less populated. at the end, another door, slightly ajar, spilled a soft, yellow light onto the floor. you pushed it open, a desperate plea for help forming on your lips.
the room contrasted to the chaos outside. a single, bare bulb cast a warm glow over a small, unmade bed. and there, on the floor, surrounded by a haphazard collection of worn stuffed animals and bright plastic blocks, sat anna, but she wasn't alone. a small figure, no older than five, sat nestled against her side, a book with brightly colored illustrations open in it's lap. the child, a boy with a shock of dark hair and wide, innocent eyes, looked up as you entered.
"mommy, who’s that?" his voice, clear and sweet, pierced the lingering noise in your ears like a needle.
mommy.
the word echoed, reverberated, then shattered something fragile inside you. anna’s head snapped up, her eyes widening in surprise. a flicker of something, guilt? embarrassment? crossed her face before she quickly composed herself.
"y/n," she said, her voice lowered as she gently pushed the boy behind her. "everything alright?"
everything alright? the irony tasted heavy. now, a child. her child, in this suffocating place. the realization hit you with the force of a physical blow. this wasn’t just a party. this wasn't just a group of friends messing around. this was a life. a harsh, brutal, unforgiving life that you had no part in. the music, which had been an unpleasant background noise, now felt like a blaring siren, screaming the truth. you didn't belong here. not even close. this wasn't edgy. this wasn't rebellious. this was dangerous. this was real.
you shook your head, unable to speak, your throat tight with unshed tears. the image of the passed out woman, the man’s cold eyes, the innocent child, all swirled in a sickening vortex.
"i..." you started, then stopped, the words catching. you didn’t need to explain. anna, with her sudden shift in demeanor, her protective stance over the child, understood.
you turned, a silent retreat, your feet moving on their own accord. you didn't say goodbye. you didn't look back. the door clicked shut behind you, a soft thud against the relentless thrum of the bass.
you navigated the hallway, then the living room, a ghost moving through the throng. no one noticed your departure. the band still roared, seonghwa still shrieked into the mic as he kicked the audience in the face in a blur of motion. you pushed past the last lingering bodies near the door, the cool night air hitting your face like a lifeline.
the street was alive with a different kind of noise. the band’s sound, though fainter, still pulsed through the asphalt, relentless reminder of what you were leaving behind. a group of figures huddled under a flickering street lamp, their movements jerky, unnatural. as you approached, their eyes, glazed and vacant, fixed on you.
"hey, pretty thing, all alone?" one slurred, his voice hoarse, lewd grin spreading across his face.
"where you going in such a hurry?" another whistled, a long, drawn out sound that made your skin crawl.
you kept walking, pace quickening, eyes fixed straight ahead. don’t look. don’t engage. don’t acknowledge. your heart hammered a frantic drum against your ribs. you felt exposed, vulnerable, felt the harsh reality of the street.
your car door shut like a beacon of safety at the end of the block. you fumbled for your keys, fingers clumsy with fear, gripping the steering wheel with knuckles white the whole drive back home, breath coming in ragged gasps. not daring to glance in the rearview mirror once. you drove faster than necessary.
this was not your world. this was not where you belonged. you would never come back. you promised yourself that, a vow whispered into the empty, echoing space of your car, a promise etched in the raw, aching fear still thrumming beneath your skin.
the click of the lock echoed. inside, the air heavy with scent of instant noodles and something sweet, like canned peaches. a white plastic container sat on the kitchen counter, half-eaten, a pair of chopsticks resting beside it. san had takeout. a cold knot tightened in your stomach. you forgot to make him dinner earlier. another layer to the evening’s sour taste.
san, shirtless, was just shrugging out of his work trousers when you entered the room, his back to you. he paused, one leg still in the pant leg, turning his head at the sound of your entrance. his brown eyes, warm and steady, widened slightly.
"you’re back early," he said, the words a quiet murmur in the hushed room. a flicker of surprise crossed his face. he finished pulling off his pants, tossing them onto the laundry hamper with an easy flick of his wrist.
you managed a weak nod, the muscles in your face protesting the effort, too tired to feign a smile. your gaze slid past him, landing on the bathroom door. escape. you moved towards it.
"y/n." his voice stopped you mid stride. you looked over your shoulder, hand hovering over the cool brass doorknob.
"what’s that smell?"
you didn't turn around, the lie already forming on your tongue, bitter pill. "i... i fell into a puddle earlier."
a beat of silence stretched, taut and thin. you watched him, standing there, his brow furrowed, processing your words. you waited for the follow up, the gentle probing, the concern that used to laced his questions. but it didn’t come.
"oh," he said, the single syllable flat, devoid of inflection. he picked up his shirt from the bed, pulling it over his head, then pulled back the covers.
you finally turned, gaze fixed on his retreating back, already settling in. your eyes traced the strong line of his shoulder, the curve of his neck. he was there, and he wasn't. is that all you’re going to ask? the words hovered on your tongue, sharp and desperate. you wanted him to push, to see through your flimsy lie, to demand more. you wanted him to care enough to unravel the carefully constructed facade. almost, you wanted him to know. to know about the music, the drugs, the woman, the fear, the suffocating loneliness that had driven you there in the first place.
"is that all you’re going to ask?" you heard yourself say.
he paused, his hand reaching for the bedside lamp. "is there something else i should know?'
your heart hammered against your ribs. this was it. the open door. the invitation. a single word, a sigh, a broken sentence, and the truth would spill out. you needed to test the boundaries, to see how far he would go, how deep he would dig.
"no," you said, the lie tasting like ash. your gaze held his, searching for a flicker of doubt, a hint of suspicion, anything that would tell you he wasn’t buying it.
he held your gaze for a moment longer, then his lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible smile. "okay then." he reached for the lamp, plunging the room into near darkness. he shifted, settling deeper into the pillows.
a choked sound, a low groan of frustration, escaped your lips. he hadn’t pushed. he hadn’t questioned. he hadn’t cared enough to look beyond the surface. you turned abruptly, stalking towards the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind you with a satisfying thud. the sound echoed, a punctuation mark on your silent fury.
san lay in the sudden darkness, his eyes wide open. the faint aroma of something acrid you brought and he couldn't quite place, still lingered in the air. a puddle, he thought. she fell in a puddle. it sounded plausible enough. you were clumsy sometimes, always lost in your own thoughts. he trusted you. he trusted you completely. a small smile touched his lips. it was good you were out, seeing old friends. you needed that. a small part of him felt a pang of guilt for not being able to provide more excitement, more spontaneity in your life. but he was working for your future, for your stability, to provide for you. he believed that was love, that was care. he rolled onto his side, pulling the duvet up to his chin. he heard the shower running, the sound a soft, comforting hum. he closed his eyes, his mind already drifting to tomorrow's spreadsheets, the complex equations that made perfect sense in a world that often didn't. everything was fine. you were having fun. it was okay if you forgot dinner sometimes. you could always order takeout. he was happy. he assumed you were too.
the next morning, the apartment hummed with the usual rhythm of your routine. you woke before him, the first rays of dawn painting the bedroom walls a soft grey. you made the bed, pulling the sheets taut, plumping the pillows with practiced ease. the scent of freshly brewed coffee soon filled the air, followed by the sizzle of eggs in the pan.
san emerged from the bedroom, showered and dressed in his crisp white shirt and specifically tailored pants. he kissed your cheek, a soft brush of lips, and then sat at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone.
it became a monotonous cycle of routine.
you'd have your small talk, watch him eat, his movements precise, efficient, and then he was out the door. then, you'd wander into the bedroom, the perfectly made bed an ironic symbol of your life. you'd pick up your phone, cold blinding glass, and scrolled through social media. endless stream of meaningless shorts of nothing. you'd sink yourself in bed and let the hours melt. youtube videos, a reality show you cared about for two hours, articles about celebrity gossip. anything to fill the void, to drown out the insistent whisper of your own thoughts.
you woke him, prepared his meals, vaguely cleaned what was obvious. but the moments in between stretched, vast and empty. you spent them in bed, phone in hand, the world outside shrinking to the confines of your screen. at night, you wouldn't sleep. every shadow twisted into a threat, every creak of the floorboards a reminder of unspoken dangers. san had simply mentioned you seemed a little tired. you’d blame it on a bad dream, a headache. anything but the truth. the vibrant, productive life you once shared with san, the shared dreams, the late night conversations, they felt like a distant memory, replaced by this quiet, isolated existence.
one evening, san’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, the familiar jingle of his keys preceding his entrance. he walked into the kitchen, his briefcase thudding softly onto the counter. he paused, his eyes scanning the immaculate space. the stovetop was clean, the counters clear. no scent of cooking, no simmering pots.
"i ordered pizza," you said, voice flat, emerging from the living room where you sat on the sofa, scrolling through your phone. the thought of cooking, of meticulously chopping vegetables and stirring pots, felt like an insurmountable task. the effort, the pretense of normalcy, was too much. you simply couldn’t.
"okay," his voice quiet. you couldn't decipher his tone, surprise? confusion? whatever.
for once, he didn't immediately take his laptop. he watched you, his expression unreadable. he picked up a slice, silence punctuated only by the soft chewing sounds.
"i spoke to noeul today," he said, cutting through the quiet.
you froze, a slice of pizza halfway to your mouth. "oh?" you asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but your voice came out a little too sharp.
"she was wondering why you stood her up for lunch," he continued, took another bite of pizza, his eyes still fixed on you.
"i... i wasn't feeling well," you swallowed, the pizza suddenly tasting like cardboard.
he paused, chewing slowing. his dark eyes, usually so placid, held a new depth, a subtle intensity. he studied your face, his gaze searching, probing.
"is everything okay, y/n?" he asked, the question soft, gentle, yet it hit you with the force of a blow. this was the first time in weeks, months even, that he had truly looked at you, truly asked.
you felt a wave of conflicting emotions wash over you. relief that he was finally seeing, finally asking. fear that he would see too much. anger that it had taken him this long. a desperate, clinging hope that he might actually understand.
you opened your mouth, but what could you say? no, san. everything is not okay. i’m lonely. melancholic. i’m lost. i’ve been hanging out with people who smoke weed and threaten me. i lied to you. i don’t know who i am anymore. the truth felt too vast, too overwhelming, too ugly to articulate.
you closed your mouth, nodding slowly. "yes," you whispered, the lie a refuge. "everything’s fine."
he didn’t push further. he simply nodded, a slow thoughtful movement. he finished his pizza in silence, his eyes occasionally flicking towards you. he didn't know what to do. he thought he was doing everything right, providing stability, working hard. but he felt that something wasn't actually right. he could feel it. and for the first time, the thought that his stability might not be enough began to gnaw at him.
୨୧
"well, well, well," you couldn't see seonghwa's face through the phone but you just knew a smile stretched across his face, all teeth and charm. "look who finally decided to give signs of life."
you took a breath, "i’m sorry about that. i felt a little... overwhelmed."
"overwhelmed?" he chuckled a sound that grated. "we had a blast, though. sally was asking where you went."
a forced light laugh came out of you. "i'm sorry, it's just... don't take this the wrong way but, i don't think it's my scene."
the seconds of silence made you more nervous than you liked to admit. "oh? why’s that? did anna scare you off? she’s all bark, no bite, you know."
"it’s not anna." you walked to the window, staring out at the streets. "it’s just not... it’s not for me." you chose your words carefully.
"not for you, huh... too much for the perfect little housewife?"
you didn't know what to say, or even if you should reply. this is not the way you had wanted to come off.
"come on, y/n. " his tone shifted again, becoming almost playful, seductive. "you can’t just ditch us. we were just getting to know you. and you, me, we had a connection, didn’t we?"
you closed your eyes and sighed. "i appreciate the invitation, seonghwa. but i really don’t think it’s a good idea."
"wait, wait, wait." his voice was quick, slightly desperate. "don’t hang up. this saturday. it’ll be different. i promise."
"different how?"
"no loud music. no... overwhelming crowds." he mimicked your earlier word with annoyance. "it’ll be at my place. daylight. we’ll just chill. listen to some records. maybe sally will bring her new bass. anna her camera, snap some pictures. it’ll be... a real hangout. no pressure. just us."
a day hangout. at his place. no crowds. the thought of seeing anna, of making sure she was okay, flickered. and sally. you’d genuinely liked sally. you chewed on your lip, disappearing without a trace, even from people who were clearly not good for you, felt... rude. you were not rude. you prided yourself on your manners, on leaving things tidily. this would be your last clean exit. a proper goodbye.
"it'll be calm? no substances?" you asked with a small voice.
"yeah. we'll just chill."
you sighed, a long, slow release of air. "fine. but if it gets crazy, i’m leaving."
"deal!" his voice triumphant. "i’ll text you the address. saturday. two o’clock. don’t be late, y/n."
you hung up on him, the silence of the kitchen pressing in on you. a mistake? probably. but you had to make things right. you had to say goodbye. properly.
the next few days were a flurry of quiet preparations. you found a well loved cookbook at a second hand store, it's pages dog eared and stained with flour. sally had seemed genuinely interested in your chicken tacos, you remember her bouncing as she peered over your shoulder. a small childish bunny stuffed animal, soft and grey, caught your eye in a boutique window. anna’s son. he deserved a little softness in a world that seemed so hard. you wrapped the gifts carefully, a futile attempt to infuse them with the warmth you wished you could offer.
saturday afternoon, the sun bright in the sky. you drove, the directions seonghwa had texted leading you through unfamiliar streets, past industrial parks and forgotten warehouses. the address finally brought you to a hidden nook, tucked away behind a row of dilapidated auto shops. a trailer park. a small, unexpected community of metal boxes, each with it's own patch of scraggly grass and faded plastic lawn ornaments. you hadn’t known such a place existed in the heart of the city.
seonghwa’s trailer, a faded blue, stood at the end of a gravel path. your stomach twisted. you clutched the gifts tighter, the paper rustling. you knocked, a soft tap that felt too polite for the setting. the door creaked open, revealing him. his hair looking a little disheveled, as if he’d just woken up. a faint smell of something herbal, not entirely unpleasant, wafted from inside.
"oh, you actually came." he grinned as he rubbed the weariness out of his face.
"i said i would." you offered a small smile, trying to ignore the sudden awkwardness that settled between you. "i brought some things." you held up the wrapped gifts.
"oh, for me?" he reached for them, but you pulled back slightly.
"no. for sally and anna’s son."
his hand dropped, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "right. well, come on in. you’re the first one here."
the trailer was small, surprisingly neat but dim. a worn couch, covered in a faded floral sheet, dominated the living area. a small television flickered silently in the corner, displaying a nature documentary. a guitar leaned against the wall. it felt... lived in.
"make yourself at home," he gestured vaguely at the couch. "the others should be here any minute. mark’s always late. sally said she had to pick up some new strings. anna… well, anna’s anna." he laughed, a short, nervous sound.
you sat on the edge of the couch, placing the gifts carefully beside you. the cushions sagged beneath you, smell of old fabric rised to meet you. the silence, punctuated only by the chirping of unseen birds on the television, was deafening. you felt a sudden urge to fill it, to chatter, to ask about his band, about anything. but you couldn't.
"want something to drink?" he asked, already moving towards a small, cluttered kitchenette.
"just water, please." you watched him, his movements surprisingly graceful for someone so wiry. he pulled out two glasses, poured a clear liquid from a plastic bottle into one, and then, to another one that was already sitting on the counter. he didn’t seem to notice your gaze.
a tiny, insistent voice in the back of your mind, screamed. you took the glass, your fingers brushing his, skin rough. you brought the glass to your lips, pretending to take a sip, letting the rim touch your mouth, but not letting any liquid pass.
"so," he said, settling beside you on the couch, much closer than you would have preferred. "how’s... housewifing?"
you stiffened. "it’s good. i like it."
"yeah? seems a little... boring for someone like you." he leaned back, his arm brushing yours. the contact made your skin prickle.
"it’s not boring,”°"you said, maybe a little too quickly. "i like taking care of things. taking care of san."
"san." he said the name slowly, like tasting it. "busy guy, huh?"
"he works hard," you defended automatically. "he provides for us."
"yeah, i bet." he turned his body fully towards you, knee touching yours. his gaze dropping to your hands, clasped tightly in your lap. "but does he... pleasure you?"
you looked at him in shock, offended. your cheeks flushed crimson, a wave of heat rushing through you. shock, outrage, and a deep, mortifying embarrassment tangled together. you stared at him, mouth agape, unable to form a single word. the flickering television, the stale air, his proximity, it all coalesced into a suffocating pressure. "what did you just say?"
he didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. his eyes held yours, unwavering. "i mean, you’re bright, y/n. you’re smart. you’ve got this... spark. yet you spend your days fucking, polishing silverware and waiting for some suit to come home. does he ever even make you feel good?"
your heart hammered against your ribs. "i like polishing silverware. i like making a home."
"do you?" he reached out, his fingers tracing a pattern on your arm, just above your elbow. "or do you just tell yourself that because it’s what you think you’re supposed to do?"
you flinched, pulling your arm away. "i don’t appreciate that, seonghwa."
"just being honest. that’s what friends do, right?" he leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.
the small, dusty clock on the wall pointed at four, you glanced at it, then at the door, wishing that your eyes could pierce a hole and reveal other people, anyone. yet no one else had arrived. the pit in your stomach deepened. "maybe i should call sally. or anna."
"nah, don’t bother." he waved a dismissive hand. "they probably won't even come. you know how it is." he paused, a predatory glint appeared in his round eyes. "guess it’ll be just us."
the words rang heavy and suffocating. it clicked. a cold, sickening realization washed over you. there was never "others." you had been tricked. the gifts, the polite goodbyes, all of it a naive delusion.
"oh." you stood up abruptly, the movement jarring. "i... i think i should go. maybe i should come back when the others arrive." your mind raced, scrambling for an excuse, anything to get out. you tried to infuse your voice with a calm you didn’t feel, to make it sound like a reasonable suggestion, not a desperate plea.
"don’t be stupid, y/n. you just got here." he stood and pulled you towards him. the close proximity of his body, the insufferable smell of weed making you almost gag. "you’re lonely, aren’t you? i see it in your eyes. the way you just exist and he doesn't even notice."
"i don’t know what you mean." your voice trembled.
"why? you don’t want to admit it?" he leaned closer, breath warm against your ear. his insidious words pricked at the spots. the truth of them, despite the venomous delivery, stung. but the way he was using them, twisting them, made your skin crawl.
you tried to push past him, a surge of adrenaline making you bold. “let me go.”
he grabbed your arm, his fingers tightening around your wrist. "no." he pulled you back, hard, sending you stumbling onto the couch. the gifts clattered to the floor. he pinned you there, his face inches from yours. "i know you don’t love him. you're goddamn pathetic with him and everyone sees it."
you felt a surge of adrenaline, a pumping desperate need to escape. “you don’t know anything about me. or san.” you pulled harder, twisting your body, trying to create distance.
he didn’t let go. instead, his other hand came up, resting on your arm, his thumb stroking your skin. "i know you don't love him. i know you’re unhappy." the accusation, so utterly false, ignited a furious spark within you. "why else would you keep coming back here?"
"you’re wrong!" sharp and venomous, your voice cut through the fear. "you’re completely wrong. i love san. i love him more than anything. and i would never, ever be unfaithful to him. especially not with... with someone like you!" the last words, raw and unfiltered, spilled from your lips. the thought of betraying san, of allowing this man to even suggest such a thing, filled you with a righteous anger.
a vein throbbed in his temple. for a terrifying moment, you thought he might strike you. his face contorted, a mask of rage. primal scream ripped through your mind, though no sound escaped your lips. a sudden, visceral revulsion surged through you, a raw, untamed force you hadn’t known you possessed. you didn’t think, you reacted. with a guttural cry that was more gasp than sound, you twisted your body, yanking your arm free from his grasp with a strength born of pure terror. you stumbled back, tripping over your own feet, but you caught yourself, your eyes wide, fixed on him.
"hey, y/n, calm down. let's talk-" his face a mask of something ugly. he took a step towards you, his hand still outstretched.
"don’t you touch me!" you shrieked, the words finally tearing free holding a fierce conviction.
with a desperate lunge, you pushed past him and found the doorknob, fingers clumsy with terror and heart pounding against your ribs. please, please be unlocked. the knob turned protesting a squeal. a small miracle. you yanked it open, the weak sunlight blinding you for a moment.
you didn’t look back. you ran. the gravel crunched under your shoes, the faded blue trailer shrinking behind you. you didn’t stop until you reached your car, fumbling with the keys, your hands shaking so violently you could barely push the button. you threw yourself inside, locking the doors, lungs burning. the engine roared to life, and you sped away, leaving the trailer park, the sickly rose bush, and the terrifying encounter in a cloud of dust. the gifts lay forgotten on the floor of the trailer, naive hope, now shattered.
୨୧
"i ran into someone today."
"at the market?"
"an old friend. from high school. apparently some of them still hang out and, i was invited."
"that's good, you should go."
"really? you don't mind?"
"why would i mind? it's good for you to see people, you're always here. you should get out more."
"i mean... i haven't seen them in years. since graduation, probably."
"people change, that's okay. it'll be nice to reconnect. you've been cooped up, it's good to have plans."
"i guess so."
knees drawn to your chest, the phone thrown to the cushion next to you. you had to call him, you really had to, and he did leave. cheeks damp, tiny ragged sobs caught in your throat, you barely registered when the door swung open. he stood at the doorway, crisp button down now slightly rumpled, his tie loosened. his eyes scanned the room, then landed on you. he didn't say anything, just kicked the door shut with his heel and moved towards you deliberately.
"san," you choked out a fragile whisper, "i'm so sorry. i'm so, so sorry i made you come home."
he didn't answer with words, simply sunk onto the couch beside you, the springs protesting faintly. his strong arms wrapped around your shaking shoulders, pulling you into his chest. the clean, subtle cedar scent of his cologne filled your senses, chasing away the lingering stench of smoke and fear. you buried your face in his shirt and let the dam break.
hot and stinging tears streamed down your face, soaking into his shirt. each sob tore through you, tearing sounds you hadn't realized you were holding back. his hand moved to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you close. he didn't try to stop the tears, didn't offer empty platitudes. he just held you, a silent comforting presence.
"it’s okay," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear, "it's okay, y/n. i'm here."
fingers fisted in his shirt, the fabric stretching taut. the world outside the circle of his arms ceased to exist. there was only the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his body, the gentle rhythm of his breathing. time stretched and blurred. you cried until your throat ached, until your eyes felt swollen and raw, until the tremors in your body slowly began to subside.
when the sobs dwindled to quiet sniffles, you pulled back slightly, your head still resting against his shoulder, your gaze fixed on the intricate weave of his shirt. a deep, shuddering breath hitched in your chest.
"i… i need to tell you something," you whispered.
he squeezed your shoulder gently. "take your time."
the silence stretched, heavy with unspoken things. you needed to say it, all of it. the truth, ugly and raw, demanded to be set free.
"i haven’t been... i haven’t been doing well, san," you began, your voice still hoarse. "not really. i mean, i love being home. i love our apartment, i love cooking for you, taking care of everything. i really do. but" you carefully searched for the right words, the words that wouldn’t sound like an accusation. "it got... lonely. really lonely."
at his arm tightening around your waist, you glanced up at his face. his brow was furrowed, his eyes filled with a deep, quiet concern, but no judgment.
"i know you work hard," you continued, rushing the words out before you could lose your nerve. "i know you do it for us, for our future, and i appreciate it, san, i really do. sometimes, i just... i just want to talk. to someone. about anything. about my day, about a stupid show i watched, about a new recipe i found. just... to talk. and you're not there."
he didn’t interrupt, just listened, his gaze steady on your face.
"and then… i met seonghwa again."
the name plastered, foreign and sharp. san’s head tilted slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his features.
"seonghwa?" he repeated, the name unfamiliar on his tongue. "who is... i thought you said you were meeting anna? your old classmate?"
your heart sank at his innocence, at how you had let him assume with unclear conversations.
"no, anna is... seonghwa’s friend,” you explained, the words tumbling out. "she’s part of his group. he was my classmate in high school. not a close one, but... yeah. he’s the one i ran into at the supermarket."
san’s placid eyes held a hint of something unreadable. he still didn’t speak, just waited.
"i didn’t mean for any of it to happen," you confessed, your voice cracking again. "i just... i just wanted to be included. to feel like i was part of something. they seemed so... free. and easy. and i was so lonely." you paused, drawing a shaky breath, preparing for the hardest part. "at first it seemed harmless. they were just... different than me, something new. but then it escalated. the parties. the noise. the... the smoke.” you hesitated, then forced yourself to say it. "i... i smoked weed, san. once. i know, i know it was stupid. i’m so sorry."
tears welled up again and you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for his reaction. but he still didn’t say anything, just held you closer, so you continued and everything spilled. the memories flooding back, sharp and vivid. from the hazy afternoons to the girl, her unnatural stillness and anna's so, so young son yet already involved into such a chaotic world. your voice broke with the image behind eyelids. then today, at seonghwa's. reliving the terror, the helplessness, made you shiver with a torrent of fear and disgust and self reproach.
you dissolved into fresh sobs, the weight of the confession crushing you. you waited for anger, for disappointment, for the distance to grow between you even more. but instead, his arms tightened around you, pulling you even closer.
"y/n," he said, his voice deeper than usual, a quiet intensity in his tone. "look at me."
you reluctantly lifted your head, tear streaked face meeting his gaze. his eyes were now clouded with a raw pain that mirrored your own.
"you have nothing to be sorry for," he stated, his voice firm, unwavering. "not for feeling lonely. not for wanting connection. and not for trying to find it." he paused, his thumb stroking your cheek, wiping away a tear. "i’m the one who should be sorry. i let you feel that way. i let you feel so alone that you had to look for it somewhere else. i was so caught up in work, in making sure we had everything we needed, that i forgot to give you what you actually needed. me."
fresh tears pricking your eyes, you shook your head. "no, san. that’s not fair. you work so hard. you provide everything. i should have just told you. i should have talked to you. i just... i didn’t want to cause conflict. i didn’t want to seem ungrateful."
"conflict is part of a relationship, y/n," he countered softly. "it’s how we grow. and you are never ungrateful. i know you. i just... i wasn’t listening. i wasn’t seeing. i was so focused on building a future, i forgot to live in the present. with you." his gaze was intense, full of regret. "i saw you, every morning, making the bed perfectly. i saw the dinners you planned. i saw the baked goods you made, and gave away. i thought... i thought you were happy. i thought that was just you, being you. i didn’t realize it was... a symptom. i thought stability meant happiness. i thought if i provided for everything, you wouldn’t have to worry. i thought that was how i showed you i loved you. but i forgot to show you i loved you with my time. with my presence. with my words."
"but i should have said something," you insisted, your voice still thick with guilt. "i let it fester. i bottled it up. i smoked weed behind your back. that’s not okay, san. that’s not okay."
"and it’s not okay that i left you feeling so emotionally neglected that you felt like you had to," he countered, his voice gentle but firm. "we both made mistakes, y/n. mine was in being absent. yours was in not speaking up. but none of that changes how much i still love you."
he pulled you back into his embrace, holding you tightly, his chin resting on the top of your head. you could feel the steady beat of his heart against your ear. a comforting, familiar rhythm.
"i love you, y/n," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "more than anything. and i am so, so sorry that you went through all of that. that you were scared. that you were hurt. that you felt alone. i promise you, you will never feel that way again. not with me."
you clung to him, tears still flowing, but these were different. these were tears of relief, of release, of a profound love finally understood. you felt the tension that had been coiled in your chest for months slowly unwind, dissolving into the warmth of his embrace.
"i love you too, san," you sobbed, the words muffled against his shirt. "i love you so much."
held for a long time, the only sounds the quiet sniffles, the soft rustle of clothes, the steady rhythm of two hearts beating in unison. the city outside grew darker, the streetlights casting long, pale shadows through the window. but inside, in the circle of his arms, a fragile light had begun to glow. it wasn’t a solution, not yet. but it was a new beginning.
୨୧
morning rays painted stripes across the duvet. you stirred, the warmth beside you a comforting anchor. san’s arm, heavy and solid, rested across your waist. his breath, slow and even, feathered against your neck. you turned your head, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. the memory of yesterday, the raw vulnerability, the shared tears, a fragile precious thing.
quiet sigh escaping your lips, you stretched with a yawn. the bed felt different today, lighter, like a burden had lifted. you eased yourself from his embrace, careful not to wake him, and padded into the kitchen. the choreography of making coffee began. the gentle hum of the machine, the rich aroma blooming in the air. you poured two mugs, placing san’s on his bedside table before returning to your side of the bed, he still slept.
you traced the line of his jaw with your finger, the slight stubble rough beneath your touch. his eyelashes, thick and dark, rested against his skin. a small, almost imperceptible smile touched your lips.
"morning," his voice, deep and gravelly with sleep, startled you. his eyes slowly opened, finding yours.
"morning, sannie," you whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his temple.
he stretched, his big arms flexing, the muscles taut beneath his skin. he reached for you, pulling you closer until your head rested on his shoulder. "i’m not going to work today."
you blinked, pulling back slightly to look at him. "what?"
"i said, i’m not going to work today," he repeated, his thumb stroking the skin of your arm. "or tomorrow. i took the weekend off."
a small, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of you. "you did not. you never take the weekend off. you have that big report due monday."
he shifted, propping himself up on an elbow, his gaze steady. "i called lee at like 3 am. he’s covering. the report can wait. we can’t."
your heart gave a small, hopeful flutter. the words, simple and direct, resonated deep within you. you reached up, cupping his cheek. his skin felt warm against your palm.
"really?" you asked thin with emotion.
he nodded, a soft smile gracing his lips, revealing the faint indentations of his dimples. "really."
the weight that had pressed down on your chest for so long began to ease, replaced by a lightness you hadn’t felt in months. you leaned into him, burying your face in his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his skin, a mix of sleep and his subtle leftover cologne.
"what are we going to do?" you murmured, the question laced with a hesitant joy.
he held you tighter. "whatever you want. show me your world, y/n."
a lump formed in your throat. you pulled back, a small, genuine smile blooming on your face. "okay," you breathed. "okay."
the morning unfolded slowly for once, no rush to get ready, no frantic dash for him to find a parking spot. you made a more elaborate breakfast than usual, eggs scrambled with herbs, crisp bacon, and slices of avocado. he watched you, perched on a stool at the kitchen island, his phone conspicuously absent. he simply watched, gaze attentive, as you moved with a quiet efficiency.
he ate with a quiet appreciation, savoring each bite. the silence between you was no longer heavy with unspoken words, but comfortable, filled with the soft clink of forks against plates, the distant chirping of birds.
after breakfast, you led him to the bedroom and demonstrated your bed making routine, movements precise and practiced. he watched, his head tilted, an expression mixed with amusement and curiosity.
the hours melted into a gentle rhythm. you showed him your small rituals. the way you organized the pantry, grouping spices by frequency of use. the careful sorting of laundry, whites, colors, delicates. the methodical scrubbing of the bathroom, each surface gleaming. he followed you, your silent observer, occasionally offering a helping hand.
you found yourself talking more than you had in months, explaining the logic behind your choices, the small satisfactions you found in these mundane tasks. he listened, truly listened, his eyes never leaving your face. it was no longer how are you? but why do you do this that way?
lunch was a rather simple affair, sandwiches and fruit, eaten at the kitchen counter. you found yourself telling him about a new recipe you wanted to try, a complicated japanese stew you’d been researching. he listened, asking questions about the ingredients, the cooking process. it felt like a real conversation, not just a series of perfunctory exchanges.
as dusk began to settle, casting a soft, blue hue through the apartment, you found yourselves in the living room. you moved the large, plush couch, pushing it closer to the wide window that overlooked the street below. the city lights began to twinkle a distant murmur from the streets.
you sat side by side, the comfortable silence settling around you once more. he reached out, his hand slowly finding your arm. his fingers traced a gentle path from your wrist to your elbow, a soft reassuring touch. you leaned your head against his shoulder, inhaling his scent, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your ear.
the silence stretched, not empty, but full of unspoken emotions, of rediscovered intimacy. you watched the cars pass below, their headlights cutting through the growing darkness.
after a long while, he stirred. his hand tightened on your arm, then he slowly, gently, pulled you onto his lap. your legs tangled with his, your body molding against his hard frame. he shifted, adjusting you until you were nestled perfectly, your back against his chest. his lips found your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss, then moving to the delicate skin of your neck. a shiver ran through you, a small, involuntary gasp escaping your lips. he kissed the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, and a soft giggle bubbled up from your chest.
"you okay? is this okay?" he murmured.
you nodded, your head resting against his shoulder. "more than okay."
he pulled back slightly, turning you so you faced him, his hands resting on your hips. his brown eyes held a tenderness that made your breath catch.
"y/n," he began, his voice soft, almost hesitant. "do you... do you ever think about kids?"
୨୧
effortlessly, he laid you gently on the bed, following you down, his body a warm weight against yours. his lips found yours, soft at first, then deepening, hungry desperation underlying the tenderness. your mouth opened beneath his, inviting him in. his tongue tangled with yours, a slow, sensual dance, tasting of coffee and him.
"mine," he murmured against your mouth, pulling back just enough to whisper the word. "you’re mine, y/n. no one else’s."
his hands, large and strong, moved to the hem of your shirt, slowly, deliberately, pulling it up and over your head. the cool air brushed against your skin for a moment before his hands were there, warm and firm, stroking your sides, your ribs, the soft skin of your belly.
you arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your throat. you reached for his shirt, fingers trembling slightly. he helped, peeling the fabric from his broad shoulders, revealing the taut muscles of his chest before he reached around, touch gentle, unfastening the hook of your bra. the lace fell away, revealing your breasts, full and soft in the dim light. he stared, his gaze lingering and before you knew it, he leaned down, lips closing over one nipple, drawing it into his mouth. a jolt of pure pleasure shot through you. he sucked, softly at first, then harder, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. your breath hitched, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, holding him closer. he moved to the other breast, suckling with equal fervor, his free hand stroking your side, making goosebumps rise on your skin.
"so beautiful," he breathed, pulling back to look at your flushed face. "so fucking beautiful."
rough with desire, igniting a fire deep within you. you reached for the button of his jeans, eager to shed the remaining barriers between you, pushing them down his hips, along with his boxers. his cock sprang free, already hard and engorged, glistening in the dim light. you reached for him, your fingers wrapping around his heat, stroking the soft skin. he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.
"baby," he gasped, his voice strained. "god, y/n."
you continued to stroke him, feeling the pulse of his arousal against your palm. your own desire mounted, a burning ache between your legs. he reached for your shorts, pulling them down with your panties. the cool air kissed your bare skin, a fleeting sensation before his hand was there, warm and knowing, finding the wetness between your thighs.
his fingers parted your folds, gently, slowly, exploring the slickness, the delicate curves of your clit. you gasped, your hips arching instinctively. he dipped a finger inside you, then another, preparing you. you were already so wet, your body aching for him. a soft squelching sound accompanied his movements, a wet, intimate symphony.
"so wet," his voice husky, eyes never leaving yours. "for me."
he watched your face, gauging your reactions, thumb circling your clit, drawing out whimpers and soft cries from deep within your throat. you writhed beneath his touch, your body trembling, on the precipice of release.
"please," you pleaded, your voice hoarse. "san, please."
he shifted, kneeling between your legs. his heavy cock, slick with your wetness, brushed against your opening. you gasped, a desperate sound. he hesitated, looking into your eyes, a possessive fire burning in his gaze.
"say..." he whispered, slightly overwhelmed already. "say you’re mine."
"yours," you choked out, tears stinging your eyes, a heady mix of pleasure and raw emotion. "i’m yours, san. only yours."
he entered you then, slowly, pushing past the soft resistance, filling you completely. a deep groan rumbled in his chest as he buried himself within you. you cried out, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. he paused, letting you adjust, letting your body stretch and encompass him. the feeling was overwhelming, profound sense of fullness, of belonging.
he began to move, slow, deliberate rhythm at first, his hips rocking against yours. the friction was exquisite, the sound of your bodies joining, a wet, rhythmic shlicking. he pulled back almost completely, then drove back in, deep and hard, a sigh escaping his lips. your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him deeper.
"mine," he repeated, each thrust punctuated by the word. "no one will ever... have you like this, only me."
the pace quickened, becoming more urgent, more primal. he pounded into you, each stroke sending waves of pleasure through your core. your nails dug into his back, leaving faint red marks on his tanned skin. your hips rose to meet his, matching his rhythm, your bodies a blur of motion in the dim light. the bed creaked beneath you, a testament to the intensity of your passion.
he leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue plundering yours, tasting your desire, your cries muffled against his lips. your climax built, a tight coil in your belly, spreading outwards, consuming you. you bucked against him, your body convulsing around his cock. a guttural cry tore from your throat as you shattered, waves of pure bliss washing over you.
the thrusts got deeper, harder, his own climax building quickly on the heels of yours. groans and bodies tensing, hips slamming into yours one last time as he emptied himself deep inside you. his hot cum flooded you, warm thick rush that made you gasp.
collapsed and slick with sweat, your legs were still wrapped around him, intimately entwined. he buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin.
"mine," he whispered the promise again. "forever."
fingers tangling in his damp hair, you held him close. the noise outside, the loneliness, the fear, all faded away, replaced by the overwhelming presence of him, of this rediscovered connection. you felt utterly safe, utterly loved, utterly his.
he shifted, pulling back slightly, propping himself on his elbows, his eyes soft, heavy lidded. he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, a tender exploration.
"i love you, y/n."
the words, so rarely spoken, so deeply felt, resonated through you. a fresh wave of tears pricked your eyes, but these were tears of joy, of relief, of a profound sense of peace.
"i love you too, san," you whispered back. "more than anything."
a new chapter had begun. a chapter filled with soft reassurances, intentional conversations, and a love that, though tested, had found it's way back home. the question of children lingered, a new seed planted in the fertile ground of your renewed intimacy, a promise of a future you could now, finally, envision together.
each day a thread re-stitched into the fabric of your life together. no longer a frayed edge, but a strengthening seam. the silence shedding it's heavy cloak of unspoken expectation. now, it held the hum of shared understanding, a quiet comfort that didn't demand filling. some days you still spent less time together than you'd wanted, yet, even then, the goodbye no longer felt like a hurried escape.
you learned to speak your needs, not with the tremor of a plea, but with the steady beat of a declaration. he listened, brow furrowing in concentration, his eyes soft with an empathy he’d struggled to articulate before. you saw the effort, the conscious wrestling with words that didn’t come easily to him. it was a language you were both learning, halting at first, then gaining fluency with each shared vulnerability. he’d ask about your day, not as a formality, but with genuine curiosity, sometimes even calling during his lunch break, a rare occurrence that made your heart do a little skip. love rediscovered, a future being built, one honest word, one tender touch, at a time.
your phone still buzzed with notifications from instagram. you scrolled past anna’s stories, a flurry of candid shots from her son’s fifth birthday party. a lopsided cake, sticky fingers, a wide, gap toothed grin. you tapped the little heart icon, then saw sally’s latest transformation, her hair now a vibrant neon green. she’d posted a picture of a sizzling pan, tagged with a question about your secret to perfectly crisp tofu. you sent back a detailed message, outlining marinades and pan temperatures, a smile touching your lips. you knew, and they knew, that the physical space between your worlds had widened, perhaps irrevocably. there was no expectation of meeting up, no casual invitations to late night gigs. seonghwa’s shadow still stretched too long, too dark, across that part of your memory. the thought of stepping back into that haze, even for a moment, made your stomach clench. you had found your way back to the light, and you were fiercely protective of it.
this morning, however, began with no alarms. skin to skin, a perfect fit. he had begged for five more minutes and how could you say no when his mouth was already moving in between your thighs? lazy swipes, you felt your muscles tense slightly, then relax, his hand finding your hip, drawing you closer, before moving your legs over his shoulders. his tongue stroked the soft skin of your pussy, a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
time dissolved. the soft rustle of sheets, the faint thumping of your heart against his. the world outside your bedroom, outside this intimate cocoon, ceased to exist. you were just two bodies, intertwined, rediscovering a forgotten language.
when your third orgasm of that morning alone hit, you pulled your head back, accidentally looking at the clock and freezing, a gasp escaping your lips. he pulled back slightly, his eyes still clouded with passion, then clearing with the dawning realization. a groan, this one of frustration, escaped him.
"shit, shit, shit," you cursed under your breath. "oh, san. you're going to be late."
a deep sigh, rueful sound laced with disappointment escaped him. you pushed yourself up, pulling the sheet with you, a sudden chill striking your skin. he ran a hand through his hair, dishevelled from sleep and your shared passion. "i know." he sat up, stretching, his muscles rippling, a sight that still made your breath catch. he threw his legs over the side of the bed, the sheet falling away, revealing the strong lines of his back, the curve of his shoulders and his half erect dick.
"go, go," you urged, though a part of you wanted to pull him back, to steal a few more precious minutes. you threw off the covers, padding naked to the closet, already mentally planning his lunch.
he glanced back, a wry smile on his face. "you’re not exactly helping." his eyes lingered on your retreating figure, a spark of lingering desire in them.
"i’m making your lunch. that’s helping." you laughed shyly, a clear sound before pulling out a crisp white shirt, a dark tie, laying them out on the bed for him.
when the sound of the shower starting grounded you, you moved with purpose, opening the fridge, pulling out containers. yesterday’s leftover bulgogi, a side of kimchi, some fresh fruit. you packed it all neatly into his bento box, arranging the colours, making it appealing.
now dressed in his dark suit trousers, he emerged from the bathroom, his shirt still unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of his chest. his hair was damp, slicked back, making him look even more handsome, more put together. he came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you back against his solid frame. chin rested on your shoulder, breath warm against your ear.
"i love you," he murmured, the words no longer feeling forced, but a natural outflow.
you leaned into him, closing your eyes for a moment. "i love you too," you replied, your voice thick with emotion.
he squeezed you gently, then released you, picking up his jacket. you followed him to the doorframe, a familiar ritual, but one that now held a deeper significance. he turned, his eyes searching yours, then he leaned down, his lips finding yours in a deep, lingering kiss. it was a kiss that spoke of hurried passion, of regret for lost time, and of promises for the future. his hand found your butt, giving it an extra, firm squeeze, a playful, intimate gesture that made you giggle.
"sannie, you have to go." you laughed against his lips.
"i know, just let me-"
he pulled you back in, tongues dancing against each other as he opened the door.
"you gotta... go... leave..." despite your protests, you were leaning into the kisses as well.
finally, when he pulled back, a wide grin appeared on his face, those dimples on full display. "i left something for you on the counter." his eyes twinkled.
your eyebrows rose in surprise. "oh?"
he just winked, then stepped out into the hallway. "have a good day," he called over his shoulder, already halfway down the corridor.
"you too." you watched him go with a warmth spreading through you, chasing away the morning chill. your cheeks burned pleasant blush. you closed the door, leaning against it for a moment, the echo of his kiss still on your lips.
a curious smile played on your lips. you turned, walking back into the kitchen, your eyes scanning the clean, uncluttered surface. amidst the neatly stacked mail and the fruit bowl, an envelope lay, pristine white, tucked beside the coffee maker.
your heart gave a little flutter. you picked it up, fingers tracing the simple, elegant script of your name. you recognized his handwriting, though it was slightly more rushed than usual, a testament to his morning scramble. you glanced back at the lace box that sat on your dresser. finally, a new companion piece awaited. you carefully tore open the seal, your breath held in anticipation.
you pulled out a single sheet of paper, folded neatly. it wasn’t a thick expensive stationery, but a page torn from a small, spiral bound notebook, perhaps one he kept for jotting down notes at work. the paper felt thin, slightly rough urough under your fingertips. the words were penned in his familiar, slightly cramped hand, some of them a little smudged, as if he’d written it quickly, probably during a stolen moment on his break.
you began to read, a soft smile blooming on your face.
my y/n:
you know how i am with words, they get stuck somewhere between my heart and my mouth. it’s frustrating. for both of us, i know. i think about that first letter i wrote you. it was bad. really bad. i cringed just thinking about it. but i tried, i guess, even if it doesn’t look like it. these past few weeks... they’ve been good, better. i hope it's the same for you. seeing you smile again, truly smile, it’s like the sun coming out after a long winter. i never want that winter to come back. i never want you to feel that coldness again. i was so blind. so stupid. i thought providing was enough but i was wrong. you taught me that. you always teach me things, even when you don’t mean to. i want to be better. for us. for you. i want to learn how to say these things out loud, not just write them down when no one’s looking. i’m sorry for the pain i caused. i’m sorry i let you feel alone. i promise to keep trying. to keep learning. to keep loving you, in all the ways you deserve. you are my home, y/n, my everything, my wife, and i will never ever let another man think they got a mere chance with you, never again. you're mine and i'm yours.
i have always been missing, yearning, longing to read such masterpieces like this again; long written fanfic with actual plot that sent me into roller coaster ride of emotions, the angst, the slice-of-life, the effort, the characters development... it's all perfect 😭😭😭 it's been soooooo long since i could find fanfics like this pls we need more beautiful written arts!!!!!! thank you for writing this and sharing it to the world!
Pairing: Mafia Jongho x reader
Word Count: 2K
Genre: Mafia Romance
Warnings: MDNI, 18+, Criminal Activities,
He's dangerous but is he too dangerous?
The diner never closed, it just dimmed as the crowds left and the late-night shift began. After 1 a.m., the overhead fluorescents hummed softer, like they were too exhausted to continue exposing things. The night crowd thinned to truckers, insomniacs, and men who didn’t want to go home yet, or ever.
He came in at 12:45, always within five minutes of that time and always alone. To begin with it was once or twice a week, then it became every second day but for the last month it had been every single morning. You noticed, your livelihood depends on you noticing patterns, that's how you survived each shift unscathed. You knew who liked extra sugar, who left without paying, who stared too long, who would get handsy if you got too close.
But he didn’t stare, he assessed.
The bell above the door rang once. He stepped in, rain sliding off the shoulders of his expensive looking black coat. He didn't rush, he never rushed, He seemed to be the kind of man who made the room adjust to him.
Jongho, he gave you his name once after he had been your only patron one night months ago, but you didn’t know his last name. He never offered it. He took the booth in the back corner back to the wall with a clear view of the door, the bathroom hallway, the street through the rain-streaked windows. The first time he’d sat there, you thought he just liked privacy, you had figured out after a few nights that he was different to everyone else in the room, you knew it wasn't just for privacy.
You grabbed the coffee pot and crossed the faded linoleum floor. “Rough night?” you asked lightly, sliding seamlessly into your role.
He looked up at you. His eyes were darker tonight. Not tired more like calculated. Like something had been decided. “They usually are.” His voice wasn’t loud and it didn’t need to be, it had weight to it like it was used to being obeyed.
You poured his coffee, the plain white mug looking smaller than average in his large hands. Black with no sugar. There was a faint mark near his knuckles. A bruise blooming under the skin and a split that looked like it had been clean but was still fresh. You didn’t ask, you were never going to ask.
Outside, across the street, the same black sedan idled under the flickering streetlamp. You asked him once, weeks ago, if he had friends waiting. He’d replied, “I don’t wait alone.” That was all no elaboration and no offer of anything more than simple fact.
You learned the rules about Jongho quickly. He never touched you without reason, never flirted cheaply and never asked personal questions unless you offered something first.
But he always listened memorizing the information you gave him men who actually listened were dangerous but also far too attractive.
One night, long after Jongho had come in, a drunk wandered in and got loud, he was a sloppy drunk and rude to boot, one of your least favorite combinations. When you handed him his plate he leaned into close moving to grab your wrist you flinched in anticipation.
Before you could step back, Jongho’s voice cut through the air. “Sit down.” He hadn’t raised it any louder than normal, but the drunk froze in place his hand still hanging in mid-air before obeying and sitting down in silence.
There was something in Jongho’s tone, something cold and final, that made the man obey without argument. You watched it happen, the shift within the room, the power without volume.
After the drunk left, nearly tripping over himself to get out the door, you returned to Jongho’s booth slowly. “You didn’t have to do that.” You smiled sweetly grateful for his protection but not wanting to seem weak or expectant.
“Yes,” he said calmly, maintaining eye contact. “I did.”
You studied him then. The precision in his posture. The way his fingers tapped once on the table, like a signal that had already been sent somewhere else. You swallowed. “Who are you?” you asked quietly.
He held your gaze for a long moment before finally conceding “Someone who doesn’t like seeing you disrespected.”
It wasn't an answer it was a deflection. But you felt heat crawl up your spine regardless.
He asked you out on the twenty-third night, you had been counting.
“Dinner,” he said simply, watching you over the rim of his coffee cup, both of you ignoring the hairline crack that was turning dark brown every time he raised it to his lips. “Somewhere proper.”
You smiled coyly “And if I say no?”
His eyes didn’t flicker. “Then I’ll still come here tomorrow.” There was no pressure, he had no ego about it, it was just inevitability.
You, of course, said yes.
The restaurant he took you to was the kind of place you’d only ever seen through glass. Low golden toned lighting, burgundy velvet booths and crystal that caught candlelight like trapped fire. The pianist played something slow and aching the music swirling through the room like smoke. Your black dress now seemed too simple to be worn in a place like this, but Jongho had looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he had seen in years.
You stepped inside on his arm and felt it immediately the power in the room shifted. Conversations dipped to near silence. A man at the bar straightened almost unconsciously. The hostess blinked once too many times before smiling too wide, like she was counting the taking before you had even been seated.
“Mr. Choi,” the manager said, hurrying forward to shake his hand a little to enthusiastically.
You felt it then, no longer was it just a suspicion that sat in the back of your mind. It was now confirmation of what you had suspected for longer than you wanted to admit. Jongho’s hand remained at the small of your back. It was steady even slightly possessive but not gripping. Like he was aware of exactly how much pressure he applied.
“You’re not in logistics, are you?” you said once you were seated.
“No.” The honesty startled you more than a lie would have. The waiter approached nervously. Jongho ordered without looking at the menu. Ordered for you too, but paused just long enough to murmur, “Unless you’d prefer something else.”
You didn’t protest, you let him choose for you.
“You have a lot of power,” you said after the wine arrived sipping it slowly.
His gaze met yours over the candle. “Power is a perception,” he replied almost too casually.
“That’s not a denial.” You smiled over the top of your wine glass.
“No.” Again he spoke as though it could have been the weather you had asked about.
The pianist missed a note, and you didn’t know how you heard it, but you did. “Jongho, are people afraid of you?” you asked softly.
He paused. “Yes.”
Your heart kicked once against your ribs. “And should I be?”
His fingers brushed the stem of his glass. Slow and thoughtful. “That depends.”
Your breath hitched. “On what?”
“On whether you think I would ever let harm come to you.” The way he said it wasn’t romantic, not truly, it was territorial.
You studied him more carefully now. The tailored suit, the expensive watch and cologne, the faint scar just beneath his ear you hadn’t noticed until now. “I saw your hand the other night,” you said quietly. “It was bleeding.”
He didn’t look down at it. “It happens.” Again, the casualness should have made you pause but it didn't.
“That’s not normal.” You bit your lower lip lightly, but it wasn't from nerves.
“It is for me.” There it was, he cracked the door open just enough for you to see darkness inside. You should have felt fear. Instead, you felt something hotter something dangerous and electric.
Because through all of it through the weight in the room, through the tension coiled beneath his stillness he had never once looked at you like you were disposable. He looked at you with a soft reverence that made your whole-body hum.
After dinner, rain had started again. He walked you outside, umbrella untouched in his hand. He let the rain fall on him instead, angling it over you. Across the street, a car engine turned over and then went silent, waiting for him to give his orders.
“You knew,” he said quietly, once you were alone on the sidewalk. “From the beginning.”
“I suspected.” Your words careful but honest.
“And you still came tonight.” The slight hint of surprise that made its way into his tone made you smile.
You stepped closer, heels clicking softly against wet pavement. “You’ve never lied to me,” you said. “You just don’t answer.”
There was a faint shift in his expression that looked a lot like approval. “You don’t scare easily,” he murmured. “You don’t push.”
You were silent for a moment. “You could ruin me,” you said softly. Not accusingly more stating a fact.
His jaw tightened—not in anger, but restraint. “I could ruin a lot of things in this world.” The rain slid down his temple, over his cheekbone. He looked carved from shadow and light. “But I wouldn’t ruin you.”
It wasn’t a sweet nothing to give you false hope it was an absolute.
Your pulse pounded in your throat as you reached up, fingers brushing rain from his collar. “Why not?” you asked your voice dropping to a whisper.
For the first time since you’d known him, something flickered in his eyes. It wasn't weakness it was something deeper something far more dangerous. “Because” he said quietly, stepping closer until you felt the heat of him through your dress, “I don’t destroy what I intend to keep.”
The world narrowed around you and the traffic noise blurred. Your hand flattened against his chest. His heartbeat was steady. Controlled. Unlike yours. “Then what do you intend?” you whispered letting the heat building inside you fill your words.
His hand came to your waist slowly, giving you time to step back but you didn’t. His thumb pressed lightly into your hip, grounding you in place. “I intend,” he murmured near your ear, voice low enough that it felt like it belonged to the rain, “to see how far you’re willing to step into my world… before you ask me to step into yours.”
Your breath caught your whole body aching for him to be closer to you. “You won’t tell me what you do?” You murmured turning your head towards him slightly.
“No.” His breath stroked your cheek.
“You won’t promise it’s clean?” you breathed.
“It isn’t.” The honesty burned like fire.
“But you’ll protect me?” The words came out almost inaudibly, but you knew he would hear them.
His gaze locked onto yours. “With everything I have.”
A car door shut somewhere behind him. You didn’t look. Because in that moment, with the city bleeding neon around you and his hand firm and hot at your waist, you understood something simple and terrifying. Jongho wasn’t mysterious because he had secrets, he was mysterious because he had control. Worse still was you weren’t afraid of him.
You leaned up first. His kiss was nothing like the careful restraint he showed in public. It was slow, intentional and possessive in a way that made your knees weaken. He didn't rush he claimed your lips for himself. His hand tightened slightly at your waist, pulling you flush against him, shielding you from the rain, from the world.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “If you ever want out,” he said quietly, breath warm against your skin, “you say it once. I won’t ask twice.”
“And if I don’t?” You whispered as sultrily as you could
His thumb traced a slow line along your side, just enough to make your pulse stutter. “Then you stay,” he said softly, “and you learn exactly what it means to be chosen by a man like me.”
The sedan’s headlights flicked on. He stepped back just enough to open your car door. You hesitated only a second before getting in. Because some women fall for safe men, and some women look into the darkness and decide they can see just fine.
a/n: Thank you so much for reading, apparently I am on a mafia/crime boss bender again but eh. Your love and support is deeply appreciated and I love you all to bits xx
Pairing: Mafia Jongho x reader
Word Count: 2K
Genre: Mafia Romance
Warnings: MDNI, 18+, Criminal Activities,
He's dangerous but is he too dangerous?
The diner never closed, it just dimmed as the crowds left and the late-night shift began. After 1 a.m., the overhead fluorescents hummed softer, like they were too exhausted to continue exposing things. The night crowd thinned to truckers, insomniacs, and men who didn’t want to go home yet, or ever.
He came in at 12:45, always within five minutes of that time and always alone. To begin with it was once or twice a week, then it became every second day but for the last month it had been every single morning. You noticed, your livelihood depends on you noticing patterns, that's how you survived each shift unscathed. You knew who liked extra sugar, who left without paying, who stared too long, who would get handsy if you got too close.
But he didn’t stare, he assessed.
The bell above the door rang once. He stepped in, rain sliding off the shoulders of his expensive looking black coat. He didn't rush, he never rushed, He seemed to be the kind of man who made the room adjust to him.
Jongho, he gave you his name once after he had been your only patron one night months ago, but you didn’t know his last name. He never offered it. He took the booth in the back corner back to the wall with a clear view of the door, the bathroom hallway, the street through the rain-streaked windows. The first time he’d sat there, you thought he just liked privacy, you had figured out after a few nights that he was different to everyone else in the room, you knew it wasn't just for privacy.
You grabbed the coffee pot and crossed the faded linoleum floor. “Rough night?” you asked lightly, sliding seamlessly into your role.
He looked up at you. His eyes were darker tonight. Not tired more like calculated. Like something had been decided. “They usually are.” His voice wasn’t loud and it didn’t need to be, it had weight to it like it was used to being obeyed.
You poured his coffee, the plain white mug looking smaller than average in his large hands. Black with no sugar. There was a faint mark near his knuckles. A bruise blooming under the skin and a split that looked like it had been clean but was still fresh. You didn’t ask, you were never going to ask.
Outside, across the street, the same black sedan idled under the flickering streetlamp. You asked him once, weeks ago, if he had friends waiting. He’d replied, “I don’t wait alone.” That was all no elaboration and no offer of anything more than simple fact.
You learned the rules about Jongho quickly. He never touched you without reason, never flirted cheaply and never asked personal questions unless you offered something first.
But he always listened memorizing the information you gave him men who actually listened were dangerous but also far too attractive.
One night, long after Jongho had come in, a drunk wandered in and got loud, he was a sloppy drunk and rude to boot, one of your least favorite combinations. When you handed him his plate he leaned into close moving to grab your wrist you flinched in anticipation.
Before you could step back, Jongho’s voice cut through the air. “Sit down.” He hadn’t raised it any louder than normal, but the drunk froze in place his hand still hanging in mid-air before obeying and sitting down in silence.
There was something in Jongho’s tone, something cold and final, that made the man obey without argument. You watched it happen, the shift within the room, the power without volume.
After the drunk left, nearly tripping over himself to get out the door, you returned to Jongho’s booth slowly. “You didn’t have to do that.” You smiled sweetly grateful for his protection but not wanting to seem weak or expectant.
“Yes,” he said calmly, maintaining eye contact. “I did.”
You studied him then. The precision in his posture. The way his fingers tapped once on the table, like a signal that had already been sent somewhere else. You swallowed. “Who are you?” you asked quietly.
He held your gaze for a long moment before finally conceding “Someone who doesn’t like seeing you disrespected.”
It wasn't an answer it was a deflection. But you felt heat crawl up your spine regardless.
He asked you out on the twenty-third night, you had been counting.
“Dinner,” he said simply, watching you over the rim of his coffee cup, both of you ignoring the hairline crack that was turning dark brown every time he raised it to his lips. “Somewhere proper.”
You smiled coyly “And if I say no?”
His eyes didn’t flicker. “Then I’ll still come here tomorrow.” There was no pressure, he had no ego about it, it was just inevitability.
You, of course, said yes.
The restaurant he took you to was the kind of place you’d only ever seen through glass. Low golden toned lighting, burgundy velvet booths and crystal that caught candlelight like trapped fire. The pianist played something slow and aching the music swirling through the room like smoke. Your black dress now seemed too simple to be worn in a place like this, but Jongho had looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he had seen in years.
You stepped inside on his arm and felt it immediately the power in the room shifted. Conversations dipped to near silence. A man at the bar straightened almost unconsciously. The hostess blinked once too many times before smiling too wide, like she was counting the taking before you had even been seated.
“Mr. Choi,” the manager said, hurrying forward to shake his hand a little to enthusiastically.
You felt it then, no longer was it just a suspicion that sat in the back of your mind. It was now confirmation of what you had suspected for longer than you wanted to admit. Jongho’s hand remained at the small of your back. It was steady even slightly possessive but not gripping. Like he was aware of exactly how much pressure he applied.
“You’re not in logistics, are you?” you said once you were seated.
“No.” The honesty startled you more than a lie would have. The waiter approached nervously. Jongho ordered without looking at the menu. Ordered for you too, but paused just long enough to murmur, “Unless you’d prefer something else.”
You didn’t protest, you let him choose for you.
“You have a lot of power,” you said after the wine arrived sipping it slowly.
His gaze met yours over the candle. “Power is a perception,” he replied almost too casually.
“That’s not a denial.” You smiled over the top of your wine glass.
“No.” Again he spoke as though it could have been the weather you had asked about.
The pianist missed a note, and you didn’t know how you heard it, but you did. “Jongho, are people afraid of you?” you asked softly.
He paused. “Yes.”
Your heart kicked once against your ribs. “And should I be?”
His fingers brushed the stem of his glass. Slow and thoughtful. “That depends.”
Your breath hitched. “On what?”
“On whether you think I would ever let harm come to you.” The way he said it wasn’t romantic, not truly, it was territorial.
You studied him more carefully now. The tailored suit, the expensive watch and cologne, the faint scar just beneath his ear you hadn’t noticed until now. “I saw your hand the other night,” you said quietly. “It was bleeding.”
He didn’t look down at it. “It happens.” Again, the casualness should have made you pause but it didn't.
“That’s not normal.” You bit your lower lip lightly, but it wasn't from nerves.
“It is for me.” There it was, he cracked the door open just enough for you to see darkness inside. You should have felt fear. Instead, you felt something hotter something dangerous and electric.
Because through all of it through the weight in the room, through the tension coiled beneath his stillness he had never once looked at you like you were disposable. He looked at you with a soft reverence that made your whole-body hum.
After dinner, rain had started again. He walked you outside, umbrella untouched in his hand. He let the rain fall on him instead, angling it over you. Across the street, a car engine turned over and then went silent, waiting for him to give his orders.
“You knew,” he said quietly, once you were alone on the sidewalk. “From the beginning.”
“I suspected.” Your words careful but honest.
“And you still came tonight.” The slight hint of surprise that made its way into his tone made you smile.
You stepped closer, heels clicking softly against wet pavement. “You’ve never lied to me,” you said. “You just don’t answer.”
There was a faint shift in his expression that looked a lot like approval. “You don’t scare easily,” he murmured. “You don’t push.”
You were silent for a moment. “You could ruin me,” you said softly. Not accusingly more stating a fact.
His jaw tightened—not in anger, but restraint. “I could ruin a lot of things in this world.” The rain slid down his temple, over his cheekbone. He looked carved from shadow and light. “But I wouldn’t ruin you.”
It wasn’t a sweet nothing to give you false hope it was an absolute.
Your pulse pounded in your throat as you reached up, fingers brushing rain from his collar. “Why not?” you asked your voice dropping to a whisper.
For the first time since you’d known him, something flickered in his eyes. It wasn't weakness it was something deeper something far more dangerous. “Because” he said quietly, stepping closer until you felt the heat of him through your dress, “I don’t destroy what I intend to keep.”
The world narrowed around you and the traffic noise blurred. Your hand flattened against his chest. His heartbeat was steady. Controlled. Unlike yours. “Then what do you intend?” you whispered letting the heat building inside you fill your words.
His hand came to your waist slowly, giving you time to step back but you didn’t. His thumb pressed lightly into your hip, grounding you in place. “I intend,” he murmured near your ear, voice low enough that it felt like it belonged to the rain, “to see how far you’re willing to step into my world… before you ask me to step into yours.”
Your breath caught your whole body aching for him to be closer to you. “You won’t tell me what you do?” You murmured turning your head towards him slightly.
“No.” His breath stroked your cheek.
“You won’t promise it’s clean?” you breathed.
“It isn’t.” The honesty burned like fire.
“But you’ll protect me?” The words came out almost inaudibly, but you knew he would hear them.
His gaze locked onto yours. “With everything I have.”
A car door shut somewhere behind him. You didn’t look. Because in that moment, with the city bleeding neon around you and his hand firm and hot at your waist, you understood something simple and terrifying. Jongho wasn’t mysterious because he had secrets, he was mysterious because he had control. Worse still was you weren’t afraid of him.
You leaned up first. His kiss was nothing like the careful restraint he showed in public. It was slow, intentional and possessive in a way that made your knees weaken. He didn't rush he claimed your lips for himself. His hand tightened slightly at your waist, pulling you flush against him, shielding you from the rain, from the world.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “If you ever want out,” he said quietly, breath warm against your skin, “you say it once. I won’t ask twice.”
“And if I don’t?” You whispered as sultrily as you could
His thumb traced a slow line along your side, just enough to make your pulse stutter. “Then you stay,” he said softly, “and you learn exactly what it means to be chosen by a man like me.”
The sedan’s headlights flicked on. He stepped back just enough to open your car door. You hesitated only a second before getting in. Because some women fall for safe men, and some women look into the darkness and decide they can see just fine.
a/n: Thank you so much for reading, apparently I am on a mafia/crime boss bender again but eh. Your love and support is deeply appreciated and I love you all to bits xx
SAN wasn’t trying to snoop. he was just walking down the hallway, a half-open bag of chips in his hand, minding his own business, when he noticed SEONGHWA'S door was slightly open. actually unlocked, which wasn’t unusual.
what was unusual was your voice coming from inside the room.
you visited often, especially when you were san’s cousin, his parents asking if you wanted to stop by and see him and help with a few things. you floated around the dorm comfortably, familiar with everyone, especially seonghwa. the two of you had grown close over time, bonding over hobbies, late-night talks, and oddly specific shared interests.
san didn’t think anything of it, he was actually happy that you get along with his friends that he thinks of as brothers…until he heard you say:
“seonghwa, it won’t fit… it’s too big.”
the man froze dead in his tracks, the potato chip he’d just lifted hovered halfway to his mouth. seonghwa’s calm voice followed a second after.
“don’t worry. i’ll make it fit.”
san’s eyes widened, processing what he just heard…make it fit? his heart started beating faster, confusion creeping fast in like an ice melting in the hot sun.
“but hwa,” you said again, voice softer now, a little strained, “my hand barely wraps around it.”
the plastic bag slipped from his fingers, as it hit the floor with a quiet thud. your cousin slapped his hand over his mouth instantly, eyes blown wide in pure, unfiltered shock. no…no. this couldn’t be happening and out of everyone — seonghwa?
his mind raced, spiraling and panicking, eyes blinking so rapidly because, damn. leaning slightly toward the door without meaning to, ear to the wood, his entire body tense when seonghwa spoke again.
“i told you not to worry. i'm gonna make it work perfectly.”
perfectly? oh my god, great heavens. his cousin and his hyung, in his hyung’s room. san’s soul began leaving his body. he didn’t know what to do: whether to run, scream, or pretend he’d never existed.
“oh!” your voice rang again and why do you sound so happy? “wait, wait, i think it’s going in now–”
san almost choked on air, he couldn’t take it anymore, so he pushed the door open. “what is going o–”
he stopped, seeing how you and seonghwa both looked up, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by lego pieces. a massive, half-built lego set between you. you were holding a large gray piece in both hands, while seonghwa guided it carefully into place on the structure, as it snapped in place.
you gasped in surprise, clapping your hands. “it fit!”
seonghwa smiled softly at you, reassuring that everything went where it was supposed to. “see? i told you so.”
san stood there, staring at both of you, his brain malfunctioning at the sight of the lego. then he looked at your hands, then at seonghwa’s, and back at you.
“sannie?” tilting your head, asking your cousin because he seems rather disturbed and confused for some reason. “is everything okay… it's like you have seen a ghost?”
“a lego set?” he said weakly, forcing a smile, resulting in you frowning a little in confusion.
“yeah?”
“cool, cool… i just wanted to look for my charger, and oh– there it is,” at least he could cover the lie because seonghwa did borrow his charger. “sorry to interrupt– i mean have fun.”
san slowly turned around, walked out and picked his potato chips from the floor. closing the door, staying in the hallway, staring at nothing. he needed a minute, actually, he needed several to adjust to reality.
you and seonghwa stare at the closed door, because well… you and him are definitely not dating in secret. “next time, we should lock the door,” you murmur, resting your head on his shoulder as he presses a soft kiss to your hair, his hand sliding gently over your arm.
he only hums in response, because next time, it won’t be lego that won’t fit into your hand.
you just got dumped, and honestly, showing up to work feels like dragging yourself through hell. you’re tired, raw, and not really holding it together the way you want to. mingi notices. he notices everything. and that’s how it starts — the glances, the conversations, the comfort you didn’t know you needed. slowly, something shifts.
a/n : haven’t posted in a while. just didn’t feel like it tbh. so i stepped back. spent the last few days writing this instead. first angst fic. hope u like it.
You haven’t been yourself lately.
It’s not just in your head — you can feel it in the small things. The way your feet drag just a little slower when you walk into work. The way your makeup bag has sat untouched for five days now.
The way food has started tasting like nothing.
You’ve been moving through life like it’s underwater, and everything takes more effort than you have left to give. You don’t even know why it hit you this hard this time.
It’s not like you haven’t been dumped before. But maybe it’s the way it happened. Or the timing. Or maybe it’s just the accumulation of everything — a slow avalanche of little losses.
And today... you didn’t even want to show up. But you did. You always do.
The café is warm, bright, filled with the usual buzz of music and half-hearted small talk.
You’re in your uniform, hair tied back, apron looped loosely around your waist, and everything feels too tight. The lights are too bright. The sound of espresso machines is too loud.
The people are too much.
And then there’s Mingi.
He’s always been around. Tall. Warm smile. Soft eyes. Just kind of… present.
You’ve worked alongside him a hundred times, but it’s never been more than casual hellos and polite jokes.
You know he’s dated a couple of girls here and there — not that you paid that much attention. He’s sweet. Too sweet, maybe. And somehow, they never seemed to last.
But he’s not your problem. Never was. You never even thought about being his. Until now.
“Hey,” he says when he sees your name on the shift schedule beside his. He grins. “Looks like it’s you and me today.”
You manage a faint smile. “Yeah. Lucky you.”
He laughs softly, doesn’t push it. “You doing okay?”
You nod too quickly. “Yeah, just tired.”
It’s a lie. You can tell he knows it.
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
Halfway through your shift, you’re wiping down the counter when a customer — a woman, late 30s maybe, dressed like she wants everyone to know she shops somewhere expensive — squints at you.
“Shit, you look tired,” she says, frowning.
“Sorry?” you say, trying to stay polite.
“You sick? You really shouldn’t be handling food if you’re sick.”
You blink. “I’m not sick.”
“Well, you look sick,” she says, like that somehow makes it better. “Maybe put on a little makeup next time, honey. I wouldn’t want to be served by someone who looks like they’ve been crying all morning.”
You feel it like a slap. No warning. Just raw and direct.
“Anyways,” she sighs, “I’ll have a matcha latte. Oat milk. Extra hot. And one of those almond croissants, if they’re fresh.”
You punch in the order with trembling fingers. Nod.
She doesn’t thank you. Just taps away on her phone as you turn to prep her drink, your breath catching in your throat, the back of your eyes burning. Again. You don’t even realize how fast it all comes rushing back.
The way your reflection haunted you this morning. The guilt. The sickness in your stomach — both real and imagined.
You hand her the drink when it’s done. She doesn’t make eye contact. Just takes it and leaves, her heels clicking against the tile like punctuation marks. You stare at her for a second too long, then mumble something about taking your break, slipping into the back room before anyone can stop you.
You don't wait for Mingi to offer help or ask questions. You don’t even look at him. You can’t.
The second the door swings closed behind you, you collapse down against the wall, knees to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself like a shield, and you just— break.
No one’s there to see. Just your own silence, except it isn’t silence, not really. It’s breathing that won’t regulate.
It’s the sound of your tears hitting your sleeves. It’s your chest heaving in stuttered sobs as everything in you just... caves in.
You don’t know how long you’re there. Could be two minutes. Could be ten. But then the door clicks open, and you flinch.
“Hey, you okay? Man, it’s crazy out there,” Mingi says lightly, before the door even fully shuts — like he’s trying to make a joke out of it.
And then he sees you.
“Oh,” he says, voice dipping instantly into something softer. “Oh—shit.”
You don’t say anything. You don’t even look at him.
There’s silence. Then the sound of a paper towel dispenser. He crouches beside you, slowly, like he’s trying not to startle a bird.
“Here,” he murmurs, offering a handful of napkins.
You take them with trembling hands. Still don’t speak.
He doesn’t ask anything. Doesn’t press you to explain. He just lowers himself down beside you, legs stretched out, back against the wall, and sits in silence.
You cry. Quietly now, softer, the edges of it worn down just a little. The weight of someone else in the room, not judging, not demanding, not fixing — just being — somehow makes it easier to breathe.
Eventually, your tears slow. Your chest stops shaking. You wipe your face, take one deep, uneven breath, and force yourself to speak.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
He shakes his head. “Don’t be.”
You glance at him, finally, and his eyes are already on you — not pitying. Just kind. Steady.
You push yourself up to stand, wobbling slightly, and he rises with you.
“Thank you,” you say, voice quiet. “Even though you didn’t really… I mean. Not that you didn’t do anything, but—just being there made it feel less—”
You stop yourself, eyes flicking away. “I’ve felt really alone this week. That meant a lot.”
There’s a pause.
Then he smiles. A little crooked. A little sad.
“You’re nervous,” he says, and there’s something fond in his tone that makes your chest ache.
“I know,” you murmur, laughing wetly. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “You’re welcome. And… I know we haven’t really talked like this before. But if you need someone, I’m here.”
You nod, biting the inside of your cheek.
And when you walk back out — blinking under the lights again — the world doesn’t feel fixed. But it feels a little less heavy. Like maybe, just maybe, you’re not entirely alone after all.
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
The next morning, you wake up with the same dull ache behind your eyes and a heaviness that feels stitched into your limbs. You stare at your phone screen — the brightness too harsh — and blink at the time.
You’re late.
There’s no time for breakfast. Not that it matters. The thought of food still turns your stomach. You barely manage to throw your uniform on, brush your teeth, pull your hair into something halfway presentable. Still no makeup. You don’t even have the energy to pretend you’re okay.
By the time you arrive at work, everything feels like it's tilting sideways.
The fluorescent lights stab at your temples, the noise drills into your skull, and your stomach feels like a hollow drum echoing with nothing.
You're not okay. But you smile anyway. It doesn’t take long before Mingi spots it.
You’re restocking the pastry case, trying not to sway on your feet, when you hear his voice behind you — soft, but curious.
“Hey. You good?”
You turn halfway, forcing a quick nod. “Yeah. Just a little tired.”
He tilts his head, unconvinced. “You look… kind of pale.”
“I always look pale.”
He doesn’t laugh like you hoped he would. “No like.. you look like you’re about to pass out.”
You grip the edge of the counter a little tighter. “I swear, I’m good.”
Mingi doesn’t respond right away. Just watches you for a moment.
His brows knit together like he’s debating something—
“Okay, no. You’re not good.” He steps forward, gently takes your arm. His hand is warm. Firm but careful. “Come to the back. Let’s get you something to refuel.”
You hesitate, caught off-guard by how quickly he decided for you. He’s not usually like this. Not pushy. But there’s something about the concern in his voice that makes it impossible to argue.
So you follow.
Your arms are crossed, your body language tight. He doesn’t seem fazed. The back room is quiet again, the low hum of the fridge and the muffled buzz of voices outside the only sounds.
Mingi moves to one of the storage shelves, rummages for something, then turns to the mini-fridge. He pulls out a bottle of water and unscrews it, dumping in a small scoop of something from a ziplock bag.
You watch, curious despite yourself.
“Electrolyte mix,” he says, shaking the bottle with practiced ease.
“It’s got potassium, sodium, magnesium — all the good stuff. Helps with fatigue, dizziness, all that fun stuff.”
You raise a brow. “Why do you keep that on you?”
“You ever tried working eight hours on just espresso shots and trauma? This stuff’s a lifesaver.”
He holds it out to you. You hesitate.
“I know the flavor’s not great,” he adds quickly, like he can read your mind. “Tastes like strawberry-flavored chalk. But it helps.”
You take it. Fingers brushing. The bottle is cold in your hands, condensation slick against your skin.
You sip.
He wasn’t lying. It’s not great. But it’s not bad either. You swallow, nod once, and take another sip.
Mingi grins. “Told you.”
He leans back against the counter beside you, arms folded, still watching you — not with intensity, but with this soft kind of attentiveness.
Like he’s checking to make sure you’re actually still breathing.
“So,” he says, casual, like you didn’t just almost collapse in front of him, “Do you ever, like, eat? Or are you surviving on stubbornness and spite?”
You almost choke on the drink, a small laugh escaping your throat before you can stop it. You glance at him, and he’s smiling — wide, boyish, unbothered.
You shrug. “Guess I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”
His smile falters just a little. “Yeah. I figured.”
You don’t know what to say to that, so you drink again.
He fills the silence, like he always does.
Talking, easy and constant, about nothing in particular — how the new manager miscounted the till again, how the espresso machine makes a weird groaning noise when it’s pissed off, how one of the customers tipped him in foreign coins last week and he’s now the proud owner of what might be an Icelandic króna.
You give him short replies — a few nods, a small smile here and there — but mostly you just listen. Because he talks. And he’s bright. For the first time in over a week, you forget how empty you’ve been feeling.
It’s not that the sadness disappears. It’s still there, quiet and distant, like a storm sitting far out at sea. But here, in this little room with harsh lights and half-melted protein powder, it doesn’t feel like it’s crushing you.
You finish the drink.
“Better?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah. A little.”
He smiles, and you think maybe he’s relieved.
“You know,” he says after a beat, more serious now, “you don’t have to wait until you’re falling over to ask for help.”
You stare at the bottle in your hands. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not.”
He says it so easily. No hesitation. You look at him, and he’s already looking at you — with that same softness he had yesterday when he sat beside you on the floor.
That same quiet understanding. Like he knows you’re unraveling and isn’t scared of it.
“I don’t really know how to talk about things,” you admit, voice small.
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Then don’t. Just... let someone sit with you when it gets heavy. That’s enough.”
There’s a pause. Then you nod.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
“You keep saying that like I’m doing you a favor,” he says. “But I want to be here.”
You look down, cheeks warm. “Now come on,” he adds, nudging your shoulder gently. “Let’s finish this shift so we can complain about it later.”
You smile — a real one this time — and follow him back out. And somehow, everything doesn’t feel quite as fragile anymore.
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
It’s been a few weeks since you broke down in the back room with Mingi. Things have shifted since then.
Nothing huge — just small things. Subtle. Like how you actually smile when you walk in now.
Like how Mingi always finds a way to ask you how you’re doing, even if it’s through sarcasm and jokes. Like how, when things slow down between rushes, you two lean against the counter together and talk. About music. About bad tattoos.
You still don’t talk about the week — the one where everything fell apart. But he doesn’t bring it up either. It’s like you made a silent agreement: the past can stay in the background. What matters is now.
You’ve started eating again. Not a lot, not consistently, but enough that your body isn’t screaming for help. Enough that your mind feels a little clearer. And that, somehow, is enough for now.
Today feels okay. You’re halfway through a lull in the shift.
Mingi’s finishing a story about how he once accidentally gave a man two shots of dishwater instead of espresso (you still don’t know if he’s lying or not), and you’re laughing, light, real — until the bell over the door rings.
And everything in you goes still.
You don’t have to turn around to know who it is. The voice — his voice — slides in like ice against skin.
“Holy shit,” he says, loud enough for you and Mingi both to hear, “I forgot how much I missed this place.”
Your stomach turns. You glance up, just barely. And there he is.
Your ex.
Smiling like nothing happened. Like he didn’t gut you and walk away without blinking. Like he didn’t leave you questioning your own worth for weeks.
He walks up to the counter, eyes locking on yours like it’s a challenge. And he smirks.
“You still work here, huh?” he says, pretending to look around. “Figures. You always liked pretending you were better than this place, but I guess you came crawling back too.”
You don’t say anything. Your heart’s hammering too loud in your ears.
He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the counter. “Not gonna say anything?”
You press your lips together. He clicks his tongue. “Still doing that silent treatment thing, huh? You were better at that when you were sneaking around.”
You blink. Hard. A few customers are still lingering nearby.
Mingi is watching from the side, slowly going still. His expression darkens. You exhale quietly. “What do you want to order?”
He raises his eyebrows like he’s impressed. “Alright. Business mode. I respect it.” He gives you his usual order, like nothing’s wrong. You make it quickly, efficiently. Your hands are shaking.
When you set the cup down, he takes it — then hesitates.
“You’re really not gonna say anything to me?”
You don’t look at him. But you feel the eyes on you. Mingi’s, specifically. His gaze is sharp now, focused.
Your ex follows that glance, and turns.
“What’s up with this guy?” he says, gesturing toward Mingi. “He supposed to help you? He your little therapist or something?”
Mingi doesn’t say anything. But he takes a single step closer. Subtle. And that’s it.
You step around the counter, grab your ex by the arm — firmly, but without a scene — and mutter, “Come outside.” He doesn’t hesitate. He never did. Not when he was being given attention.
The air outside hits your skin cold. The sidewalk is mostly empty. The sky is grey. You turn on him before he can say another word.
“You can’t just come to my job and do this.”
He laughs. Like you said something hilarious. “Do what?” he shrugs. “Order a drink? Talk to someone I used to know? I didn’t realize I was violating your healing journey.”
You glare. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Oh, so now you’ve got words,” he says, smile hardening. “Where were all those when I found out you were making out with some dude at that party? Huh?”
Your voice catches. “I was drunk,” you snap. “I told you! I explained! I said sorry so many times!”
“Yeah, and that’s supposed to fix it?” he asks, eyes narrowing. “You really convinced yourself you’re the one who got hurt, didn’t you?”
You step back, hands clenched. “I was in a bad place. We both were. We hadn’t spoken in days, and I— I made a mistake.”
“You always make mistakes,” he says coldly. “And somehow I always end up being the one who pays for them.”
Your throat burns.
“Why are you still doing this?” you whisper. “Why are you still trying to tear me down after you left?”
He shrugs. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d changed.”
You scoff. “You don’t want me to change. You want me to stay the same so you can keep blaming me for everything.”
He doesn’t respond. You barely have time to flinch before his hand is on you — not hard at first, but wrong. Fingers tight around your wrist.
“Let go,” you snap, trying to pull away.
He doesn’t.
“Seriously—let go.”
You try again, but this time he grabs you harder, other hand coming up fast, catching you just below the chin — rough, not quite choking, but holding.
“You still talk so fucking much,” he mutters, voice low and dangerous. “But you don’t listen, do you?”
You try to twist out of his grip — but suddenly his mouth crashes into yours. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t wanted. It’s possessive, like he thinks he still owns you. You shove at his chest, panic kicking in, but he doesn’t let go until he wants to.
And when he does, he steps back just slightly, breathing heavy, eyes flat. Then he laughs — like he’s disgusted with himself.
“You know what?” he spits. “I don’t even know why I kissed you. Probably just muscle memory at this point.”
You’re still reeling, lips burning, voice stuck in your throat.
“I spent that night wondering where the fuck you were, if you were safe, if you were okay,” he continues, tone venomous. “But you were too busy giving your lips to some random asshole at a party. Guess I should’ve been kissing someone else, too, right? Just to keep up, yeah?”
You try to speak — to say anything — but your throat is tight, your whole body frozen in shock. His eyes flick down at you, then up again — sharp, judgmental.
“God, it's almost like I can taste him on you,” he mutters, voice dripping with cruelty. “You’re not even worth the fucking effort.”
Then he steps back. Smooths his shirt. Straightens like he’s the one who’s been wronged. “I’ll see you, Y/N,” he says, tone casual — like you didn’t just get shoved and kissed and shredded all at once.
Then he walks away. And you just stand there — cold, stunned, humiliated. You don’t cry.
Not yet.
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
When you step back in, the bell above the café door chimes softly. Mingi’s head snaps up immediately. He’s still by the counter, mid-way through restocking cups — but the moment he sees your face, everything in him stills.
Your skin’s pale. Your lips are blotchy. And something in your eyes is just… off. He clocks it all in a second.
“Y/N?” His voice is quiet, cautious. “What happened?”
You shake your head too fast. “Nothing.”
It comes out tight. Too tight. You clear your throat, force your fingers through your hair, tucking it behind your ear like that’ll make you look less shaken.
“Just… just some guy from high school. An old friend.”
Mingi doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares. Slowly, his jaw flexes.
“Friend?” he repeats, low. “The one that made you look like you just saw a ghost?”
You try to smile — you do. But it slips, too fast. Doesn’t touch your eyes. “Yeah,” you say, voice thin. “Something like that.”
Mingi doesn’t push. But the way his eyes search your face — like he’s reading a page only half-torn — tells you he doesn’t believe a single word.
Still, he just nods, quiet. His voice, when it comes, is calm but edged. “Okay. Well. If that ‘friend’ ever shows up again…” — he glances toward the coffee machine, then back at you — “…I’ve got a full pot and excellent aim.”
That pulls a laugh out of you. Soft. Shaky. Not quite enough to push the nausea down. But enough to keep you on your feet.
You mouth a quiet “Thank you.” And Mingi just nods once, like he’s promising more than coffee.
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
It’s been a few days since he came in. You haven’t been the same since. It’s subtle, at first. A little quieter in the morning. A little more distracted on the floor.
You mess up an order you’ve made a hundred times. You catch yourself zoning out when Mingi talks. He notices, of course. He always notices. But he doesn’t say anything — not yet.
He just keeps doing what he always does: showing up for you. Bringing you a smoothie he swears has “life-restoring properties” (it tastes like banana-flavored regret).
Sliding you his half of a muffin when he notices you haven’t touched yours. Making you laugh even when you don’t want to. It should help.
But it doesn’t. Not really. Not when your mind keeps echoing that one thing: “You really convinced yourself you’re the one who got hurt, didn’t you?”
The more Mingi smiles at you, the more it hurts. Because you can’t understand it — how someone like him still looks at someone like you and sees something worth saving.
You start retreating again.
Skipping meals. Avoiding eye contact. Pretending everything’s fine even when your hands are trembling so bad you nearly drop a tray.
Eventually, Mingi corners you — gently, but deliberately.
You’re out back behind the café, where the dumpsters reek of old coffee grounds and soggy cardboard.
You told the others you needed a breather. The cool air bites at your skin, but you don’t move. You just crouch down against the wall, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to breathe through the noise in your head.
The door creaks open. You hear his footsteps before you see him.
“Hey,” Mingi says softly. “You okay?”
You close your eyes. Of course it’s him. You don’t answer.
He takes a few steps closer, crouches beside you but doesn’t touch. Doesn’t crowd. He’s always so gentle.
“Talk to me,” he says. “Please.” You open your eyes slowly, stare at the concrete.
“Why are you still trying?”
He blinks. Tilts his head slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—” You laugh, bitter, sharp. “Why are you always here? Smiling. Acting like I’m not just dragging you down every time I fall apart.”
His brows draw together. “You’re not dragging me down.”
You shake your head. “Yes, I am! I have been. Since the day you found me crying in the back like some pathetic wreck.”
“You’re not pathetic—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
Your voice cuts sharper than you mean it to. But now that it’s out, you can’t stop. “God, you’re always so nice,” you spit. “So... so happy all the time, like nothing touches you. Like you’ve never broken anything. Or anyone.”
His expression shifts — barely. But you see it. That flicker of something behind his eyes. You’ve never seen him not smile. It feels like everything in you is splintering.
“I don’t get it,” you say, voice cracking. “Why do you care so much? Why do you keep showing up when I clearly don’t deserve it?”
There’s silence. He studies you, long and quiet. Then, carefully:
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because it’s true,” you say.
You stare at him. His voice isn’t angry. Just... hurt. Confused.
And that’s what makes it worse. Because part of you does want him to help. But another part — the one that's screaming inside you — is scared. Scared of being seen like this. Scared of him realizing you’re not worth the effort.
He shakes his head. “You’re pushing me away because you’re scared.”
So you say it. The one thing you know will make him stop. “Yes,” you say, flat. Hollow. “I am. So leave me the fuck alone.”
Mingi stares at you.
No reaction for a long second. Just stillness. His lips part like he’s going to say something — and then he doesn’t. He just nods, once.
And walks away. The door shuts behind him with a soft click. And suddenly, all the cold you were trying to hide from is inside you.
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
The few days that follow after that, You don’t show up to work.
Not at open. Not at noon. Not for the afternoon shift change.
Mingi doesn’t text you. He doesn’t call. But he checks the break room three times like you might suddenly appear behind the storage crates.
Every hour that passes, he feels it more — the absence. The silence where your voice usually lives. The way no one hums off-key behind the counter.
He tells himself you’re okay. He tells himself you just needed rest. That maybe you lost track of time. That maybe your phone died, or you forgot to set an alarm.
But none of it feels right. So by the time closing nears, his jaw is tense. His patience worn down to threads.
He tries not to let it show. But it’s there — in the way he scrubs the espresso machine with too much force. In the way he keeps glancing toward the door every time the bell doesn’t ring—
CRASH.
The door slams open like it’s been kicked in by a storm.
“I’m here!”
Your voice, slurred and frantic, rips through the near-empty café like a crack of thunder. You stumble through the doorway, wide-eyed, hair messy, makeup smudged, apron tangled around your arm like you tried to tie it in the alleyway.
“Don’t—don’t fire me,” you stammer, voice cracking. “I’m here. I’m at work. I showed up.”
Mingi’s already moving from behind the counter, wide-eyed. “Y/N?”
You blink slowly, sway on your feet, and then nearly trip over one of the chairs you didn’t notice was pushed out. Your hand slams down on a table to steady yourself.
Your eyes find his, but they won’t hold. They flit away, jittery, ashamed. That’s when he sees it. The subtle sway in your stance. The gloss in your eyes that isn’t just tears.
Your words start to blur together. You say something about being sorry. About trying. About not sleeping. About making it in time.
“But I’m good,” you mutter, trying to shove your head through the apron’s neck hole, but it’s backwards. “I’m here to work, okay? I’m working. This job that kills me every fucking day.”
“Okay,” Mingi says carefully, eyes scanning your face. “You’re drunk.”
“Nooo,” you drawl sarcastically, then laugh too loud. “I’m sooo sober right now. I'm, like, the queen of responsibility.”
He steps closer. “Y/N, sit down before you hurt yourself.”
“I’m fine, Mingi!” you say, spinning — and then nearly tipping into a table. He catches your elbow.
“Whoa. Okay, no, not fine.” His voice softens. “Come on. Back room. Now.”
You try to protest, but he’s already guiding you toward the back. His hand on your arm is the only thing keeping you from faceplanting into the espresso machine.
He sets you on a stool by the mop sink, then disappears for a second. You blink and try to focus on the blur of the wall in front of you. Your head is heavy. Everything spins in waves.
He returns with a cup of water. Kneels down in front of you.
“Here,” he says. “Drink this. Please.”
You look at him — really look at him. He’s frowning. His forehead is tight. His voice is gentle, but there’s something worried buried in it.
“Why are you even here?” you mumble. “You’re always here. Why are you always here?”
“I work here,” he says carefully, “and you’re the one who barged in like a tornado five minutes before closing.”
You lean forward, squinting at him. “You’re so… pretty.”
He blinks. “Okay. That’s new.” You nod solemnly, like you’ve made a critical discovery.
“Too pretty. For someone who makes smoothies and takes shit from customers all day.”
Mingi gives a half-laugh, unsure. “And you’re wasted.” He presses the cup into your hands again. “Drink this.”
You take a tiny sip. Water never tasted more like regret. He sighs and pulls over a crate, sitting across from you.
“I was wondering why you didn’t come in today,” he says softly. “Were you… okay? Before this?”
And that’s when it starts. The spiral.
You shake your head once — then again, faster, like you can’t get it off of you. The tears are already burning behind your eyes before you realize they’re even there.
“I’m not okay,” you whisper.
He doesn’t move. Just watches you.
“I’m not okay, and I haven’t been okay for a long time,” you go on, voice wobbling. “And I thought I could hold it together, I thought I could pretend, but I keep… breaking. And I keep making you watch it.”
Mingi’s mouth opens like he wants to interrupt — but he doesn’t.
“I don’t even know why I came here tonight,” you breathe. “I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”
Your hands shake around the cup. The tears are spilling now. Drunk, hot, and endless. “I didn’t want to kiss him,” you blurt. “I didn’t want to. I didn’t even mean to.”
Mingi blinks. “Huh?—what?”
“If—” Your voice cracks. “If you were my boyfriend… would you leave me because I got drunk and .. and someone forced me to kiss them?”
He goes still.
“What…?”
“I didn’t want to,” you sob. “I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t even know what was happening. We weren’t even in a good place, and I tried to tell him that but he didn’t listen, and then they told my boyfriend like I wanted it, and then my boyfriend—he—he hurt me. And then he broke up with me.”
Mingi doesn’t breathe.
You laugh bitterly through the tears. “And now I’m here. Crying into a mop sink like an idiot. What the fuck.”
“Y/N,” Mingi says, stunned. “I… I don’t even know what to say.”
“I know,” you murmur. “I don’t even know why I told you. You were just supposed to give me a water and tell me to go home.”
You blink at him, suddenly childlike.
“I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. And I just fucking drank to cope. I just wanted to shut it up. Shut it all up.”
And then your head tilts against his shoulder. The sobs start again — full-body, messy, weeks-worth of grief crashing out of you in waves. You cry like you’re breaking in half.
And Mingi… he doesn’t flinch. He wraps his arms around you, tight, grounding, warm. You don’t remember the last time someone held you like this.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Your fingers clutch at his shirt like you’re drowning.
You cry and cry until you can’t anymore. Then you pull back just slightly. Your breath is ragged. Your eyes are swollen. He meets your gaze gently. His hand rests on your shoulder.
“Can you please drink some more of this water?” he asks again, voice low, steady. “Please.”
You nod. You drink. And it doesn’t fix everything.
But it’s the first thing you do for yourself that doesn’t hurt.
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
You wake up warm. That’s the first thing you register — warmth. Softness under your cheek. Something heavy draped over your body.
The second thing is the smell. Clean. Faint cedarwood, laundry detergent, and coffee grounds.
You blink slowly. Your head is pounding. Your mouth is dry. But the soft material under your fingertips is unfamiliar — plush, woven fabric. Not your bed. Not your sheets.
You lift your head. Big mistake. The room tilts. A wave of nausea rolls through your stomach, and you wince, closing your eyes again.
Then… it clicks. This isn’t your apartment.
The couch beneath you is L-shaped, dark gray. There’s a succulent on the coffee table. A record player in the corner. Shoes neatly lined by the door.
Your heart kicks into your ribs.
And then you hear it: the low clatter of something in the kitchen. A pan against a burner. A spoon scraping the inside of a mug. You sit up fast — too fast — and the blanket falls off your shoulders.
You’re wearing a hoodie. Not your hoodie. It swallows you whole. Soft. Worn. It smells like that same cedar-laundry-coffee mix. It smells like—
“Morning.”
You snap your head up toward the voice.
Mingi stands in the doorway, a mug in one hand. He’s wearing joggers and a faded shirt, hair a mess, like he’s been up for hours but hasn’t looked in a mirror yet.
You freeze. He freezes, too — then holds the mug out toward you like it’s some kind of offering.
“Ginger tea,” he says gently. “You looked like you might die if I gave you coffee.”
You just stare at him. Mouth dry. Brain spinning.
“...I’m so.. sorry,” you croak.
Mingi blinks. “For…?”
“What happened?” you whisper. “Last night — I—why the fuck am I on your couch? Did I—how did I even get here?”
“You don’t remember?”
You shake your head, eyes wide. He walks over slowly and sets the tea on the table beside you. “You came into work wasted out of your mind,” he says quietly. “Tried to clock in like you were about to pull a full shift. Then you told me… a lot of things.”
Your heart plummets. “No,” you breathe. “No, no, no—please tell me I didn’t say anything crazy..”
Mingi sits on the armrest beside you. Not touching. Just there.
“Well,” he says. “You said .. a lot. And then you cried. And then I brought you here because you couldn’t go home like that.”
You pull the hoodie tighter around you. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says immediately.
You look at him — really look at him — and you’re bracing yourself for the part where he pulls away. Where he tells you that was too much, that you crossed a line, that you scared him off.
But he’s just watching you. His eyes are gentle, but unreadable. You exhale shakily, hiding half your face in the collar of his hoodie.
“I didn’t mean to dump all that on you,” you mumble. “I didn’t even mean to come to work. I was just… walking. And then I ended up there. And you were there. And everything was just too loud and I needed it to stop.”
“I figured,” he says softly. You look away.
The silence stretches, and it burns. “I shouldn’t have said all that,” you whisper.
“Why?”
You blink at him. He leans forward a little, elbows on his knees. “Why shouldn’t you have said it?”
“Because it’s—ugly. Because it makes me sound weak. And pathetic. And like I haven’t moved on. And I don’t want you to see me like that.”
“I already saw you like that,” he says. “And I’m still here.”
You flinch.
“I’m not here to fix you, Y/N,” he adds quietly. “But I’m not gonna pretend I didn’t hear what you said. That shit matters. It’s not small. And it’s not something you deserved to go through alone.”
You stare at him. The weight of what he’s saying presses into your chest. And he gives a small, almost shy smile.
“Also, you called me pretty. Like, aggressively. So I’m kinda gonna hang onto that one.”
You groan and bury your face in your hands. “Please let the ground open up and kill me.”
He chuckles. “No can do.”
A beat passes.
Then, gently: “Are you hungry?” You hesitate.
Every instinct in you is screaming no. Say no. Don’t eat. You don’t deserve to feel okay yet. But you remember what you said last night. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. And I fucking drank to cope. You remember the look on Mingi’s face. Not pity — care.
You peek up at him through your lashes.
“...Maybe. A little.”
His smile softens. “I made eggs and toast,” he says. “I’ll reheat it.”
You nod slowly.
“Okay.”
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
You sit at the tiny square table tucked into the corner of Mingi’s kitchen. It’s small — just two chairs and a window that lets the late morning sun in, casting warm rectangles across the hardwood.
Your hands are wrapped around the fresh cup of tea.
The hoodie you’re wearing slips down over your knuckles, swallowing your hands. You feel impossibly small inside it. Across from you, Mingi is standing at the stove, scraping eggs onto a plate.
He toasts two new slices of bread, then grabs a banana and cuts it in half before placing everything down in front of you.
It’s too much. You know it’s not — but it feels like it. You don’t deserve a plate that full. You don’t deserve anything after—
“Hey,” he says, nudging the plate closer. “Eat. Please.”
You nod. You pick up the toast first, mostly to give your hands something to do. It’s warm. Crunchy. Simple.
The silence is heavy, but not cruel. It’s not like the kind of silence your ex used to wield — quiets that felt like threats. This is just… unsure. Still settling.
“I’m really sorry,” you murmur again, eyes fixed on your tea.
Mingi doesn’t say anything.
You swallow. “I shouldn’t’ve come to work like that. That was—so embarrassing. And irresponsible. I could’ve gotten you in trouble if any one else was there. I just—I don’t know what I was doing.”
Still, no response. You glance up at him, expecting annoyance, maybe even a tired I told you not to apologize.
But Mingi’s just buttering his toast. You fidget.
“I’m sorry about what I said too,” you add. “Seriously. Dumping all that on you? You didn’t ask for that. You were just trying to help, and I—you didn’t sign up for any of that.”
He finally looks up. His eyes are steady. Not soft, not harsh — just... quiet.
“Are you gonna eat your eggs?” he asks calmly.
You blink. “What?”
“Your eggs. They’re probably getting cold.”
You hesitate — then take a bite, mostly to comply. You chew in silence. The food is decent. Seasoned, even. Mingi didn’t half-ass it.
A few more seconds tick by. Then he speaks again.
“I had a friend once,” he says casually, like he’s talking about the weather. “Back in high school. Real close. Like, we did everything together. Band, classes, gaming. Almost every day after school.”
You glance up slowly.
“One night, he got wasted,” Mingi continues, staring out the window. “Sent me this long, messed-up text about how he felt alone all the time, how he didn’t think anyone actually saw him. Said if I didn’t respond, he was gonna do something stupid.”
You stop chewing. Mingi shrugs once. “I saw the text hours later. My phone had died. He was already gone.” There’s no change in his voice. But his knuckles go white around his mug.
“He wasn’t kidding.”
You’re stunned. You search his face, and you realize there’s an edge under all that warmth he carries — something sharp and buried, something heavy he keeps quiet.
“I didn’t talk about that with anyone for years,” he says. “Didn’t even cry. Just kind of… kept showing up. For school. For work. For everything. Like it didn’t happen. But it did.”
Your heart cracks in a new way.
“I couldn’t fix him,” Mingi says quietly. “Didn’t get the chance. But you’re here. And you didn’t scare me off, Y/N.”
You swallow hard.
“You probably think I’m happy all the time,” he adds with a small smile. “That I don’t go through shit. But I do. I just got good at putting light in the room, because I know what it feels like when there’s none.”
Then, quietly:
“I don’t want another friend that I can’t save.”
Your throat is tight. It takes you a few seconds to respond.
“Mingi…”
He cuts you off gently. “So, please don’t apologize again. Just this once, let me be the strong one for you.”
You blink fast, eyes wet.
“Okay,” you whisper.
A long pause.
Then, softly — “Thank you.”
He nods once. “That one I’ll take.”
You both eat in silence after that. It’s not awkward anymore. It’s quiet in the right kind of way — the kind where things settle, where breathing gets easier, where food goes down without your stomach turning against you.
You finish most of your plate. When Mingi stands up to grab the mugs, you look at him and say, quietly:
“I’m really glad I came here. Even if I didn’t mean to.”
He turns back toward you. His voice is soft.
“Me too.”
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
The dishes clink softly as Mingi rinses them in the sink. The water runs steady. Warm light filters in through the window — it’s late afternoon now, golden and still.
You’re curled up on the couch again. Same spot as this morning. His hoodie still swallows your frame, sleeves tucked over your hands. You’re half-watching him, half-dozing, head resting against the cushion.
You hadn’t meant to stay this long. Or eat this much. Or talk this openly. But somehow, the longer you’re here… the safer you feel.
Not fixed. Not perfect. Just… less alone.
Your eyes start to close again. The sun is hitting your face just enough to warm your skin. The quiet of the apartment hums around you — the fridge buzzing, the occasional car passing outside.
You let out a slow breath.
And somewhere between the hum and the warmth, the heaviness of everything finally catches up with you.
The exhaustion in your bones. The emotional toll of the last few weeks. The release of telling someone what really happened.
It all folds in on you like a wave. And you drift.
Not fully asleep. Not fully awake. That in-between space where your body’s still, your breath soft, your mind finally taking a break.
You don’t hear him turn the sink off. You don’t see him glance over. But Mingi notices.
He walks back into the room, towel in his hands, and stops a few feet from the couch. You’re curled on your side now, legs pulled up slightly, one hand resting near your cheek.
Your lips are parted slightly with your breath. Your lashes are dark against your skin. There’s a faint crease between your brows — like your mind hasn’t quite let you go, even in rest.
He stares for a moment. Not in a weird way. Not like he’s sizing you up. Just… quiet.
Watching the way you’ve finally let go, even if it’s just for now. Watching the difference between the girl who walked into work drunk last night, trembling and wild-eyed — and the one breathing softly on his couch now, wrapped in his hoodie, finally still.
Mingi grabs the throw blanket from the back of the couch. It’s soft and faded — navy blue, worn at the corners.
He kneels beside you, careful not to wake you, and drapes it over your body. Gently. Slowly. Like he’s done this before.
The hoodie’s hood slips a little, revealing the curve of your shoulder. He tucks it back into place.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t linger too long.
He just stays crouched for a few more seconds — eyes on your face, watching you breathe — and then slowly stands again. Walks into the kitchen. Pulls out his phone. Sits down at the table.
And lets you sleep. No questions. No pressure.
Just him — close by. In the quiet. In case you wake up and need someone again.
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
You blink awake slowly, the world returning in a haze of muted colors and soft textures.
Couch cushions. A blanket pulled over you. The faint scent of Mingi’s hoodie still clinging to the fabric near your neck — something warm and clean, like citrus and pine and laundry detergent.
Your eyes open fully and you sit up too fast.
Shit.
Not because you’re in danger or something’s wrong — but because this isn’t your house. You’re on his couch. Again. And it’s starting to feel way too natural.
You rub your eyes with the backs of your sleeves and groan a little. Your hair’s a mess. Your mouth is dry. You definitely drooled on the inside of the hoodie sleeve at some point.
You mumble to yourself: “This is not my house. This is not my house. Why am I getting so comfortable—”
“Hey,” a voice says gently from across the room. “You’re up.”
You glance over.
Mingi’s leaning on the doorway, shoulder propped against the frame, holding a half-eaten granola bar like he’s been waiting for you. He looks like he’s just showered — hair damp, face clean, a plain gray tee and joggers on.
His voice softens even more. “You okay?”
You stretch out your legs and nod, blinking hard. “Yeah… yeah. Just… wow. That was a really good nap.”
He lifts an eyebrow, amused. “Yeah?”
You nod again, almost sheepish. “I don’t remember the last time I slept like that. I mean, peacefully. Like I wasn’t gonna wake up panicking or anything.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just gives a small smile and takes a bite of the granola bar. Then, under his breath — soft and a little cocky:
“Maybe you should sleep here all the time.”
You pause. “Huh?”
He looks up like he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. “Huh? What? I didn’t say anything. You’re hearing things.”
You squint at him, half grinning. “Right.”
He clears his throat, like he’s trying to reset the atmosphere but can’t quite hide the pink tint brushing the tips of his ears.
“So,” he starts, casually. Too casually. “We have work tomorrow. Early. And you still look kinda wrecked—no offense—so I was thinking, like… you wanna…”
You tilt your head. “Wanna?”
He scratches the back of his neck. “You wanna just, like… sleep over?”
You stare at him. “Sleep over?”
“I mean—not like that,” he says quickly, waving his hands. “I mean just sleep. On the couch or—like, wherever you’re comfortable. I just… I don’t know. You looked comfortable here. And you were safe. And I don’t know if you’re eating at home or if it’s even quiet there, and I was just thinking, maybe it’d be easier for you if you just stayed.”
You blink a few times. Processing.
Then you smirk. “Okay but—what am I gonna wear?”
Mingi pauses. Then smiles like he’s already got a plan.
“I mean… we could go to your place, pick some stuff up. Or, like—I dunno, we could hit the store, grab some sweats or something. You want SpongeBob pajama pants? I got you.”
You huff a quiet laugh, leaning your head back against the couch. “You really don’t have to do all this for me, Mingi.”
He frowns, stepping forward. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.”
You go quiet.
His voice softens again. “Look… I know you’ve been through a lot lately. And maybe it feels like you’re too much. Or like you’re making things harder. But you’re not. I’m here because I want to be. Not out of obligation. Not out of pity. Just—because I care. Okay?”
You look down at your hands. You feel it — that sting behind your eyes again. That vulnerable ache that’s been there for weeks, like an exposed nerve.
“Mingi…”
He steps a little closer. “Just say yes. Come on. One night. We’ll get snacks. I’ll give you the good blanket. I’ll even let you pick the Netflix movie without complaining.”
You shake your head slowly, biting back a smile. “You don’t complain anyway.”
“Exactly. I’m a catch.”
You finally nod. Quiet. But real.
“…Okay.”
He lights up. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” you say again. “Just one night.”
“Just one,” he repeats, already walking toward the door to grab his keys like it’s settled. “But full disclosure—I make killer popcorn. You might never wanna leave.”
You laugh softly, pulling the blanket off and stretching your arms.
There’s still so much to sort through. So much you haven’t said. But this? This feels like a start. A soft place to land. And for the first time in a long time … You say yes.
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
Your apartment is quiet. Dim. The curtains are still drawn from earlier in the week — light bleeding through, but not enough to fill the room.
You let Mingi in with a muttered, “Sorry it’s a mess,” even though it’s not. Not really.
It just feels that way because you feel that way. Like everything around you has been sitting in silence, waiting for you to come home and feel something.
He walks in without hesitation, looking around. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t judge. Just takes it in with that soft, unreadable look he gets when he’s trying to understand without making you explain.
You go to your room and start pulling a few things from drawers: an old hoodie, some pajama pants, a small pouch of skincare stuff you rarely use anymore. You toss them into a tote bag, moving quickly, trying not to think too much.
But then your hand freezes. There it is.
A photo tucked into the corner of your mirror — half-buried under a curling sticky note, almost forgotten. You hadn’t touched it in weeks. Maybe months.
You pull it free. It’s you, smiling — real and big — pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with your ex. A party, maybe. You can’t even remember when. You look so happy you barely recognize yourself.
Mingi walks past your doorway just then, carrying your phone charger you’d forgotten in the kitchen. He slows.
Notices the photo in your hand. You glance up, startled, and try to shove it back in the drawer, too fast. Too late. But he saw. He pauses, gaze lingering on the frame, then on your face.
“…Is that him?”
You nod slowly, setting the photo down face-first.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “That was a long time ago.”
Mingi doesn’t respond right away. His eyes stay on yours. Not accusing. Not jealous. Just… soft. Searching.
He steps a little closer. “You looked different.”
You furrow your brow. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs one shoulder, voice quiet. “I don’t know. Just… different. Brighter. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile like that.”
You blink. It’s not cruel. He’s not trying to dig at you. But it still makes something in your chest ache. You open your mouth to say something — a deflection, maybe — but then you see it.
The look in his eyes. It’s changed.
He’s looking at you differently now. Not with pity. Not even just concern. But like he wants to know who you were before all this broke you down. Like he’s wondering who you could still be.
The moment hangs between you like held breath. So you laugh. A little too quickly.
Brush it off. Grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder like you didn’t just feel that shift in the air.
“Well,” you say, forcing a smirk. “Good luck seeing that version of me again.”
Mingi doesn’t smile back right away.
Then — quietly — “I wouldn’t mind meeting her.”
Your heart trips. You don’t answer. You just head for the door and mumble, “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
Back at his place, the air feels lighter again.
You kick your shoes off at the door and drop your bag near the couch. He flicks on a lamp in the corner, casting the room in soft gold.
It’s clean but lived-in — blankets already out, pillows fluffed. He prepares a pack of microwave popcorn on the counter and two soda cans on the coffee table like he actually planned this.
You raise an eyebrow.
“Wow,” you murmur. “You weren’t kidding about the snacks.”
“I take my movie nights very seriously,” Mingi says with a grin, holding up a bag of sour gummies like a trophy. “I even got the sad girl candy.”
You snort, flopping onto the couch. “God, you’re annoying.”
“And yet, here you are,” he teases, tossing the gummies at you.
You catch them. Barely.
You unzip your bag and pull out your hoodie — the old one you never wear anymore — and excuse yourself to the bathroom to change. When you come back out, he’s setting up a blanket fort situation with a kind of ridiculous amount of care.
He glances up, sees you, and his smile softens. Not in a flirtatious way. Not playful.
Just… warm.
Like the version of you he saw in the photo isn’t gone after all. Maybe just buried. You sit down beside him and pull the blanket up over your legs. He offers you the remote without a word.
And even though nothing’s been said outright — about the picture, about the past, about how he’s looking at you now — something in the air feels heavier. More real. And you don’t run from it this time.
You just stay.
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
The movie plays, but you’re barely watching.
You’re curled into the corner of Mingi’s couch, blanket over your legs, knees tucked up — and he’s right there beside you. Not touching. Not really. But close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the quiet presence of someone who doesn’t make you flinch.
You reach for the popcorn at the same time — your fingers brush. You both pause. He glances at you. You glance at him. Just a second too long.
Then you both pull away, and he says something — some soft joke to break the silence — but you don’t catch it. Your ears are still ringing with the contact. The casual graze that felt like a fuse being lit.
You try to focus on the screen. You try.
But the weight of him next to you is louder than anything coming from the TV. His thigh presses against yours now — not entirely by accident, but not quite deliberate either. It stays there. Warm. Solid.
You don’t move.
You can feel every shift in his breathing. The way he leans back a little, then forward again, like he’s trying to decide something.
You don’t look at him. But you feel him look at you.
And then—quiet, tentative—he speaks.
“…I was gonna say something earlier.”
His voice is barely there, like he’s afraid it’ll break the air. You glance over slowly, heartbeat picking up.
“About what?” you ask, keeping your voice light, like you don’t already know.
He hesitates. Eyes flick from your face to your lips and back.
His voice drops.
“About the way I—”
But then he stops. Swallows. Looks away.
Silence. Your breath catches. You wait. But he doesn’t finish.
Instead, he leans forward, grabs the popcorn again, and pops a piece in his mouth like he didn’t just almost confess something that you felt in your bones.
You turn back to the screen. Pretend to focus. Pretend you didn’t hear the way his voice cracked halfway through that sentence.
But your heart is racing. You try to act oblivious, like nothing’s different, like you didn’t feel that moment nearly swallow you whole.
But your knees are still touching. And he doesn’t move.
And neither do you.
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
The movie ends. Neither of you move to start another. The credits roll, and the soft hum of the TV fills the silence.
You’re lying on the floor now, side by side now in the little blanket pile Mingi made — some makeshift nest of pillows and worn comforters that smells like laundry soap and him.
You’re half on your side, one arm curled under your cheek, your knees still barely brushing his under the blanket. You thought the quiet might make things less tense.
It’s worse.
He sighs softly beside you. You hear the rustle of his hand running through his hair, the subtle creak of the floor beneath him as he shifts to face you more fully.
You keep your eyes on the ceiling. But you feel it.
His eyes on you.
“…You good?” he says eventually, voice hushed like the moment might shatter if he speaks too loud.
You nod, slow. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He hums low in his throat. “You can just go to sleep. I mean—if you want.”
You nod again. Then silence.
You hear him move — an elbow sliding beneath his head. He’s laying like you now, turned toward you, just watching.
You finally turn your head to meet his gaze. And there it is again. That look. Soft. Heavy. Something tugging behind his eyes.
You hold his stare for a long time. He’s the one who speaks first.
“…You know you scared the shit out of me, right?”
Your breath stutters a little. “What?”
“Last night,” he says, voice low. “When you showed up drunk. Slurring your words. Barely able to stand.” He pauses. “I didn’t know what the hell had happened to you. I thought maybe—fuck, I don’t know. I was just scared.”
You look away. Your throat feels tight.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
He’s quiet for a beat. Then:
“Stop saying that.”
You glance at him again. He’s still looking at you like he’s trying to memorize something.
Then, softly, almost too quiet:
“I just… I wish you would’ve called me or told me. Before it got that bad.”
You blink. “I didn’t think I could,” you murmur.
“Why not?”
You shrug, fingers curling in the edge of the blanket. “You didn’t owe me anything. I wasn’t your responsibility.”
Mingi sits up a little, resting on his elbow. He’s closer now. You can see the way his brow furrows, the way his lips press into a line before he speaks again.
“You’re not a responsibility,” he says. “You’re a person I care about.”
The words are quiet. But they land hard.
Your eyes flick to his, searching for something — a crack, a doubt, a laugh. There isn’t one. You feel your heart pick up.
And then he exhales, like he’s been holding something in for too long.
“What I wanted to say a few minutes ago is .. uh .. I think about you all the time,” he says suddenly.
Your breath catches.
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t try to laugh it off this time.
“I think about you when you’re not at work. I notice when you haven’t eaten. I notice when your smile’s fake. I notice everything. And I didn’t mean to, at first. I didn’t even realize how much I was paying attention to you until I couldn’t stop.”
Your chest is so tight you forget to breathe.
“…Mingi.”
He shakes his head, voice softer now. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I just—I needed you to know.”
You want to say something. Anything. But your thoughts are foggy, like your body hasn’t caught up to your heart yet.
He’s looking at you. Really looking.
His eyes flicker down — to your lips — then back up. He blinks like he’s trying to think better of it, but something’s unraveling behind his expression.
Something wild and tender and real. He exhales — barely.
“I just—” he murmurs, voice so low it sounds like it’s afraid to exist.
Then he leans in. No hesitation. No question this time.
His mouth brushes yours softly — like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast. But when you don’t pull away, he deepens it.
His hand lifts to your jaw, gentle, grounding, thumb resting at the curve of your cheek. He kisses you like he means it — slow, steady, devastatingly careful. Like you’re something holy.
And you kiss him back. Your hand curls in the fabric of his shirt. You press in closer, hungry and aching and too full of things you haven’t said. But then—
It happens. Your stomach turns. Your heart flips.
A hot wave of nausea rushes over you like cold water. Suddenly, all you feel is—
Disgust. Not at him. At yourself.
It slams into you so fast you barely breathe before you’re pulling away, blinking like you’ve woken up underwater.
“I—” your voice cracks, eyes darting. “I need to use the bathroom.”
You don’t wait for him to answer. You shove the blanket off, push to your feet too fast, stumbling slightly as you walk away barefoot.
You don’t see his expression when you leave. You don’t look back. You close the door behind you and collapse against the sink. The bathroom is quiet.
Too quiet. The mirror stares back at you — too harsh, too honest — and you can see it.
The softness in your cheeks. The way your body looks when it’s not empty. You can still taste the food. Still feel it.
You hate how good it felt to be held. To be touched. To want something. Too much.
You sink to the tile. Cold and hard beneath your knees. You press a hand to your stomach like it’s wrong for existing. Then — without thinking — you kneel over the toilet.
Fingers down your throat. Quick, clean and quiet.
You do it like you’ve done it before. Because you have.
And when it’s done — when you flush, rinse, wipe your face — the emptiness feels like a relief you don’t deserve. You open the bathroom door.
Expecting to sneak back onto couch, maybe pretend none of this happened. But he’s there. Mingi.
Standing right there in the hallway. His back straight, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He doesn’t speak at first.
Just looks at you. His face unreadable. But his eyes — His eyes are all betrayal and heartbreak and worry.
“Did you just make yourself throw up?”
His voice is quiet. Too controlled. Like he’s afraid of how loud his hurt might sound. You freeze. Blood drains from your face.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—” you try to brush past him, but he stops you with a hand on your arm. Not rough. Just… firm.
“Don’t,” he says softly. “Don’t lie to me. Please.”
You stand there. Caught. The air between you is cold again — but not because he’s angry. He looks like he’s watching someone he cares about bleed. And not knowing how to stop it. You drop your gaze.
“It’s not a big deal,” you whisper.
His brows pull together. “Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not.” Your voice gets sharper — defensive. “You don’t get it. I just… sometimes I feel better after, okay? That’s all. I’m not like—doing it every day. It was one time—"
“And how many more 'ONE TIMES' before you break?” he shouts suddenly.
You flinch. The silence that follows is deafening.
He breathes hard, running a hand through his hair. He turns away, like he can’t even look at you.
“I’m sorry—”
“No!” he yells, sudden and sharp. “No! You don’t get to say sorry and make it disappear! I watched you crumble last night. I held you while you broke apart. And then this morning, I—I cooked for you, I sat with you, I watched you—I didn’t say a word because I didn’t want to pressure you—"
“Mingi—”
“—and the second I let myself think maybe you’re okay, maybe you're letting me in—"
His voice cracks again.
“—you go and punish yourself. You go and hurt yourself.”
“Why are you always trying to save me?” you snap. “Why are you even still here? What is this, huh? Some fucked up pity thing? You think you can fix me or something?”
“I’m here because I care!” he yells, voice echoing through the apartment. “I’m right fucking here, trying to help you. Trying to stay, even when you make it so damn hard. But I can’t fight you and the parts of you that want to self-destruct. I can't fight you and your past and your ex and your silence and your shame and your guilt all at once!”
“Stop,” you gasp, voice trembling. “Please—Mingi, stop yelling—”
He freezes, mid-breath, his mouth still parted like he has another sentence ready to throw, but the look on your face guts him. Your hands are shaking, clutching at yourself like you can hold all the pieces together.
“I—I can’t—” The words crack, high and thin. Your knees threaten to give, and suddenly you feel smaller than you’ve felt in years, like a child being scolded, cornered, helpless. “Please—don’t—”
You cover your face.
“I’m trying,” you whisper. “I swear I’m trying.”
“Fuck.” His voice breaks on the word. “I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have—”
Before you can shrink back further, he closes the space between you and pulls you into his arms. His hold is desperate, trembling, like he’s terrified you’ll slip right through his fingers if he lets go.
You close your eyes. You don’t know how to carry this. You don’t know how to let someone stay.
But when you open them again—he’s still there.
Not moving.
Not pushing.
Just holding you like the world could shatter and he’d still be right here in the ruins with you.
His chin rests against your temple, his breath unsteady. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again, softer now, like a vow. “I’ll never yell at you like that again. I swear it. I just—I can’t lose you to yourself. I can’t.”
And all you can do is grip his shirt tighter, like maybe, just maybe, you believe him.
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
The morning light filters in through Mingi’s windows — hazy gold through slanted blinds, soft and warm against your cheek where you’ve curled up on the couch under the blanket you barely remember pulling over you.
You wake slowly. Not with a jolt.
Not with dread clawing at your throat like usual.
Just … Quiet.
You feel tired, but not the hopeless kind. There’s soreness in your throat from crying. Your stomach feels hollow.
But your heart — your heart is beating steadier than it has in weeks.
You blink up at the ceiling.
The soft sound of something sizzling draws your attention.
The kitchen.
You sit up slowly, the fabric of your hoodie slipping against your skin. It still swallows you whole, draped over your knees, sleeves hiding your hands. You rub at your eyes, peek over the couch.
Mingi’s at the stove. Barefoot. Hair a mess. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Moving quietly, pouring scrambled eggs into a pan like it’s muscle memory.
He glances over when he hears you shift.
“Morning,” he says, voice still thick with sleep. A soft smile. “You were out cold.”
You stretch slightly, wincing at the stiffness in your shoulders. “Yeah… sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He pokes at the eggs. “We’re not working today, anyway.”
That makes you blink. “Huh?”
He shakes his head, still focused on the pan. “I called us both in sick.” He glances over, more cautious this time. “Figured you probably didn’t wanna deal with customers after… everything.”
You pause. Heart stuttering. “…You did that for me?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, but his voice softens. “Did it for us. I needed a day too.”
You look at him a long moment. Then say, quieter:
“Thank you.”
He nods once. Then, casually, like he’s trying not to make it a thing:
“You want something to eat?”
You hesitate.
But there’s no tension in his voice. No pressure in his eyes.
Just… a quiet offer.
You nod. “Yeah. Okay.”
You walk over slowly, settle into your usual stool at the counter. Your legs fold under you, sleeves still too long, fingers hidden.
He plates the food and slides it in front of you.
Eggs. Toast. Sliced strawberries.
Simple. Gentle. You pick up your fork. You don’t feel him watching you this time. At least — not like that. He’s trying so hard not to hover.
You can see it in the way he busies himself, turning to rinse a pan that doesn’t really need rinsing. Opening a cupboard and closing it again. Pretending to scroll on his phone.
You chew a bite of toast. Then say, around a mouthful:
“You’re being weird.”
He lets out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe I was glancing. Just wanted to make sure you were good.”
You look down at the plate. Poke a strawberry.
“I’m not gonna make myself throw up,” you say, simply.
He freezes.
You glance up. “You don’t have to tiptoe.”
He turns fully now, leaning on the opposite side of the counter. Voice low. “I know. I just… don’t wanna smother you either.”
You meet his eyes. And for the first time, there’s no guilt between you. Just truth.
“I’m trying,” you say.
He nods once. “That’s all I care about.”
You eat a little more. A strawberry. Half the eggs. Enough.
He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t count. You catch him sneaking a piece of toast off your plate instead.
You swat at him with your fork. “Hey!”
He grins, mouth full. “It’s my house.”
You almost smile. Almost. The grin lingers on his face for a moment, then fades. He sets the toast down, clears his throat. His eyes find yours again, steady but heavy.
“…I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
You blink. “For stealing my food?”
He huffs a laugh, but shakes his head. “For last night. For yelling. For… scaring you.” His voice falters, raw. “I can’t stop thinking about it. The look on your face. I never want to be the reason you feel that way again.”
You set your fork down slowly, sleeves still swallowing your hands. “Mingi…”
But he’s already shaking his head, like he’s determined to say it all. “I know words don’t fix it. But I need you to know I’m not going anywhere. Even when I mess up. Especially when I mess up.”
You swallow hard, something unsteady shifting in your chest.
And for the first time, it feels like maybe you could believe him.
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
The sky’s overcast but soft — silver clouds diffusing the light, making everything feel quieter, slower. Like the world’s trying not to startle you.
You and Mingi walk down the block, shoulders brushing every few steps.
You keep your arms crossed, sleeves tugged over your hands.
His hands are shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie.
His other hoodie — the one he pulled over your head this morning without a word before stepping outside— hangs loose on your frame. Too big. Too soft. It makes you feel smaller and safer all at once.
“You always this quiet in the morning?” he asks.
You glance over. “I’m always this quiet after falling apart in someone’s hallway.”
He huffs a soft breath. “That wasn’t falling apart. That was being honest.”
You hum. Noncommittal.
“Besides,” he adds, bumping his shoulder against yours, “I think your version of falling apart is still kinda cute.”
You snort. “That’s not a compliment.”
He tilts his head, smirking. “It’s kinda a compliment.”
You roll your eyes — but it’s easier now, lighter. After a few moments of silence, you say it, like it just occurred to you:
“Your hoodie’s really comfy.”
He blinks. Glances down at you. “Yeah? Looks better on you.”
You pause. You feel the pause.
And before you can say anything, you catch him doing that thing he always does — the flirty line he plays off like it was nothing, like his heart didn’t just slip out of his mouth by accident.
But this time — You stop walking.
“Say it again.”
He turns, confused. “What?”
You’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk now, facing him. The clouds casting a soft, silvery glow around you both.
“You heard me,” you say. “Say it again.”
He swallows. Eyes dart between yours. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
He shifts his weight. Runs a hand through his hair. And for the first time, you realize Mingi looks… nervous.
When he finally meets your gaze again, he says — quiet, careful:
“I said it looks better on you.”
Your breath catches.
You step closer.
Hands still buried in the hoodie sleeves.
Your eyes on his mouth now, then back to his eyes.
Then you lean in. And kiss him. Soft and warm.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath all morning, mouth moving against yours slow and certain. His hands find your waist — hesitant, then firmer when you don’t pull away.
You kiss until the sidewalk disappears, until the quiet stretches into something sacred. You pull back first. He lingers. Eyes still closed. Lips parted.
Then, after a beat—
“I’ve been wondering,” he murmurs, eyes opening. “If you…”
He hesitates. And you feel it — that flicker of doubt behind his eyes. Like he’s afraid he misread everything.
“If I what?” you whisper.
His voice is quiet. “If you like me.”
Your chest tightens. You stare at him. That soft, open face. The boy who watched you break and didn’t run. Who called in sick.
Who made breakfast. Who walked beside you in silence without asking for more than you could give.
And still — that ache rises.
That fear that you’re too much. Too ruined. That you’ll never be able to give him what he deserves.
“…I do,” you whisper.
His shoulders drop just slightly, like he’s been holding that question too long. You continue, barely audible:
“I just… don’t always know how to let someone like.. me.”
He looks at you for a long moment. Not pitying. Not pushy.
Just present.
“That’s okay,” he says finally. “You don’t have to know. I’ll be here anyway.”
You blink fast. Look away, lips pressed tight. He squeezes your hand.
“C’mon,” he says gently. “Let’s keep walking.”
And this time — you don’t hesitate. You walk with him. Fingers tangled in his. Steps slow. Breath even.
And for the first time in what feels like forever — You don’t feel like running.
You feel like maybe… Staying.
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
That night,
The TV plays low in the background, forgotten halfway through the episode.
You’re curled up on one side of the couch, legs tucked under you, Mingi beside you — close but not touching, like even in the comfort, there’s a reverence. Like he’s still afraid to take too much.
He leans over and places a small bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, next to two bottles of ginger ale and a sleeve of Oreos, already halfway gone.
“Dinner of champions,” he mutters, grinning.
You let out a soft breath of a laugh. “It’s perfect.”
He watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then sits back. Arms draped lazily over the couch, fingers drumming lightly against the cushion. The silence stretches, but it isn’t awkward. Not at first.
Until it settles. And something inside you starts to twist.
You stare down at your hands. They’re resting in your lap, thumbs fidgeting. The blanket he draped over both of you earlier is half-fallen off your shoulder. You don’t fix it.
“Mingi?”
He turns his head. “Yeah?”
You hesitate. Your throat is tight again. Your heart too loud in your chest.
“I don’t…” You breathe. “I don’t know if I really like you.”
His body shifts. He turns to face you more fully, blinking once, twice.
“What?”
Your voice is soft. Barely audible. “Wait – I mean, I don’t know. I just… I always do this. I ruin things. When it starts getting better, when someone’s actually good to me, I freak out. And I just — I don’t know what I’m saying. I do like you, I just…”
You trail off, the words turning to static in your mouth. He’s still. Silent for a moment.
Then he says, slowly, carefully:
“…But I asked.”
“You told me you liked me.”
“I know,” you whisper. “I know I did. I meant it. I just… I don’t know. It’s like my brain won’t let me feel something good without trying to crush it.”
His brow furrows. Eyes searching yours like he’s trying to find you inside the chaos. You look away, shame crawling up your spine.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble.
Silence.
“Are you… still not over him?”
You blink. “Who?”
“Your ex.”
You inhale sharply, like he’s cracked something open with those words. Your lips part. Close. Then—
“I want to move on,” you say. “I want to. I just…”
You swallow. Look at him. Really look at him.
“I want to move on with you. But I’m scared.”
His voice lowers. “Scared of what?”
Your heart clenches. “I don’t—”
He leans forward now, brows drawing together.
“Are you scared of me?” His voice is soft, but there’s a new tension there. A confusion edged with concern. “Of us? Why would you be scared?”
You shake your head. “No — it’s not you.”
“Then what?”
You suck in a breath.
“I’m scared of me, Mingi.”
He stares.
You press your palms together like you’re trying to hold yourself still. Like if you let go, the pieces might scatter.
“I don’t want to ruin this. I don’t want to mess you up. You’re already— you’re so good. And I’m just…” Your voice cracks. “I’m still carrying all this shit. I don’t know how to not let it spill into the good stuff.”
He doesn’t say anything. Not right away.
He just leans back. Runs a hand through his hair. Breathes out slow. Then he shifts closer. Resting his elbows on his knees. Facing you fully.
“Okay,” he says. “Listen to me.”
You look up.
“I don’t expect you to be healed,” he says. “I don’t want you to pretend you’re fine just to make me feel more comfortable. You don’t need to shrink yourself to keep me around.”
Your throat tightens. He keeps going.
“I know you’re still figuring it out. That’s not a flaw. That’s being human. And yeah — you’re messy sometimes. You push and pull. You say things you don’t mean when you’re scared.”
You wince.
“But you always come back. You show up again. And that? That matters more than anything.”
He leans forward slightly, eyes warm. Steady.
“I want the real you. Not the version you think I’ll like better. Not the edited, polished, keep-it-together-you. I want this you. Scared. Raw. Trying anyway.”
You’re quiet. Staring at him. Searching his face for any flicker of doubt.
You don’t find it. And suddenly your hands are on his cheeks — both of them, cupping his face like you’re anchoring yourself there. Your thumbs brush the stubble along his jaw.
Your voice trembles:
“I just… I don’t understand.”
His eyes soften. “What don’t you understand?”
“Why are you doing this?” Your breath shakes. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
Tears slip down your cheeks.
“You’re so pretty,” you say, brokenly. “You’re still so fucking pretty.”
He exhales, a little stunned by the intensity, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he reaches for one of your hands and presses a kiss into your knuckles. Soft. Intentional.
“I’ve never felt like this with anyone before,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
You stare at him. And suddenly you can’t breathe.
Your eyes trace the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the part of his lips. You want him. You want this. So much it aches.
You crash forward. Your lips slam into his.
A soft gasp escapes him as you climb into his lap, straddling him, the blanket falling away. Your hands knot in his hair, mouth desperate, deepening the kiss with tongue and teeth and heat.
He kisses you back like he’s been waiting months for this — like you’re air and he’s starving.
His hands hover, unsure where to land, fluttering from your hips to your thighs to your back, breath catching as he groans softly against your mouth.
You grind down slightly and his hands finally grip, holding you there, his body giving in to yours completely.
But then — He breaks the kiss. Gasping, chest heaving, lips swollen.
“I—” He swallows. “I don’t want us to go too fast.”
You blink, still breathless.
“I just… I need to know,” he says, looking you dead in the eye, “Are you okay with this?”
Silence. You freeze for a second.
That flicker of fear again. Then — You nod. Slow. Steady.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m okay. I promise.”
His chest rises and falls beneath you, eyes searching yours for the truth. He finds it. Your mouth is on his again — hungry, urgent — but there’s nothing casual about it anymore.
It’s not the kind of kiss that leads to distraction.
It’s the kind that leads to unraveling.
He groans low in his throat when your fingers tangle tighter in his hair, and suddenly his hands aren’t hesitant anymore — they’re everywhere.
Palming at your waist, sliding up beneath the borrowed hoodie you’re still wearing, fingertips hot against bare skin.
You shift in his lap, straddling him more firmly, your hips grinding down just enough to make his breath stutter.
“Jesus,” he whispers into your mouth. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You smile, a little breathless. “You’re handling it fine.” He exhales a short laugh, but it’s wrecked — like he’s already undone, already trying to keep himself together while you’re melting against him.
Then his hands slip up your back — slow but firm — and he pulls the hoodie up and over your head in one motion. Tosses it aside.
His eyes drop. He freezes. You’re bare underneath. No shirt. No bra. And for a beat, he just stares.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice gone low and reverent.
You go to cover yourself instinctively — it hits fast, that insecurity, that urge to hide — but his hands catch your wrists, gently, holding you still.
“Don’t,” he says quietly. “Please don’t hide from me.”
You look at him. His eyes are wide. Dilated. His mouth parted just slightly like he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says. “It’s — kind of unfair.”
You blink, heart hammering.
“Say that again.”
He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the edge of your neck. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, voice raspy against your skin. “So fucking beautiful.”
You sigh — broken and soft — and tilt your head back, giving him more. He takes it, lips trailing down your throat, teeth dragging lightly as he goes.
And then his hands find your hips again. Grip. Lift. He stands — stands — with you in his arms like it’s nothing. You gasp, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist.
“Mingi—!”
He cuts you off with another kiss, deeper this time, almost messy, like he’s losing the last of his restraint.
He carries you to the bedroom, one hand splayed against your lower back, the other curling under your thigh like he needs to be touching you everywhere at once.
He lays you down like you’re breakable — but he climbs over you like he’s starving.
The weight of him settles between your thighs, and suddenly you feel everything: the warmth, the hardness pressing into you through both your clothes, the trembling need that’s been building for weeks.
You hook your fingers in the hem of his shirt and tug.
“Off.”
He obliges immediately — lifts it over his head, tosses it aside. And when your hands roam over his chest, down his stomach, you feel him shiver.
“Mingi…”
His mouth finds your collarbone. Then your chest. He kisses you slow there, open-mouthed and hot, tongue tracing the edge of your nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, and you gasp — hands flying to his shoulders, your back arching.
He groans like that sound undid him.
“God, the things I want to do to you,” he murmurs. “You have no idea.”
He kisses down your stomach, slow and purposeful, until he reaches the waistband of your shorts. Hooks his fingers in them. Looks up.
“Can I?”
You nod. “Yes. Please.”
He pulls them down — slow, watching you as he does it — and tosses them to the floor. Then kisses the inside of your thigh like it’s sacred.
You whimper.
“Mingi—”
“I got you,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”
And then he’s lowering his mouth between your legs — tentative for half a second, just testing — until he gets that first shaky moan out of you and something in him clicks.
And God, he’s good at this.
He licks slow, deliberate, like he’s learning what you like in real time. Like he wants to hear every reaction.
He wraps his arms under your thighs, holding you there, opening you wider for him, and then he flattens his tongue — sucks — and your hips buck.
“Fuck—”
“Yeah?” he breathes, glancing up. His mouth is glistening, his lips swollen, his hair messy from where you’ve been pulling at it.
“You like that?”
You nod desperately. “Yes, yes, don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
He devours you — hungry, focused, like the only thing he wants is to make you fall apart in his mouth. Your hands knot in his hair, pulling tight, and when your thighs start to tremble, he groans into you, the vibration making your vision blur.
And just when you’re about to cum — on the edge of it, right there — he pulls back.
You whimper. “Why—”
He’s already kissing his way back up your body, whispering, “Wanna feel you cum on my cock instead.”
You whine, and he catches your mouth with his again, slow and deep and so fucking sweet it makes your chest ache.
“Condom?” you murmur.
“Yeah,” he exhales, eyes fluttering open to look at you. “Top drawer.”
He reaches for the drawer, opens it, and when he finds it, he tears the wrapper with shaking hands.
He strips off his boxers — and you both pause for a beat, your breath catching at the sight of him.
Because yeah. He’s big.
He doesn’t make a show of it. He’s not smug.
But when he rolls the condom on and looks down at you again — flushed, panting, legs open for him — he knows he’s wanted.
He lines himself up, and his voice is raw:
“Tell me if anything’s too much.”
You nod. “I will. I promise.”
He pushes in slowly, watching your face the whole time — every twitch, every gasp — until he’s fully inside you, bottomed out, his mouth hanging open like he’s never felt anything like this before.
You’re both quiet for a second — just breathing.
Then he moves.
Long, slow thrusts at first, deep and deliberate. His eyes flicker between your face and the way your bodies meet, like he can’t decide what’s more beautiful.
You wrap your arms around his shoulders, your legs around his waist, holding him close as he fucks into you — harder now, rougher, but still with that same quiet reverence.
You moan his name. Over and over. And every time, he fucks you deeper. Like he’s trying to give you everything he has.
His mouth finds yours again, messy and desperate, swallowing your gasps.
“You feel so good,” he groans. “So fucking good.”
Your nails drag down his back. “Don’t stop, Mingi— I’m close— please—”
“Cum for me,” he breathes, his pace relentless. “Let go, baby. I got you.”
You do.
It crashes into you, white-hot and blinding, your whole body shaking as you cry out his name — and he follows soon after, stuttering inside you, hips jerking as he buries himself deep and groans into your neck.
The room goes still.
You’re both panting. Slick with sweat. Clinging to each other. And after a long, trembling silence, he lifts his head. Your eyes meet. There’s no teasing. No smirking. Just that same softness. That same quiet awe.
“You okay?” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
You nod. Your voice cracks.
“I’ve never felt that with anyone before.”
He kisses your forehead, your cheek, the tip of your nose.
“Me neither.”
And then he pulls you close again. Holding you like you’re something precious. Like you’re real. Like you’re his.
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
The room is quiet now.
Just the slow hum of the night outside the window, the softened rhythm of both your breathing, and Mingi’s hand — warm and steady — still resting against your waist.
You’re lying on your side, facing away from him, your body loose but your chest tight in that familiar, sinking way.
He moves behind you gently, not to crowd, just enough to wrap an arm around your middle. He presses the softest kiss to the curve of your shoulder.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with sleep and something softer. “You okay?”
You nod once. He doesn’t believe you.
You can feel it in the way he lingers — that silence that stretches, waiting for truth.
So you force a breath out, one that shakes a little on the way up.
“…Yeah.”
You expect that to be the end of it. For him to let it go.
But Mingi surprises you. Again.
“Okay,” he says gently. “Wait here.”
You blink. Before you can process, he’s already shifting, easing up from the bed, slipping on his boxers, disappearing for a second into the hallway.
You hear the faucet. Water running. A cabinet opening and closing.
You sit up slowly, the blanket pulled around your chest. You don’t know why you suddenly feel like crying.
He comes back in with a damp, warm towel and a bottle of water.
“You don’t have to—”
“Shh,” he cuts in, quiet and firm, kneeling in front of you.
He starts cleaning you up with slow, careful hands — gentle, like he’s afraid he might hurt you. He’s quiet while he does it, not making it awkward or clinical. Just… kind. Respectful. Like it matters to him that you’re okay even after all the heat of the moment’s faded.
Like you matter. And you don’t know what to do with that.
When he finishes, he hands you the water and presses a soft kiss to your knee. Then he climbs back into bed and pulls you close without even asking — tucking you under his arm, one hand stroking your hair.
You’re quiet for a long moment. Too quiet. He notices. You feel his thumb trace the back of your hand where it rests against his chest.
“Talk to me,” he says softly. “Please.”
You try to force the lump down in your throat.
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t do that.”
You close your eyes. It’s stupid, the way your heart hurts. Stupid how nice he’s being. So you whisper it, raw and quiet:
“I don’t deserve this.”
Mingi stills.
You wait for him to pull away. To say something reasonable. To agree, even.
But instead, he tightens his hold on you — arms wrapped fully around your body now, like he’s anchoring you in place.
“Please don’t say that,” he breathes. “Please stop saying that.”
You squeeze your eyes shut harder. “I’m serious. You’re— You’re so good to me and I don’t know how to let myself believe it’s real. I keep thinking I’m gonna mess it all up. That I’ll ruin this. Ruin you.”
His voice breaks a little when he responds.
“Y/N… I’m not going anywhere. You don’t ruin things just by existing. You’ve been surviving with no one to catch you for so long, I think maybe… you forgot what it feels like to be safe.”
He keeps talking, quieter now, like a secret just for you.
“You don’t have to earn kindness. Or care. Or love.”
You feel your chest splinter. He presses his lips to your temple.
“You deserve softness,” he whispers. “You always have.”
You don’t say anything — you can’t — but your tears slip hot and quiet into the hollow of his throat where you’ve buried your face. He doesn’t point it out. Doesn’t make it a moment.
He just holds you tighter. Your breathing slows.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself fall asleep feeling safe.
.·:¨༺༻¨:·.
That morning, you wake up slowly. Not like the usual startled, tight-chested jolt that’s been your norm lately, but… warm. Heavy in a good way. Like your bones remembered how to rest for once.
The morning light peeks in soft through Mingi’s curtains. The room smells like him — laundry and cedar and something faintly citrus, maybe his shampoo. Your body aches in a way that makes your cheeks warm remembering the night before, and—
Right. You’re naked. Completely.
You blink, glancing down. The sheets are tangled around your legs, but your chest is bare, one of Mingi’s arms looped loosely around your waist. He’s still asleep — you think — soft breaths ghosting over your shoulder, his face tucked somewhere near the crook of your neck.
Your heart gives a little squeeze.
You shift carefully, trying not to wake him, planning to slip out of bed and steal one of his hoodies so you can at least walk without flashing someone. You’re halfway out of his grip, feet barely touching the floor—
And suddenly that arm tightens, fast and firm around your waist, yanking you back against him.
“Don’t go,” he mumbles groggily.
You feel his nose nuzzle softly under your ear, his hand flattening against your stomach. His body is warm and solid behind you, and the pull to stay is dangerously strong.
You settle back, just for a moment, tucking your hand over his forearm.
“You’re clingy when you’re half asleep,” you murmur.
“Mmhm,” he hums. “Only with you.”
Your chest warms at that. You turn your head slightly to peek at the clock on the nightstand.
Your eyes widen. “Shit.”
“What?” he asks, still sounding a little drunk on sleep.
You sit up fully now. “It’s already past seven. We have, like, thirty minutes to get up and get ready for work.”
That wakes him up.
“What?” he bolts upright, hair sticking up in ten different directions. “Holy shit. What time is it?”
You grab your phone. “7:12. We have to leave in thirty minutes if we want to make it on time.”
“We’re so fucked,” he says, already tossing the covers off. “We’re so fucked. We’re gonna get fired. You’re naked, I barely have anything on, we have thirty minutes—”
You’ve never seen him this panicked. He looks like he’s calculating battle plans in his head, muttering to himself as he pulls on a pair of boxers and stumbles toward his dresser.
“Okay, okay,” he says, pointing at you like he’s assigning a mission. “Get ready in here, I’ll use the bathroom down the hall.”
You pause for a second, then say nothing. You’ve been using the hall bathroom since you started crashing at his place — all your stuff’s in there — but in this moment of chaos, it doesn’t feel worth it to point that out.
You nod. “Okay.”
He disappears down the hallway, and you hop up and head into the bathroom. You turn on the sink, start rinsing your face, running fingers through your hair — only to freeze when you realize:
All your stuff — skincare, toothbrush, makeup — is still in the other bathroom.
“Dammit,” you whisper to yourself, wiping your face with the towel.
You wrap one of Mingi’s hoodies around you quickly and dart down the hall. The bathroom door is cracked open just enough that you can hear the shower shut off, steam still wafting into the hallway.
You knock lightly and push the door open.
“Sorry— sorry,” you blurt out, eyes squeezing shut like it’ll undo the moment. “I just need my stuff, I—”
Mingi’s standing by the sink, towel low on his hips, hair wet and dripping onto his shoulders. He blinks at you, startled but not upset.
“It’s okay, baby—”
He freezes. You freeze.
He clears his throat. “—I mean, Y/N. Just… just get ready in here. It’s fine.”
Your cheeks heat immediately. But you pretend not to hear it.
“Thanks,” you mumble, moving past him to grab your things.
The bathroom’s small. Your shoulders brush as you reach for your toothbrush, and when you turn to grab your moisturizer, your eyes flicker — very briefly — down his torso.
He catches it. His mouth twitches, like he wants to smirk but knows better.
You work in comfortable silence for a few minutes. You brush your teeth. He runs a comb through his hair. The domesticity of it all hits you in a weird, sudden wave. How natural it feels.
When you finish putting on the tiniest bit of concealer, you glance up at him.
“How do I look?”
He turns to look at you fully, then gives you that sleepy, slightly dazzled grin.
“You look great.”
You smile back. “You look good too.”
“Thanks,” he murmurs, grabbing his shirt from the counter. “Okay—” he glances at the clock again, “How much time do we have left?”
You check your phone.
“Ten minutes.”
“Ten?!”
You both scramble for the hallway.
“We’re so late—”
“Not yet, we’re not!”
He’s grabbing his keys off the hook, shoving his feet into his sneakers.
You laugh, still half out of breath as you tug your shoes on and grab your bag.
“Why do I feel like we just speedran an entire relationship in the span of like, ten hours?” you mutter.
He grins at you, flushed, hair still slightly damp.
“Because we did.”
You both burst out the door, nearly tripping over yourselves as you head to his car.
The windows are fogged up from the humidity. He starts the engine with a sigh, runs a hand through his hair, then glances at you as you click your seatbelt in.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly, just before pulling out of the driveway.
You look at him. At the curve of his jaw. The soft worry in his eyes. The little accidental “baby” still echoing in your chest.
You nod. “Yeah. I’m good.” He smiles. It’s a little crooked. A little too fond.
“Alright,” he says, shifting into drive. “Time to see if we can keep our jobs.”
You both laugh — tired, messy, still aching in places from the night before — but something feels lighter between you now.
Like maybe you’re not just running late. Maybe you’re running forward.
This is beautifully aching in a good way, for real. Everything's beautiful omfg i love the way they both have characters development throughout the plot. It's raw, real and bittersweet. It feels like reading a diary instead of a fanfic / oneshot.
Summary: Life has been hell ever since your mother's passing many years ago. Despite being from a prominent family, you've never received the privileges associated with it. It only got worse with the arrival of your stepmother and her daughters. When the intimidating General Park was in search of a wife, your father seized the opportunity to dispose of you, simultaneously securing a connection with the powerful general—killing two birds with one stone.
Genre: heavy angst, fluff, hurt/comfort
Trigger Warnings: mentions of past physical abuse, mistreatment, emotional abuse, verbal abuse, scars, trauma (lmk if I missed any)
Total Word Count: 75.2k words (not including bonus content)
OH MY GOD IT'S FINALLY COMPLETED I HAVE BEEN SUFFERING WAITING BECAUSE I HATEEEE CLIFFHANGERS NOW IT'S TIME TO START READING PLEASE PRAY FOR MY WELL-BEINGS 🙏🙏🙏🙏
i missed the era where my tumblr was full with actual fanfics with actual cliché plot with long storyline with good angst and fluff and little smut instead of straight up porns. it's up to one's preference, sure, but i just... missed reading the actual creative writings :'D
summary: pe teacher!san x single mom!reader. your kid is finally ready to go to school, and you're spiraling. thankfully, you find friendship with your kid's teacher and she becomes determined to become your best friend. simultaneously, she tries to set you up with the cute pe teacher, but you know him from somewhere deep within your past. can the truth come out without jeopardizing your future?
word count: 12.4k
warnings: afab reader so gendered terms, mentions of accidental pregnancy
masterlist
"violet, come on, we're gonna be late!" you shout to your daughter. it's her first day of kindergarten, her first day of real school, and you're so close to tears. you want to cry because your baby is growing up, because you won't get to cart your little mini me around with you everywhere now, because you're so stressed about getting her to school on time. it's been a rough morning, and your daughter taking her sweet time is not helping.
"i'm almost ready!" she shouts back from the bathroom, and you suppress a groan. what does a five year old have to primp for?
"one more minute and i'm dragging you to the car!" you threaten lightheartedly, knowing she'll only take it to mean she has a minute before you go and help her.
"i'm done," she says proudly as she appears in the doorway to the kitchen. hands on her hips she asks, "how do i look?"
"ridiculous," you laugh. "is that my shirt?"
"and my belt!" she defends herself. "i thought it was cute."
"it is cute, baby, but maybe you should wear something more comfortable for the first day?" you offer. you shuffle over to the laundry basket you left on the stairs and dig around for an outfit, handing your stubborn daughter some jeans and a sweater. "just wear something comfy today, and later this week you can dress silly."
"i wasn't dressed silly, i was dressed like you," violet mumbles, and you roll your eyes. your daughter definitely got your sass, and your stubbornness, but the resemblance kind of stops there. she's a spitting image of her father, a constant reminder of the mistake you made when you were younger. but it wasn't really a mistake, was it? if it brought you the one thing that's made you happier than anything before, it wasn't a mistake at all. violet was the best thing that ever happened to you, and again, the waterworks threaten to fall as you think about dropping her off for her first day of school. a day, you realize, you're late for.
"c'mon sugar, we gotta go!" you shout, grabbing her hello kitty backpack. "i've got your stuff, meet me in the car!"
-
you work close enough to violet's school that you can be one of those annoying carpool parents swarming the school grounds every day. while violet may hate it, you're so excited for all the memories that will come from these trips to and from school each day. like today, you'll always remember how violet started crying a few minutes down the road, claiming she didn't want to go to school because she didn't want to eat school lunch.
"it's not that bad, vi." you tell her as you peek at her through the rearview. "i remember loving some days of school lunch so much i would always go, even if i was sick."
"but you only liked some days," she sniffed. "what if i don't like any of the days?"
"then i'll pack you a lunch," you assure her. "just try it this week, every day, because some days will be better than others. then if you don't like any of it i'll start making your lunch. how does that sound?"
"okay," she nods, her sad little sniffles clearing up. "thank you mommy."
"we're almost there," you say quietly, more to yourself than to your daughter. "are you excited, sugar?"
"kinda," she admits. "i'm excited to see miss jen!"
"she's gonna be a great teacher," you agree. "you're gonna learn so much, and you're gonna have so much fun with her and all the friends you're gonna make. right?"
violet nods again, and you're satisfied for now. you're sure your baby is alright to go off to school for the first time, at least for the time being. surely there will be another thing to freak about later in the day, but for now you need to worry about navigating this carpool line. a man in workout clothes with a haggard looking traffic vest is directing traffic, and while you pass him, you feel your heart skip a beat.
it can't be him, right? there's no way he works here. it can't be. you keep driving, following the cones until you pull up to the sidewalk and a very kind looking teacher approaches your car with a soft smile.
"good morning!" he chirps. "i'm mr. kang, the librarian," he says as he stoops to peer through your window. his gaze goes to the backseat, asking violet, "are you ready for the best day ever?"
she nods shyly, and you watch as she undoes her car seat and slides out of the car with her too big book bag engulfing her frame as she walks away. you shout her name and she turns, a nervous look on her face.
"have a great day, my love!" you blow her a kiss for good measure, and you carry the way she smiles proudly with you for the rest of the day. the man in the traffic vest is all but forgotten, but he watches from afar in confusion. was he seeing things, or were you really here dropping off a kid? a kid, in fact, who looked exactly like he did at that age. weird, he thinks, but he shakes it off and continues directing traffic, wondering how he could find a way to introduce himself over the next few days.
-
when you were younger, your parents always supported you academically, but they were never involved with the school itself. pta meetings were not their thing, and it was a struggle getting them to take off work for a parent/teacher conference. you had decided early on that you would be one of those involved parents, one that knew your kid's teacher well and participated in room mom activities. you were texting violet's teacher last night, actually, asking if there was anything you could bring to help celebrate the first week, and she was eager to have the help.
she'd asked you to bring lollipops, so on thursday afternoon you're searching for a parking spot before school lets out. you were going to drop the goodies off at violet's classroom and help jen with the goody bags during dismissal, quick and easy. except, an intimidating figure walking toward your car may not make this process as easy as you'd have hoped.
san saw your car pull up and immediately stepped out into the parking lot. as the unofficial carpool guardian, one of his daily jobs is stopping parents who try to cheat the system by taking up faculty spots so they can be first in line. san didn't know it was you or he would've approached with a different demeanor, but today was rough. he had at least two criers per class and one kid who ran so hard after lunch he puked outside san's office. he wasn't in the mood to deal with a privileged parent, so he lets out a deep sigh as he approaches your now open window.
"ma'am you can't park here-" he starts, but as soon as his eyes meet yours he chokes on his words. "y/n?"
"hi san," you smile shyly, heartbeat racing. "so i can't park here? there weren't any guest spots out front, and i need to take something to vi's class-"
"vi?" san questions, and you let out a deep sigh of your own.
"violet," you tell him. "my..my daughter."
"i thought that was you the other day," san admits, and you nod in confirmation. "well, um, if you're just coming to drop something off, you're all good, you can leave your car-"
"oh really? i can move, it's no problem-"
"no, no, don't worry about it-"
"are you sure?" you ask, finally stopping the awkward back and forth. "you won't tattle?"
"pinky promise," san laughs, holding your door for your as you get out. "but i'd sneak out before carpool starts up if i were you, it'll be hard to pull out once the lot fills up."
"got it," you nod graciously, slipping your hand into the backseat to grab the bag of candy. san is still standing there, so you clear your throat and try to leave. "well, thanks for letting me-"
"no worries-"
"it was good seeing you-"
"yeah, yeah..." san trails off. once you're a few feet away he calls your name. you turn to see what he needs, and he thinks about it before shrugging. "never mind," he says. "it was nice to see you."
"bye san," you manage to get out before you turn the corner, hands sweaty and heart doing funny flips in your chest.
you hadn't told violet about your visit, so when jen lets you into the room you hear an excited squeal followed by a pair of small arms wrapped around your legs. violet looks up at you proudly, a spot of something on her cheek. you forget sometimes, just how much she looks like san, but your exchange outside has him fresh on the brain. she has his smile. you shake the thoughts from your head and try to take a step, but violet won't budge.
"hey sugar," you laugh, ruffling her hair with your free hand. "go back to your seat, school's not over yet."
"but-"
"violet, do you want to show your mom where to put the bags she brought?" jen offers, and you send her a thankful look. violet tugs on your hand, bringing you over to the "treasure box" which is really just a filing cabinet jen must have filled with candy and toys. violet shows you each drawer, and you make her look away as you place the candy in it's appropriate drawer so it won't ruin the surprise for now. satisfied with her work, violet goes back to her seat as the bell rings for dismissal. you organize some of the other things you brought on jen's desk as she goes over reminders for the class, and then the first few rounds of students start leaving.
"thanks for bringing all this," jen says as she joins you.
"do you need help putting them together?" you ask, and she thinks for a moment.
"no, i don't want to keep you," she starts.
"well, i think i'm stuck for a while anyway," you inform her. "i had to park in a faculty spot, and carpool-"
"oh yeah, you're definitely stuck," jen laughs. "let me get everything set up, and then you can start while i help the rest of the kids leave, if you don't mind?"
"not at all!" you assure her, looking out to find violet watching you both like a hawk. "do you think we'll need another set of hands though?" jen follows your gaze and laughs before waving violet over. the three of you get everything set up, and you ask violet about her day as jen organizes the next group of kids for bus call.
"it was good!" violet says happily. "i liked lunch today."
"what did they have?"
"chicken sammiches," she says, and you laugh.
"sandwiches, baby," you tell her. "sammiches is a me and you word, but some people may not know what that means."
"i like chicken sandwiches and chicken sammiches," she nods. "and then we had pe and a boy in my class threw up. he had pizza."
"gross," you crinkle your nose. "you liked pe though?"
"yeah, it was fun!" violet goes off on a tangent about all the games, and jen rejoins you to help finish the bags. the three of you fall into comfortable conversation with violet as the life of the party. you like jen, you find yourself thinking. you hope it's not weird to be friends with your kid's teacher, because you could really use one here. you're lost in that thought, so you don't notice when someone appears in the doorway.
"mr. choi!" violet chirps, abandoning her task and rushing to meet him. never met a stranger, your child, because she's tugging his hand and bringing him over to you. "this is mommy."
"that's not her name though, is it violet?" jen asks, ever the teacher.
"y/n," san nods, and you don't miss the way jen looks from you to san to violet and back again. "did you get tricked into staying late?"
"no, i offered," you reply. "but i didn't have a choice, i didn't listen to your advice and couldn't leave before carpool started."
"you're all good now," he says, holding up his reflective vest all crumpled in his big hand. "just sent the last kid home."
"good to know," you nod. "vi, where's your stuff? we'll leave soon."
"no!" she whines. "i don't wanna leave!"
"don't you want a snack though?" you tempt her, and that sends the mini menace into motion.
"to what do i owe the pleasure of you stinking up my classroom, choi?" jen asks.
"i wanted to talk to you about the kid that threw up today," he says, and you must look at him confused because he asks you if anything's wrong.
"are you the pe teacher here?"
"yep," he answers. "i didn't know this was your violet," he says, nodding his head toward your kid. "she's a sweetheart. ball of energy too."
"you're telling me," you smile softly. violet walks over then, informing you that she's ready to go. you ask jen if there's anything else you can do, but she insists on you taking violet home.
"you've helped enough, believe me," jen tells you. "i'll see you tomorrow violet!"
"bye miss jen!" violet says with a smile. "bye mr. choi! i hope no one pukes on you tomorrow!"
jen waits for you and your kid to be far enough down the hall before she asks calmly. "so. how do you know y/n?"
"we, uh, we go way back," san says. "went to school together, college, all that."
"oh, so you like, really know her," jen says, a plan brewing in her head. she saw the way san looked at you. she also knows you're single. "you didn't know her kid went here?"
"didn't know she had a kid at all," san shakes his head, and he seems to get lost in a thought before he remembers what he came here for. "anyway, this kid today, you gotta tell him not to eat so much before pe..."
-
you and san didn't grow up together, exactly, but you have known him since high school. you floated around similar groups of friends, so you hung out regularly without ever getting too close. it wasn't until college that you actually became friends. you both went to a local school, at least as local as you can get for your small town. living in a city all by yourself was intimidating, but you weren't worried about not making friends. you knew they would come.
the day of your orientation, san saw you sitting by yourself in the auditorium and immediately recognized you. he brushed off his sweaty hands before walking over and softly calling your name. when you registered who he was, you smiled and invited him to sit next to you. both happy to see a familiar face, you spent the rest of orientation attached at the hip. in fact, you spent the rest of your time at school like that. san was your best friend, nothing more. he didn't always feel that way, but he did a good job of hiding his feelings. he was able to hide how he felt about you all the way up to the final semester of your senior year.
you were thriving, one of those seniors itching to finish school and get out into the real world. you knew you were just months away from a successful career, and you wouldn't let anything get in your way. you liked that you didn't know what was coming next or where you would end up after graduation. the prospect of moving to a new city, hell, maybe a new country, was exciting. this restlessness is what made san speak up. he was ready to graduate too, sure, but he was ready to get out of the city. san always wanted to be a teacher, and he already had offers all across the state, but the only job he cared about was in his hometown. it's where he wanted to be, and he knew that if he didn't tell you how he felt now, he may never get the chance. he wanted you to know so he could at least have a chance with you, even for a little while.
so he confessed, one night early in the semester. he was walking you home, his dorm only a few doors down from yours. at the door to your dorm he pulled you into a hug, which was normal for him. san was always a touchy friend, but what he said as he pulled away still bounces around in your head.
"y/n, i think i'm in love with you," he said earnestly. you looked in his eyes, trying to find the beginnings of a smile, some hint of a secret, that this was a joke. but he was serious. when you didn't say anything he shrugged, stepped away, and added, "i just wanted you to know."
you still don't know if it was shock or fear that kept you from saying anything that night, from calling his name and pulling him back in. but you didn't say anything then, you didn't say anything for months. san pretended like it never happened, and you just went along.
it didn't come up again until the going away party at the end of the year. school was over, finals done, and graduation was days away. everyone wanted to celebrate the past four years and freak out over what was next, all sharing where they were going and how scared they were. san was moving back home to be a teacher and wasn't scared at all. you were leaving for a bigger and better city the day after graduation and you were terrified.
later, san pulled you to the side and asked if you were ok. you knew he was referring to the job stuff, but you had other things on your mind. you were a little tipsy, so you decide that's why you leaned in and kissed him. it was quick, soft, barely a kiss, but you did it. you kissed him and pulled back faster than san could think, his eyes still closed when you parted and said, "i just wanted to know what it would feel like."
you were able to avoid him for the rest of the party, enjoying your last few hours with some of your best friends. you had an early morning, so you stopped drinking before everyone else and found yourself as a designated walker at the end of the night. you and san were elected to walk a few friends back to their dorms, dropping them off as you passed each building on your own walk home. inevitably, you were left alone with san at your door like that night months ago. san looked like he wanted to say something, and you didn't want him to leave, so instead of separating at the door you invited him in.
you'll never forget that night, and neither will san. but with your paths parting in a few days, you thought it would be something you could move on from eventually. a few weeks later, in your new city, at the perfect job, you found out you were pregnant. it hurt, the decision to not tell san, but the thought of stopping your life before it even started hurt more. you figured you would never see san again, or that you could at least keep the kid a secret if you ever hung out with your college friends again. you never thought that you'd somehow end up moving your daughter to the neighborhood where san grew up, or that the great school you fought to enroll her in could possibly be where san currently worked. but that's life, isn't it? or fate. or maybe just dumb luck. whatever it was, the universe was trying to get you to tell the truth and you're not sure you're ready to do that. to yourself, to violet, or to san.
-
san can't stop thinking about you. he tries so hard to catch a glimpse of you during carpool, but he's too busy focusing on a million other things and never manages to find you. he tries to think about how he could use violet to talk to you, like sending a note home with her, but that's inappropriate. he needs to see you again, though. that's when he gets an idea.
you and jen have become genuine friends, which has made things confusing for violet only because she treats jen like her teacher in casual settings. you met up for dinner the other night and violet raised her hand to ask jen a question, so hopefully she'll get used to it. san knows you two are close, and he knows if he asks jen about you she'll tell him whatever he wants to know.
at lunch one day he finds jen in the teacher's lounge and motions to the empty seat at her table. she lets him sit, but warns, "wooyoung saved the other seats for himself, so leave now if you want to."
wooyoung, one of the third grade teachers, was actually one of san's best friends. he's a hand full, yes, but fiercely loyal and caring. san doesn't necessarily want him to hear the conversation he wanted to have with jen, but oh well. as soon as san has that thought, wooyoung is bursting through the door with a stack of plastic containers from the lunchroom in his arms.
"m'lady," he nods to jen as he passes her a container. he looks to san and asks, "you want one bro?"
"what's in it?" san asks skeptically, and wooyoung shows off a stack of chicken sandwiches. "seriously?"
"hey, they're really good," jen pipes up. "the kids are lucky they get to eat these."
"how did you get so many?" san asks wooyoung as he takes a sandwich anyway.
"flirted with the lunch ladies."
"course you did," jen rolls her eyes, taking a bite of the sandwich. she chuckles to herself, and then shares, "you know, there's a kid in my class who calls these sammiches? no matter how many times you correct her, she won't say anything else. she told me this morning she didn't want to come to school, but she did because it was sammich day."
that's violet. san knows it is. he heard a snippet of your conversation in jen's classroom weeks ago, but he also knows he's heard violet say something similar when she comes to the gym. she loves those sandwiches, and san must admit, now that he's tried one he gets the hype. this is his shot though, he thinks to himself. he clears his throat and asks, "that's y/n's girl right?"
"who's y/n?" wooyoung asks, and jen responds, "san's girlfriend."
"no she's not," san says quickly. "she's kidding."
"you like her though?" wooyoung smirks, and san shakes his head.
"i-it's not like that," san explains. "i knew her a long time ago, and haven't seen her for a few years. that's all."
"so what about her?" jen asks.
"what do you mean?"
"well you brought her up," jen laughs. "you want me to tell her you asked about her? that feels very elementary of you, san."
"no, no, i was just, uh," san racks his brain for a response, "um, she's your room mom right? i may need to talk to her, for um, uh, field day."
"sure," jen nods. "i can give you her number, if you don't have it?"
"yeah, yeah," san nods too, "sure, if you think that'll be ok. i mean, i just needed to ask something, really quick, but, um, sure, yeah."
"if you really need to talk to her, she's coming in tomorrow i think," jen says, checking her phone. "yeah, tomorrow is violet's birthday, so y/n is bringing cupcakes at lunch. you can just stop by my class table and ask her whatever you need to ask her."
"oh, cool, great," san nods. wooyoung and jen share a quiet laugh, noticing that san seems like a bobblehead nodding so nervously. "yeah, tomorrow. lunch tomorrow. i'll be here."
-
you're running late. it's your kid's frickin birthday and you're late. you wanted to be supermom, make cupcakes from scratch, but work has been crazy on top of all the prep for violet's party, and you're just one woman. you can't do all of this by yourself, and it's times like these that you wish...no. that's not where you're going to let your mind wander today. today is all about violet, so as you rush out of the grocery store, you handle the store bought cupcakes with intense care. you can't be late and show up with smushed cupcakes.
thankfully this town is small enough that everything is within spitting distance, so you arrive at violet's school with just a few minutes left in her lunch. you hurry through the check in, rushing off to where you hope the lunchroom is. it would be just your luck to get lost right now, but you let out a breath of relief when you turn the corner and see the cafeteria ahead. you have to pause at the door to look for her class, and you hold back a sob when you see one very broad shouldered man sitting next to your beautiful daughter. you manage to walk up without violet seeing you, but at the sound of your footsteps, san turns. he smiles at you softly and he looks so much like violet it hurts. your eyes drift to your daughter, who's noticed you now and bounces in her seat.
"hey birthday girl," you say meekly, clearing your throat before you speak again. "how's your day been?"
"good!" violet smiles, showing you a half eaten vanilla cupcake with purple icing. "mr. choi brought me birthday cake!"
"aw, that's sweet," you say, looking to san. he's staring at you intensely as you ask, "did you tell him thank you?"
"i did!" violet confirms, but she turns to san and repeats, "thank you, it was yummy."
"do you have room for another?" you ask her, holding up the cupcakes you brought. violet already looks ready to bounce off the walls, so you'll have to apologize to jen later, but you ask if she wants to help pass out cupcakes to her friends. you hold the containers as she carefully hands out the treats, and you're pleased to know there were plenty of cupcakes for everyone. actually, there's some left over, so you start packing them up to take home but violet stops you.
"mommy, we need to give mr. choi one," she tells you, and you look to san sheepishly. "and there's one for you too, mommy!"
"i guess we're having cupcakes," you chuckle with san, offering him one of the last two cupcakes. "vi, can i take your spot?" she nods eagerly, letting you sit on the hilariously tiny lunch chair. you struggle balancing on it and look up to see san watching, trying not to laugh. violet is oblivious though, icing smeared all over her face as she talks to her friend across the table. "hey, no laughing. it's been a long day."
"sorry," san says, the remnants of a smile still on his face. "you doing alright?"
"i'm fine," you sigh slightly. you look at san again, really look at him, and you feel your heart constrict. "thank you for bringing her a cupcake."
"oh, sure," san says. "i didn't want to overstep, but jen told me yesterday, and i figured violet could at least take it home, but when i got here and didn't see, uh...you weren't here-"
"you can say it, i was late to my own kid's birthday," you laugh, rubbing your hand over your face. san finds himself staring at your fingers and something pops into his head.
"and again i ask, you doing alright?" he laughs with you. "being a parent must be hard."
"it has its bad days," you admit. "but for every bad day there's hundreds of good ones, so it makes the whole single parenting thing a little easier."
there it is. single. san looks down to your hands again, and has to hide his satisfied smirk. there's no ring.
"so, what-" san starts to ask, but the bell dings and the cafeteria erupts in even more sound. students talking, teachers yelling, chairs scraping as everyone is set in motion. jen walks over then, smiling when she sees you and san sat so close together. she waves hello before calling for her class, and you give violet a big squeezey hug and a kiss on the forehead before she takes her food and runs off. san watches you watching violet, and now it's his turn for his heart to twist. he's missed you. a lot.
"i guess i better go," you say as you gather all of the cupcake trash. san covers his hands over yours, stilling your movements and your heart, and says, "let me, i'll clean up."
"th-thank you san," you say shyly, and he waves you off. he can feel your eyes on him as he walks to the trash cans, and he can't help it, when he turns around he pulls a face that used to always make you laugh. his success rate is still high, because a beautiful giggle appears from deep within your chest, and then san is standing back in front of you. you know him, and you know there's something he wants to say, so you ask, "are you doing alright?"
"i'm fine," he nods, and you playfully push his shoulder. he smiles as he goes on, "actually, i was thinking about it, and i'll need your new number. for field day purposes, of course."
"oh," you breathe. "oh, right. room mom stuff. um, well unless you deleted my contact info, my number is the same."
"oh."
"yeah."
"right, then i guess i'm good," san says, looking around for any last bits of trash. "always good seeing you, y/n. tell violet happy birthday again from me."
"will do," you squeak out, calling out your thanks to him one last time as he walks away. you're left in the now silent lunchroom, heart and mind racing.
-
"i'm just saying, you and san would make a cute couple," jen repeats for what feels like the millionth time today. she's come over to your house early to help set up violet's birthday party, and you're thankful for the help but wishing the set up was less obvious. "you already know each other, so it's not like you'd have to go through that awkward dating phase-"
"did we put balloons on the mailbox already?" you cut through her words, grabbing a couple pink and purple balloons from the pile on the table. "i'll do that now, so people know which house it is. if vi wakes up, tell her i'll make birthday pancakes as soon as i'm done."
"will do," jen salutes you, taking the remaining balloons into the living room. "i'll tack these to the ceiling or something."
"please don't!" you call out before you shut the door, and you take a deep breath when you're outside alone. you don't know how to make jen stop talking about san, and it's draining. you've tried changing the subject and she always finds a way to bring san back into it. she means well, you know that. but what she doesn't know is that everything she says about san just rubs salt in the wound you inflicted on yourself, and it's getting harder to ignore. you're either going to snap and tell her to shut up, or you're going to snap and admit to what you've been hiding. either option isn't ideal, so fingers crossed violet wakes up soon and you can use her as a buffer.
tying the balloons to your mailbox ended up being more of an ordeal than you thought, so it takes you a while to trudge back into the house. you're tired already and the party hasn't started yet. you're making another cup of coffee when you realize the house is quiet, no sounds of jen and no sounds of vi. you let the coffee pot run as you walk around in search of the girls, and you hear a faint noise coming from the backyard. a peek through the window shows jen and violet running streamers from the back porch to vi's playset, and your heart warms. while they're outside, you get to work on the birthday pancakes in peace. you're almost done with them when you get a call, groaning to yourself thinking it's a parent calling about the party. you don't check the name before you answer, letting out a perfectly nice, "hello?"
"y/n, hi," san says on the other line. "is this a bad time?"
"um, n-no," you stammer, "it's um, no, i can talk. just for a minute."
"if you're busy i can call back-"
"no, san, go ahead," you insist. "just be warned i'm making pancakes, so i am a little distracted."
"oh yeah, you used to suck at those," san teases, and for a moment you're thrown back to college. you remember san staying over at your dorm, claiming he was too drunk to walk the fifteen steps down the hall. you let him crash on your floor, and he woke up to an awful hangover and the sound of you cursing over your batch of blackened pancakes. trying to be nice, san tried one anyway. you'll never forget the way you both belly laughed after he lied and said they were good with a look of fear in his eyes. later he admitted he'd never had something so bad, and you swore to never make pancakes again. san obviously remembers, because he asks, "what made you stop the pancake ban?"
"they're for vi's birthday."
"her birthday was on tuesday i thought?"
"yeah, but we're having her party today," you explain, and then you clap your hand to your forehead. you shouldn't have said anything.
"oh then i won't keep you," san says quickly. there's something strange in his voice, but you're so far removed from him that you can't pick up on it. "i hate to call about school stuff on the weekend, but this is the only time i had..."
while san explains the reason for his call (room mom duties + he missed you, but he leaves that part out), jen and violet come in from the backyard. streamers are done, and violet is wearing a torn one around her neck like a scarf. you wave her over for a hug and a kiss, and jen mouths, "who are you talking to?" so you show your phone screen. she gasps when she sees it's san, and it's like you're watching a lightbulb spring from her head. she's got an idea.
"invite him to the party!" jen hisses, and you push her away.
"is that the birthday girl?" san asks, and there's a softness in his voice that makes you melt. "do you need to go?"
"no, just one of the birthday elves being annoying," you grumble, trying to elbow away from jen but she grabs your phone anyway and says a cheery hello to her coworker.
"hey san! happy saturday," she starts off. "listen, are you doing anything around, say, one o'clock?"
"uh, not that i can think of-"
"great! then i'll have y/n text you her address, you should come to violet's party. there's plenty of food, and we'd love to see you!" jen says with an evil smile plastered on her face.
"um, can you hand me back to y/n?" san asks, and jen relinquishes your phone then disappears.
"san, you do not have to come if you don't want to, jen is-"
"jen's what!?" jen shouts from somewhere within your house.
"i want to come," san says, and you're so surprised you almost drop the pancake you're trying to flip. "if that's ok."
"i..." you trail off, and then you look at violet. sweet, lovely violet. you would do anything for that girl, but you know she deserves more. she deserves both parents, and the little part of you that's been wondering if san's reappearance was a sign is the part that wins you over. you say, "yeah, come to the party. i want you here."
"then i'm there," san says, and you can hear his smile. "should i bring a present?"
"no, god, don't worry about that. girl's spoiled already, she doesn't need another toy," you tell him, and san laughs.
"alright. then text me the address, and i'll see you soon i guess."
"yeah, see you soon," you mumble as you hang up and look around for jen. she's rightfully hiding somewhere, but violet's voice distracts you as she asks who you were talking to. "well sugar, i have an extra birthday surprise for you," you say as you plate her pancakes. "mr. choi might be coming to your party, is that ok?"
"mr. choi?!" violet shrieks as she stands in her chair. you remind her not to do that and she listens, but she looks at you and asks, "for seriously? he's my favorite teacher."
"hey," jen whines as she rejoins you, throwing away the remnants of wrapping paper in her hands. "and to think i got you the biggest coolest birthday present ever."
"really?" you and violet ask in unison, and jen nods enthusiastically at your daughter. when she joins you at the sink she whispers, "i didn't go overboard."
"yes you did," you whisper back.
"what did san want?" jen asks with that evil smile again, and you try to elbow her side but she darts away too quickly.
"i had told him about the game the kinder moms wanted our grade to do for field day, and he forgot what supplies it needed," you explain. "so he was calling about that, and the call was almost over when someone interrupted."
"y/n, listen," jen says sternly, and you both look over to violet to make sure she's distracted. jen keeps her voice down as she continues, "he likes you. don't ask me how i know, but i know. and the way you get so nervous around him, i know it sounds childish, but i think you have a crush on him-"
"jen," you say seriously. "please stop. you don't know what you're doing."
"no, y/n, you don't know what you're doing!" jen says, and you step back. "no, i don't mean it like that. i just mean, you said you were having a hard time doing this on your own. it may not be my place, but i think san could help. he'd be good for you and violet."
"you remember how san and i were friends years ago?" you ask, and jen nods, about to add to her case, but you cut her off. "we were close. really close."
"did you kiss?" jen asks excitedly and you roll your eyes.
"will you focus?" you smile anyway, and add, "we spent most of our time together, but then life stuff changed. we went in completely different directions, and it was just easier to say goodbye and go our separate ways. that was five years ago. well, six, now i guess," you correct yourself, your eyes betraying you as they flick back over to violet.
"oh my god," jen gasps. "no."
"yes."
"no way."
"yes."
"you're a liar."
"mommy's not a liar," violet chimes in, and you let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry. "miss jen, that wasn't very nice."
"i'm sorry violet, you're right," jen says calmly. she looks closely at violet and then to you. "but sometimes what's right is hard to do."
"i know that," you sigh. "believe me. but we can talk about this later."
"you bet your ass we are!"
"miss jen!"
"sorry, sorry!"
-
you and jen do a good job of ignoring the truth bomb you set off just before guests started arriving, but knowing san will be here soon keeps you on edge all day. violet is having the time of her life, which takes a little bit of pressure off of you at least. you just have to play host to your family and friends all while keeping one eye on the door for san.
he arrives just past one. you heard the doorbell from the backyard, but as you're walking through the house you see your aunt opening the door for him. it opens to a stunning version of the man you've tried so hard to hide from, and just looking at him makes you blush. he's dressed casually, but nicer than the work out clothes you see him in at the school. jeans and a sweater, and glasses. san never wore glasses in school, and you're wondering why this news is making your stomach flip. when san finds you, his face lights up. he makes his way around a group of kids and pulls you into a polite hug, mumbling his greeting into your hair. you wish time would stop for a moment, let you stay in his hold a second longer. but he's pulling away and shyly presenting a gift bag, his sheepish eyes saying "sorry but not sorry."
"i told you not to bring anything," you scoff, taking the gift over to the present table anyway.
"it's something small, but i think she'll like it," san says, and you thank him. it's awkward for a second as you both search for something to say, but in the quiet san reaches to push his glasses further up his nose and you smile.
"so you getting old, choi?" you tease him, pointing to the glasses. "how long have you needed those for?"
"just a couple years," san shrugs. "i don't mind them, but it's easier to wear contacts at work. i actually like the way they look."
"they're cute," you agree, and you feel your heart thudding in your chest as san processes the compliment. he looks around your house then, and he distractedly puts an arm around you in another hug as he says, "your house is great, by the way. you've really made a life for yourself, y/n." he looks at you while he says the next part, "i hope you're proud of yourself."
"i am," you nod, suddenly very aware of how many people are here and possibly looking at you two. you feign a cough and san gets the hint. he pulls away and you immediately feel cold, but you catch a glimpse of jen eyeing you in the corner of the room. you shake off whatever was distracting you because of the man at your side, and you're about to excuse yourself to find violet when the woman in question appears below you.
"mr. choi!!!" she shouts as she jumps in place. "you're here!"
"i am!" he replies, holding hands and jumping with violet. "are you having fun?"
"yeah! cmere, i wanna show you my swings!" she says excitedly, and then san is being dragged outside. you follow at a safe distance, wanting to see how they interact without making it too obvious you're watching san and not your kid. some of the school kids present recognize a big kid in san and soon he's got a whole herd following him around. you laugh seeing him be so silly, so freely himself with these kids, and you wonder if this is what he's like as a teacher. then you find your mind wandering to what san would be like as a dad. you know he'd be great, so what are you doing?
you know you have to tell him. you see the way violet is smiling and laughing, and you can't keep this kind of joy from her anymore. you don't know when, and you don't know how, but you will tell san that he's the father of your daughter.
-
violet's birthday party was perfect. she had an amazing time, her friends had an amazing time, and you had an amazing time. with san. he fit back into your life perfectly, and as you were saying your goodbyes at the end of the night, you had the intense desire to kiss him. you didn't, but that's only because jen came over with a sleepy violet that she thrust into your arms. you and san were cooing over the tired party girl and jen inconspicuously snapped a picture of the three of you. you and san, looking down at violet with so much love in your eyes, and violet smiling her biggest smile. jen texted it to you later and you were grateful to have this moment captured forever.
you were staring at that photo now, waiting for violet to finish getting ready for school. you weren't really paying attention to the time, caught up in admiring san. you felt a sense of calm and safety when you thought of him, looked at him, and you're kicking yourself for keeping that same feeling from violet's life. you were so distracted by your thoughts that you didn't hear violet walk up, so you almost jumped out of your skin when she says, "whatcha doooin?" directly into your ear.
"oh baby you scared me," you gasp. she giggles and points to your phone.
"you were staring at mr. choi!"
"i was not," you roll your eyes, but she nods and goes, "yeah huh."
"i'm not getting into a yeah huh nuh uh fight with you right now," you say as you ruffle her hair. "you ready for school?" it's then that you give her a once over and screw your face up in confusion. "where's that shirt from? i don't remember buying you that."
"it was my gift from mr. choi, 'member?" violet says proudly as she shows it off.
"yeah, yeah, i guess i do," you reply. "you wanted to wear it to school?"
"so i can tell him thank you," she says simply, and you place a soft kiss on her forehead. your sweet girl.
"i'm sure he'll be happy to see it. c'mon, let's go."
-
san had an awful morning. none of the classes would listen to him, half of his equipment for this unit was broken or missing, and apparently he was getting evaluated this afternoon. nothing was wrong, it was just protocol, but why did he find out about it two hours before it was supposed to happen? he was stressed, unprepared, and wearing a t shirt that apparently has a hole in the armpit. one of the unruly classes so kindly pointed that out for him. so yeah, it's been a bad day. that's why he sat down at lunch with a huff, interrupting whatever jen and wooyoung had been talking about prior to his dramatic entrance.
"what's wrong with you?" wooyoung asks bluntly, and san scoffs.
"one of those days where i'm considering child abandonment."
"san!" jen gasps.
"i'm joking, chill out," he sighs. "i just. can today be over? i'd like it to be over. or can i get a redo? that might be better, considering i have an eval today i know i'm not gonna pass."
"if you go into it like that then duh you're gonna do bad," jen says. "but it hasn't even happened yet, so why be so negative?"
"whatever," san huffs again, poking at his food like it's the root of his bad day. "how has your day been."
"great, my kids are angels and i love my job," wooyoung jokes, so san kicks him under the table.
"your class was the first one to put me in a bad mood this morning."
"yeah, because i told them i accidentally killed our class pet."
"wooyoung!" jen gasps again.
"accidentally!"
"how'd you manage that?" san asks with the beginnings of a smile on his face. not that he was laughing over the death of a very tiny pet, no. but he did enjoy seeing wooyoung making mistakes. makes the world go round, he thinks.
"i forgot to take it home for the weekend and i came in this morning to bob the beta fish belly up," wooyoung explains. he raises his carton of strawberry milk in a toast, which san and jen play along with. "he didn't live long, i didn't like him, and the kids barely knew he was there. bob, may you rest in peace."
"this isn't making me feel better," san whines as they clink their drinks together.
"oh!" jen says happily, "i have something!" she shuffles around looking for her phone, and excitedly pulls something up for san to see. she shoves the screen so close to his face he can barely see anything, so he takes her phone and blinks to let his eyes adjust. he smiles immediately when he realizes it's the picture of him, you, and violet. he's so mesmerized by your beauty, all these years later, that it takes him a minute to shift his focus to the equally beautiful violet squeezed between you. she's perfect, san thinks. if he had a kid, he'd want her to be just like violet: kind, funny, full of energy and life.
"who is that?" wooyoung asks, pushing his face close to san's to catch a glimpse. "ooo, is that your milf?"
it's jen's turn to kick him underneath the table, but san must admit, that was a little funny. he doesn't answer right away, though. something about the picture has caught his attention.
"no," jen says sternly since san has gone mute. "that's my friend y/n and her kid violet, we've talked about them before. san came to her birthday party this weekend."
"the milf?!"
"no!" jen repeats. "violet. i helped y/n with the party, and since she and san go way back, i kinda invited san without her knowing."
"nice," wooyoung nods. "good. get him into the house, and then into her heart. maybe the pants too-"
"dude," san finally cuts in. "what's wrong with you?"
"you two are boring me," he sighs. "sue me if i wanted to have a little fun with our conversation."
"you took this?" san asks jen, ignoring wooyoung now. she says yes, so he asks, "can i send it to myself? do you think y/n would mind?"
"no, i think that's fine," jen replies with a smile. "go ahead."
"thanks," san mumbles, typing his number in quickly to send the photo. he doesn't want to seem weird, sitting here staring at it, but there's still something he can't quite put his finger on. something familiar about it. not quite deja vu, but like he's seen this before. he hands jen's phone back to her, and she continues some inane argument with wooyoung as san checks his phone. huh, he thinks, taking one last look at the photo as he saves it to his library. violet sure has a nice smile.
-
san's day does not get better. the evaluation was mediocre at best, but the assistant principal doing the visit pulled him aside and promised better equipment in the new year. at least one good thing came out of this awful day.
well, two good things. san keeps opening his phone just to stare at that picture of himself with you and violet. his desire to patch things up with you only continues to grow, and he's been thinking about you so much that he swears he hears your voice calling his name at the end of the day. then a squeakier, tinier voice joins in, and san realizes, oh shit, you and violet are in his office.
"hey, sorry," he shakes his head to clear his thoughts. "god, sorry. how long were you standing there?"
"not long," you assure him. "i hope we're not bothering you?"
"not at all," he says as he stands. violet runs up to him then, turning from side to side with her hands clasped in front of her. san laughs, looking from her to you as he asks, "what's going on?"
"vi had a surprise for you, and she forgot she didn't have pe today so she got into the car crying because you didn't get to see it," you explain. "we turned around as soon as i got the story, and now we're here. do you recognize her shirt at all?"
"oh my god!" san smiles, violet joining in. san bends down to pick her up and swings her around to the sound of giggles. "you're wearing my present! do you like it?"
"i do!" she chirps, hiccuping a little as the giggles continue. san slows and carefully places her back down as she says, "thank you for coming to my party."
"thank you for inviting me," san replies, and you realize he's talking to you. you consider telling him now, you can feel his gaze pulling the words right out of you, but you chicken out.
"thank jen," you remind him. "she's the one who ambushed me."
"ambush?" san laughs nervously. "i hope me coming over wasn't an ambush."
"i shouldn't have said that," you shake your head. "i just." you take a deep breath. "it's been hard, you know, seeing you again. getting used to you being back in my life."
"happy to be here," san says coolly, and you pick up on the undertones. you knew he must have been upset with you, only wanting him when you couldn't have him. he'd given you so many chances to be his, but you grasped the last one. san was mad at himself first, and he's not mad at you per se, but the memory of that still hurts. he could have been in your life, violet's life, this whole time. it was you who kept the door bolted shut. now it's like there's little cracks filtering in bits of sunlight, and you're basking in them. you're just afraid that the warmth you feel from san now will burn you someday, that your past will be too hard to get over, and you can't tell him about violet until you know how he really feels.
"listen, we should go, but i want to hang out with you soon," you tell him, and san looks at you confused. "we need to catch up, don't you think?"
"sure," san agrees. "let me know where to be and when, i'll make it work."
-
that friday night, you have a babysitter (jen) and plans to meet san for dinner. jen is already here, you can hear her and violet whispering about something in the living room as you finish getting ready. this is not a date, but you're so nervous it might as well be. you could end up telling san tonight, if things go right. and if they go wrong...that's what's making you so nervous. the anxious side of you is already thinking of schools you can move violet to if the night goes bad, and the optimist is thinking about san finally being a dad to violet.
it's like he knew you were thinking about him, because his caller id lights up your phone (yes, his contact photo is that picture).
"you're cancelling," you say as soon as you pick up.
"what? no, freak," san chuckles. "i'm outside, but i'm sorry, i can't remember if your house has the red door or the blue one."
"you're what?" you ask, walking from your room to the front door. jen and violet watch on in curiosity, and you let out a sound of disbelief when you open the door to see san, standing by his car, looking from your house to the one next door.
"oh. found it," he teases, hanging up as he comes to the door. "you're not ready yet?"
"no, because i thought we were meeting there, i had more time," you say as you check your phone and notice you actually did not have time. "ok, i thought i had more time, but still. you didn't say you were picking me up."
"surprise?" san says sheepishly, peeking inside to wave to the girls.
"hi mr. choi!" they respond in unison, and san chuckles again.
"um, well, i wasn't expecting- i still have to-" you stammer out, basically turning in circles before staring back up at san. "give me two minutes."
"two? it'll be more like ten," san calls after you. you sort of sprint back to your room, checking that you look put together. your eyes look nervous, though. you hope san can't pick up on that. you grab your favorite necklace, one that violet picked out for you recently, and hold onto the heart pendant as you take a deep breath. you can do this. it's just san, your old pal! your friend! the father of your daughter who has no idea his life could have been completely different or that it's going to change with the information you're about to give him! great! let's go eat some tacos!
you and san both give violet hugs goodbye (she insisted) and jen says goodbye with a wiggle of her eyebrows. she thinks this is a date, and she spent an appropriate amount of time hyping you up tonight. she's known san more recently, so she gave you good insight on the whole telling him situation. she assured you that, while he may be frustrated by you not telling him sooner, under it all he'll be happy. he's wanted a family of his own since he started working at the school, so she's sure he'll be nothing but thrilled once the initial shock wears off. boy do you hope she's right.
-
san is being such a gentleman. first picking you up, then rushing out of the car to open your door for you, pulling your chair out at the restaurant...it's making this feel like a date. it's also making you scared that you're going to chicken out, but you can't.
"so," san says with a :] smile. "what did you want to talk about?" you take a moment to mess with the chips and salsa in front of you before you respond. you're taking so long that san takes a deep breath and starts, "i hope you know i'm not mad at you."
"what?" you ask in a small voice, chip halfway to your mouth.
"i'm not mad at you," san goes on. "i never was. i hope you know that."
"but i was a dick," you tell him, and he lowers his head with a laugh. you want him to listen to you though, so you grab his hand laid out on the table and squeeze. "no, seriously, that was such an asshole move on my part. only letting down my walls and letting you in the night before we both moved away? i've never forgiven myself for that."
"but you should," san shrugs. "i understand. i'm glad it happened. if i had to choose, i'd rather it happen the exact same way than not happen at all."
"right," and now it's your turn to look down. you let go of san's hand and go back to messing with the food in front of you. "i'm still sorry for how i acted."
"it's ok, i promise," san assures you. you aren't looking at him so he clears his throat and says, "actually, while we're talking about...back then. i have something to tell you too." oh no, you think. you nod to encourage him to continue, not sure you can speak right now. "um, well, here goes. i know it's been years, and we've barely talked since school, but..i don't know, y/n. i still think you're the one for me, and i was just wondering, maybe, since we're both in the same town again, and we see each other so often..."
"what, san?" you whisper, afraid of what he's going to say.
"will you go out with me?" he asks. "finally?"
"san," you sigh, and he shakes his head.
"no, don't say no yet. you can think about it. i know you have a lot more to consider than i do, so i don't mind waiting. but i wanted to put it out there. in case, uh, in case you were interested."
"put it out there? why are you talking about this like a couch you're trying to get rid of?" you tease him to ease the tension. "you just asked me out and now you sound like you're not sure."
"i'm sure," san says firmly. "very sure. but i don't want you to feel pressured."
"you've never made me feel anything but loved, san," you let slip, and you want to etch the look on his face into your memory forever. he looks so pleased, so purely happy at your words. they're hanging in the air as the waiter comes by to take your order, and that provides enough of a distraction that you both go back to a semblance of normalcy when he leaves. you fall into an easy conversation, catching up over your lost years. san tells you all about work, his family, his friends. it makes you happy that you chose this town, this school, to raise your kid in.
you fill san in too, but only the highlights. you don't want to ruin your dinner with the news, so you tell him about your career since he knows the least about that. he can't stop telling you how proud he is, and reiterates how amazing you are for raising a kid on top of it. you've got a steady blush on your cheeks as you keep chatting, and you notice then that the meal is over. your plates have been cleared for a while, and san paid without you knowing. how'd he do that?
"i was going to pay for my food," you protest.
"nope, my treat," san says. "let someone else take care of you for once."
"well thanks," you squeak out. "i've got you next time though."
"if there's a next time, i'm still paying," san replies so you roll your eyes and drop it for now. "um, before we go though, i was wondering...can i ask about violet? i feel like you barely mentioned her."
"oh, sorry," you laugh it off. "i don't get a chance to talk about myself a lot, so i'm not saying i forgot to mention vi, i just..."
"i get it," san nods in understanding. "you wanted to brag about yourself for a minute, that's ok. i'm glad you did."
"good," you smile shyly. "but, yeah, violet. what about her?"
"i wanna hear as much as you're willing to tell me," san says, and looking into your eyes, you know he means the father. "was there some great love of your life you don't want to tell me about?"
"san, it's not like that," you tell him, then think to yourself that in a way it is true. you think san is the love of your life, but you can't say that yet. "right, well, i have something to tell you, actually," you say in a voice stronger than you expected. you thought you'd be nervous, but it's like some mom power kicks in and you're able to stare directly into san's strong, gorgeous eyes as you speak. "can i?" you motion to his hands, and he holds them out so you can place your smaller ones in his. still looking into the eyes you've grown to love, you take a deep breath and say, "i'm sorry i didn't tell you sooner. but san, you're violet's dad. she's your daughter."
"what?" he asks in a shaky voice.
"when we.." you try to explain, and have to start over, "that night. five years ago-"
"six," san corrects.
"six, you're right. that night was when she...yeah. i found out about violet a month later, after i had moved. i tried calling you. i did, i swear, and i know that sounds so childish but it's the truth. i tried calling you, tried figuring out how to tell you...but i heard how happy you were, how easy it was for you to settle into your life back at home. i didn't want to throw something unexpected at you and change all of that."
you rambled, and you're not sure how easy that was to follow. or how believable it was either, but you've said it. you're watching san take it in, and he's unnervingly calm. you can't read his face at all, but you realize you've been squeezing his hands and he's squeezing yours right back. you relax your grip then, but he doesn't. he stays quiet.
"san, say something."
"th-thank you," he stutters, finally slipping his hands out of yours. "thanks for protecting me from that, i guess."
"san, i-"
"no, y/n, it's fine," he shakes his head and stands. "come on, let's go. it's getting late."
-
the car ride is silent. san says nothing, but you can feel the emotions radiating from him. or maybe those are your own? fear, resentment, sadness...you always thought telling san the truth would make everything better. make you feel at peace at last. but currently you feel more ill at ease than you ever have. you want to crawl out of your skin, you want to scream at yourself, at san, just to get some kind of reaction out of him.
when he pulls into your driveway, he puts the car in park but doesn't unlock the door. you can tell he wants to say something, so you wait. you think you see jen peeking through the blinds, but you're not sure. a quick glance at the clock tells you violet's been in bed for a while, but knowing jen she probably let her stay up a little longer. you hope she's still awake when you go in, you could really use a hug from her right now.
"y/n," san calls your name softly. you turn your body completely so he can see you fully, and you see he's gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. "does she know?"
"huh?"
"violet," san says her name so carefully, so purposefully. like it's taken on a new meaning. "does violet now i'm her dad?"
"n-no," you stutter, and san slumps his head down. "but i told her about you. about her dad."
"she looks just like me," he says, and that's when you notice the sadness in his voice. he sounds broken, and it feels like your heart rips itself to shreds.
"san, i am so sor-"
"don't. just don't." you watch him carefully, and you think you see tears. "i can't..."
"can't what?" you want to reach out and touch him, to brush the tears away, but you hesitate.
"i can't believe you kept this from me," he says in a whisper so small you barely heard it.
"i was young and stupid and scared, san," you defend yourself. "i didn't know what i was doing, i should have tried harder to get in touch but-"
"i didn't get to be there y/n," he spits out, and you stop talking as he turns to you. "i missed her birth, her first steps, her first words. i wasn't in her life! she's my kid and you kept her from me for some of the most important years of her life."
"i know, and i'm..i'm sorry."
"sorry doesn't cut it." he's full on crying now. "i thought...i thought you cared about me. about what we meant to each other. how could you do this?"
"i was wrong to keep you away," you admit. "it ate me alive every day, but the longer i waited the harder it was to call you. and this is totally self inflicted but raising a kid on my own was hard! after i made that choice i barely had time to think about anything else!" you're shouting now, not out of anger, but frustration. "it was selfish, and i'm sorry. but i told you. you've always been part of violet's life. i tell her about her dad all the time. she asks about you, and i've never lied to her. i only kept your name, who you are to me, a secret."
"yeah that makes me feel so much better," san rolls his eyes, and you scoff before reaching over him to unlock the doors. as soon as you do, you're out of the car and rushing to your front door, san running behind you calling your name.
you get into the house and see jen moving around in the kitchen, but no signs of violet. san has stopped behind you, standing awkwardly at the threshold, so you grab his shirt and pull him along with you into violet's room. at the sound of the door opening she bolts up in bed. she looks confused, seeing two figures in her doorway, but when she recognizes you she makes little grabby hands for you to join her. again, san stays at the door, watching the two of you with a new perspective.
"cmere sugar," you whisper softly, sitting on violet's bed. you maneuver her so she's sitting on your lap.
"why is mr. choi here?" she asks, and you hear san take in a breath.
"his name is san, violet. and he's very important to me," you explain. violet is facing san as you ask, "can you tell us all you know about your daddy?" she nods, and then begins.
"mommy says he's very nice, the nicest man in the world!" violet starts out. "she says he's smart and strong and funny and handsome. she says i have his smile!" and with this she smiles, teeth and all, and san sees himself in her. it brings tears to his eyes, but she keeps going. "mommy says he's caring, and i had to ask what that meant. she says being caring means you're a good friend and you're nice to everybody. that reminds me of you, mr. san!"
"anything else baby?" you ask violet, stroking her hair. "what else do we say about daddy?"
"we love him very much," violet answers proudly. "and even if he's not with us, like in the same house or something, he's always right here!" and with that she puts her hand over her heart. she looks up at you then, asking, "did i miss anything mommy?"
"nope, you got it all sugar," and you kiss the top of her head, afraid to meet san's eyes. "thank you, violet. are you ready to go back to bed now?"
"yeah, but i want a bedtime story," she pouts, and you wonder if san notices how similar they look then too. "babysitter jen does too many funny voices, and one of them scared me."
"ok, i'll read you a story," you whisper, slowly and carefully dumping her back into bed as you stand. "but i need to talk to san really quick, is that ok?"
"uh huh," violet nods with a yawn, cuddling back up to her favorite stuffie. as san looks around her room, he notices a pillow he used to have, tucked in the corner of violet's bed. he used to call it shiber, it was something silly, but he loved that thing in college. it went missing the week before school ended, and san always wondered where it went. well, now he knows.
you carefully pull violet's door shut as the two of you back out into the hallway. the rest of the house is quiet, so you wonder briefly if jen has gone home. you look to san, ready to defend yourself further, get him to understand where you're coming from, but then you see the tears on his cheeks. now you do reach up and wipe them away, his hands covering yours and squeezing tightly.
"i am so sorry for keeping you away," you say one last time. "it was wrong. it will take time, but i will do everything i can to make that up to you."
"you can do it right now," san breathes out, the first easy breath he's taken since this conversation started. "let me be in her life. in yours. i missed so much, i can't miss anymore of it."
"we're here if you want us," you tell him, and san squeezes your hands again before pulling them from his face. he drapes your arms over his shoulders, his drifting to your waist.
"i do," he nods eagerly. "i want you." and with that, he kisses you. it's not a soft kiss, no. there's more force behind it than that. there's six years (maybe more) of repressed feelings in that kiss. it's the kind of kiss that makes you want to pop your foot up, the kind that sends butterflies soaring up from your stomach through your chest. you're so lost in the feeling that you don't hear violet's door open, and then...
"oh! mommy! mr. san is biting you!" violet shrieks, so you and san finally detach. you keep your foreheads together as you look down at violet staring disapprovingly at you.
"he's not biting me, we were kissing," you explain to her, but she doesn't like that answer.
"hey, i got in trouble for kissing a boy on the playground," she whines, and san looks at you in shock. you nod to confirm as you tell her, "that's because you shouldn't kiss at school. and you're too young. you can kiss when you're-"
"thirty," san finishes for you, making you both laugh as violet whines more.
"i was just gonna say when she's older," you whisper to him, and he shrugs.
"had to assert my parenting style somehow."
"why are you and mr. san whispering?" violet asks with a jump and her arms in the air. you're about to pick her up when san bends down and scoops her instead, so you can talk to her eye level.
"we're talking about you," you say as you boop her nose. "and stop calling him mr. san."
"what do i call him then?" she pouts, and you share your first silent parent language stare with san.
"actually baby, we have something we need to tell you..."
pairing/wc; j.yunho x reader (11.3k)
genre; sugar daddy au, exes to lovers
summary; just out of your college with a freshly printed degree, you set out for a job that would fit your somewhat high standards. after a brief scroll through a sugar daddy website and a meeting set-up, you sit across from the one man you didn't expect to see — jeong yunho, your ex-boyfriend and apparently, a millionaire looking for someone to spoil.
warnings; smut (protected) (in the car ;-;), references to break-ups, heartache, lots of cursing, vomit mentions (does not happen, just referenced), reader is a bit mean but for reasons, miscommunication referenced (past)
part of the ...and it's snowing collab
The ad is absurd enough that you’re shocked you pressed on it in the first place.
Seekingsugar.com. Created for people looking for outside assistance in their financial woes. Income level required to be at a certain level. You could only snort at the number, over twice what you make now. Why someone would need assistance having that much funds for themselves is beyond you, but you digress.
Your finger hovers over the sign-up button. Your degree has gotten you a junior position at a law firm, but it isn’t enough to support yourself, your apartment, and the ever growing interest on the loans you’ve taken out. Enough so that you press the button, inputting your information swiftly before being presented with the homepage. You decide to hide your face in the profile photo to remain anonymous, hoping it would be enticing enough to grab someone’s attention.
Your description is fairly simple: your age, occupation – as vague as you can be – and list of interests. You also add that you’ve just graduated with your master’s degree, and you’re looking for someone to help. After putting enough photos up on your profile, you close your phone, throwing your blanket over your body and falling asleep soon enough.
...
The blaring of your alarm pulls you from your sleep, exhaustion encasing your body as you fling your hand to turn it off. You glance at the time, brows furrowed once you see the notifications. You wouldn’t consider yourself a popular person, a few text messages from your friends every so often, maybe one from your boss (of which you ignore until you’re fully awake). But now, you see dozens of notifications from the app you downloaded last night. You press your finger against the fingerprint reader, almost blinded by the amount of messages in your inbox. A lot are lewd, which was expected. You almost delete the app itself after a moment of clarity, until one particular message stands out from the rest.
yulips - isn’t it such a disaster?
Your brows furrow at the message. What exactly is he speaking of? Recognition breaks through your fogged mind, remembering the status message that you put before you slept: cannot believe i have to resort to asking people for money instead of relying on my employment.
You open his profile. It’s pretty simple - he owns an undisclosed company worth more money than you can even imagine. It’s verified by the site, so he’s legit. His profile states that he’s reached out to five potential receivers, as they call it. Photographs are similar to yours, pictures of scenery. Face hidden. And his age is around yours as well, give or take a year. Ignoring the bitterness that dwells beneath the surface at his net worth, you open his message, quickly replying before starting your day.
dandelion - i just simmer at my desk hoping that someday my manager would walk in and tell me my salary has doubled. unfortunately hasn’t happened yet :( 3
Your day is busy, most of it spent away from your phone as you try to diminish the caseload. Despite it being the middle of winter (and it actively snowing daily), work hasn’t stopped in the slightest. Clients call to complain about their invoices, calls from other attorneys wanting to speak with certain individuals, your workload barely dented due to the endless notes you had to take. By the end of the day, you’re exhausted, body seemingly moving on its own as you slump into the train seat. Luckily you made it on before everyone else, bodies squishing into the car. You hold your bag close to your chest, finally open your phone. A message from this morning, about five minutes after you sent yours, sits in your inbox.
yulips - overworking employees is neverending, especially in the legal sector. i can count on one hand how many times i’ve been praised while working as an undergraduate at a firm. pretty positive the place is closed now though, so maybe that’s a plus
“Ah, so you were a lawyer?” You murmur.
dandelion - EXACTLY. weary as hell even now after my long day
You don’t expect a response right away, about to put your phone into your bag. It vibrates almost instantly, the night sky profile picture glowing on your screen. So he’s around to talk, then?
yulips - if you’re up to it, i can take you out myself to get some fresh air.
dandelion - you don’t even know my name, yulips. why would i agree to go out with a virtual stranger? you silly man
yulips - messaging isn’t really my thing, i guess. but if you’re not comfortable with meeting me right away, it’s fine with me. i still want to speak with you. hope this will make you feel better.
Another notification appears above his messages, your brow raised.
Yulips has sent you funds. Please review before accepting.
You gasp loudly, people on the train turning around to look at you. Apologizing profusely, you sink further into the seat, feverishly typing back to him.
dandelion - why did you send that??
yulips - i like you. and i want you to know i’m serious about continuing to talk to you. we can meet whenever you’re comfortable.
The amount of money he sent is enough to pay a month’s rent on your apartment, with a little left over. Your nerves rise, wariness creeping in. He’s verified, but he could be a creep. This website can only find out so much about these rich people. You could be setting yourself up for something horrendous. This was all silly, in the beginning. You didn’t think you’d get this far in communication with someone. Having that much money sent to you because he felt a little bad? Your mind just cannot comprehend it.
dandelion - this is too much.
You continue to stare at the amount, another message popping up.
yulips - you deserve it.
You cannot accept it. Not now, at least. Not until you speak to him more.
dandelion - how about i let it sit there until we learn more about one another? i know you’re serious, but i’d like to get to know you before anything else.
yulips - fine by me, my dandelion.
...
Weeks pass, the amount still sitting in the app. He’s quite hilarious - more often than not he messages you throughout his meetings, describing to you how exhausting it is to pretend to care. But he also tells you things you’ve never though of, how his business works from the inside, how his employees hide things despite him knowing of it. How he’s passionate about his work and wants the best, but doesn’t want to diminish the quality of his work for gains. He’s interesting to speak to, most of your day spent dwelling on how he’s doing. It’s humorous, being attached to a stranger through an app. He calls you his dandelion each time you message, teasing responses back and forth.
He hasn’t sent anything else since that initial amount, nor has he brought it up. You’ve been staring at it in your inbox, still debating on whether to accept it. The payment for your apartment is coming up soon and you can afford to pay it now without his money, but you’ll be living on scraps for the next two weeks until your next paycheck.
You sit on the park bench, scarf and hat wrapped around you as you message him.
dandelion - have the other people you've spoken to refuse to accept the money you gave them?
As always, his response is quick.
yulips - no.
You bite your lip, thinking. His chat bubbles appear.
yulips - i’ve sent money to two others. but we haven’t spoken as much as i speak to you. once they accepted the initial amount, they never contacted me back. it’s their prerogative, of course. but i made this account for more than just that.
dandelion - why did you make this account?
yulips - i was lonely.
Knowing him, or enough of him now, the message makes your chest tight. Loneliness holds every hostage, even completely different classes of wealth. Money does make people happy, it would make you happy. But rarely does it ever bring in true companionship. You don’t doubt that he’s been used often. You snort, rolling your eyes. Who would’ve thought that you would feel bad for someone like him?
dandelion - why did you send the money to me almost immediately then?
yulips - im used to being ignored, i guess. ive grown used to others asking that it was just an automatic response to send it to you. i apologize if it was offensive, that's not my intention. i just want you to stay around a while.
dandelion - did you think i'd leave, do you think i’m less than you because i don’t have the amount of wealth you do?
yulips - no.
yulips - never.
yulips - i’m not one to judge someone based on their economic circumstances.
yulips - and i don’t think you’re using me if you were wondering that. everyone falls on hard times, especially now. i wanted a friend, and wanted to help someone if i could. i didn’t realize how much we would speak. and that money is there for you, my dandelion.
You open your inbox, staring at the options. You do need it, whether or not you can admit it to yourself. You press accept, immediately getting a notification from your bank that money has been deposited in your account. He messages you back promptly.
yulips - that’s my girl.
...
“This is stupid,” you murmur, rubbing your sides. “Why am I nervous?”
“You’ve been talking to this guy for over a month now, y/n,” Mingi points out, a lollipop resting between his lips. “And you have no idea what the hell he looks like except for his neck and hands. I would be shivering in my boots if I were you.”
You look at him, frowning, “You’re supposed to make me feel better, asshole.”
“I’ll be there with you the whole time. You’ll be safe, I promise you that,” he pokes your side. “I’m serious. Just tug on your hair twice and I’ll save you from the creep.”
“He’s not creepy,” you roll your eyes.
“Then what’s there to worry about!” he stands, tucking in a strand of your hair. “If he’s not an ass, then you’ve hit the jackpot. And he’s the same age as you and not an old man?” He whistles, hand resting on his hips. “At least you don’t have to deal with wrinkly di–”
You slap your hand on his mouth, scowling. “This is not a sex thing. It’s a I-need-your-money-or-else-i’ll-be-forever-in-debt thing. And if you’re going to act like this then I’ll just ask Hongjoong to come along instead. At least he’s somewhat normal.”
Mingi gasps, eyes wide. “Hongjoong? Over me, your best friend?”
“We’re best friends? News to me!”
“Ha ha ha, you’re hilarious.”
Your fingers play with the edges of the outfit, knowing that Yunho’s money paid for it. In fact, he picked out the outfit based on photos posted on your profile of things you enjoy. He actually chose it well, the fabric resting against your skin comfortably. You didn’t dare look up the price of it, Yunho sending the clothing through a feature in the app. It fits you too well, even. MIngi nudges your shoulder, pulling you out of your lurking thoughts.
“I’m here for you, y/b. You know that, right? I’m joking. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“I know,” you nudge him back, grabbing your bag. “Ready to go?”
...
The venue is expensive. Neither you nor Mingi ventured out into this neighborhood, the window displays of clothing enough to turn you back around. Everything dripped in wealth, from the people walking down the sidewalks to the streetlights wrapped in holiday decor. Mingi kept his thoughts to himself, but you could see the worry in his eyes as he parked. Yeosang, his partner, was to meet him at the restaurant and dine with Mingi, keeping a watchful eye over you. You get out of the car, tugging down your shirt as you make your way to the front. Pausing, you look back at Mingi.
“You don’t have to.”
He holds up his hand, stopping you. “I wore my fancy clothes for tonight. I’m not bailing out now.”
“I’m being serious,” you place your hand on his shirt, stopping him. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable because of me.”
“And I’m serious, y/n. I’m not leaving without you, and I’m staying here with you. Don’t worry too much, and enjoy the rich guy.”
Explaining to Mingi that the “rich guy” feels like more than that to you would be pointless, so you merely nod. You enter first to not be seen with him, telling the hostess your name. Yulips told you that it would be reserved under dandelion. She smiles brightly at you, gesturing to the stairs behind her. It’s sectioned off, a reserved gate blocking everyone else from entering. You take a breath, thanking her and following. Taking a quick glance back, Mingi looks up at you with worry as he’s guided to the main hall. You nod at him in encouragement as he disappears from your sight.
Well, so much for him keeping an eye on you.
Your phone vibrates almost immediately, his icon popping up.
mingi - i should’ve known he would reserve a WHOLE fucking floor !!!! oh my god i hate rich people.
y/n - it’s fine, i’ll message you if anything is up.
mingi - still taking you home btw, i’ll wait in that car all night until i see you coming out…!>!>!
y/n - love u :(
mingi - :*
As Mingi said, the floor is empty aside from one table already lit with candles, a small salad resting in front of each side. You thank her as you sit, hands sweaty. He hasn’t messaged you at all today aside from a quick morning text, telling you how excited he is to see you. You doubt you’d be stood up, but what if this is some experiment for him? He is who he says he is from the website verification, but something could happen. You just don’t know.
“My dandelion?”
A man speaks up behind you, oddly familiar in tone. You stand, a small smile on your lips. It drops upon meeting the eyes of the man there. His eyebrows furrow, lips parting as he looks down at you. He holds a bundle of dandelions and tulips in his hand, fingers tightening around the stems.
Both of you speak at once.
“Yunho?”
“y/n?”
“Are you…” he trails off, looking down. “It makes so much sense now, hell.”
“How does this make any sense, Yunho? How could you be him?” You dig through your thoughts, finding nothing hinting at him being the same as the man you’ve been communicating with for weeks now. You open the app, immediately digging through the photos. You pause at the profile picture of him holding tulips. Never in your life did you think you would run into him on a sugar baby app. But you can see it now. The small necklace he wears with his birthday in roman numerals. He’s worn it since you’ve known him.
Knew him.
“I didn’t think it would be you,” he admits softly. “I saw the photos and thought that you two looked similar, but when we were together, you rarely took pictures of anything. I just, I didn’t know.” He looks around. His brown hair is longer now than before, more toned than the freshman college student you remember. There’s a bit of a shadow on his cheeks, ears red as they always are. His suit is expensive from just a mere glance, fitted and tailored to his body. He looks… good. You just didn’t think you’d be seeing your ex-boyfriend right now.
“Should we call it a night?” he asks after a moment, eyes flicking to yours. “I don’t want to force you into whatever this has turned out to be.”
Without another word, you turn around, sitting back at the table. Yunho seemingly freezes at your actions, before walking around the table, slowly sitting down. He places the dandelions in the vase to the side of both of you, swallowing slowly.
“Are we really going to do this right now?”
You shrug, taking a sip of the wine in front of you. “I don’t know, are we?”
“Hello Mr. Jeong and miss, what can I get you started with?” The waiter comes, interrupting the conversation. The frustrated look disappears off Yunho’s face.
“Whatever is easiest,” Yunho nods, and the waiter bows, quickly disappearing. You notice a kitchen on this floor, several staff inside cooking whatever Yunho has prepared. You look at him, his gaze stuck on you when you meet his eyes.
“Kinder to the staff than me,” you note, taking a small bite of the salad.
“I’ve been nice to you this whole time, y/n. Nothing that has come out from my mouth was foul.”
You merely snort, taking another bite of the salad, “Sure.”
The conversation ceases, quiet chewing the only sound heard from the two of you. Yunho seems to be stuck in his thoughts as are you, his gaze glued to his food. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, no, but it is strange. Sitting in front of your rich ex-boyfriend in an outfit he picked out for you. It’s silly even, the odds not in your favor in the slightest. The universe deciding that the two of you need to see each other again.
No matter the circumstances.
The waiter comes back soon after the lull in conversation, nervously placing down the plates in front of the two of you. You send him a warm smile and his body sighs in relief, leaving you two alone. Confused, you look up from your plate at Yunho. His jaw is tight, brows furrowed as he takes a bite of his food. Ah, perhaps the waiter thought Yunho was irritated with him.
“You could at least pretend to be nice,” you mumble, slowly taking a bite. You can only hold back your moan at how good the food is, trying to stay as neutral as possible in front of him. “The guy thinks you’re pissed off at him.”
His brows relax for a moment, a slow breath escaping him. “Why are we doing this?”
“You offered me dinner, Yunho. I’m not going to deny that.”
Your stomach twists the more you look at him, the pity only growing in size. You planned on marrying the man in front of you, planned your whole life out together. And now each time you look at him you think about the tears, the heartache.
“This isn’t good for either of us,” he says. “How the hell am I supposed to have a normal dinner when I’m sitting at a table with the girl who broke me?”
You scoff, “I? I broke you?”
“Did you forget you were the one who called everything off? You ended us.”
Your grip around the fork tightens. “I had to end things because you just didn’t care about us.”
“That’s not true--”
“Yunho, you were never home. Every fucking night I slept in that bed alone. I tried to make things work, I did. I dealt with that for years because I wanted you to be successful. I made you breakfast in the morning you didn’t eat and dinner in the evening you said you were too tired to swallow. I went to your study room and sat with you in silence because that was the only time we could spend together. I tried for you for years, but you didn’t try for me. I ended things because it seemed like I was the only one putting effort in for us. So I’m sorry that I want to enjoy a meal I can’t ever afford despite sitting at the table with the man that broke me. Not the other way around.”
His chopsticks hover over his plate, eyes glued to yours. There’s little anger in them. Yunho has always been an open book when it came to his feelings. The slight downturn of his lips, the focused gaze. The tremble of his hands. It reminds you of the night you told him over dinner that it would be the last. How he cried over the bed you shared, fists digging into the sheets as you grabbed your things. The broken I love you as you shut the door behind you, holding back your sobs long enough to break down once you parked in front of your friend’s house.
“You didn’t tell me.”
You didn’t. At the time you were so resolute in your decision that you didn’t bother to explain it to him. It should have been obvious, yes, but Yunho wasn’t around enough to see anything. You should have talked to him. The exhaustion of the situation was too much at the time for you to care about his feelings anymore.
“I know,” you say simply, taking another bite. “And if it means anything, I’m happy.”
“For?”
You look up at him. “I’m happy you’ve made it to where you are now. Those long nights led to something amazing, right? That’s all that matters now.”
“y/n–”
Your phone vibrates, your eyes flicking to the screen.
mingi - you did NOT update me on the rich guy ??? what’s going ON!!!!!!!!
You snort, opening his message and quickly typing back.
y/n - oh you’re going to lose it when i let you know what’s up later 😭
mingi - ARRRGGGHHHuhhhhh 🗣️
You put your phone face down, looking back at Yunho.
“Are you enjoying your meal?” The waiter comes back, body slightly turned towards you. You nod quickly, smiling.
“Thank you for your effort sir.” The waiter is flustered, rubbing his hands against his outfit as he glances between the both of you.
“Ah, there is no need to thank me miss. The next course will be coming shortly.” He speeds off, an amused smile on your face as you place your fork down.
“He’s a nervous wreck,” you point out, “What’d you tell him?”
“Nothing,” Yunho shrugs. “When I made a reservation, I told them to provide good service since I will be bringing a date. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
That could panic even the chefs in the kitchen. Especially given how wealthy he is, he could complain and ruin this whole restaurant. Surely he must know that. After a moment you grab your phone, quickly searching up his name. His face pops up in an instant. Largest shareholder of a vaguely familiar line of luxury hotels. It would take several months rent for you to even think of staying a night there without plummeting into more debt.
Yunho peeks at your screen, frowning once he sees what it is. You pull your phone closer to you. “Nosy.”
“You could have asked me.”
“You don’t seem up for conversation.”
“I’m trying to have a good time here, y/n,” his tone is exasperated now. “Were you not here to meet the man you’ve been talking with for months? Why search me up when you can just ask?”
You hold back another snide remark, placing your phone into your bag and looking at him. It’s difficult, he has only grown more handsome over the years of not seeing him. In fact, you’re quite nervous sitting here. He can ruin your life if he wants. You doubt he’d do such a thing, knowing him enough from long ago, but he could have changed. You swallow slowly, thinking.
“I was nervous to see you,” you start. “I thought you’d judge me immediately and toss me to the side once you’ve seen me. I didn’t know what you wanted from me.”
“I wouldn’t toss you to the side,” he says simply. “I’ve been speaking to you for over a month, it felt like I knew you already. In the first few messages I did think you’d ask for money and nothing else, but speaking to you was fun. I presumed that we would see each other more after this. Maybe I’d get a chance to show you more than what you’ve seen around here. Help you in life.”
He doesn’t quite say it, knowing there are listening ears out and about. But he infers enough. You two met on the website for a reason. You need money, and he’s willing to provide it.
“I don’t need it.”
“Hm,” he hums. “I know.”
“I’m serious, Yunho.”
“I know.” Despite the tone of the conversation and the circumstances surrounding it, his lip curves, eyes flicking to yours. “I am taking you completely seriously right now.”
Rolling your eyes, you take a small sip of your wine. “Super.”
“Why did you join the site, then? If you weren’t in need of funds, why would you join a site for exactly that?”
You decide not to respond, eyes focused on everywhere but him. It only allows him to continue.
“You told me of your woes. How your employer works you to the bone, how you think about quitting every day that you’re there but you don’t because it’s fiscally impossible. How you wished that your employer was at least kind to you, so the workload wouldn’t feel as bad. How all you’ve wanted was a break in between the chaos to enjoy life.”
“Yunho.”
“All I want to do is provide you a chance to do those things,” he says, thanking the waiter as he places another plate in front of the two of you. He lifts his knife, slowly slicing the steak. “I’d never ask you to quit your job because you find it ridiculous to rely on someone for your funds when you’ve made it this far on your own. But you’ll be able to take less hours, maybe take a vacation or two a month. Would you not enjoy that, a bit of a pause between your headaches?”
It is all you’ve ever wanted.
You hold your tongue, his mouth continuing to roam.
“I came here to see you, but I also wanted to convince you to let me spoil you. All I'm waiting for is a yes.”
Your head is spinning as he speaks. Still, after all of this - he hasn’t changed his mind? Yunho isn’t one to lie to your face, always honest in his feelings. He takes a bite of his steak, waiting for you to respond.
“You don’t find this uncomfortable? You and I?”
He pauses eating for a moment, “It’s crossed my mind.”
It feels like you’re trying to pull out information from him.
“But I think it’s more comfortable now that we know each other.”
“Oh you’ve truly lost it,” you laugh, shaking your head. “Why would I let my ex give me anything? It’s just stupid.”
“You have yet to leave the table, y/n,” he shrugs. “You decided to stick around once you saw me. You could have left right when you turned around but you didn’t.”
“I wanted a free dinner.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” He takes a bite of his steak. “I want you–” the words drip with tension, his heavy gaze set on your lips. You watch as his tongue drags across his own, before shifting to yours – “to be mine to take care of. Is that so hard to imagine?”
...
“You’re shitting me.”
“I am definitely shitting.”
“This is just,” Mingi rubs his face, eyes wide as he looks at you. He paces back and forth, tie undone and hanging on his neck, mouth agape. “What the hell?”
“That's what I said when I saw him. What. The. Hell.” And he's still so handsome. More than ever still the type of man you fall for. Only makes the bitterness in your mouth grow. “I don't think I can go through with this, Min. I'm in over my head.”
“You are not going to deny monthly allowances to see him because of dignity, y/n. You're not.”
“This is weird and you know it.”
He laughs. “It's the best and worst coincidence I've ever seen. I mean, you walked down those stairs like you saw a ghost. I really thought I had to go back up there and beat up some old rich guy. Started to imagine how much the legal fees would be.”
“This isn't funny,” you groan, struggling to hold your own smile back. “Take this seriously!”
He holds up his hands, “Fine. What do you think? He said to message him about what your decision is right? Did he give you a time limit?”
You shake your head.
“Okay, a patient man. Good,” Mingi sits down on the couch. “What are you thinking?’ Giving him a chance? You broke up with him because he didn't pay any attention to you or your relationship. Are you willing to go through something like that again?”
yulips - i was lonely
You close your eyes, “He's around those shareholders everyday. He tells me how they exhaust him, and how he looks forward to my messages everyday. He said that I relieved him from the mess momentarily. And… and he does for me too. I don't remember how it was to not have him only a text away. He's grounded me. He's made me happier than I've been in a while. So completely different from how I felt actually being with him years ago. But it was so long ago, Mingi. He could have changed.”
“He could have,” Mingi agrees. “You just have to decide for yourself if you're willing to have a relationship with him again, platonic or not. Are you ready to have him in your life again?”
“I don't know, Min. It's so much in a night and,” You rub your face. “I just want to sleep.”
You’re thankful he’s not one to take your tone as dismissive, squeezing your shoulder once before disappearing from your sight, door locked behind him. You sink further into the couch, thoughts scattered. Yunho has never been one to lie about his intentions. Despite breaking up with him in the first place, everything else was good. He was kind, smart, and caring. He just lost himself in his work and forgot about you. Now, you have to decide whether or not to let him in again. As the person who would be giving you money to spend on yourself. Your eyes flick to your phone, sighing loudly. You can find someone else. It would just take a long long time for it to get to where you are with Yunho now. Another month of deciding to meet them, an actual stranger this time.
...
You stare at the building in front of you, the name of the hotel embedded into the concrete beneath your feet. Yunho told you to meet him after his work has ended. You opted to stand outside and wait for him, still a bit hesitant on showing your face around his workplace despite his insistence. It is quite cold, the winter breeze chilling as you tuck your hands in your pockets. Just as it begins to snow, an older man with an umbrella runs out the hotel, beelining it to you. You take a step back and he seems to quicken his pace.
“Miss y/n! Mr. Jeong has insisted that you wait inside, his meeting is running much longer than he’d like,” the man says quickly, umbrella held above you. “I am Mr. Kim, his assistant. If you please,” he gestures to the front door. Your phone vibrates, Yunho’s icon from the app appears.
yulips - please.
A bit disgruntled and worried for the man holding the umbrella, you thank him, huddled beneath the covering as you make your way inside. The lobby is grand, crystals decorating the walls and hanging from the ceilings. Several trees decorated with lights line the lobby, a large one in the center of a water fountain. Ignoring the assistant for a brief moment, you walk over to the fountain, gazing inside. The water is abnormally clear, not one coin resting at the bottom of the marble.
You’re way out of your comfort zone.
“Miss?” Mr. Kim catches your attention once more. “If you would like, you can wait in his office.”
“Ah, that isn’t necessary-”
“I insist, Miss y/n.” He takes a quick step to you. “It is not on the orders of Mr. Jeong, but I believe that you did not want to be seen around with him. There are secretaries and others still out and about around his office, so there is no need to worry. And they are sworn to confidentiality, of course.”
You frown slightly. If he were a stranger, you’d definitely say no to the offer. But you humbly agree, allowing him to guide you through the lobby and to the elevator. The doors are massive as he types in the code for the 109th floor. You tug at your trench coat sleeves, unaccustomed to being treated like this. He stands by the opening for the door to let you out, the wet sounds of your shoes echoing around the hall. Employees are out and about, bowing briefly when they see you before running off to do some task. Worry riddles your body as you watch them. Yunho insisted that you take a few days off to catch up with him. An immediate no escaped your lips. It’s the holiday season but you firm rarely laxed in work, paperwork likely piling on your desk even now. But he persisted, asking how much vacation time you haven’t used yet, and threatened to call your firm to complain.
You took it as a bluff at first, until you walked into work the next day and saw the pile of work gone off your desk, the lead partner insisting that you leave for a week after your hard work. You questioned Yunho about it but he denied all accusations with a wink at the end of each sentence. Meeting him here was his idea, but now all you want to do is yell at him for interfering with your workplace. Hoping he didn’t say too much.
Mr. Kim stops just outside an office door, Yunho’s name etched into the gold plaque. You bow to him and he bows even deeper, holding out to you a lanyard and a small bracelet. Gold matching the nameplate behind you. You panic, shaking your head.
“I couldn’t take this-”
“It is your access pass, Miss y/n,” he explains as you hesitantly secure it on your wrist. “Though the guest rooms are of course restricted, you have access to the working areas if you need anyone or anything. It deactivates when you leave, and reactivates when you enter our hotel. Simple but sophisticated technology.”
“Can I give it to you once I leave? I don’t really need this.”
He furrows his brows, “You will be around often, Miss. It would be most advantageous if you kept it with you. Mr. Jeong made sure to design it himself.”
Your eyes widen, “Pardon?”
“It is one of a kind, Miss y/n. No one in this hotel has access to this technology aside from Mr. Jeong himself. Ah,” his watch beeps, notifications flying across. “You can use the bracelet to access his office. But I must be on my way. Anyone on this floor can assist you if need be. Thank you for visiting our hotel.” Bowing again, he runs off, mumbling words as he disappears around the corner.
You stand in the hallway alone now, phone tucked in pocket and wrist heavy with the bracelet. He didn’t tell you how to work it exactly, your hand brushing on the door handle. It unlocks almost instantly, the door slightly ajar. You did not plan for this, but you enter his office anyway, the door closing by itself with a light click.
His office is unremarkable, shelves clean and free of debris, desk lined with endless paperwork. Similar to yours in a way. His family sits in a frame behind the desk on the shelves. You take off your coat, placing it on the hanger beside the door. Your eyes roam for a moment, snickering once you spot the one thing you were looking for. Age has not changed Yunho much, a shelf filled to the brim with Spiderman comics. A small figurine sits in front of them all, the iconic crouched pose of the superhero in view. You don’t touch anything though. Even if you did know him before, you still don’t know this version of Yunho.
“Correct.”
The door opens, Yunho holding his cellphone against his ears as he shuts it behind him. His outfit is similar to the suit he wore to dinner, a dark blue with a red tie hanging from his neck. As always, he looks more than handsome. A coat is folded over his arm, listening intently to the conversation. His brown eyes glance to you, pausing for a brief moment. You wave at him, a smile on your lips. He stumbles over the edge of the carpet, before giving you his back. You snicker, sitting down at the small table in the middle of the room.
“Y-Yes,” he stutters. “The reply brief should be filed tomorrow. I’ll ask my secretary to forward you the docket update. Correct. Have a good holiday. Yes. You too,” he ends the call, eyes moving back to you. “I thought you wanted to wait outside.”
“Did you not tell me to come in?” You raise your brow, growing suspicious of Mr. Kim.
“Yes, I did. I just didn’t expect you to agree. Or if you did, I didn’t expect you in here,” he drops the coat back on the chair, glancing over your outfit. “Are you not cold?”
Your pants are a bit loose, but you wore fleece stockings beneath. You point to the coat hanger, “Nope. And you didn’t have to end your call because I’m here, by the way. I’d keep everything confidential. Attorney client privileged, yada yada.”
He rolls his eyes, amusement filling his gaze. “Are you my lawyer now?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” you laugh, shaking your head. “But speaking of lawyer…” You stand from your spot, moving closer to Yunho. You’ve forgotten how tall he is in comparison to yourself, neck slightly tilted back as you look up at him. “Something really interesting happened at the firm today.”
“Oh?” he avoids your gaze, finger dragging across the wooden surface of his desk. Guilt immediately riddled throughout every mannerism of his. “And what was that?”
“I walked into work today, expecting chaos since dozens of filings are due at the end of the month. And you know what the head partner said to me?” You raise a brow. “He told me that I should take the week off. The busiest time of the year, taking a week off. I laughed at him until I saw how serious he looked. I even tried to convince him to let me stay but he essentially pushed me out the building and told me to leave him alone. Very weird, right?”
“Completely and utterly strange,” he agrees. You glance to the side, the red of his ears a clear giveaway. “I wonder why he would do such a thing?”
“I thought so too, you know,” you hum. “Why would he let an employee who’s barely been there for over a year, have a week off? He was yelling at me just last week and threatened to fire me and now? Being nice to me?”
His embarrassed smile slips, “He did what?”
“Yunho…”
He thinks for a moment, “No wonder he was apologetic on the phone. I only asked for two days.”
“First,” you nudge him slightly. “You do not call my job and tell them to give me days off. Ever. I don’t care how long I work or how tired I am, you do not interfere in anything like that. You’re not my partner Yunho. That’s not how this works.”
“I’ll give you what you need since you’ll be missing days,” he says simply. “But I agree, I won’t call again unless he does something to you.”
“Yunho…”
He raises his hands, feigning innocence.
“I can protect myself. You know that well. And I don’t need…” Remembering your arrangement, you stop yourself from continuing further. You do need his money. The complicated feeling just continues to bubble inside of you. His hands rests on top of yours for a brief moment, squeezing before pulling away.
“Since you have the week off, there's no need to rush.” He grabs his phone, typing quickly. Yours vibrates, glancing at the amount on the screen.
Eyes widening, you look at him. “Are you crazy?”
“Your time in exchange for spending it with me. Fair deal, no?” He grabs his coat, slipping his arms inside. You're uttered speechless, his long arms reaching for yours and helping you put it on. “I can't wait for you to see what I planned.”
“You're a bit busy too now, right?”
His grin widens, “I took the days off. Partially. I'm sure something will come up while I'm gone. But you have me all to yourself for the next couple of days. And you're going to lose your mind when you see what I have.”
…
You stare at the motorcycle. The lights shine around it, glimmering in the garage as Yunho points at it quite enthusiastically, fingers wiggling. A small tree sits on top of the back seat, wrapped securely in lighted wires. It looked like Saint Nicholas himself threw up over the bike, red and green covering almost every surface. Even on his helmet, a Santa hat seemingly glued onto the surface. Yunho has always been an eccentric guy, but this is a bit heartwarming. You didn’t realize how much he enjoyed the holiday.
“It took me two hours to get everything secure enough to drive around with,” he crouches, finger dragging across the tightly woven wire. “My friend helped me get it stuck without ruining the paint. I’ve been stopped a few times, but nothing more than a slap on the wrist,” he looks up at you, wiggling his brows. “What’d you think?”
“I didn’t know you were a motorcycle guy, first off,” you grin, crouching next to him. “But this is cool as hell, Yun. Not cool enough for me to ride with you on it though.”
He pouts for a brief moment, before nodding. “Fine. I wasn’t going to give you your own decorated helmet or anything, by the way. Not on my mind at all.”
“No way…”
He grins widely, lifting up the back storage and digging out a helmet. Only slightly smaller than his, he holds it up in the air for you to see. It’s decorated just like his, Santa hat secured well.
“I figured that my dandelion might want to go for a ride at some point,” he says, staring at it. His fingers brush the tinsel. “Now I’m wondering if my sugar baby wants to instead.”
You scrunch your face at his works, “Never call me sugar baby again, just gagged a bit. And you know I’m afraid of bikes.”
He laughs loudly, echoing around the empty garage. Shrugging, he puts the helmets back in their spots, “I know, just wanted to see if you were still afraid. That accident still has you shaken up, hm?”
“You remember?” You can recall the night the two of you were together, seeing an accident in front of you. The man came out unscathed, the greatest luck in the world. But you told Yunho then and there you’d never sit on or ride one. He agreed at the time. It makes you chuckle a bit that significant things in your life often happened when he was around. “That was so long ago.”
“I remember everything I did with you, y/n. Big brain,” he taps his temple. “And I already had a feeling you’d say no, we’re taking the train instead. My car is a bit of a way around,” the look he gives you is sheepish. “Small walk, not too far.”
“Lead the way, daddy.”
His smile disappears in a moment. “Hm?”
“A joke, lighten up.”
“Definitely,” he murmurs. The word make little sense to you, but he turns. His fingers slip into yours without another word, pulling you along. You should protest, should tell him that you shouldn’t be seen with him like this, but you don’t. Out of selfishness is very much the reason. His hands are warm and soft, swallowing yours easily. He has always had pretty hands, that hasn’t changed. Delicate rings wrapping around his fingers, nails so neat you’re sure he has them done at the salon.
He turns the corner and you can immediately spot his car. It’s the old truck his friend gifted him once he passed his driving exam. You remembered how happy he was to own it, kissing the mirrors. You made fun of him then but secretly enjoyed how much joy it brought him. Only later did you tell him it was a gift from you. Purely because his friend ratted him out to you, and you couldn’t deny it. You were going to keep it all to yourself, knowing how he is with big gifts. The two of you struggled a lot back then, but you wanted to make him happy. And it worked.
The sex was definitely wild that night.
It looks still as old as it did back then, not much changing. He opens the door for you and you thank him, the familiar squeak and slam to force it closed. You laugh, running your fingers along the curve of the armrest. You stop at the end, staring. You etched your initials into it, telling him that it was your spot and no one else’s. Seeing it still there, though very faded, makes your chest tighten. If you partner broke your heart the way he told you you did, you wouldn’t gotten rid of that almost immediately. Him having it there, the small heart barely seen next to your initials…
You’re not sure what to think.
“Our girl is still running good,” Yunho hops into his seat, forcing his door closed. “A bit of a fixer-upper, but she always has been.”
“Maybe a run to the shop would do her wonders,” you note, looking at Yunho. “She sounds the same as she did almost a decade ago.” He shakes his head easily.
“Trust me, it’s happened. She turns on easy and off easy, just the little quirks I kept around. Makes her a bit of a heart turner, huh?” He winks at you, shifting the gear into driver. The spiderman air freshener hands on the rearview mirror, swinging as you two exit the garage.
You look at the road, the silence comforting. His hand shits on the middle armrest, palm up, hand open. In another time you’d easily place your hand in his, the car rarely silent as you two laughed and joked with one another. But it’s just different now. Still, the butterflies never went away. You continue to look at his hand, until he reaches up, placing your fingers into his. You look at him and he glances at you from the corner of his eye, his other hand wrapped around the steering wheel.
“Feels weird seeing you next to me after so long,” he admits. “No one really sits there. I drive alone most of the time.”
“That’s why you haven’t gotten rid of my name?” You joke, pointing to the door. “You could have scrubbed that out a while ago, you know.”
“Never,” his tone changes a bit. “It makes her who she is. No matter the memory. And why would I want to erase the mark you left on me?” he squeezes your hand.
You don’t say anything back.
“You have that face.”
“What face?”
He purses his lips, “The worried face. Concentrated. Your brows are all scrunched together, you’ve been biting your lip, barely focused on the road. And you’re rubbing your thumb hard enough to make a dent in my hand. You can talk to me, y/n. I want you to be comfortable with all of this.”
You stop moving your thumb.
“Isn’t this… a lot?” you ask. “Being with your ex-girlfriend in the car she gifted you? Holding my hand? This is supposed to be an arrangement kind of thing. A you give me money and I hang out with you kind of thing. It’s familiar right now. Too familiar.”
The light turns red, Yunho slowly coming to a stop. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t pull his hand from yours.
“Yun?”
He closes his eyes for a second, a small sigh escaping him. “Hold on.”
He drives through once it turns green, the road a bit quiet this time of day. Neither of you break the silence, yourself nervous more than anything else to interrupt his thoughts. Yunho has his moments of growing silent. Holding in his feelings until he had the chance to settle them himself before speaking. Right now is one of those moments. He pulls into a quiet parking garage, thanking the guard as he enters. The truck slowly makes its way to the roof of the garage. He pulls it back into a parking space, hand leaving yours for just a moment. It’s enough to make your stomach flip at the lost of contact, waiting to see what he says. After shifting the gear to P, he turns, looking at you.
“Do you want to end this?”
“Huh?”
“This, what we’re doing right now? Do you want it to stop? Is it too much for you?”
No, you don’t want to end it. No, you want to still do this with him. And yes, it’s an absolutely terrible idea. “It’s not.”
“Are you sure, y/n? I don’t want you to have any regrets. I don’t want you to think I’m forcing you into this. This is all up to you, your choice.”
“Where do you stand?”
He shakes his head, “Tell me what you want first.”
“I…” I want you.
You aren’t a talker. Another thing that broke your relationship. “I want you.”
“You want me?” His tone is solemn, but you can see the inner corner of his lips quirk. “Like hanging out? Spending time with me?” He leans forward, the truck creaking. His hand covers yours. “Fucking me?”
“Yunho!” You laugh, face heating up at his words. “I am not letting you pay me for that.”
His joyous sound matches yours, shaking his head. “It came out wrong. I was going to ask if you wanted to fuck me.”
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
“Now?”
His eyes widened, “Now? In our shitty truck?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Or second, or third. Seventh, even. The truck has lasted a long long time and seen many many things.
Yunho moves with swiftness, hand reaching down the side of his chair and throwing the seat back. A loud crack echoes around the car, oh shit falling from his lips as he climbs in the backseat, hand gripping yours to follow. You do, giggling as you struggling to make your way over the seats. The very obvious thing to do was exit the car and put your front seats down to get back there easier, but neither of you are thinking clearly. Yunho pulls you close to him once you’ve gotten yourself back there safely, fingers gripping the bottom of your shirt. He pauses barely an inch away from your lips, soft brown eyes meeting yours. A silent are you okay in his irises. You nod, pressing your lips against his first. It’s soft, hesitant in the beginning. But then his tongue drags across your bottom lip.
"Yunho.." you mumble. His hand leaves your hips, tugging down the sweatpants you wear. His fingers tremble slightly as they touch your bare skin, a heavy breath escaping his lips.
“When I saw you in that restaurant, all cocky,” his fingers barely touched you, slightly grazing your skin. “Wanted you so so bad. Ah, so wet already,” he grins against your lips, finger pressing your clit softly.
“Fuck,” you whisper.
With the skill and knowledge of your body’s reaction, he guides your body flat against the seats, slowly pressing two fingers inside of you. A low moan leaves your mouth, and he grins, fingers curving inside of you. “You sound so pretty for me, my dandelion.” he leans to the side of you, lips near your ear. “Do you like it?" he whispers. You try lifting your hips, but he presses them down, stopping you from moving. ”I haven’t done this in years, baby. You gotta let me get you off myself.“ He makes a 'come here' gesture inside you, your hands reaching out to grip his forearm.
“Don’t stop,” you grip his wrist, noticing his pace slowing down. His lips press against your neck, teeth grazing the skin. “Yun–” His fingers move in and out of your cunt, lips hot against your skin as he bits you. You claw at his shirt, desperate to tug it off.
“How could you already do this to me?” he questions, grabbing your clawing hand and resting it against the front of his pants. Your hand cups the outline of his hard-on, squeezing it lightly. His knees buckle slightly, pressing into you. His pace quickens, you yourself burying your face into your arm, thighs squeezing his hand.
“I want you to come on my cock, pretty,” he whispers, slowly pulling his fingers out. You whine, as he presses a soft kiss to your lips. He tugs his pants down, slightly curve cock finally in sight. Yunho has always been pretty everywhere, and his cock was no exception. His finger slips into his back pocket, unwrapping a condom and slipping it over his length. He strokes it a few times, moving a bit closer to you. The positioning is awkward, your hands on the back of the passenger seat and gripping the backseat headrest. He smiles as he looks down at you, gaze flicking over each curve and corner of you.
“Yun, if you don’t fuck me already–”
He rubs his tip against the outside of your cunt, brows furrowed. Both of you know how large he is, sometimes too much for yourself to handle all at once. His eyes flick back up to you, “Okay?”
“Okay,” you murmur. He stares at you, one hand gripping your thigh and the other on your hip as he presses himself inside. You reach down between your legs, rubbing your clit slowly as he enters. Yunho was never one to push your hand away when you tried to get yourself aroused enough as he entered you, encouraging it even. Something else to concentrate on other than his cock pressed against your walls.
He fills you, a low breath escaping you as his hips finally met yours. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Still okay?”
“Perfect,” you whisper, and he laughs, a moan leaving him as you squeeze him. “Move, please.”
With one arm holding your leg over his left shoulder and the other steady against your hip, he slowly moved in and out of you, waiting until you were used to the feeling. Once a low moan escaped your lips, he picks up the pace. He moves his hips a certain angle to hit your g spot with every thrust, leaning down to press his lips against yours again. His kiss was deep as he moved his hips again, grinding against you with force.
A hand leaving your hip, he rubs your clit, “Pretty, so pretty for me.” He picks up the pace and fucks you harder, cock throbbing inside of you. You grip his shoulders as he does so, the sounds of sex echoing around the truck. After a while, his thrusts slowly grow inconsistent. “I want to come with you, my dandelion.”
His thrusts are slow and hard, hand covering your cunt, finger rubbing your clit quickly. “Come with me, please.”
“Yes,” you nod slowly and he moves his hand quicker, thumb desperately to make you come. You tighten against his cock, a low groan leaving him as he reaches his own end. You feel his condom being filled with his cum, hips pressed into yours as he lets go. He wraps his arms around your body, pulling you into his chest. The two of you sit there for a moment before he slips out of you, pulling his condom off his cock and tying it up quickly. You reach behind the backseat, a loose hoodie that he always keeps around resting back there.
Still, nothing has changed.
Small kisses to your forehead, you lift your own shirt up and throw the hoodie on, barely giving him a glimpse of yourself. It doesn’t stop him from keeping his eyes glued on you as you do so, a swat from you making him look away. He grabs the other clothing back there, sweats folded neatly. The two of you struggle to situate yourselves, laughs and jabs said to one another.
…
You look down at the fries, avoiding his big, brown eyes. Yunho decided to drive to this restaurant not too far away from the parking garage, the guard giving you two a glance over as you left it. You could only hide your face in embarrassment, hoping he didn’t notice how disheveled the two of you looked. And now here you sit across from one another, eating fast food.
“You never really hold my gaze,” Yunho says, the crunch of fries filling the silence. “Everytime I look at you, you look away.”
“You make me nervous.”
His eyes hold such adoration when they meet yours, open and true. You can barely look at him, it's always been this way. His eyes are what made you fall in love. Never have you seen any prettier.
“Cute,” he chuckles.
“I'm not cute.”
“Beautiful then.”
You cough, grabbing the cup of soda to clear your throat. “You really know how to make a girl feel good.”
“Not any girl. Just you.”
“Shut up,” the embarrassed, shy giggle spills from your lips. If you were Yunho, you're sure your ears would mimic the redness of his. “Is this your version of aftercare?”
“No, it’s yours. Remember when we were in college and we just slept together the first time-”
You cover your face in embarrassment, awaiting his next words. He’s usually quite self-conscious of speaking about taboo subjects in public. You suppose he has grown out of that phase.
“- and you told me after we were done that you wanted me to bring you to that new fast food place on the corner-”
“No…”
“And I didn’t because I was exhausted and you never brought it up again. By the time I wanted to do it we were already broken up. So here we are,” he gestures around, “About six years later, but we made it. As good as you imagined it to be?”
You look around the place. It isn’t as brand new as it was before, but you never really entered. A subconscious thought told you that you weren’t interested, but now you know better. Yunho promised to bring you here and he never did, and you yourself forgot about it. No wonder you hated looking at the sign. Your eyes flick to Yunho, teeth digging into your lip. You thought you would be able to do this with him. Able to be around him and not fall for the man. But he’s Yunho. There’s little not to love.
You just can’t give him what he wants. You can’t do this.
“Why are you looking at me like you’re about to disappoint me?” he asks, brow raised.
“We can’t do this anymore, Yun.”
He stops himself from biting a fry, “What?”
“This,” You gesture between the both of you. “Aftercare. Speaking about how we were back then, trying to fix something. We can’t.”
“I’m not trying to do anything. I want this to work.”
“We are too optimistic, Yun. Pretending like we weren't hurt isn't going to change anything. This relationship is just monetary, exchanged for services. I've talked to you about this already. Having sex with each other, I don’t… it’ll end up with us more hurt in the end.”
“I know. Trust me, I know,” he runs his fingers through his hair. “But the past month, has it meant nothing to you? Do you want to go back to what we were going to do, me sending you money and you having dinner with me, sometimes more than that. Is that all you want out of this? All you want from me?”
If he were anyone else, the answer would be a simple yes. But he is Jeong Yunho, one of the few men you've truly loved and never really got over. One that you wondered what happened to pretty often. He stands here in front of you, sweet dandelions between his fingers, vulnerable. He is now what you wished for him to be years ago. He's here. Present. Never has his eyes left yours since you've been speaking.
“No,” you say softly. “I don’t want this to end.”
“You don’t?”
“I don't know how we can be together,” you admit. “I don't know if I'm ready to be in a real relationship with you. It still hurts.” You had loved him hopelessly. But that was foolish of you then. You protect your heart strongly now.
“I'll wait for you. Anything you need.”
“That's the thing – I don't want you to wait for me. I want you to be with someone who's secure in your relationship. I'm not that person.”
“You have no clue, do you?” He laughs, shaking his head. “y/n. I've had flings, yes, but no other relationships. I didn't want anything else. After you, after us, that was it for me. I fucked, sure, but I never really loved anyone. Not like you. And I fucked it up by not communicating and being around more. I thought everything was fine when it wasn't. And you felt lonely. I never ever wanted you to feel that way, but you did. And it was my fault. I didn't get the chance to fix it, but I have you back now. Unconventionally, but you're in my life. And I'm willing to do anything to make us work. But I want you to know one thing: I won’t stop supporting you if you decide to not want all of the extra things. I still want to help you even if we can’t be together physically.”
This is wrong. Deep down you know it is. And you know that he knows it’s wrong. Both of you sit on opposite sides of the table in a restaurant he promised to take you to when you were in a relationship. It is all wrong. It is so wrong, that making another stupid decision wouldn’t be so bad, right?
“So,” you start, “We will fuck, and you will give me money, and we will spend time together. Nothing more?”
He smiles, “Nothing more.”
You hold out your hand, and he mimics you, shaking on it.
“Don’t fall in love with me,” he teases.
“I won’t,” you laugh, ignoring the blaring warning signs as you do so.
yeosang x reader (f) / g: crime au, arranged marriage, angst, smut / wc: 6.5k / warnings: guns, blood mentions, descriptions of violence, minor character death, general 'mafia' and crime references, language, sexual content / r: 18+
another fic for another now defunct collab that i decided to write anyways! ps. sorry for the banner, i had a free editor and a dream :')
It's a beautiful Saturday.
The bushes and trees glow with that yellowish green shade proper to late summer. The sun is warm and it makes everything shine with a golden hue. You glance quickly towards your mother, she really knows how to choose the right date for the right parties.
As you bring your champagne glass closer to your lips, not sipping on it yet, the sight of the handsome man coming down the patio stairs behind your mom grabs your attention. He’s greeting and smiling warmly to everyone who gets closer to congratulate him.
Kang Yeosang, son of your father’s biggest and longest associate; soon to be one, if not— the most influential name of crime in South Korea.
And now, your husband.
“You can’t deny he knows how to look happy,” the voice of your younger brother interrupts your thoughts as he slides beside you, taking a champagne glass for himself from the waiter's tray as they pass by. “But you still think he is too...” Chan makes a pause reflecting on his words, “Soft?.”
You remain silent, your upper lip still slightly pressed into your glass. Your eyes don't leave your husband for a moment. Now he’s talking amusedly with your, barely older than you — stepmother, smiling and petting the two pomeranians she refused to leave at home for the wedding. He carries them like babies, smiles at them as your father’s wife shamelessly strokes his shoulder and smiles widely at the act. He puts the little dogs back in the ground and the furry things sprint around his feet as if he was their owner. He laughs heartily at the cute scene and it can be heard through the whole party. His laugh was low but gentle, warm and contagious.
“He does seem, maybe too nice...” Chan adds, before getting distracted by the giggles of his new girlfriend coming from a few feet away. “Shit.” He says and sprints away to her. You glance over the scene, the barely overage girl drunk as a skunk hovering over one of your cousins. You chuckle as Chan disappears into the main house draggin the girl away from your cousin. Immediately your eyes go back to Yeosang.
The more you stare at him the more he seems a stranger to the life you were used to living. He acts and looks softer and purer than every man in the room. You can hardly believe he has seen the surface of what this kind of life has to offer. But again, his father was one of the most ruthless men of the country, it was equally hard to believe he hadn't.
Barely a month ago, when your father gave you the ultimatum to marry someone powerful in the city, you had thought of Jeong Yunho first. Yunho, son of the chief of security of the capital, and an agent of the government himself. Both of them are corrupted and dirty even more than your own family, and half the “criminals” they swore to catch everyday.
Yunho was also your classmate back at law school, your party sidekick and your tennis partner, one with an incredible hit. You both had a long relationship of business and pleasure. Sadly, he was already engaged to the Governor's god-daughter. Everyone knew your family and he had a long history of running dirty business under the table, but marrying? That would be too much for Yunho’s bosses at the government to turn a blind eye to.
So after a short thought, all cards fall back into the Kang family, the only family beside yours with enough influence and power in Seoul. When you were told the son of Boss Kang was back in Korea after spending most of his twenties overseas, you had no chance but to accept he was the one.
It was a little troublesome, not knowing what to expect from him. But you would find out soon enough, or so you thought.
You didn’t meet Yeosang until a week before the wedding, at a rushed dinner arranged by both families.
The first time you laid eyes on him, all you could see was sincerity. He was polite, bright, witty and surprisingly fun. He had deep brown eyes and fine lips. On the left side of his face, he spotted a rather big beauty mark of peculiar shape. Beauty marks of that kind are usually unwanted and something to keep hidden, worse than scars, but the ones on his face framed it gracefully, like a fine accessory.
On him, there was none of the somber demeanor the people who have seen it all in this lifestyle usually had. At one moment he turned to you and smiled, understanding you might be cautious around him, and that confused you. You weren’t used to having emphatic men around you.
“Here’s to an union that brings out the best for both our families.” He had said with a toast, and for a moment when he smiled softly at you, it seemed like the life you were about to have by his side was a normal, risk free kind of one.
That was the first time you saw your now husband. This day, the wedding, was the second.
“Lovely wedding,” a soft voice came from behind you. You recognized it instantly, looking over your shoulder to see the tall frame of Yunho getting closer. “You look so beautiful as a bride”. He raised his glass and both made a silent toast, still looking ahead to the patio. “I heard you are going to Greece for your honeymoon?.” he pouted slightly. “Very romantic.”
“Now, who told you that?.” your eyes roll at him. You took the chance to glance at the expensive tuxedo he was wearing and how it looked maybe too good on him. It was really a shame you weren’t marrying Yunho instead, that trip to Greece probably wouldn’t have to go to waste.
“Chan did, but you knew that.” He smiled.
You glanced at your brother, who was now dragging his girlfriend back to the party, saying a few curses to your cousin as they passed by him. “Didn’t see you at the ceremony.” you turned to Yunho, who was shamelessly eyeing your cleavage.
“Oh I just came to the party,” He licks his bottom lip “I couldn’t bear seeing you swore true love to another man, tears are not a good look on me.”
You scoffed. “Doubt so.”
He smiled, biting his bottom lip. “So, have you had time to get to know more about him?.”
The sudden question made you arch your eyebrows. “Well, he is Kang Yeosang, soon leader of the entire Kang clan, owner of half of the dirty business in South Korea, what am I missing?.”
“I guess there’s nothing else worth knowing?.”
You look back at your now husband, pursing your lips when you find him staring directly at you. He was a few feet away but you could feel his eyes on yours, it was just a second but it sent shivers down your spine. He then immediately turned his attention to his father beside him.
“You alright?.” Yunho asks, raising his voice lightly as you zoned out for a moment.
You shook your head, “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“When are you coming back from Greece?.” Yunho knows better than to try to push an answer out of you.
“Uh, we both need to get back quickly, so a week or so.”
Yunho hummed. “Will you call me when you get back?.” He said sipping on his drink without taking his eyes from you. You shook the sensation from before and chuckled. Men were really like kids. “Please?.” he added with a pout.
“You got balls huh? You really don’t care, I'm married to a Kang now?.”
Yunho turned to see Yeosang, now leaning attentively, as his father spoke to him closely. “Not really, should I?.”
“No, I don’t think so.” you turned to your husband again, not really believing he was entirely harmless. His kind laugh resonated again. Comforting, contagious, and you smiled.
.
.
.
That same night you and your husband flew to Greece. You got there together, to the mansion owned by Yeosang’s father, a house big enough to fit a couple of families without a chance for them to cross paths for a few days.
Yeosang gave you a brief tour of the mansion and said that every person there was your disposition for everything you needed. The only rule was not to get out to the city alone. He had business to attend to, of course, so after showing you around he left you and told you he would be back late that night.
He never did. So you spent the night getting familiar with the place, didn’t even bother to unpack except for your bathing suit and some toiletries as you knew you would spend all the time at the pool or sunbathing at the private beach, with your body guards close by all the time.
You got mad at first, as you too had matters to attend back home and decided to put them on pause for the trip. If he had stayed at least you could get to know him better, get an idea of who he was as a person, but he didn't show up for the next two days.
You planned to return back to Seoul alone on a tantrum, but decided to just stay and enjoy the comfort of the mansion and the sea. Whatever the case, you needed a week of relaxation before going back to normal business. Yeosang or not, you knew people in the city and you could go out to the club or something. You had an arsenal of armed bodyguards to feel safe despite what Yeosang had warned you about.
On top of that, the thought of calling Yunho once you were back home ringed in the back of your head, so the wait was worth enduring.
By the end of the week, after daily sunbathing and catching up with a few books, you decided it was time to have at least a night of real fun. You called a couple of friends, letting them know you were in the city and were in need for a night out.
The night finally came, only a few minutes past nine. Your shiniest and shortest dress is waiting for you lying on the bed. Right now in just your silk nightgown you were finishing with your makeup, when a sudden loud blast made you roll the tip of the lip gloss applicator over your cheek. Reflexes abruptly make you take out your revolver from the nightstand, walking slowly to the door paying attention to any noise.
You glance outside through the glass windows, the garden lights illuminating the roundabout at the entrance of the mansion. There you spot the men guarding the entrance getting in an alert position, running towards the door.
A couple of loud blasts more and you see two of them dropping on the ground. Quickly you turn the lights off and hide in the back of the room, the moonlight giving you enough vision to see if someone gets inside, your gun closer to your face pointing ahead.
Alerted, you hear steps getting closer. “Mrs. Kang, are you hurt?!”. A voice you couldn’t recognize shouted. Yeosang’s men were still pretty unfamiliar to you and this was definitely not one of your guards.
You cautiously got closer to the door, gun still ready to shoot. “I’m fine.” you said. The handle of the door twisted as the man outside tried to get it open. “Tell me what is happening.”
“Someone tried to get into the house, they are probably looking for you or the boss, they got the ones at the entrance.”
You recalled one of your guards dropping on the ground a few moments back at the roundabout, and you sighed. “How many inside?.”
“A lot ma'am, we need to move quickly, please come out.” you could sense the man’s hurried tone on his voice.
“Where is my husband?.”
The man got silent for a moment before shouting. “He’s on his way, but right now we need to take you to a safer place, they are probably after you as well.”
Suddenly your cell phone began vibrating, it was over your bed, so you went to pick it up quickly. It was Yeosang calling.
“Mrs. Kang?!” the man shouted.
You tapped to answer the call. “Don’t open the door. I’m close.” your husband's voice was calm and clear, you didn’t respond and he hung up.
The man kept calling you as he knocked on the door. Desperation showing with the force and pacing with each knock. You hid inside the back of the room pointing out again. After a few seconds of silence you got startled by the man kicking the door, opening it widely. You pointed at him silently, thinking the dim lights were hiding you and giving you time to have the upper hand.
“Gotcha.”
The man jumped at you, having seen your reflection by the wall mirror against where you were hiding. You shooted and missed, he took the chance to tackle you down. He roughly rolls your body facing the ground, hands at your back, gun point to your head.
“You should have just opened.” he whispered to your ear, making you grin in disgust.
“You better let go of me.” you glared at him, as he made you stand up and guided you to the door with so much force your arm was getting numb.
“Or what?,” he chuckled, pressing the gun to your temple, hurting you.
“Or I will blow your brains out”.
Both the man and you looked up, the shape of Yeosang entering the room from the door frame, gun pointed at the latter. Two of his men behind him.
In the background, the shooting had ceased, apparently this man holding you was the last of the ones that had entered the house.
“There’s none of your friends left here,” Yeosang said, confirming your suspicions. The man tensed against you, now practically choking you by having his arm on your neck. “Let her go. I won’t repeat myself.”
“Fuck you Kang, here’s a little message from-”
The man’s last words were interrupted by Yeosang shooting his gun to his head, just a couple inches from your own. The loud noise made your ears ring, as the sudden force the man was applying to your neck vanished completely as he dropped dead. Blood and brain matter covered the top of your head. The cheek you had ruined with your lip gloss now covered in red.
For a moment you groaned in disgust, falling on your knees trying to breathe normally again, soothing your neck from where the dead man was choking you.
“Get up. We need to go.” Yeosang gave you his hand and helped you up. The blood dripping down your neck made you nauseous and you couldn’t hold it any more. The last thing you saw before fainting was Yeosang’s eyes on yours, your name sounding muffled as you closed your eyes on him.
.
.
.
When you woke up, you couldn’t recognize the room you were in. It was almost the same as the room you were in before. Big glass windows that reached the ceiling, greek decor and furniture. The light coming through the white curtains blinded you for a moment. When your eyes adjust to the sunlight, you look out, the Greece sea reflecting the sun rays back at it.
Your head was spinning. Instinctively you caressed your neck. Carefully you got up towards the big vanity mirror placed in front of the bed you were laying on. No trace of blood or the rest of that ashole’s brain over you, yet remembering how it felt made you nauseous again. A few faded yellow and purple bruises painted on your neck.
“You should go and take a proper shower.”
Yeosang’s voice came from the door frame, where he was leaning on. He walked slowly inside the room, passing you by and looking outside through the window glass.
“Who cleaned me?.” was the first thing you asked.
“The maids.” He said calmly. “How are you feeling?.”
“My head is killing me. And now I have these ugly bruises all over my neck, definitely not the good kind.”
Yeosang hummed, arching his eyebrows slightly. “How many times have you been in that kind of situation?.”
“A few.”
He remained silent, looking at you as you poured water into a tall glass.
“I’m sorry.” He said, getting closer. “One of your guys from Korea told them where we were, I should have been there.”
“What?.”
“Jung Taein?.”
“Jung? No fucking way.” you chuckled bitterly.
“It’s my fault. You alone at the house made you an easy target.” He said ashamed, looking away. “It won’t happen again.”
“Do you know who sent them?.”
“Yes.”
“Would you take care of that?.”
“It’s done.”
“Alright.” you added, finishing the water.
“Let me know when you are ready. We are flying back to Seoul as soon as you are.”
With that, Yeosang left the room, leaving you for the time being.
The flight back was a silent one. Yeosang spent the whole time on the phone -yours was turned off. That was for the better. Your parents must be calling you non stop all morning. You took the chance to sleep more, since you were still a little shaken by the attack.
As soon as you put foot at home, the whole day was turbulent. Both your mother and Chan were already waiting for you in the living room of your new mansion. They asked all kinds of questions again and again, making you dizzy. They both questioned Yeosang as well, making him swear that the guy who had planned the attack was more than dead.
Your father showed up later that evening, and the whole thing repeated itself. He spent most of the time in Yeosang’s office, briefly asking if you were okay when he arrived. When he was ready to leave he stroked your head saying “The pig is dead, your husband took care of that himself.”
That night, laying alone in your new bed, feeling cold and anxious more than ever, you replayed the scene in your head over and over.
“These mercenaries and their speeches, always thinking of themselves as movie villains.” Your father had said to you once when you were little. “Once they start talking, you have to shoot them.”
As you remembered this, you felt like smiling.
The next morning you got downstairs to have breakfast, surprisingly finding Yeosang at the table.
“Good morning.” He greets.
“Morning, oh what do we have here?.” you yawn, siting and finding a plate of pancakes and fresh fruit already served.
“You need energy.”
“Mmh,” you giggle cutely, catching a glimpse of Yeosang's smile. He notices you noticed the gesture and he quickly goes back to his breakfast. “How are you feeling?. ' he adds, eyeing his plate.
“Way better.” you said, shoving a big piece of pancake on your mouth, “I need to get ready to go to my office.”
Yoesang clears his throat, pensive. “I think you should lay low for a while.”
“Isn’t the guy that attacked me dead now?.” you asked, stuffing a strawberry on your mouth as one of the maids poured orange juice on a tall glass for you.
“Yes.” Yeosang pressed his back against his chair. “But there’s other guys.”
“What about you? Are you going to stay home as well?” your voice sounds annoyed but you don’t care. Yeosang looks briefly at you and then away. “So what should I do then? Stay hidden for the rest of the year here?.”
“Just a few weeks, until we are sure no one else is onto us anymore.” He said standing up.
“You know, there will always be someone “onto us”.” you huff, rolling your eyes at him.
“Let me know if you need something.” he said, giving you a nod and walking away.
“Seems like it's going to be you and me, girls.” you said to the two maids when he disappeared from the room. The women gave you a polite smile and you sigh.
That morning was the last time you saw him in almost four weeks.
Handling work stuff from the house was mad boring, and you started to feel claustrophobic. Rounded by security, you only had visits from your mom and Chan, sometimes your father or your new in-laws. The house was full of people all the time yet you felt completely alone in it. Suddenly you missed your office, your old apartment, your friends, anything but that strange house who you could barely call yours.
But oddly and mostly, you were desperate to get laid. It was a bothersome sensation inside you, not being able to release the stress from everything that had happened within the last month from being recently married to a stranger to almost being killed on your supposed honeymoon.
So you did what you planned to do in the first place as soon as you were back, the only thing that would make you release the stress and clear your mind.
Yunho called first, a few days after you arrived back at Seoul. The conversation was brief but he let you know he was available for whenever you wanted to see him. A month ago it seemed too recent to meet with him, but now it felt just about right.
Finally tonight, after having spent a full month trapped inside your house, you and your friend decide to meet up.
Both knew you needed to be cautious; you are a recently married woman —and he, an engaged man.
You decided to meet up downtown. You had an apartment there in one of the biggest hotels at the center of a prestigious but quiet district. You used it mostly to crash on when you partied regularly, so it was a familiar place to your guards. Yunho let you know he already booked one of the suits for the night, so he could just knock on your door without any trouble.
Yeosang hadn’t called for a few nights, apparently he was attending some business in Tokyo with both your father and his. It was the perfect timing.
The night arrived and you finally went out. As you got ready in front of the mirror in the bedroom, anticipation started to build as you waited for Yunho.
You changed into a casual dress, and your favorite jewelry; a long pearl necklace that ended up in the right place at your cleavage. Hair styled in a messy bun, the best hairstyle to try when you knew it was going to end up disheveled — a trick you learned from your mother’s long sessions in front of the mirror when you were maybe too young to even understand the tip.
You sprayed your favorite perfume on the right spots and poured a few drinks, preparing yourself to loosen up to finally enjoy a good night since you married, even if it wasn’t with your own husband.
Midnight, and Yunho hadn’t shown up. You started to get annoyed. Sending him a couple of texts like; ‘Where the fuck are you?.’ and ‘Are you serious right now?.’
You were growing impatient, desperate. He had said late night but this was just too much. And why wasn’t he answering your texts?.
You blew raspberries, lying back on the bed. Incorporating a little, you saw yourself in the tall mirror at the corner of the room. Your backless dress, makeup… you looked so good and now it was going to get to waste.
It was ridiculous that with all the power, money, a damn husband and a friend like Yunho, you were really struggling this much to get laid.
Being almost killed —again, having your family on your neck all the time, the pressure of the business and people — had to deal with, and an absent husband you barely knew on top of that was starting to get to you for good.
Grabbing your phone ready to call Yunho, something you would never do being in your right senses, you hear a knock on your door.
You sit on the bed automatically, fixing the wrinkles of your dress. “Fucking finally.”
Walking towards the door, you looked through the peephole, immediately taking a few steps back. The man at the door wasn’t Yunho.
“What is he doing here?,” you muttered to yourself.
“Are you going to open?.” Yeosang’s voice coming from outside made you come to your senses, he sounded different from the other times you two had spoken. Hesitating, you opened the door. His hair was down and parted in the middle, wavy strands falling at the sides of his ears. He was dressed casually, not in the usual business attire you have seen him in so far.
Yeosang walked in, closing the door behind him. You looked nervously around, feeling suddenly exposed by your little outfit, and he seemingly read your mind, as he took his sweet time looking at your clothes, or the lack of them.
“What are you doing here?.” you ask, trying to sound casual. Suddenly the thought of Yunho knocking on the door any moment made your stomach turn upside down. “Weren’t you in Tokyo?.”
“I remember telling you no to go out yet, so the question is what are you doing here?.”
You shrugged, feeling his gaze all over you. “I- was, going out…”
“If you wanted to fuck, you just had to ask,” he looked at you with a dark shine on his eyes. “I never told you you were allowed to be playing whore with other men, did I?”.
Your chest started to thump. This wasn’t the Yeosang you have known so far. He spoke harshly, but with a slight hurt pride that confused you.
“The fuck that’s supposed to mean?.” you glared back at him. “You haven’t talked to me properly since we married, you don’t even sleep at home.” you said, mimicking quoting the last word with your fingers. He glared at you too, walking towards you and hovering you against the wall. “Seriously, you won't even allow me one normal dinner and you think you have the right to tell me what to do?.”
“I'm your husband.” he said dryly, “That should be enough.”
“A husband who hasn’t even fucked his wife once.”
Yeosang scoffed. He looked at you with big eyes, deep brown eyes that shone differently from back when you saw them at the wedding. You were tense, that wasn’t what you wanted to reproach him for, but your brain was letting the words come out from your mouth without a second thought. “Were you waiting for that Jeong bastard to come here and fuck you? Are you that desperate?.”
“Yes. Maybe I fucking am.”
Just then, Yeosang tugged your chin with his hand, brushing the hem of your skirt with his fingers, slowly getting them underneath. His breath was hot and it burned against your neck. He leaned forward, brushing your throat with his lips, and then the tip of his tongue.
“Well look at you, being all eager.” He whispered with a voice so dark you couldn’t recognize it belonged to him.
His hand was now fully under your skirt, and his thumb brushed softly where you needed him the most. Your hips start rolling towards the contact, desperate for more friction. You pressed your lips together, restraining yourself from giving in so easily, but the truth was that you needed to be touched. Yeosang rolled his thumb over your damped spot, his gaze got cloudy, tongue resting on his bottom lip as he rubbed in circles on your clothed clit. He slides the lacy fabric to the side, gently pressing two fingers inside you.
You let out a whimper, biting your bottom lip. Surprised at how he knows exactly how to curl his fingers upward, his fingers caress your center so sweetly, feeling as familiar as your own.
“You feel just like I imagined.” He brushes his words over your lips, kissing you softly. His tongue finally lands against yours, sending tingles all the way to your lower stomach.
“You imagined?.” you moan against his mouth, and he slowly wraps his hand on your neck, making just the right pressure to make your closed eyes roll to the back of your head.
“Mmhh.” his voice vibrates over your lips, while he kisses you roughly and sloppily. He’s now adding a third finger deep inside you. You throw your arms at his neck and lift your leg onto his hip to give him more access. He grabs your leg with the hand that isn’t inside you, and continues fingering you with faster pace without stopping kissing you.
“Oh my god…” you cry when he begins scissoring and curling his fingers inside you. You let out a loud moan knowing you are done for and he stops kissing to see you as you come. His fingers keep going, gaze fixated on you as you shut your eyes and roll your hips making his fingers touch you even deeper. “Fuck, oh fuck!.” you whimper when he doesn’t stop and you start squirting all over his fingers. He looks down cheekily, seeing how you coat his fingers with your arousal.
Yeosang smiles, removing his fingers from inside you and making you open your mouth so you can taste yourself on them, when you finish he goes back to your lips, kissing you again. “So sweet.” he whispers, lowering your leg and helping you walk to the bed.
He makes you lay on your back, taking your panties off and throwing them aside. He lifts the skirt of your dress and places himself between your legs. “Let me taste more of that.” He says, licking your entrance with one strip, as he starts devouring you entirely until there’s no trace of your release but the sweet sensation inside you.
“Fuck, Yeosang.” you moan, feeling the familiar knot yet again. He keeps sucking on you, your hand tugging his hair from the overstimulation.
“Are you going to come again?.”
“Yes!.” you cry, but whine immediately after when he stops eating you up.
“Not like that.” He helps you get up, walking backwards as he sits on the armless chair next to your vanity, taking his belt off and opening the zipper on his jeans. He helps you sit on his lap, always looking at you as he does. Your heavy lids fall on him, admiring just how beautiful he is, and you wonder for a second if you have had a man like that before him.
Your mind is still foggy, you feel breathless but you indulge in his instructions, glad he’s telling you what to do next.
Yeosang guides you on top of him, and you observe patiently how he takes out his length and strokes himself a few times, making sure you look. He then tugs your dress down to expose your tits. He licks his bottom lip and goes to kiss one of them sweetly, one hand stroking himself and the other squeezing and licking your nips. You hear his quiet moans and whimpers, giving each of your breasts delicate attention. When he’s had enough, he aligns you on him and slowly pushes you until he has bottomed inside you.
“You really needed this huh?,” He chuckles darkly. “Such a tiny cunt.”
You whine at first, feeling stretched so deliciously for the first time in so long. You lean and kiss him, both your tongues tasting and savoring each other. The pearls of your necklace hang over his chest, the silver of your rings shine between his hair as you dishevel it. Yeosang squeeze and massage your nips with his palm as you take the time adjusting to his length inside you.
He stops kissing your nipple and signals you to look to the side, where you find both your reflections in the big mirror of your vanity, seeing your almost naked form sitting on his lap makes the sensation on your lower abdomen intensify. Yeosang slips your dress over your head, and you remove his jacket and unbutton his shirt hastily.
“Show me,” his tone is low, hoarse. He cups your chin with force, so you are now looking straight at him. You flutter your eyelashes confused. “What were you planning to do with him?.” he asks, heavy lids eying your bottom lip.
You bit your lip with force, somehow embarrassed that you already forgot you were supposed to be on top of Yunho. Yeosang smirks slightly, and even if the lights in the room are dim you catch that smile and it drives you mad how confident he is, but also makes you eager to show him.
“Yeosang, please” you whisper breathlessly, kissing him again. A big open kiss on the mouth first, then going down to his neck, his shoulder blades. You were marking every inch of skin your lips could reach in your position. It felt as if he could suddenly evaporate if you didn’t.
You start rolling your hips back and forth on top of him, moaning everytime the tip of his cock hits your sweet spot. Yeosang had both hands on your waist, keeping you in place as you rocked your hips at a slow but steady pace, not wanting to come too fast and just enjoy the sensation of having him buried deep inside you.
Yeosang’s whimpers quietly, but intensely. He lets a dry chuckle every time you remove yourself almost completely from him only to go down in one motion over and over. Your hands are on his hair, pulling the strands everytime the pleasure was too much.
He grabs your face and kisses you, biting your bottom lip and coating your entire mouth with his tongue, desperate to fill you connected to him in every way. He groans when you bite back, enjoying every little cry and whimper you let out. “All of this for him?,” he tugs your hair making you face him.
“Right now I’m fucking you and you only.” you tell him, eyes falling down on you unable to keep them open. “You fill me up so well.”
Yeosang smiled cockily, going to your clit and rubbing his thumb in circles again, making you bury your head on his neck. “Like that? Is that what you wanted?.”
“Yes!” you cried out loud, not caring at all if the guards outside could hear. His thumb and cock both send incredible sensations through your body, your release building up again ready to break out at any second. “Don’t stop please, I’m gonna-”
You couldn't finish, feeling the knot in your lower abdomen explode inside you. Yeosang was quick to grab your hips so you stayed in place, and he helped you rock them faster, chasing his own. He looked at your reflection in the mirror. Head thrown back, nails digging on his shoulders, eyes closed and mouth full of whimpers and heavy breathing. You came and Yeosang followed right behind you, letting out the loudest moan since you started. His hands were now on your ass as you wrapped your arms around his neck, having come from your high. He bit your shoulder as he painted your walls with his load. Yeosang cursed under his breath, finally stopping until he finished inside you.
“Yeosang,” you phanted, caressing his face and making him look at you. His eyelids were heavy, long strands of wavy black hair falling on his face, lips half open trying to catch his breath. “I needed that, fuck.” You waited until he was breathing regularly and kissed him roughly again, taking his breath away once more.
Yeosang smiled widely and you recognized the sweet man that you married a month ago. The same soft and cute eye smile and seemingly innocent aura came back, transforming from the one that was guiding your hips as you rode him to oblivion mere seconds before.
“I've wanted to have you on top of me since I saw you at the dinner,” He said sweetly, brushing his nose against yours. “Wanted to have you cry my name and brush away that condescending look you gave me at the wedding.”
You chuckled. “I didn’t know what to expect from you,” you paused, choosing your words carefully. “You seemed too nice for this kind of life, too pure.”
Yeosang chuckled lightly, helping you stand up, finally removing himself from you. “Seemed?” He kissed your chin gently. “Not anymore?.”
“Someone who fucks like this?, no way.”
He lets out a loud laugh, hand covering his mouth. “Y/n, you should know no man is pure. Crime life or not.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
You stood up from his lap, looking around for your panties on the floor, but Yeosang pulled you against him, wrapping his hands on your waist, hiding his face in the space between your shoulders and neck. He kissed the skin there and you hummed, content and relaxed feeling the warmth of his lips.
He guided you to the bed, laying beside you and leaning over you.
“Why didn't you want to spend time with me until now?.” you asked, his big eyes shone brightly. “I thought you were avoiding me on purpose, no one is that busy.”
Yeosang laughed. “Oh but I am. And soon you will be too, as my wife and associate, you will have to deal with a lot.” He lowered his eyes for a second. “I’m sorry I didn’t pay attention to you, I wanted to, but after what happened in Greece I needed to make sure you were always protected.”
“Did my father intervene?”
“I almost let his only daughter get killed mere days after our wedding, how does that make me look in front of him, of everyone?.”
You hummed but remained silent. You knew your father had already told him everything he needed to hear. “So I’ve been under surveillance all this time?.” You arch your brows, realizing that’s how he knew about your meeting with Yunho tonight. “Shit! Yunho… is he…?.”
Yeosang chuckled again and this time it was an amused one. “He’s not dead, I still need eyes and ears close to the police,” His lips turned upwards into a mischievous smile. “But he won’t dare to come close to you with certain intentions, ever again.”
“Oh.” you said, pouting. “But he’s an excellent tennis partner though.”
“I can be your new tennis partner, I can be everything you need me to be.”
Yeosang kissed you softly, thumb caressing your ear. Your hands traveled over his chest, throwing a leg over his waist and you smiled on the kiss. He let out a soft “Oh” like a shy boy getting his first kiss and it made your heart incredibly warm.
“Who would thought we only needed to fuck each other dumb to break the ice huh?”. You joked, letting him keep kissing your neck and start all over again.
oh my god finally finished this and im fawking bawling my eyes out i shipped them so hard and im so happy the endgame between them is full of rainbows and sunshines 😭❤ now what do i do with life anymore i feel empty as hell 💔
bro i want to cry i have read so many fanfics that i messed up so many masterlists of my fav fanfics that now i cant find and literally forgot which and whose fanfic it was and the title of it that was a smau and the y/n character loved that bro star memes so much that the memes are now became a part of my life imnshdbddhdd i want to read that smau again pls it's either seonghwa or mingi or yunho or yeosang idkkk but those are the top 4 members that i constantly read their smaus once upon a time hhhhh pls help me ㅠㅠ
bro i want to cry i have read so many fanfics that i messed up so many masterlists of my fav fanfics that now i cant find and literally forgot which and whose fanfic it was and the title of it that was a smau and the y/n character loved that bro star memes so much that the memes are now became a part of my life imnshdbddhdd i want to read that smau again pls it's either seonghwa or mingi or yunho or yeosang idkkk but those are the top 4 members that i constantly read their smaus once upon a time hhhhh pls help me ㅠㅠ
- in which your equally as terrified boyfriend tries to help you with a spider
bf!choi san x fem!reader
author note: lower case intended for any drabbles i write bc i type them out in like 5 minutes when the idea springs into my head
warnings: spiders, arachnophobia, a lot of yelling, swearing, fluff, the both of them are scaredy cats, san is so brave for trying, mingi comes to the rescue, we kill spiders in this house sorry, humour?
<>><<>><<>><<>
"baby..." he mumbled sleepily, patting around haphazardly at the bed in a blind search for his girl. "what are you doing?"
"sorry, i keep getting a weird itch on my leg." you whispered back, trying to kick your leg around gently at the odd sensation.
san lifted the blanket slightly, trying to peek down in the darkness, but couldn't see anything. reaching his hand down for your legs and dragging them over his hips with a sigh, he muttered; "probably just restless nerves. go to sleep, baby."
the calm lasted for all of two minutes, before san himself felt an itch, no, a crawling sensation, shooting panic up his spine and causing him to kick hastily at his own pants, shoving them off in a haze.
"there's a fucking spider!" he yelled unceremoniously, startling his half awake girlfriend as you blearily watched him shuffle around on the mattress.
san wasn't a fan of spiders at all, but he also knew his girlfriend fared even worse with them, and this was not how san planned to spend his tuesday night off. his girlfriend currently tearing the blankets off of the bed at four in the morning, while he climbed on his desk chair in fear, scanning the room for the critter.
"turn the light on!" he wailed, struggling to see anything with only the moonlight cracking through the window.
"i'm trying! i don't wanna step on it!" you huffed, quickly finding the switch and flooding the room with light, before you dashed over to san and pulled yourself on to the desk. "where did you kick it?!"
"i don't know!"
"are you sure it was a spider?"
"yes! i know what a spider feels like!"
if any of his roommates were to walk in right now, they'd be greeted with two very frightened faces and san cosplaying as winnie the pooh. quite a confusing sight out of sexual context.
a fact that had momentarily distracted you.
"put some pants on, oh my god!"
"the spider might be in them!" he whined.
"you wanna fight the spider with your dick out?" you squinted at him.
he paused. looked over at his drawers, back to his girlfriend, at his pants on the floor, then took in a sharp breath. "cover me." he replied, before he hopped over to the drawers to grab underwear, butt bouncing cutely as he continued to tip-toe in place.
"jesus christ." you rolled your eyes light-heartedly, but nonetheless grabbed the tissue box off his desk and got ready to aim at anything that moved.
san, finally being decently covered, crept back over to the chair, but not before making eye contact with the eight-legged freak under his desk.
"uh...babe." he refused to break contact, too scared to find out if it'll move when he looks away. "climb off the desk."
"what? why?" you responded, alarmed. "choi san, if you tell me the spider is under me right now-"
"okay, well, i just won't say anything then." he shifted back slightly, trying to mentally find an object in his room that could kill it.
"oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!" you stood up on the desk, head almost touching the ceiling as you contemplated jumping to the bed.
"do not jump on the bed from there." san warned, eyes still laser-focused on the spider.
you frowned in annoyance, pouting.
"pass me the tissue box and your perfume." he decided, carefully holding a hand out for the items. you didn't even question it, passing the tissue box you were still holding as a defense weapon and picking up your perfume from his desk, basically shoving it into his chest. "okay. okay. it's just a spider. it's probably harmless. okay." san was nodding to himself, perfume held out like a gun and tissue box in the other hand ready to squish.
it's many beady little eyes seemed to stare straight back and its long, prickly legs rocked in place, almost as if poised for the upcoming fight.
"okay. okay, i'm gonna spray it until it slows down, then drop the box on it." he was muttering the plan to himself mostly, eyes wide and body perfectly still as he hyped himself up. "alright, 1...2...-"
"what the fuck are you two doing?" mingi barged in, glasses perched on his nose and gaming headset wrapped around his neck.
"god dammit!" san cried. "i was finally ready to kill it!"
"there's a spider under the desk!" you say at the same time.
"oh." mingi states simply, casually walking over to san and grabbing the tissue box, before crouching down under the desk and abruptly slamming the box down with a soft thud and a subtle crunch. "it's dead." he then plucks out a tissue and wipes up any residue, handing the box back to san after, spider body slathered against the bottom, and it takes everything in san not to throw up at the visual.
"oh thank god." you climbed off the desk, grabbing the cursed box from your pale boyfriend and pushing it to the very bottom of his trashcan. "thank you, min!"
he nods back, ducking back out of the room with a dimpled smile.
"san? you okay?"
"i almost did it, i swear." he sulks.
"i know. you did great! it's sorted now, okay?" you soothed, rubbing his back and guiding him back to the bed where he places the perfume down on the bedside table. "maybe you can kill the next one."
"no! that took everything out of me, that's my spider bravery for the year." he decided, shaking out the blanket and double checking both inside and around the bed.
you climbed in after san, quickly pressing into him and allowing him to throw both arms around you, pulling you in even closer as he rested his chin on the crown of your head and tried to calm his rapid heartbeat as well as your own.
"wait, the light-"
"we're keeping it on tonight." you cut him off, one hand playing with the chain dangling over his white singlet, while the other draped across his torso.
he smiled, nodding along and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
"thank you for protecting me, san." you reassured, pecking his warm chest.
Thinking about bf!San who'd do anything for his baby. You wanna go to that new shop that he has no idea about? He's already wearing his shoes. You wanna try your new skin care on him? He's sat on a stool waiting.
when he had just woken up and sees you talking with excitement about something he can't figure out. He's just hum and give you his hand, letting you drag him where you want him.
"Sannie c'mon you gotta see this"
"Hmm?"
"C'mooon"
When you're at a Safora and need to test all the lipstick colors. You don't don't need to ask. His hand is already out, sleev pulled up, smiling showing his dimples as he holds his hand in place for you to try them on.
He just loved you sm, he can't help but look at you as if you're the most precious person ever and let you do whatever you want and yeah, that's it and he's down. He can't say no to his baby whining at her tiny important life problems.
But that only happened when he's feeling soft. When he feels like today, you need to be treated like feather, no less fragile than glass, like his one and only spoiled princess.
Oh he knows you're spoiled. But to his defence, it's too late to do anything, not when you look at him with those cute eyes of yours.
He'll lecture you on being careful another day. Today he gonna be your Prince charming, your Knight in the shining armour. Your darling. Your Sannie.
