summary : walker is reluctant to wake up but you strike a deal with him and he practically jumps out of bed
pairings : walker scobell x fem!reader
word count : 1.2k
“Mmh…”
The sound slipped from Walker without a thought behind it, low and tired, his voice still tangled in sleep as his face pressed into the warmth of your neck. His arms were wrapped securely around you, not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough that it was very clear he had no intention of letting you go anytime soon.The kind of hold that happened purely on instinct. The heavy duvet engulfed the two of you, tangled around legs and shoulders, sealing in warmth while the cold Pennsylvania morning lingered just beyond the bedroom walls.
The room itself felt suspended in quiet, soft gray light filtering through half-drawn curtains, shadows stretching lazily across the floor. The air smelled faintly of clean sheets and something familiar, comforting. Walker shifted slightly, blonde curls brushing your skin, his weight settling more fully against you as if he were trying to become part of the mattress itself.
“Walker,” you murmured softly, voice gentle as it disappeared into his hair. “We need to get up.”
He responded with a small sound of protest, barely more than a hum, and instead of answering, his arms tightened. When you tried to move — just a little, just enough to sit up.His body followed automatically. He dragged you right back down, one arm looping more firmly around your waist like his subconscious had decided you were not allowed to escape.
“No,” he muttered, forehead pressing into your shoulder. “Too cold. Too early. Not happening.” He whined, his golden curls brushing against your neck
You sighed, but there was no frustration in it — only fondness. Outside, a car passed somewhere down the street, the sound distant and muted, but inside the room, time felt slower. Softer. Safer. His breathing evened out again, warm against your skin, and for a moment, you let yourself stay still.
Just existing.
That was when the bedroom door creaked open.
Walker’s sister — Leena, stood in the doorway, clearly prepared to say something loud and annoying — until she froze mid-step. Her eyes moved slowly over you both: the tangled blankets, Walker half-asleep and clinging to you like could vanish in an instant, the peaceful stillness that filled the room.
She blinked.
Then smirked.
Leaning against the doorframe, she watched for a second longer, amusement turning into something fond. With an almost silent click of her phone camera,she quietly backed out and gently pulled the door closed again.
Some moments were just too cute to interrupt.
Back on the bed, Walker shifted again, completely unaware. He nuzzled closer, mumbling something incoherent, and you couldn’t help the small smile that formed.
Eventually, though, time refused to be ignored.
“Baby, we neeeed to get up..” you whisper to walker, your fingers start to softly caress his hair.
“But I am awake,” Walker mumbles, his grip tightening on you and his body lays still on top of yours—well except for the occasional peck that leaves on the side of your neck.
You smiled slightly, tilting your head just enough to rest it against his. “baby,” you said softly. “What if we make a deal?”
walker hummed, eyes still closed, but his grip loosened by just a bit. “A deal?”
You nodded. “We get up now. Just for a bit. And later…” you whisper the last part to him.
That did it.
He was quiet for a moment, breathing slow, like he was letting the idea settle. Then he shifted, lifting his head just enough to look at you, eyes still heavy with sleep but focused now.
“Really?” he asked quietly.
“Really.”
A small smile tugged at his lips—not big or dramatic, just soft. Content. He nodded once, like he’d made up his mind.
“Okay,” he said gently. “Yeah. We can do that.”
He loosened his arms and sat up slowly, stretching with a quiet sigh, the duvet sliding down with him. There was no rush now.
You laughed quietly. “You were always going to get up.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But I like the deal better.”
You push yourself off of walkers bed. The cold air hit immediately.
“I hate mornings,” he muttered, dragging a shirt over his head and rubbing his face.
“You say that every morning,” you replied while slipping into some black adidas sliders.
“And every morning I’m correct.”
By the time you made it downstairs, the house felt fully awake. Sunlight poured into the kitchen, warm and golden, lighting up the counters and cabinets. The smell of coffee filled the air, rich and comforting.
Leena was already there, leaning against the counter with her phone in her hand. The second she saw the two of you, her face lit up.
“Well, well, well,” she said. “Look who finally decided to get up,”
Walker groaned. “Please don’t. We were sleeping,” he said flatly.
She raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Sleeping.”
Walker dropped into a chair, wrapping an arm around your waist. You laughed softly as his sister moved around the kitchen, pulling out plates and ingredients with way too much energy.
“And here we see Walker,” she narrated dramatically, “running on approximately three brain cells and emotional attachment.”
“You’re enjoying this too much,” Walker said.
“I thrive on this,” she replied.
That was when another voice came from the hallway.
“Oh my god,” Tanner — his brother said, stepping into the kitchen, eyes still half-closed. “They’re finally downstairs?”
Walker stiffened. “Do not start.”
Tanner looked between the two of you, then smirked. “So that’s why the house was quiet.”
“Absolutely not,” Walker said immediately.
Tanner leaned against the doorway. “Dude, you were gone all morning. That’s suspicious behavior.”
“We were sleeping,” Walker repeated.
Tanner nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. Sure. Sleeping.”
Leena burst out laughing. “See? It’s not just me!”
Walker looked between them. “Why do I live here?”
“For our entertainment,” his brother replied.
Breakfast started coming together—toast popping, eggs sizzling, coffee pouring—and the teasing became a full family event.
“So,” Tanner said casually, “does he always cling or was today a special occasion?”
Walker nearly dropped the spatula. “You were not there.”
Tanner grinned. “Didn’t need to be.”
Leena added, “He’s a stage-five clinger.”
“I am not,” Walker protested.
“You literally refused to let them get up,” she said.
“That’s called affection.”
“That’s called attachment issues,” Tanner said.
You laughed as Walker buried his face in his hoodie. “I hate both of you.”
“Love you too,” they said in unison.
As breakfast finally hit the table, the energy shifted into something warmer. Plates clinked, sunlight climbed higher, the teasing softened into comfortable noise. Walker leaned back in his chair, foot brushing against yours under the table like second nature.
Tanner noticed. “Oh wow. The foot thing too?”
Walker glanced down. “It’s not a thing.”
“It’s absolutely a thing,” Leena said.
Breakfast stretched on slowly—coffee refilled, toast shared, laughter easy. No one rushed. No one hurried. It felt like one of those rare mornings where time didn’t matter.
Walker rested his elbow on the table, chin in his hand, eyes softer than they had been all morning.
“Worth it,” he murmured quietly.
Leena rolled her eyes. His brother smirked.
“Yeah,” Leenar said. “It kind of is.”
“And annoying,” Tanner added.
Walker smiled anyway.
And for a long, sunlit, teasing, warm moment, the house felt full—of noise, of laughter, of comfort, of the kind of love that shows up as jokes and chaos and shared breakfast tables.
❀ The Husband I Didn’t Expect ∘ PART 2 ❀
Arranged forced marriage
Pairings: Han Jisung × Reader (Female)
Total parts: 2
Part 1
Released: 2/2 (I AM SO SORRY FOR DELAYING THIS SO MUCH TT)
w/c: 9.7k words
Warnings: Slow-burn romance ∘ brief alcohol consumption ∘ emotional tension ∘ mild teasing ∘ public attention/fan obsession∘ angst angst ∘ NO PROOF READING WAS DONE
Genre: Romance ∘ Slice of Life ∘ Celebrity AU ∘ Light Drama ∘ ANGST
Trope: Fake PR Couple → Real Love ∘ Slow Burn ∘ Domestic Bliss ∘ Protective × Caring ∘ Soft Jealousy
Author’s Note:
❀ So sorry for making y'all wait so much TT the projects i have are never fucking ending. ❀
2k+ followers author event!
Morning light slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, brushing the hardwood floors in gentle strokes of gold. The room, half yours and half his, still carried the invisible walls that had grown between you over the past weeks--walls built of careful avoidance, unspoken grievances, and the tenuous truce that existed in shared space.
The city beyond the glass was waking in quiet hums, cars gliding along the streets, sunlight pooling in alleyways, and the penthouse held that rare, fragile calm that came only before a storm…or, perhaps, before change.
Han Jisung your husband was sprawled across the couch, one leg bent over the armrest, his phone balanced precariously in his hand. He yawned, a long, slow stretch, the kind which revealed the ease of a man alone in his apartment, waiting patiently for his food delivery.
There was a kind of casualness to him that always made you wonder if he existed in a different dimension than the one you shared with him the one where civility and icy silences had a upper power.
The knock on the wooden door came before the doorbell could ring again. Short, sudden, and carrying a cheer that was almost annoying in contrast to the quiet of the morning.
“Delivery for Mrs. Han Y/N!” the dilivery guy announced, displaying three massive parcels as if he had just discoverd a treasure.
Jisung’s brows frrowned, the corners of his mouth twitching in irritation and curiosity as he signed the slip. “Mrs. Han?” he muttered, glancing at the labels as if hoping a miracle would correct the error.
He dragged the boxes inside and then signing the delivery… muttering under his breath, the kind of low commentary that made it impossible to tell if he was annoyed or just curious. “What the hell did she order? A bookshelf….? considering she writes… a bookshelf is understandable”
Curiosity eventually won over his head, and he grabbed a kitchen knife, slicing through the tape. The first box revealed itself to be a collection of Stray Kids albums…..every version, meticulously arranged and proper. His eyebrows shot up, a quiet whistle of disbelief escaping him….. no way.
The second box fell open with a soft thud, revealing all SKZOO plushies, each one carefully boxed and so damn soft. His lips curved into the beginnings of a grin.
The final box held all the reamaining things the lightsticks… posters…and…his eyes paused here--a hoodie embroidered with his name in sharp lettering. He couldn’t help the slow, mischievous curve of his lips, the way a spark of amusement flickered in his eyes.
“Oh, muffin… you’re so doomed,” he murmured, shaking his head fondly, a soft chuckle escaping him before he could stop it…. gosh this is cute
He began arranging the items neatly across the couch, almost ceremoniously, like an evidence display he was eager to confront. Each album, each plushie, each hoodie became a silent accusation, and yet the warmth in his chest grew with each careful placement. “This’ll be fun,” he hummed, already plotting the teasing he would unleash.
Hours later, the front door clicked open, and you stepped in, radiant despite the exhaustion of a full-day shoot. Your heels clicked softly against the polished floor, your bag slipping from your shoulder as you exhaled, a long, quiet sigh of relief. The penthouse smelled faintly of the leftover coffee from breakfast and the subtle perfume of lavender lingering in the sheets.
“What’s all this?” you blinked, eyes widening at the sight of the couch transformed into an altar of fandom. Albums, plushies, lightsticks….each one meticulously laid out.
Jisung leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, smirk sharp and a known one. “Didn’t know you were such a huge fan, Mrs. Han.”
You froze, cheeks heating as the color rose high up. “Y-you opened my package?”
“It said Han Jisung on the label. Legally, I have the right,” he smiled, eyes glinting with amusement.
“That’s illegal!” you protested, clutching your tote bag like a shield.
“Illegal? No. Adorable? Absolutely,” he replied, the grin widening, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“I was… just…..supporting your group,” you mumbled, voice soft, refusing to meet his gaze.
“By buying seven plushies of me?”
“They were on sale!” you shot back, flustered, redness rushing to your ears.
“We don’t do sales mostly, and not right now” he countered smoothly. “So what’s your favorite album, then?”
“The one where you talk less,” you said quickly, arms crossed in defiance.
“Ouch,” he mumbled, clutching his chest with mock horror. “Such CRUEL words from my own wife!”
Before you could recover your composure, your phone buzzed, ruining the delicate tension.
Caller ID: PR Team.
You groaned, already knowing that this wasn’t going to be good.
“Hello? …Yes, I’m home… oh, you want me to put it on speaker?”
Jisung raised a brow, curiosity piqued despite himself.
Reluctantly, you hit the speaker icon on the screen.
“Mr. and Mrs. Han, congratulations! The public loves seeing you together,” the voice chirped, full of fake ass enthusiasm.
Both of you responded at the same time, “No, they don’t.”
The PR rep laughed awkwardly. “Anyway, we’ve arranged your honeymoon!”
Your jaw dropped. “Our what?”
“It’s been seven months since the wedding -- we need to refresh public interest,” the voice continued, oblivious to your and his horror.
“It’s already booked …. a weeklong stay during your tour in Japan!”
The words hung in the air like heavy backdrop curtains, suffocating in their own way. “You’re kidding me,” you whispered, disbelief sharpening as the reality hit you hard.
“You’ll share content for fans….romantic dinners, sightseeing-- ”
Click.
Jisung had already hung up mid-sentence, muttering something about incompetence and bureaucracy under his breath. You stared at him, stunned. “…This is a nightmare,” you muttered.
“At least you’ll get free food,” he said dryly, voice calm in the eye of your panic.
The next scene came too quickly as if in a blink of an eye, both of you standing in front of a luxury hotel suite in Japan… luggage scattered like evidence of your collective misfortune. Silence stretched between you, and him..
“How did we end up agreeing?” you sighed, hands on your hips, eyes sweeping over the overly luxurious entrance.
“Public image,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “PR rules our lives.”
“Great. Seven days of fake love,” you muttered, voice dipped and covered with sarcasm.
“Wouldn’t be the first fake thing about us,” he added under his breath, smirking.
The bellboy (bellboy? they helpers who show you around- help-?) welcomed you in, opening the door to a room straight out of a sappy ass romance movie, rose petals scattered across the bed, champagne in chilled flutes, two towels folded into swan shapes their beaks pressed up together. You groaned, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at the nearest bouquet, then another at the stupid cute swans. “I’m destroying this romantic nightmare,” you declared with a sigh.
He stood aside, arms crossed, curosity written across his pretty face. “Be my guest,” he said casually.
“Feel better?” he asked, after you had bursted the last cute heart balloon.
“Slightly,” you admitted, shoulders shruging.
“Good. Because I’m locking myself in the bathroom until you calm down,” he said, retreating with a grin that was equal parts mischief and relief.
Later that night, you emerged in soft pajamas, the fabric brushing your skin like a promise of comfort. He was laid across the couch, blanket half over him, phone in hand. “That couch looks like hell to sleep on jisung,” you observed bluntly.
“I’ve survived worse on tour,” he said, voice muffled but unimpressed.
Two hours later, the couch’s creaks had reached to a level when both couldn't sleep, the tension unbearable. “Stop moving, you’re making noise!” you called, frustration laced with concern.
“Stop breathing, maybe I’ll stop moving!” he countered, voice teasing.
“Fine! Sleep in the damn bed!” you snapped.
Silence.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
He hesitated, then muttered, “Fine.”
You ended up lying on opposite sides, an invisible line of territory drawn between you. You faced the wall and he faced the ceiling. Tension hovered thick and almost tangible, yet there was a comfort in proximity, the shared air of a room that didn’t demand words.
Minutes stretched, and eventually, curiosity broke through. He turned slightly, eyes softening as he watched you scroll through your phone, completely unaware. Your profile, lightned by the dim light of the bedside lamp, made him pause. Something warm stirred in his chest.
“Hm?” you asked, sensing his gaze.
“Nothing,” he replied quickly.
“Then why’re you staring?”
“You got something on your face.”
“Liar.”
“Maybe,” he admitted.
You fidgeted, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “What’s your skincare routine?”
He laughed—a deep, genuine sound that made the room feel less heavy. “That’s what you panicked for?”
“You just… your skin looks… so good.”
“Moisturizer. Sleep. Stress. Crying helps too,” he said softly, almost shyly.
You scoffed, a small, unguarded sound.
He added gently, “You look fine the way you are. Your skin’s nice.”
Your heart skipped, and you whispered, body all warm, “Thanks.”
The next morning, chaos awaited. Fans crowded outside, screaming and waving lightsticks, the air vibrating with energy. You sat backstage, mask on, quietly sipping water, ignoring the hate-filled comments bursting down your phone screen. You were here for him, not them.
As the boys took the stage, your chest swelled with pride. Music vibrated through you, and you understood, truly, the fire in his eyes as he rapped with precision and passion. He glanced backstage once, catching your smile, and for the first time, it felt real.
Later, outside the venue, he found you. “You look like you could use food.”
“You look like you could use sleep,” you countered, soft and teasing.
“Hm. Let’s get dinner?”
You agreed, walking together to a quiet ramen shop, hoodies drawn over your heads, masks in place. The small space, fragrant with broth and comfort, felt intimate, a bubble of quiet amidst the chaos.
“So…” he said, mid-bite, “I don’t… hate you.”
You raised a brow. “Wow. High praises from someone like you.”
“No, seriously. I mean, I did. But now? Not sooooo much.”
“Same. Hate’s exhausting,” you admitted softly.
“We could try being friends you know jisung?”
“We could.”
Eyes met, quiet seconds stretching into something neither of you had expected.
He reached out without a thought, wiping the cream of your predinner dessert from your lip, then froze, surprised at his own boldness.
“Not a total asshole, at least,” you said, smirking.
“You hurt me, muffin,” he countered, voice low.
“Muffin?”
“You looked like one this morning,” he admitted.
“You’re ridiculous,” you breathed, hiding your smile behind your drink.
Back at the hotel, the elevator ride was silent but comfortable.
Glances were exchanged, unspoken laughter dancing behind eyes that refused to fully meet.
“Good night, muffin,” he said softly before leaving.
“Good night, Jisung,” you replied, smiling despite yourself.
He paused. “You can call me Hannie…or Ji.”
“I like Jisung better,” you replied.
He smirked. “Fair.”
You headed to your bed, heart racing, aware that something subtle, tender, and unspoken had shifted between you. The awkwardness was gone, replaced by curiosity, warmth, and the faintest hint of longing.
Lying awake, both of you silently acknowledged it.
Neither would admit it yet. But both knew—the walls were starting to crumble.
The time jump comes softly, like turning a page in a story you didn’t realize you’d lived through.
One moment it had been rehearsals and sleepless flights with the fact that he hair licked cream off his thumb, the next…..the end of the tour. The final city, the last night…. the last night of your so called honeymoon.
The world outside the hotel is restless; even past midnight, fans linger near the barricades with banners and flashlights, chanting the boys’ names in rhythmic devotion. From the window of your room, their voices sound distant but warm, a steady hum of gratitude that somehow settles the ache that’s been gnawing at your chest for weeks.
You lean your forehead against the glass, breathing in the silence of the suite, watching the neon lights blink over Tokyo’s skyline. The exhaustion feels different tonight ….softer. The last few days have been a blur of shows, interviews, airport runs, all strung together by caffeine and adrenaline. And yet, tonight, for the first time, there’s room to breathe.
Your phone vibrates on the nightstand. A new message.
CHAN 🐺: “No PR, no cameras, just all of us. 1206 — bring your appetite.”
You stare at it for a moment, hesitating. You’ve been included in so many of their routines lately — their rehearsals, press meets, flights -- but somehow, “off-duty” time still feels too personal, like a circle you haven’t quite earned your place in yet.
You type a reply, delete it, type again.
Before you can decide, your phone lights up again.
JEONGIN: “You’re coming. No excuses, no work. You’re part of us now.”
FELIX: “If you don’t come, we’ll send Chan hyung to drag you here himself.”
You laugh quietly under your breath, shaking your head. They never let you stay on the sidelines.
The cardigan you pull over your tank top smells faintly of hotel detergent, soft and familiar. You grab the small paper bag you’ve kept on the desk for days …. tiny thank-you gifts for each of them, matching keychains, fashion pins, even the hand-written notes you’d stayed up late finishing. It isn’t much, but it feels right.
By the time you knock on the suite door, the sound of laughter greets you before the door even opens.
Felix answers first, grinning, curls messy, voice already too loud. “You made it!”
“Barely,” you say, smiling as you step inside.
The warmth hits you immediately. Music hums low in the background, soft fairy lights drape over the curtains, and the coffee table is crowded with snacks and half-open drink cans. Jeongin’s sprawled across the couch, Minho’s mock-scolding Hyunjin for stealing chips, and Chan…. ever the quiet center of chaos … is perched near the floor, setting up a speaker with the patience of a saint.
When he looks up, he smiles, small, warm, genuine. “Knew you’d come,” he says.
You hand Felix the bag, and soon it’s chaos again.
Felix squeals when he pulls out socks embroidered with his name. “You made these?!”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” you tease, but the smile doesn’t leave your lips.
Hyunjin raises a brow at the set of keychains. “Did you just propose to all of us?”
Laughter ripples through the room. You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “Please, like any of you could handle me.”
The response is louder laughter and a few mock gasps.
And then there’s Jisung.
He’s sitting slightly apart from the rest, by the window, hoodie sleeves rolled up, a bottle in hand. He’s laughing along, you think….. but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His smile flickers like bad signal.
You catch his gaze briefly. He looks away first.
Something about that tug…. faint and sharp…makes your chest ache.
Hours drift easily. Conversations overlap, laughter spills like wine, and you find yourself squeezed between Chan and Jeongin, half-listening to a chaotic story about their debut days. Chan teases you for not knowing one of their oldest songs.
“You call yourself part of the team now?” he grins, voice warm, teasing.
“I didn’t say that!”
“You basically did.”
Jeongin cackles, clapping his hands. “Ooh, she’s fighting back!”
There’s a flicker of tension…. not romantic of course you considered em your husbands friends and now your friends too, that makes you laugh despite yourself. His laughter follows, quiet and unforced.
It’s easy. Too damn easy.
Jisung’s laughter has gone quiet again.
When you glance toward the window, you find him already watching. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense. There’s something unreadable in his stare…. not anger, not quite jealousy, but the space between the two.
You ignore it. Try to.
But when Chan offers you a bite of his snack and you lean over to take it, you swear you feel the air shift.
Across the room, Jisung sets his drink down a little too hard.
The others barely notice, too busy arguing about who gets the last bag of chips. But you see it… the flicker of heat in his eyes, the stiffness in his posture.
You look away quickly, pretending to check your phone.
Minutes pass. The noise fades into background chatter….. Felix trying to out-sing Hyunjin, Minho lecturing them both. But your focus keeps drifting back to him.
When he laughs now, it’s louder than usual. Sloppy. Like a noise meant to fill silence.
Chan says something funny, and you laugh…. genuinely, this time. And that’s when Jisung stands up.
It’s subtle… just him crossing the room to grab another drink….. but you feel the shift immediately. The air feels too heavy, heavy with unspoken things.
He doesn’t look at you, but he doesn’t have to. His energy pulls at you anyway.
Chan asks if you want another drink, and before you can answer, Jisung’s voice cuts through.
“I got it.”
Everyone pauses.
You blink, surprised. “It’s okay, I can-”
“I said I got it.”
His voice isn’t sharp, but it’s too quick, too tense. Chan glances between you two, eyes narrowing slightly, but he doesn’t push. He just gives a small nod and sits back.
The silence that follows feels longer than it should.
You take the glass he offers quietly, fingers brushing his just for a second. His hand is warm …too warm. His expression unreadable.
The night continues, but something’s shifted.
Every smile feels rehearsed now. Every laugh from him feels like it’s hiding something.
And when the others start leaving, one by one, it feels like an unspoken relief.
Jeongin’s the first to go, slurring out a half-coherent goodnight. Felix hugs you before stumbling after him. Minho throws you a knowing look, but doesn’t say anything.
Finally, it’s just you, Chan, and Jisung.
Chan stands, stretching lazily. “Alright, I’ll crash too. Don’t let him brood too long,” he jokes lightly, nodding toward Jisung. “He gets weird.”
You manage a soft laugh. “Noted.”
Chan smiles at you, the kind that feels reassuring. “You’re fun to have around, you know?”
You blink, caught off guard. “Thanks?”
“Text me if he bothers you too much.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Should I expect trouble?”
Chan just chuckles, stepping toward the door. “Always.”
The door clicks shut.
Silence again.
You turn, finding Jisung sitting all drunk on the couch, eyes fixed on nothing. The tension between you feels thick enough to slice.
“You okay?” you ask carefully.
He laughs once….. low, humorless. “You and Chan, huh?”
Your brows furrow in confussion. “What about me and Chan?”
He looks up, eyes darker now. “You laughed a lot tonight.”
You blink. “That’s… a problem?”
“You don’t laugh like that with me.”
The words hit harder than they should. You stare at him, caught between disbelief and confusion.
“You’re serious right now?”
He shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “Forget it.”
“No, Jisung. You started this… so, say what you mean.”
He looks at you finally….and the jealousy in his eyes isn’t sharp, it’s raw. “Do you like him?”
“No,” you say, quietly but firmly. “I don’t.”
“Then who?” His voice cracks.
You hesitate. The words come out before you can stop them. “Maybe you.”
His breath catches. He blinks….once, twice…. as if trying to process what he just heard. “You… might like me?”
You nod, a small, nervous smile playing on your lips. “I thought it was obvious.”
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Just stares at you…. the weight of your confession sinking in, fighting with disbelief and longing and fear.
Then he’s up… crossing the space between you in two steps. His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your skin. His voice trembles. “You can’t just say that.”
“Why not?” you whisper.
“Because then I’ll want to do this.”
He doesn’t wait for permission. His lips find yours…. desperate, trembling, tasting faintly of beer and regret. The kiss isn’t clean or practiced; it’s messy, raw, and far too honest.
You gasp softly against his mouth, fingers curling into his hoodie. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath unsteady. “Mine,” he whispers. “All mine.”
It isn’t a demand… it’s a desperate plea. A confession.
You laugh softly, shaky but all real. “You’re drunk, Jisung.”
“Maybe,” he mumbles, thumb tracing your cheekbone. “But I know what I feel.”
You don’t say anything….you just let your hands find their way to his neck, to his hair. The air between you is charged up, charged with something that’s been waiting to happen.
He kisses you again…. slower this time, deeper. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your plush lips, the way you taste, the small sigh that escapes when he presses closer.
You let him. You let yourself.
When he finally breaks away, he doesn’t move far. Just lowers his head, resting it on your shoulder. “I don’t want to share your attention,” he murmurs, voice barely audible.
“You don’t have to,” you whisper back. “I only look at you.”
His breath catches. For a moment, he doesn’t move…. and then, quietly, he laughs. Not bitter. Not jealous. Just soft.
“Promise?”
“Promise sungie.”
He shifts, eyes half-lidded wobbly and dragging you to the bed, exhaustion taking over. He sinks down slowly until his head finds your lap.
You freeze….. just for a second…then your hand moves on its own, threading through his hair. His breathing evens out, slow and deep.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The room hums with the sound of the city outside, but inside, it’s peaceful.
You sit there, your heart thudding quietly under his weight, his hand curled near your thigh. There’s no pretending now…. you care for him. You want him. And he wants you too…
And somehow, that truth feels scarier than the lie you’d been living before.
When you finally drift asleep, your fingers are still tangled in his hair.
Morning creeps in slow. Pale sunlight spills over the floor, soft and golden.
You wake first, your neck aching slightly from the position. Jisung’s still asleep, cheek pressed against your lap, his hand now resting loosely around your knee now.
You don’t move. You just watch him, his lashes casting faint shadows, his lips parted slightly, his expression calm.
He looks so different like this. No bravado. No teasing grin. Just Jisung.
And for the first time, you let yourself wonder what it would be like…..to stay.
When he finally stirs, blinking awake, the moment cracks open again. His eyes widen as he realizes where he is.
“Oh, fuck--”
You laugh softly. “Good morning to you too.”
He groans, burying his face in his hands. “I… remember everything- fuck.”
“Good,” you tease. “So I don’t have to remind you that you practically confessed your undying love last night.”
His head snaps up, face red. “I did not-!”
“You kinda did.”
He groans again, but the tension breaks with the sound of your laughter.
When he stands, he offers you his hand, helping you up gently. “I should… make coffee.”
“Or freahwn up first,” you say, still smiling.
He gives a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Probably.”
He disappears into the bathroom, and you exhale slowly, pressing a hand to your chest.
It’s ridiculous, really…… how one night changed everything.
By the time he returns, the mood is lighter. You’re packing while he’s nursing coffee, both stealing glances when you think the other isn’t looking.
When Chan knocks to remind you about the shuttle, Jisung groans dramatically but moves to get ready.
Before you leave, you hand him a small croissant from the hotel tray. “For the hangover.”
He takes it….. then, pointedly, in front of Chan, says, “Thanks, muffin.”
Chan raises a brow, grinning. “She’s all yours, Ji. Calm down.”
You feel your cheeks heat, but Jisung just smirks….proud, unbothered.
Outside, as you both walk toward the car, your hands brush once.
Neither of you pulls away.
The city hums around you, but for a moment, it feels like everything has gone quiet.
You look at him, smiling faintly. “Maybe we’re not so bad together.”
He chuckles, voice low. “Not bad at all, muffin.”
And for once, there’s no irony in his tone, only truth.
The first week after the tour feels like waking from a dream.
You return to a home that’s the same, yet it feels… quieter. Maybe emptier.
The laughter that used to echo through the penthouse now lingers only in memory…… faint, like the aftertaste of a song you can’t quite hum anymore.
Jisung throws himself into work the very next morning. At first, you think it’s normal…. that he just needs to catch up after being away. He’s always been dedicated, almost to a fault. But soon, it stops being admirable and starts feeling like avoidance.
He’s gone before you wake up. The side of the bed where he slept is still warm, the pillow slightly indented. By the time you make breakfast, the sound of the front door closing tells you he’s already left. You look up from the pan every time, hoping maybe he’ll come back to say goodbye, he never does.
At night, you try to wait up for him, laptop open on the dining table, your eyes flicking to the clock every few minutes. 10 p.m. becomes 11. Then midnight. Sometimes, you hear his keys at two in the morning, faint footsteps, the rustle of a jacket being dropped somewhere. By the time you turn off your screen and walk to the living room, the lights are already off again.
You leave food for him… warm rice, soup, a small dish you know he likes… but it’s always untouched by morning. You start storing leftovers automatically. It becomes a quiet ritual…wake up, work, wait, clean, sleep.
He still texts, though the warmth in his words has bled out slowly, like color fading from fabric.
“Eat first.”
“I’ll be late.”
“Don’t wait up.”
You reread old messages sometimes…the playful ones from the tour, the ones filled with little hearts and teasing nicknames. They make you smile for a moment before guilt seeps in for even feeling that way. You wonder when the distance began…. if it was always there and you just didn’t notice.
The apartment grows heavier with silence.
You start keeping the TV on for background noise, even if you’re not watching. Sometimes you speak aloud, to no one in particular, just to hear a voice. The space echoes back emptily.
By the second week, his absence becomes part of your schedule. You stop asking what time he’ll be home. You stop leaving notes on the counter. You stop expecting footsteps behind you when you’re cooking or brushing your teeth.
But that doesn’t mean you stop caring.
You still fold his jackets when he leaves them on the couch. You still put his mug beside yours in the morning, even though it stays empty. His things are everywhere… his sneakers by the door, his notebooks scattered across the table, the cologne he uses still sitting on the sink. The scent makes you ache.
You try to rationalize it. He’s tired. The tour took a toll. He’s trying to find his balance again.
But rationalizing doesn’t quiet the loneliness.
You lie awake some nights staring at the ceiling, replaying every recent conversation. Every pause, every sigh, every half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. You wonder if you did something wrong.
When you finally cry, it’s quiet. A single sob caught between your teeth, muffled by the sleeve of your hoodie. You don’t even know why it hurts so much, maybe because he’s there but not with you. And that feels worse than absence.
Three weeks in, your patience wears thin practically destroyed.
It’s a Tuesday night when you finally break. You’re on a call with Raya,, the only one who seems to notice how dim your voice has become. You tell her everything….the silence, the missed dinners, the empty goodnights.
“He’s just… gone,” you whisper. “Even when he’s home, he’s not really here.”
Raya hums softly on the other end, then asks, “Have you tried talking to him about it?”
You laugh weakly. “How do you talk to someone who doesn’t even look at you anymore?”
There’s a pause, then her voice turns gentle. “Then maybe talk to Chan.”
You blink. “Chan?”
“Yeah. He’s close to Jisung. Maybe he knows what’s going on.”
You hesitate. It feels wrong… intrusive, almost - to reach out to someone else about your marriage. But you’re exhausted.
After the call ends, you open your messages and type.
'Hey Chan, sorry if this is random… but has Jisung been okay? He’s been really distant lately, and I’m starting to worry.'
You read it over three times. It feels too emotional, so you delete it. Then you retype it again.
Finally, you hit send and close your phone, heart thudding.
Chan replies within minutes.
'I’ll look into it. Don’t worry, Y/N.'
Something in you eases…. just a little. But guilt follows right after. You shouldn’t have gone behind Jisung’s back. Still, deep down, you know this might be the only way to reach him.
That night, you don’t sleep. You just stare at the faint glow of the ceiling light, listening to the wind against the windows, wondering if he’s out there somewhere feeling the same emptiness.
The next day, Jisung doesn’t come home and you weren't exactly surprised either.
You don’t know it, but Chan finds him at the studio that evening.
The confrontation wasn't gentle.
Jisung’s at his desk, headphones on, when Chan walks in. The track he’s working on is loud…. frantic, almost desperate in rhythm… like a reflection of his mind.
“You’ve been a ghost lately,” Chan says, leaning against the doorway.
Jisung doesn’t look up. “I’m just busy.”
“Busy, or just avoiding her?”
That makes him pause. He takes off his headphones off slowly. “Don’t start hyung.”
“She texted me last night, ji.”
Jisung’s hands stills on the headphone.
“She’s worried, Ji. And she has every damn right to be.”
“She shouldn’t be,” Jisung mumbles. “This… this is just better for her.”
“Better?” Chan scoffs annoyed. “You think ignoring her protects her from stays? or the hate?”
“It keeps her out of this chaos. Out of my mess.” jisung said at an instant
“No,” Chan says firmly. “You’re not protecting her. You’re punishing her for fucking loving you.”
Jisung’s jaw tightens. “You don’t understand-!”
“I understand perfectly, ji.” Chan interrupts. “You think you don’t deserve her, so you’re pushing her away before she realizes it herself.”
Silence.
Jisung looks down at his hands, fingers trembling slightly. “She deserves someone better. Someone who doesn’t come with panic attacks and baggage.”
Chan’s voice softens. “She didn’t marry someone better. She married you….. let it be forced or whatever, ji… i have seen the way she looks at you.. and i have seen and witnessed your jealousy when i got too close…”
That hits deeper than he had expected chan's words to hit.
“You’re hurting her, Ji,” Chan continues quietly. “You’re breaking her heart because you’re too scared to let yourself be loved.”
Jisung exhales shakily, eyes glassy but dry. “Do you think she’d even forgive me after all this?”
It’s nearly midnight when Jisung finally drives home.
On the way, he stops at a flower shop… the small one tucked into a corner street, where the florist knows you by name. He buys a bouquet of red spider lilies, the ones you once wrote in a book of yours as “the color and flowers of passion and pain.”
Then he stops at your favorite patisserie, even though it’s closing. The owner recognizes him instantly and packs up two lemon cream and raspberry tarts, the ones you used to share during long nights of editing your novel.
Finally, he passes a boutique. In the window, a royal blue satin dress glimmers faintly under the soft light. He stops the car without thinking. The color reminds him of the night sky ….and of you.
He doesn’t question it. He just walks in, buys the dress, and leaves.
By the time he reaches the penthouse, the city is asleep. The air feels heavier, filled with something that’s not quite fear and not quite relief. He unlocks the door quietly, careful not to wake you.
You’re at the dining table, typing under the soft yellow light, headphones on.. You’re too focused to hear the door open.
Jisung stands there for a long time, just watching. You’re wearing one of his old hoodies, sleeves rolled up, hair tied loosely. Your brow furrows as you type, the glow of the screen reflecting in your eyes. There’s something heartbreakingly peaceful about the sight.
He places the gifts on the couch silently. Flowers. Pastries. The dress.
Then he approaches slowly, until he’s right behind you. His fingers hover above your chair, hesitating…. as if afraid to touch what he’s broken…
Finally, he pulls it back gently.
You startle, headphones slipping off. The sight of him: kneeling, eyes tired but soft…. stuns you.
“Jisung?”
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, voice quiet but cracked.
You blink, unsure if you heard right. “For what?”
“For everything.”
His thumb grazes your knee lightly, his touch trembling. “For disappearing after kissing you. For making you feel alone. I thought keeping my distance thinking i was protecting you.”
You swallow hard. “You don’t get to decide what hurts me.”
His gaze drops. “I know. I just… i didn’t think i deserved you.”
That makes your heart twist. The nickname slips out like muscle memory. “You idiot.”
He lets out a shaky laugh that sounds more like a sob. “Probably.”
He lifts your hand and presses his lips against your knuckles…. hesitant, reverent. “I missed you, muffin.”
The old nickname stings in the best way possible. You close your eyes, steadying your breath.
“I hate you,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “For thinking you don’t deserve love.”
He looks up, eyes glistening. You reach forward and cup his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. His skin feels warm beneath your palms…. real, fragile.
Your forehead touches his, and for a long, trembling moment, you just breathe together.
He exhales slowly, relief flooding through him, arms wrapping around your waist. You let him — not because everything is fixed, but because love, despite everything, is still there.
When he finally pulls back, his hands fumble for the gifts. “I, uh… got somethings-.”
You glance at them… flowers, pastries, a neatly folded boutique bag. “You’re lucky I don’t throw these at your face.” you add teasingly
He chuckles softly, though guilt lingers in his tone. “Honestly, I’d deserve it.”
You pick up the bouquet. Spider lilies, deep crimson, alive in the dim light. “You remembered what i wrote in a book…,” you mumbled
“How could I forget?”
You glance at the pastry box, then the bag. “What’s in there?”
He clears his throat awkwardly. “Something I thought would suit you.”
You pull out the dress, royal blue satin that catches every bit of light in the room. Your breath hitches. “It’s beautiful.”
He smiles faintly. “So are you.”
You look up sharply, but his gaze drops to the floor again, his ears pink.
“Eleven months,” he says quietly. “Since we got married. I thought… maybe we could celebrate properly.”
You trace the fabric between your fingers, the texture smooth and cool. Then, quietly: “I’ll try it on. For you.”
He freezes. “You don’t have to-”
“I want to.”
You disappear into the bedroom, and for a few minutes, the only sound is the rustle of fabric. Jisung stands by the couch, rubbing the back of his neck, heart pounding harder than it should.
When you step out, time seems to stop.
The dress fits perfectly, clinging in all the right places, the blue reflecting the soft lamplight like rippling water. Your hair falls loosely around your shoulders, and for a moment, you look like every word he never found the courage to say.
He covers his face instantly, muttering under his breath. “She’s going to be the end of me.”
You laugh… a small, fragile sound that fills the room. “You’re dramatic.”
He peeks through his fingers, smiling faintly. “Maybe. But it’s true.”
You twirl once, the hem of the dress brushing against your legs. The movement is light, easy… a reminder of what peace used to feel like.
For the first time in weeks, both of you laugh. Not perfectly, not loudly… but enough. Enough to remember that love, despite its fractures, can still find its way back in silence.
The penthouse felt different now, though nothing much had changed. The furniture sat in the same place, the windows still framed the same cityscape, and the sunlight poured through the sheer curtains just as it always had. Yet, somehow, the air had shifted. It was lighter, softer, warmer…like the space had exhaled a breath it had been holding for months.
You woke most mornings tangled with him, chest pressed against chest, arms wrapped around each other without thought or protest. His arm usually slung loosely across your waist, his fingers brushing your side as you adjusted in your sleep. Sometimes your cheek rested against the steady rhythm of his chest, and the weight of him there was both grounding and intoxicating.
Neither of you complained. There was no need to… there was a quiet understanding that these few minutes of shared stillness were precious, almost sacred, before the day demanded movement and attention.
Breakfast became a ritual in its own way, a chaotic harmony of burnt toast, coffee that was somehow always too sweet, and endless teasing. He had perfected the art of rolling his eyes dramatically whenever you poured sugar into your cup, and you, in turn, pretended not to notice when he nearly set his own toast on fire.
Conversation shuffled from playful jabs to more serious terrain….childhood stories, little insecurities, dreams that had been tucked away for years, waiting for the right person to listen. You learned that he hummed softly in his sleep, almost without realizing it, the tune a quiet melody of comfort. He learned that you muttered dialogue from the stories you read aloud in your head, soft lines that might have gone unheard by anyone else.
It was in these small moments, the quiet exchanges and soft revelations, that you realized the depth of familiarity growing between you both. The walls you had once built around each other, the distance painstakingly maintained, had started to crumble without either of you noticing. You were learning to exist together, differently this time, with patience and curiosity rather than irritation and defiance.
One lazy afternoon, you found him sitting shirtless on the couch, the sunlight cutting across the edges of his tattoos as he scribbled lyrics on his iPad. The lines etched into his skin were almost magical curling on his upper chest, tracing the plane of his chest and another vertical one besides his abs, a map of stories and memories he carried silently. Your eyes traced the shapes unconsciously, fingertips brushing against the fabric of your book as if you could somehow absorb the meaning of the ink through sight alone.
“Can I…?” you asked softly, hesitant yet emboldened by the intimacy of the quiet moment.
He turned his head slightly, offering a small, amused smile. “Go ahead.”
Your fingertips grazed the ink, tracing the curves of symbols and letters, each line a secret, a memory, a fragment of him he had allowed only a select few to see. His skin warmed under your touch, the subtle pressure of your fingers sending shivers up his spine.
“They’re beautiful,” you murmured, voice almost reverent.
“They hurt like hell,” he chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “But worth it.”
A thoughtful hum escaped your lips. “We should get one together.”
He looked up from his iPad, surprised, curiosity alight in his gaze. “A tattoo?”
“Yes,” you whispered. “A small one. Something only we know.”
“You choose it then,” he said after a moment, and you smiled, a blush climbing up your cheeks.
Days later, you found yourselves side by side at a tattoo studio, nerves tangled with excitement and adrenaline. Your hands were intertwined, a silent reassurance for each other as the needle buzzed to life.
The design was simple yet pretty…a delicate infinity line merging into your initials, discreetly placed on your backs. When the buzzing stopped and the ink settled, you glanced at him, grin wide.
“Now we’re permanently stuck,” you said softly, pride in your chest.
He returned the smile, eyes glinting with mischief. “Was already planning to be.”
Domestic life, once a distant fantasy, became a tangible rhythm. Grocery shopping transformed into chaotic expeditions, with you carefully selecting snacks while he shoved handfuls of ramen and instant noodles into the cart with a grin.
Cooking turned into a nightly ritual, an improvisational dance where he chopped vegetables while you twirled between counters, music blaring and laughter spilling over the walls.
You filmed snippets for your vlog….small, candid moments of your life together. Fans adored the dynamic: the way he would sneak up behind you, arms circling your waist as you stirred soup, the soft murmur of his voice against your ear. “Han Jisung, let me cook,” you would protest, though the warmth of his embrace made your resistance laughable.
“But you’re too cute to not hug,” he countered, and you always ended up melting against him anyway, surrendering to the comfort of his presence. He peppered your neck with tiny, playful kisses until your giggles became helpless, the room filling with sound that was uniquely yours.
Dinner often ended with him washing the dishes while you perched on the counter, watching him work, fingers drumming along to the music playing softly. “You’re whipped,” you teased one evening, smirking.
“And very damn proud,” he replied easily, not even glancing up, eyes focused on the suds and reflections in the sink.
Nights settled over the penthouse in a slow, contented rhythm. Movie marathons became a thing, limbs tangled beneath blankets, the television flickering softly in the background while you and he shared quiet conversations, gentle touches, and occasional teasing. Faint marks on your skin were reminders of a playful possessiveness he wore like a second skin. Nothing had crossed lines; the intimacy was a comfort, a familiarity, a warmth that felt like coming home.
Workouts became another extension of your domestic rhythm. You pushed each other through routines with laughter, stolen kisses, and playful complaints. Wearing his hoodie to the gym became a ritual in itself. “You’re distracting me,” he would complain mid-set, eyes dark with false annoyance.
“Good. Maybe you’ll stop flexing,” you retorted, earning a burst of laughter, his eyes crinkling in amusement, sweat running down his neck in a haze of effort and delight. Later, you would collapse onto the couch, flushed and breathless, shoulders brushing, foreheads resting together in the silence of shared exertion.
“We should probably shower,” you murmured once, wiping damp strands from your forehead.
“Or stay like this,” he murmured back, pulling you gently into his lap, the cadence of his heartbeat a quiet reassurance against your cheek.
Time passed, seasons shifting imperceptibly. One year slipped by quietly, a milestone marked not by grand gestures or public declarations but by the simple intimacy of a shared dinner, laughter, and knowing glances that said everything words never could.
“We made it,” you whispered one evening, disbelief threading your voice.
“Of course we did. You’re stuck with me, muffin,” he replied, grin tugging at the corners of his lips.
You rolled your eyes, though the warmth in your chest made the gesture half-hearted. Unbeknownst to you, he had been quietly orchestrating things behind the scenes—making calls, smoothing over conflicts, protecting you from the whispers and toxic energy that sometimes lingered in the industry. Soon, offers returned to your inbox, opportunities flowing once more, though you assumed it was luck rather than his intervention.
“You deserve the world,” he muttered softly one night while you slept, his thumb tracing small circles on your arm. You stirred, a small smile curving your lips, murmuring in your sleep, “You’re my world, Sungie.”
The words struck him like a physical punch, warmth blooming in his chest, heart tightening with a mixture of pride and helpless love.
Your shared presence spilled online as well, the world watching and melting at your domestic bliss. Fans adored the candid videos: you curled against his chest, laughing as he fussed over minor inconveniences, him sneaking gentle kisses on your cheek during your vlogs, playful interventions that felt unguarded and natural.
“You can’t post that!” you protested one afternoon, pulling at your laptop.
“Why not?” he asked, grinning, arms wrapped around your waist from behind. “I look adorable.”
“You look whipped,” you retorted, smirking over your shoulder.
“Because I am,” he said proudly, ignoring your mock glare.
Comments flooded in, praise and playful commentary that only served to amuse him. “He’s so gone for her,” “Domestic Jisung supremacy,” “This is real love.” He simply smiled, brushing your hair back with a thumb, as though each word was a gentle affirmation rather than a judgment.
Evenings became your comfort time. One night, curled on the couch under a shared blanket, limbs entwined, the television playing a cheesy rom-com neither of you particularly cared about, you leaned back against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your spine grounding you.
“You’re tickling me,” you murmured softly.
“Good,” he replied, voice low and sleep-heavy, pressing lazy, feather-light kisses along your skin.
“You smell like strawberries,” he mumbled, half-asleep, warm breath ghosting your neck.
“That’s your shampoo, idiot,” you replied, laughter soft in your throat.
He chuckled quietly, the sound low, affectionate, a vibration that seeped into your bones. The television flickered on, but neither of you paid it any mind, lost entirely in the safety and warmth of the shared silence.
His thumb drew lazy circles along your arm, and he leaned slightly closer, lips brushing your shoulder with careful deliberation. “You happy?” he asked, voice quiet against your neck.
“More than I thought I could be,” you admitted honestly, leaning further into him, allowing your words to settle comfortably between you.
He hummed, pressing another soft kiss to your shoulder. “Good. I plan to keep it that way.”
Turning slightly, eyes meeting his, you caught the reflection of your love in equal measure. “You’re getting sappy, ji,” you teased lightly.
“Must be the movie,” he countered, smirk teasing the corners of his lips.
“Liar,” you murmured, nudging him playfully.
He smiled, pressing one last kiss to your neck, the weight of months of tension, fear, and uncertainty dissolving into the quiet affirmation of soft love.
You snuggled closer, hand finding his naturally, the comfort of shared warmth settling like a gentle tide around your hearts. Outside, the city hummed softly, lights glowing in the distance. Inside, two souls rested easy, cocooned in love that no longer felt like pretense but like home….like everything they had fought for had been worth the wait, and everything yet to come would be met together, hearts unguarded and willing.
The quiet stretched comfortably, full and endless, a soft, unwavering testament to love that had survived distance, fear, and doubt. And in the stillness, in the warmth of each other’s presence, you both knew….this was exactly where you were meant to be.
The night air buzzed with electric energy, each flash of the cameras and each click of shutters adding a pulse to the city’s rhythm. The pink velvet lights washed over the entrance of the Victoria’s Secret gala, gilding the steps with a surreal glow, turning them into a runway of starlight. You felt it as soon as you stepped out of the limousine: a thousand eyes, a hundred lenses, and countless hearts collectively holding their breath. The giant logo behind the stage gleamed like a promise, the glitter dust in the air catching the light in a way that made it look like the universe itself had descended to witness the night.
He was already there, stepping from his black car with measured elegance, the suit tailored perfectly to his lean frame. Black on black, sleek and unassuming, yet somehow deadly charming. His hair was swept back casually, exposing the subtle lines of his jaw, and when the cameras screamed his name, he smiled nervously, waving but scanning the crowd with a single, desperate question in his eyes: where were you?
And then you arrived.
The white limousine doors swung open, and you stepped out, silk pink robe cascading over your frame, minimal makeup enhancing every subtle contour of your face, and that confident smirk you wore like armor. The crowd erupted, cameras firing like starlight, a halo of flashes surrounding your every move. You paused for a fraction of a second, just long enough for him to catch your eye across the throng.
Time stilled.
The photographers yelled, “Couple photo! Couple photo!” (i laughed so hard writing this line cause do they yell that way-?)
You chuckled softly, looping your arm through his, and he nearly melted in your grasp. The world seemed suddenly too bright, too loud, yet it centered perfectly on you two.
The photos were breathtaking. You could see it in his expression, the pride coiled beneath the surface, the mixture of awe and adoration he couldn’t hide even if he tried. You whispered a joke to him between flashes, the corners of your mouth lifting as you watched his reaction.
“You look like sin and heaven mixed,” he murmured near your ear, voice low, a shiver crawling down your spine.
You only smirked. “Don’t drool, Sungie. Cameras are watching.”
Crimson red flooded his face, and you winked, savoring the rare, flustered look that had become your private amusement. Social media erupted within seconds…clips of the two of you went viral, captions exploding with jealousy, awe, and relentless adoration.
Backstage was chaos. Wings fluttered, glitter dusted every surface, and the air was thick with anticipation. Models hurried past you, adjusting feathers, smoothing dresses, checking makeup, and rehearsing poses with an intensity that made your heart pound. You slipped into your own mental space, headphones insulating you from the frenzy, centering yourself before your cue.
On the front row, he sat with Chan and Felix, leg bouncing in barely-contained anticipation. His hands were fidgeting slightly on his lap, eyes darting to the stage every few seconds, and you could tell he was holding himself together by a thread. The lights dimmed, the music swelled, and you felt it: the moment had arrived.
Stepping out, it was like the world had shifted. The crowd roared, the cameras followed your every step, but nothing mattered except the knowledge that he was watching. Every pose, every turn, every flick of your hair was for him as much as it was for the audience. He was speechless, mouth slightly open, eyes soft and shimmering with pride. When you reached the end of the runway, he clapped the loudest, voice rising above the cheers, “That’s my wife!” Chan facepalmed beside him, laughing uncontrollably. You bit back a grin mid-stride, catching his words despite the music, and your heart warmed knowing he was so utterly yours.
Backstage, chaos reigned once more—hugs, celebrations, exclamations of triumph—but your eyes scanned for him, knowing he’d be waiting. And he was. A bouquet of roses clutched in one hand, panic coloring his every move. He barreled toward you until security blocked him.
“You can’t go in there, sir-” a guard said, hands outstretched.
“I’m her husband!” he blurted, voice urgent, thick with desperation.
The guards exchanged skeptical glances. “Sir, everyone claims that.”
“I’ll show you the marriage certificate if you want!” he exclaimed, panic threading his tone.
You heard him before you saw him, recognition flashing in your chest as your brows furrowed. That flustered, desperate voice belonged only to him. Wrapping your robe tighter, you strode forward, authority and familiarity rolling off you in equal measure.
“He’s with me,” you told the guards flatly. They stepped aside, and he exhaled, relief washing over him in visible waves.
“Muffin--you look--holy hell,” he murmured, eyes wide, voice hoarse with disbelief and pride.
“Language, Mr. Han,” you teased, pulling him inside as he practically collided with you, bouquet nearly tumbling from his hand.
In the dressing room, the world fell away. You stood in front of the mirror, methodically wiping off makeup, your reflection soft under the overhead lights. He lingered behind you, eyes tracing your movements, gaze full of awe and something tender you weren’t used to seeing so unguarded.
“You were… god, Y/N, you were unreal out there,” he admitted, voice low, reverent.
“You’re just saying that because I’m your PR wife,” you muttered, smirk tugging at your lips.
“No. Not my PR wife anymore,” he said immediately, voice quiet but firm. “Actual wife. And also… because I’m your biggest fan.”
Your chest tightened, heart fluttering. He chuckled softly, a mixture of humility and pride, then, slowly, his arms snaked around your waist in a gentle back hug. His head rested on your shoulder, lips brushing your ear lightly.
“I was jealous,” he admitted, voice soft, almost a whisper. “Everyone got to see you like that. And I just… wanted you to myself.”
Heat rushed up your neck, your pulse accelerating. You froze in his hold, words failing you for once.
“That’s cutely-stupid,” you murmured, voice barely audible.
“I know. Still true,” he replied.
You turned in his embrace, noses brushing, breaths mingling, hearts racing in tandem. “You’re so cute,” you whispered.
“All yours,” he corrected, soft and sure.
Your lips met in a kiss that was both soft and needy, familiar and urgent, a culmination of months of longing, tension, and unspoken affection. His hands trembled slightly against your jaw as the kiss deepened, a shiver passing through both of you.
“You’re my endgame,” he murmured between kisses, voice raw, unguarded.
“Ji-”
“No. Listen. I’m nothing without you,” he interrupted, voice cracking slightly.
You cupped his face gently, grounding him, letting him lean into your certainty.
“I never thought I’d love like this. I never thought I’d deserve it.”
“Don’t say that-” you whispered.
“But I do now. Because of you,” he breathed, eyes shining with honesty, love spilling from every pore.
He smiled shyly, a quirk of lips that made your heart leap. “You make me want to be better. Softer. Yours.”
“You already are mine,” you replied, breathless, words heavy with truth.
“I belong to you,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against yours. “All of me does.”
His words were breathless, unfiltered, utterly real. You grinned, voice a teasing purr, “You look adorable when you’re flustered.”
He buried his face in your neck, groaning softly. “You’re cruel.”
“You love it,” you countered, ruffling his hair with playful fingers.
“You love me,” he whispered, voice almost lost beneath the intensity of the moment.
“Yeah,” you murmured, smile tugging at your lips. “So much it’s stupid.”
You pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head, murmuring half-tease, half-affection, “My babyboy.”
He looked up at you with glassy eyes, the happiest you’d ever seen him. “Say that again.”
“My babyboy,” you repeated softly, heart swelling at the sight of him.
“I love you, muffin,” he admitted, shy, glowing, unashamed.
“I love you more, Sungie,” you whispered in return.
The city lights outside flickered, but in your dressing room, there was only the warmth between the two of you. His fingers intertwined with yours naturally, your foreheads pressed together in a perfect alignment of hearts and breaths.
“We really made it, huh?” you murmured, voice soft, almost a reverent acknowledgment of the journey.
“Yeah,” he chuckled, eyes glinting. “From throwing tantrums to throwing hearts.”
“Ew,” you snorted, nudging him lightly.
“You love my cringe,” he teased, lips brushing yours.
“Unfortunately, yes,” you admitted, laughter low and content.
He kissed you softly, lingering, the kind of kiss that promised patience, devotion, and love without end.
“Let’s go home, Mrs. Han,” he murmured, hand still clasped around yours.
“Home sounds nice,” you replied, smirking lightly, leaning into him.
As you stepped out into the pink glow of the event lights, cameras flashing endlessly, hands still intertwined, you realized that nothing in the world mattered except the two of you. The reporters’ calls, the intrusive lenses, the frenzy of the fashion elite--all faded in the presence of your shared heartbeat, of the soft, undeniable love you had fought for, earned, and now could live openly.
One last click of the camera captured the two of you perfectly--radiant, unguarded, inseparable. Hours later, when the photo hit his social media, his caption was simple, real, and utterly him:
“My endgame. ❤️ #MyMuffinForever.”
And just like that, the world knew. Not just that you existed together, but that you were each other’s everything, finally, fully, endlessly.
THE END!
xoxo!
SORRY MY BABIES I MADE Y'ALL WAIT FOR 3 WHOLE DAYS TT
But i hope y'all enjoyed TT
Atp… I was thinking… Do y'all want a permenant taglist?
I also have a request (a stupid one) When sending an anon message, this time many send me requests with an emoji attached (so fucking cute!) i will refer to the anons with the emoji y'all attach!
Imagine seventeen and your girl group doing a puppy interview and the staff didnt tell you they put your your dog who just had a litter into the so the second the sent all the puppies you got attacked by all of them since they already knew you and your boyfreind Vernon found it adorable
PAIRING: Waterpark Worker!Minghao x Waterpark Worker!Reader
SUMMARY: Working at a waterpark during the summer has its own trials and tribulations, but working with your ex makes it that much harder. When you discover the cool and quiet of the rain exhibit while hiding from your ex, you don’t expect to find additional solace - and something more - in its main occupant.
WC: 9,039
AU: Coworkers to Lovers
GENRE: Smut, Budding Romance
WARNINGS: Reader has an annoying ex boyfriend who won’t stop being overly friendly and The Nice Guy, depictions of an asshole boss, reader has a bit of a bad work day and cries about it at some point, general shitty job life lmfaooo, Minghao is a little possessive in a single scene, recreational drinking at a party, explicit language, explicit sexual content including vaginal fingering, unprotected sex (don’t do this!!!), semi-public sex (in an officed at a party), soft dom Minghao if you squint, oral (f. receiving).
A/N: This is for the amazing Carat Bay Collab hosted by @camandemstudios! Thank you so much for hosting such a fun collab - writing quiet Minghao and silly reader has been so much fun! This is relatively short and sweet for me, but I hope you all love the little rain room and this pair as much as I do!
A/N 2: No beta we die like men
MASTERLIST | ASK | FOR THE CARAT BAY COLLAB
A TANGERINE-COLORED INFLATABLE TUBE HITS YOU DIRECTLY IN THE FACE. You swear, your neck snapping backward as your sunglasses go flying. You hear the telltale splash as they hit the water behind you, barely audible as the little monster of a child goes screaming toward the steps to leave the shallow pool where the waterslide exits.
“Don’t run!” You yell at him as he high-knees it up the steps, hearing but not caring at your orders. His feet hit the pavement and he goes thundering away, probably to harass more workers or better, the creators that spawned him. “Fucker.”
Taking the floating device, you wade over to the conveyor belt and toss it on. The little lifesaver goes cranking up toward the top of the slide to be reused again. Sloshing back to where you were standing, you start looking for your sunglasses in the waist high water.
Just as you spot them, bending at the knees to sink into the lukewarm, chlorine-heavy water, a shout and explosion of tangerine hits the pool's surface, water spraying you in the face and hitting you directly in the eyes.
“Motherfucker!” You curse, blinking the burning chlorine water away as the kid floating by on the tube oooo’s at you for your language. Instead of honoring him with an answer, you grab the bottom of his float and flip it over, depositing him unexpectedly into the water. He comes up, coughing and sputtering. “Have a good day!”
After retrieving your drenched sunglasses and shoving them back on your face to keep some of the sun out of them, you go back to your routine of pulling tubes and putting them on the conveyor belt. It’s not hard work, but it’s not fun. The sun bakes down on top of your head, turning it pan-sear hot, your feet are waterlogged and your fingers are pruned.
You don’t even want to think about how much lotion it’s going to take to bring them back to life, the chlorine turning your skin dry every night after you get out of the shower.
At least you get to take frequent breaks. When your manager tells you it’s time for yours, you don’t stop the visible sigh, sloshing toward the steps leading out of the pool. You pass Vernon on the way, giving him a wet high five as he descends, groaning when he immediately takes spray from a landing tube.
“Good luck, buddy.”
The waterpark is nice. Despite your loathsome work, you can at least admit that. Meteor Falls is a state-of-the-art water theme park, all mystical space and falling stars. You don’t mind it some days, admiring the space-themed slides and attractions, impressed that it somehow manages to be both cheesy and kind of cool.
Other days, it’s your own personal hell filled with screaming children, chlorine blasts to the face, and never-ending run ins with your ex boyfriend.
Jinwoo has a nasty habit of always managing to find you when you’re on break. You can’t prove that it’s on purpose, but every time you sit down in the staff cafeteria, one of your secret hiding places (like the storage room with life jackets or the storage room that smells plasticy with intertubes), he somehow manages to interrupt your peace.
You know you should be thankful that things ended amicably. Except - that’s sort of the problem. You’d ended things because though he’s nice, there’s no spark between the two of you. No passion, no something that makes your heartbeat a little bit faster, that makes your blood turn molten.
He’d let you end things with a nod and a smile. And then got a summer job at the same water park, and felt the need to sit down next to you at lunch and talk your ear off, none the wiser to your growing agitation.
It feels mean, this deep-seeded annoyance that has begun to fester every time you see him. He’s not doing anything wrong, and yet you can’t help but feel like maybe he thinks this - whatever this is - will patch things over. Will remind you that he’s a nice guy, that he’s easy to deal with.
Which means when you see him sitting in your new oasis Vernon had showed you - the pump room - you nearly throw your tupperware at him. Of course he and Chan are sitting in the room, pumps screaming over their conversation as they eat chicken tenders from one of the stands outside. Of course he sees you just as you pivot, raising his hand in a greeting before frowning and dropping it when he notices you’re fleeing.
You spare a single glance over your shoulder and notice he’s getting up - probably to ask why you’re leaving - and you nearly scream in fright, rushing out of the room.
Jinwoo hot on your heels, you break the number one rule at the waterpark - you run.
Bursting through the staff only gate, you nearly knock over a kid holding a very melted, very red popsicle. The child flinches but you’re already moving past him, your shoes squeaking and filled with water as you round the Rocket Launch Splash Pad and toward the Bridge Between Worlds, the rope bridge swinging dangerously as you run over the people floating in the lazy river below.
Jinwoo shouts your name but you pretend not to hear him, slowing your run to a fast walk. Very demure. Very mindful. You take a hard left, nearly taking a palm frond to the face before noticing a tiny dirt path through the trees. You have no idea if it’s there on purpose or if it’s staff-only, but you see no sign so you rush down it, letting fronts and palmettos hit you in the face as the rush of a man-made waterfall fades behind you.
Up ahead, you notice a small round building with a giant disc-shape roof. It takes you a second to realize that it’s supposed to look like the rings of Jupiter, a giant rocket ship stationed to the left of it. You frown, slowing your steps to peer around.
No one else seems to be around. You’ve never seen this building, but the neon green letters built on top of the planetary rings read Jupiter’s Rain Room. From a distance, you hear Jinwoo call your name. It launches you to action and you bolt for the tinted glass doors that lead to the mysterious building.
Air conditioning buffets you the second you step inside. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the low lighting, but once they do, you realize you’re in a sort of theater. Rows of cushioned seats fill the center of the room. The walls are circular, arching up until they form a smooth dome over the room.
A single person twists around in one of the seats, a look of surprise on his face. He’s in an employee hoodie pulled up over his ash blonde hair, and his feet are kicked up on the seat in front of him. He raises his brows, as if to ask what you’re doing here.
“Uhhh.” You lift your hand in a small wave. “Hi?”
“Hi?” He answers, just as unsure.
“Sorry - what is this place?”
“The next show isn’t until three.”
You pause. “I work here?”
“Why do you sound so unsure, then?”
“I didn’t know this building existed.”
“That's because I took down all the directional signage.”
“Oh?”
His mouth twitches, amused. “Do you phrase everything like a question?”
“No.” You think about it. “Actually, maybe sometimes. Look, I’m just trying to find a place to eat my lunch and hide from Jinwoo.”
He spreads his arms out to all of the chairs in the theater. “Be my guest.”
Nodding in thanks, you walk down the steps to the auditorium proper. Up close, you can appreciate how handsome your unnamed coworker is. His feline eyes are intense, tracking you as you walk four rows ahead of him and sit down. He purses his full lips in thought before he settles back into his seat, nearly melting into the cushion as his eyes flick back to his phone.
Meanwhile, you pop the top on your tupperware, the fresh smell of grilled chicken and lemon hitting your nose.
“What’s your name, anyway?” You ask, sticking your plastic fork in your chicken. You give him your name around a mouthful of lunch, followed by, “I’m in recreation. Usually you can find me on intertube duty for the slides.”
“Minghao. Rain room attendant.”
“What exactly is the rain room?”
“It’s a room and it talks about rain.”
You frown, turning around to face him. His eyes flick upward, meeting yours over the top of his phone. When he sees you’re unsatisfied, he rolls his eyes. “It’s the room about how the park does water conservation. No one comes here.”
“Because there’s no signs?”
He nods. “Because there’s no signs.”
“Smart.”
He hums, attention going back to his phone. You turn back around to eat the rest of your lunch in silence, acutely aware of Minghao sitting behind you. Instead of peppering him with all of the questions you keep coming up with, you scroll your phone, monitoring the time until your break is over.
When it is, you stand up, joints popping. You groan and slide out from your row, glancing at him. He looks up, his brows raised in a question. “My lunch is over. Thanks for letting me hide here.”
“Anytime.”
“Have a good day, I guess?”
He smirks. “You’re doing it again.”
You flush. “Sorry.”
“Mhmm. Catch you around.”
-
The next day, Mingho doesn’t have his hood pulled over his head. You’re surprised at how long his hair is, shaggy and a little bit longer in the back. It suits him, you think, as you pass him by and wave. He seems surprised to see you, but doesn’t object when you sit in the same seat as the day before, popping a chicken tender into your mouth.
Like yesterday, silence permeates the air. It’s cold in the room, making you understand why he’s always in a jacket. You make a mental note to bring one tomorrow - because yes, this is your new lunch spot, so long as Jinwoo doesn’t find you and Minghao doesn’t kick you out.
Curious, you turn a little in your chair. He’s sitting folded into the seat just like the day before, entirely engrossed in whatever is on his phone. This time, you notice that he has a headphone in one of his ears. His ears are also pierced, with elegant hoops catching the light. Those suit him too, though you have a tough time imagining anything not suiting him.
Minghao is the kind of pretty that scrambles your brain. His face is made up of sharp angles and high, defined cheekbones paired with the most straight and refined nose you’ve ever seen. It makes his face look balanced and ethereal, but his plush mouth is where your eyes are drawn, watching his minute expressions while he’s engrossed with whatever is on his phone.
Until he’s not engrossed, and he’s looking directly at you, a single brow arched.
“How long have you worked here?” It’s the first question that comes to mind, albeit not one of the ones you wanted to ask.
“About four months.”
“Oh. I guess I’ve just never seen you around.”
“I avoid most of our coworkers.” He gives you a pointed stare and you shrink a little in your seat. “I know who you are, though. I room with Vernon.”
“Vernon has a roommate?”
Again, not the question you wanted to ask. Minghao answers anyway. “Sure does.”
“Huh. What’s that like?”
“Quiet.”
You hear the warning in Minghao’s tone, so you flash him a smile and turn back around in your seat. Three questions. He allowed you three questions before he got annoyed. Three is a good number.
When you finish your lunch and your time runs out, you get up and give him a soft smile and a wave. He nods in acknowledgement, but that’s all you get from him for the day.
Three questions. You prepare yourself to ask better ones tomorrow.
-
“How many people a day come to the rain room?”
“Including you?” Minghao doesn’t look up as he asks this. You nod and he hums thoughtfully, fingers tapping on the side of his phone. The motion catches your attention. He has the fingers of an artist, long and elegant with a few silver rings. “Maybe ten.”
“Only ten?” You try not to sound too surprised, too interested.
“Mhmm.”
“Lucky. I probably see hundreds of people a day.”
“That’s why I don’t work in recreation.” His tone is dry, but not unfriendly. You think he might be teasing, but it’s hard to tell. He still hasn't looked at you.
“Want to switch jobs?”
A beat. Then he glances up, meeting your eyes for the first time. It’s brief, but it’s enough to stir something “Nope.”
This time when you wrap up and head out, it’s Minghao who asks a question, eyes flicking to the drink in your hand. It’s the first time he sounds genuinely curious. “What is that?” You hold up the slushie in your hand, shaking it. “Yeah.”
“The Raspberry Rocket Blast. It’s a slushie and it’s so good.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s a real name?”
You laugh. “Yeah. And it’s amazing.”
Minghao’s gaze lingers for a second longer than necessary. “Interesting. Have a good day.”
You beam at him, blue teeth and all. “You too!”
-
Water sluices down your back. You rush underneath the awning of Jupiter’s ring, shaking water off your raincoat like a dog. So long as there’s thunder in the area, you don’t have to work. Most of the staff are lounging in the cafeteria and other break areas, but there’s only a single place you want to be.
To your surprise, there are people in the rain room today. Minghao isn’t sitting slouched in his seat, but rather standing at the back where there is a control table. He notices you come in and holds a finger to his lips, gesturing for you to stand in the back.
Nodding, you follow his orders and pad over to him, pulling a hand out of your raincoat to hold out a styrofoam cup for him. He looks puzzled, hitting a button on the control table that sends the lights dying until you’re in a dark room, barely able to see his outline.
A narrator comes over the speakers, so loud it vibrates the room. You flinch and he adjusts the volume as the display of thousands of stars appear on the domed ceiling. Minghao takes the slushy from you, tilting it toward him to examine it.
“It’s the Raspberry Rocket Blast,” you whisper. “The one I had the other day.”
Minghao takes it skeptically. He looks from the cup to you, back to the cup again, his face downturned like something might jump out and bite him. You nudge the bottom of the cup, urging him to take a sip.
Hesitantly, he does. He brings the red straw up to his lips, taking a gentle pull. When the slushie hits his tongue, you can tell. His face morphs from careful skepticism into surprised delight, smiling around the straw, eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes a few strong sips.
The inside of his lips are blue when he removes the straw, nodding. “It’s good.”
“Told you.” He rolls his eyes, but continues to sip the drink while the presentation plays.
You only half pay attention to it, deciding to sit on the floor with your back against the wall. Minghao glances over his shoulder at you and you point to your lunch. He shrugs and turns forward again, sipping his drink quietly as the ceiling turns to a rainstorm.
It’s peaceful. The threadbare carpet isn’t exactly comfortable and the drywall behind you seems to absorb all of the moisture from the air, but it’s cold and dark. You only vaguely follow the story of the water park’s founding and core pillars. A soundtrack of rain and thunderstorm plays on the projector, lulling you until your head dips a few times as you flirt with sleep.
Exhaustion wins. You doze off, only coming to when the lights come up and you hear shuffling feet and the thwunk of the theater chairs as they slam back to their normal position. You blink groggily, watching the procession of people who head to the door, checking to see how bad the rain is.
Someone announces that it’s finally a light drizzle so they all head out, a mix of kids whining that they want to go down the slides and adults who want to give up and go home. When the last of them is gone, Minghao turns to you, smirking.
“Enjoyed the nap?”
“Very much.”
“Hmm. I’ve got to clean up. People love to leave their shit.”
You grumble and get to your feet. “I’ll help.”
Minghao gives a hum of appreciation but says nothing else. It’s easy and methodical, picking up candy wrappers and empty bottles of soda. By the time you’re done, your phone is buzzing and Vernon is looking for you to switch rotations with him at the Astroslide. You sigh, sliding your phone back in your pocket while you toss the trash into the appropriate bend.
Looking up from where he’s fishing a chicken tender from a chair, Minghao asks, “See you tomorrow?”
“Mhmm.”
“Feel free to bring the…. Blast rocket.”
“Raspberry Rocket Blast.”
“Sure.”
You grin, teasing. “Bye, Minghao.”
-
Minghao’s lips and teeth are blue. You don’t want to admit it, but it doesn’t look so bad on him. Nothing looks bad on him, though. He’s the kind of pretty that doesn’t belong working in an empty theater room at a waterpark, which has made you wonder on more than one occasion if maybe he’s a figment of your imagination.
(Vernon has assured you that Minghao does, in fact, exist).
Sitting in the back row, you watch as Minghao hops over the seats to walk to the control podium. “Show off,” you mutter under your breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. You’re very athletic.”
“Yes, I like keeping in shape. And yoga. And meditation.”
“Of course you do.” Settling further in the seat, you watch him as he flicks off the lights and turns on the presentation. “Why do I have to watch this, again?”
“Because if you’re going to hide in here from your ex boyfriend weekly, you might as well see the presentation so when a guest asks a question, you can answer it.”
“Can’t I tell them I’m in recreation?”
He grins, his teeth Raspberry Rocket Blue. “No.”
You huff, sliding further into the scratchy fabric of the chair as though you can become one with it.
The walls of the room vibrate with how loud the speakers are, prompting Minghao to turn it down. When it’s at the desired volume, he returns to the row of chairs and jumps back over it, sitting down next to you while matching your slouch. He grins again before sipping his slushie.
You think he should smile more often.
Instead of telling him that, you turn back to the screen as an aerial view of the waterpark pains the room in light. Meteor Falls, despite being your personal water-logged hellscape, is quite beautiful at a distance. Full of tropical trees hiding the stone walkways, pops of red and purple and blue waterslides peeking from the greenery. A cerulean ring wraps the waterpark, little tubes dotted along it as park goers float along the lazy river.
“Welcome to Meteor Falls,” the narrator says, voice warm. “We know you’re here to have fun and cool off, but did you know that water is one of our planet’s most precious resources? We here at Meteor Falls, seek to reduce, reuse and recycle our planet’s water.”
You watch as the scene cuts to footage of kids going down slides. You spot Vernon guiding tubes to the conveyor belt and point to him. “Holy shit, does he get royalties?”
“If he does, he spends it on fast food.”
“Every drop here counts,” the narrator continues. “Even the ones from the sky! That’s why we’re doing our part to conserve water by collecting and reusing rainwater!”
“Probably cleaner than the piss-filled water in the lazy river.”
“You’re probably right.”
It’s a good presentation. You pepper the film with your commentary, earning a grin or a sharp huff of air through Minghao’s nose when he laughs. It feels like a win, each time you make him laugh. In the days you’ve been escaping here in the rain room, it’s felt like a personal goal to open him up a bit more.
Minghao is quiet. Observant. You ask him a ton of questions and he asks you none in return, and yet he’s seemed to puzzle things out on his own. It’s different from what you’re used to, most of your friends are loud and outgoing and overwhelming.
Overwhelming like Jinwoo, who you wish would be awful just so you had a reason to cut him off, cut him out, push him away.
At the end of the presentation, Minghao stands and, with a lazy sort of grace, hops over the row of seats instead of walking around like a normal person. He moves like he’s used to being watched, but not in the way that invites it. Just comfortable in his own skin. Then he flips the light switch, flooding the room with brightness.
“What’d you think?”
You wince instantly, throwing up a hand like it’ll shield you from the sun. “I think you just tried to blind me.”
“About the presentation.”
“I think it’s a crock of shit and we still overuse water,” you say without missing a beat.
Minghao snaps his fingers and points at you like he’s awarding a prize. “Good.”
For a second, the corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close. You feel oddly proud, which is stupid, because you’re not here to impress him.
Checking your watch, you heave a sigh. “I have to head back before Vernon freaks out. I was late last time.”
“Tough.” He pushes off the chair, steps a little closer, not close enough to be improper, just close enough that you feel it. “Try not to take any pool noodles to the face.”
“Tubes. They are tubes.”
From behind you, you hear the quiet rustle of his hoodie as he slips his phone out of his pocket. “Sure. Later.”
You glance back just once. Minghao’s got his headphones in, watching you, like he was waiting to see if you’d look. You meet his eyes for a second longer than you mean to. Then you nod, casual, like your pulse isn’t doing weird things.
“Later.”
-
Pressing the sleeves of your hoodie into your eyes, you dab away any excess tears. The sunburn on your face is just as scalding as the lecture you’d received from your boss, reducing you to giving a tight-throat yes when he’d screamed if you’d understood him, fighting tears all the way down the rope bridge and gravel path to the little hidden oasis you’ve made for yourself.
You don’t really consider yourself a crier. But today had been a bad day, your morning staring with someone running a stop sign and rear-ending you significantly enough to make you two hours late to your shift. Though you’d texted and called several times, your asshole Peaked-In-High School Manager liked to make people feel small.
He’d done a really good job of it today, despite explaining what had happened with your car. With the added, unplanned expense of needing to get it fixed because it had been a hit and run, you couldn’t exactly tell your manager to get his head out of his ass.
So instead, you’d texted Vernon and agreed to take his shift tomorrow if he let you be another thirty minutes late, just enough time to collect yourself. Which is how you find yourself outside of Jupiter’s Rain Room, eyes burning, pride stinging.
Cool air hits you in the face when you enter. Minghao doesn’t even turn around to see who it is. He knows it’s you. He’s sitting in the last row as usual, on his phone, the faintest sound of music drifting from one of his earbuds.
You drop heavily into the seat next to him. That does make him look at you, his eyebrow raised and side eye heavy until his eyes scan your face, the attitude vanishing from his.
“Are you crying?”
“No,” you answer sulkily. “I was crying. There is no active crying right now.”
“I see.” You sniff, staring with unseeing eyes at the rows of seats in front of you. “Want to talk about it?” That makes your stomach dip, but you shake your head. “Hmm. Want to listen to my favorite songs right now?”
You look at him from the corner of your eye. Minghao has never offered something like this. He usually keeps a perfectly manufactured distance, friendly but not friends, polite but not open. When you nod your head, he plucks the other earbud from its case and passes it over to you.
Tentatively, you put it in, heart hammering over something so simple that you chastise yourself, trying to make your breathing even. If Minghao notices, he’s nice enough not to say anything, pulling his phone from his pocket instead to tap on it.
Music fills your ears. The song opens on soft guitar strumming, a soft and subtle melody. You feel your muscles unclench, the berating drifting far away as a soulful voice begins to sing. There’s a quiet intimacy to the song, making you glance at Minghao who watches you with rapt attention.
You give him a small smile, a signal that you like it. He returns your grin, flashing his phone screen toward you so you can see what you’re listening to. River by Leon Bridges. You nod and write it down on your phone before leaning back and listening to it, the rhythm of mixed voice and minimal instruments lulling you into a calm.
All you get is a few more songs. You list each one in your notes app. Minghao is quiet. Patient. A calm sea after a storm, only rippling when you take out to return the earbud, your over-long break over. You know Vernon is probably burnt to a crisp by now and will complain about this for the rest of the week.
“Thanks,” you murmur, standing.
“Mhmm.”
When you leave Jupiter’s Rain Room, you feel so much lighter than when you came. And so what if your heart beats a little bit faster.
-
Sun beats down on the gravel paths winding through the waterpark. You feel the steam from them, yesterday’s rain burning away in the simmering heat. The smell of chlorine sticks to your skin as you balance the boxes in your arms, careful not to squeeze the styrofoam cup in your hand too hard.
Cool air kisses your skin when you enter the theater. It’s empty, as usual, with Minghao sitting in the back row. He turns when he sees you, a smile alighting on his face. You nearly stumbled, surprised at how genuine the smile has become when he sees you. You ignore the skip in your heart.
Minghao is dressed in his usual polo and loose hoodie. He gets up and reaches for the items in your hand, eager to help you.
“Hey,” he says, holding up a box. “What’s this?”
“I brought you lunch.”
He raises his eyebrows before sliding back into the seat with grace that makes you hyper aware of the way you drop into your own seat, the metal creaking under your sudden weight. You straighten, sticking one of the styrofoam cups in his cup holder.
“Consider it a thank you.”
“For?”
“Not kicking me out when I was being a wimp. And for the really good song recommendations.”
He hums, opening the container to reveal perfectly fried chicken tenders. He picks up a fry, popping it into his mouth to chew experimentally. “Not terrible. And you don’t have to thank me.”
“Anyway,” you continue, eager to talk about anything else. “Leon Bridges is really fucking good. I went through his entire discography.”
Minghao’s face lights up, a small, genuine smile. “Yeah? Glad you liked it. “He’s one of those artists that just holds you, you know? His music is there when you need it.”
“Mhmm.”
“I’ve got more recommendations if you need them. I spend most of the day here curating playlists. It passes the time and I’ve gotten pretty good at it.” His eyes meet yours and this time, they hold, dark and thoughtful. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What do you like to do to pass time?”
The question catches you off guard. You sink into the seat, thinking. Minghao rarely asks questions about you, content with letting you sit a few rows away while being a cranky cat in the corner.
You’re suddenly hyper aware of how close you’re sitting. His fingers tap gently on the cardboard container while he waits, a rhythm only he can understand.
“I guess I like reading?” It comes out like a question. “I’m into Sci-Fi movies - I’m sure you’re used to that with Vernon. When I was a kid, I was really into weird animal facts. Like did you know octopuses have three hearts?”
There’s a flicker of amusement in his expression, but it’s not mocking. “I didn’t. What’s another?”
He leans forward slightly, his elbows on his knees. You catch the faint scent of his cologne, something clean and citrusy, not at all like your sterile chlorine.
“Hummingbirds are the only birds that can fly backward.”
“Wait, really?”
“Yep.”
“Huh.” He tilts his head, lips curving into a half-smile that makes your pulse skip. “You’re full of surprises.”
You take a sip of your slushie, trying to cool the warmth creeping up your neck, but his eyes flick to your lips, just for a second, and your heart stumbles.
Desperate to keep the conversation going, you ask, “What about you? Besides music, what’s your thing? You’re always so quiet and put together.”
“It’s easy to seem together in the natural chaos of this place.”
You snort. “Okay, fair.”
“I don’t know, I like meditating. Working out. Reading. I’m pretty simple, but I like it. I don’t always have it all together, but I’ve gotten pretty good at appearing that way.”
You nod, drawn to this glimpse of him, the crack in his polished exterior. “I admire that.”
He looks at you, really looks, and the weight of his gaze steals your breath. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The moment hands heavy with something unspoken. You’re so acutely aware of him, the way your knee brushes against his in the seat next to him, the way his fingers twitch. Your heart’s pounding now and you realize with a pang that these snatches with Minghao are the best part of your day.
Minghao is the best part of your day, the quiet he brings, the steady presence. Here, there’s no orange tubes hitting you in the face, no Vernon bitching and moaning that his skin is dry. There’s no sun to burn the top of your head and scalp.
Just Minghao and his calm countenance.
Silence falls between you, backtracked by the hum of the air conditioning. Your break is almost over, but neither of your movies. He takes a bite of a chicken tender while you nibble at your friends. You steal glances, the silence warm and electric.
When you finally stand, brushing crumbs from your lap, he stands too. He’s close, the tangerine scent of him exhilarating. His hand brushes yours when he takes your container from your hands, assuring you he can toss it out.
“See you later?” He asks, voice soft, eyes lingering.
“Yeah,” you agree, a little breathless.
Outside, the sun is beaming, but its warmth is nothing compared to the burning Minghao’s touch leaves on your hand.
-
Voices blend together as you enter the stuffy conference room. The air is thick with the smell of old coffee and dry-erase markers, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Rows of mismatched chairs fill the small meeting room. It’s ass o'clock early in the morning, but the resort's monthly meeting demands everyone to be present.
You wonder why they don’t use the Rain Room for their meetings and then think better of it. The last thing you want is for the company to find the single space in the entire park that you like to hide in, that is now special to you.
Coworkers fill the room. You pick a random seat in the middle of a row, dropping down as the low chatter fills the space around you. You’re so caught up in scrolling on your phone that you don’t notice Jinwood at first, gliding toward you. You realize he’s going to the seat next to you at the last second, panic taking over as he moves toward you, smile friendly, steps confident.
Before he can reach you, Minghao jumps over the back of the chair like he always does, dropping into it with an easy grace. He grins at you, lips curving into a private smile that makes your heart skip. He pulls one of his earbuds out and offers it to you, brows raised.
Heat simmers beneath the surface of your skin. You accept it, feeling flushed and breathy as you pop it in. He’s got Khruangbin playing, a gentle buffer between the noise of the room and everything else.
Jinwoo falters, his jaw tightening for a second as he diverts, taking a seat in the row in front of you but a few off. His irritation radiates, surprising you. Instead of paying him any mind, your focus is on the song in your ear and Minghao’s fingers drumming on the arms of his chair.
“Ready for the torture?” He asks, leaning back. His shoulder brushes against yours but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away.
“Not at all.”
“Same.”
Quiet swoops through the room as the executives barge into the room, asking everyone to settle in. You peel the headphone out of your ear, passing it back to Minghao. He takes it, popping both of them in their holder and snapping the lid shut. He leans toward you to shove them in his pocket, filling your nose with tangerine.
When he leans back, you notice Jinwoo staring. His eyes linger for a second before he turns toward the front as someone begins a monotone spiel about budgets and schedules. At multiple points you see the tilt of Jinwoo’s head, the way he cuts a glance toward you. It makes your anxiety climb, palms sweaty. You wipe them against your pants, squirming.
Halfway through the meeting, Minghao leans over and whispers, “What’s with the dude staring at you?”
“Ex-boyfriend. Still friendly, but uh… I don’t know.”
Minghao’s face stays neutral, but there’s a flicker in his eyes. “He’s making you uncomfortable.”
“A little. I think he’s hoping because we remained friends that we’ll figure it out.”
“You won’t.” It’s not a question. Minghao leans back, draping an arm along the back of the row of seats. Not around you, but along your back. Not claiming, not possessive, but something.
The meeting drones on, but Minghao keeps you anchored. Jinwoo’s glances taper off, but the tension is obvious in his jaw. When the meeting is finally over and you’re standing, Minghao’s hand brushes against your wrist, catching your attention.
“See you later?”
“Mhmm.”
Minghao’s smile is brief before he hopes over the chair, blending in with the other employees all bustling out, eager to get away from cranky executives and uncomfortable chairs.
-
Sun scorches the top of your head, heat bouncing off the chlorinated water at the base of the water slide. Kids shriek as they hurtle down the side, their tubes hitting the water with a spray. You and Vernon take turns grabbing tubes and adding them to the humming conveyor belt.
It’s one of the busiest days of the year, which means two people on duty. You and Vernon work in tandem, never stopping, the heat making you tired and prickly. For once, you’re thankful that the shallow pool you’re in is freezing cold.
Vernon is humming as he tosses a tube toward you with a lazy flick. You recognize the song as something Minghao recommended, a smile tilting your lips. Your stomach flips at the thought of Minghao, sad that you won’t see him today. It’s his off day, one of the few times his schedule doesn’t align with yours.
You crab a tube from a splashing kid, tossing it onto the conveyor. You notice Vernon watching you, his expression curious but cautious. You slosh back over, giving him a once over.
“What?” You ask between lulls of kids coming down the slide.
“So,” he says casually. “You and Minghao are friends?”
Your heart lurches. You’re saved from answering right away as a kid crashes into the pool, screaming. Vernon rolls his eyes, leaning forward to grab the tangerine ring before chucking it at the conveyor. He almost misses. It gives you time to think, resting your hands on top of the cold surface to ground you.
“Friends?” You ask as Vernon returns. “I guess? I like to hide out in the Rain Room.”
“Hmm. He mentioned you at home the other night. Which is weird, being that he never mentions anyone.”
You blink, heart pounding. “Huh. What’d he say?”
Vernon shrugs, his smile a little too amused for your liking. “Who's to say?”
“Vernon.”
“Relax. Just that you’re cool. He was smiling when he said it, which is so unlike Hao that I thought I was hallucinating.”
Your chest warms, picturing Minghao on their couch, earbuds in, smiling about you. It’s thrilling, but terrifying. You tread carefully, unsure how much to reveal to Vernon, afraid to show that perhaps maybe you have a bit of a crush on his roommate.
“We get along. He’s nice.”
Vernon hums. “He’s picky about who he vibes with. You must have made an impression.” He tilts his sunglasses down, looking at you. “Did you tell him about the octopus hearts?”
You groan and he laughs, slapping the surface of the water. It splashes you and you smack it back at him, volunteering to get the next tube if only to get away from him a little.
He’s grinning when you come back. “He’s cool. You’re cool.”
“Cool,” you shoot back with venom.
Two tubes come down at the same time and you both shoot for them.
“You going to Mingyu’s party this weekend?”
You’d forgotten all about the party. Now that Vernon says it, you wonder if Minghao is going. You assume not, assume he’ll keep to himself. Plus, you’ve never seen him at parties in the past. But you imagine if he did go, what he would be like outside of work, leaning against a wall, watching you with that steady gaze.
“Probably?” You finally answer. “He’ll be annoyed if I don’t.”
“Good.” Vernon pauses before casually adding, “Hao is going. He’s been in a good mood and he figured why not. So. Just wanted to mention in case, you know. You needed to know.”
“Vernon.”
He lifts his hands, a white flag. “Just saying, that’s all.”
You both go quiet, only the ambiance of the water and shout of voices from down the slide to accompany you. Vernon’s words stick with you though and you fight a smile, trying not to let hope bloom in your chest knowing Minghao mentioned you at home. That he never mentions anyone.
The sun dips behind the trees and you feel lighter, looking forward to the weekend and your well-earned off day.
-
Mingyu and Wonwoo’s loft pulses with life, a sprawling expanse of lived-in comfort. Exposed brick walls rise to high ceilings, soft lights casting a warm glow over the crowd of your coworkers gathered all over. The living area is anchored by a massive sectional couch, its cushions littered with spilled chips and empty cups.
The kitchen island is cluttered in the heart of the chaos, filled with bottles of tequila and vodka, mixers spilled over the surface. Mingyu is in the kitchen pouring shots into someone’s mouth while Wonwoo hovers nearby, watching with mild alarm.
Floor to ceiling windows frame the city skyline, which twinkles like stars outside. Music rattles your ribcage, high energy as people dance in the living room.
You have no idea how either of them can afford this luxury, but you don’t ask. Instead, you slip into the kitchen, looking for a drink to help ease your nerves. You’re dressed in a denim skirt paired with a cropped denim top, the barest hint of skin visible between the two pieces.
Your shoes squeak on the hardwood floor as you navigate the crowd. The room is packed with park staff, Vernon in the corner of the kitchen cackling at something Seungkwan is saying, your manager lurking in the corner nursing a beer, other coworkers in a loose circle near the speakers.
You scan for Minghao, heart quickening. Your thoughts stutter when you see Jinwoo instead, leaning against the brick wall near the dance floor, is black button-down rolled at the sleeves. He notices you and your stomach twists as you dart away, heart pounding as you weave through the crowd, dodging coworkers as you aim for the balcony.
The glass door slides open and the night air hits you, cool and cleansing. The city’s hum is a soft backdrop, its sounds drifting up from below. Minghao startles you, turning to look at you from where he leans against the railing, a cup in his hand. He’s in a loose, black sweater and jeans, hair mused by the wind. He looks good, your breath catching when he grins.
“Hey,” he greets, surprised. “Escaping already?”
“Looks like you beat me to it.”
“Yeah, it’s a bit loud in there.”
“I know, I’m surprised you’re here, honestly.”
He lifts a single shoulder, a shy shrug. “I like to keep people on their toes.” His gaze dips down to drink in your outfit and you feel hot all over, withering under his gaze. “You look nice.”
“Oh. You too.”
He chuckles, warm and low as you join him at the railing. He offers you his cup. “Sangria? Swear that's all it is, I just realized how creepy that was, sorry.”
“Not at all, thank you for clarifying though.” You take the cup from him and take a sip. It’s strong, not as sweet as you like it, but flavorful. “Not terrible.”
The balcony is a quiet haven, like the Rain Room. The night air feels good against your flushed skin, fairy lights casting a soft glow over the potted plants. Minghao chats casually, asking what kind of Sci-Fi movies you’re into. He lets you yap, mostly doing his part listening and adding commentary where necessary.
You like that about him, how he’s a quiet counterbalance to your talkative nature. It’s comfortable. Even. you could spend all night standing and chatting with him, living for the familiar way he leans in close when he laughs, arm brushing yours. He doesn’t pull away, touch not lingering but still there.
The balcony door slides open just as you both get to the bottom of the sangria in the cup, Seungkwan sticking his head out. “Yo! Come inside, we need people to dance.”
Seungkwan vanishes back into the apartment and Minghao looks at you, brows raised. You shrug your shoulders and he grins, gesturing for you to head in. He follows, close on your heels. It’s crowded at the threshold of the door and he steps in beside you, a hand brushing low on your back. It’s soft, but it feels deliberate as he guides you after Seungkwan.
Inside, the loft pulses with music, bass heavy. Seungkwan is near the speakers, grabbing a coworker and backing it up on her. You laugh when you see them all, Vernon wincing and watching Seungkwan with pure horror as Mingyu crashes onto the scene, fist pumping.
Someone bumps Minghao, his chest pressing to your back, and he freezes, hands hovering. Your heart races. You glance back, meeting his dark, hesitant eyes.
“Do you dance?” You ask, teasing over the music.
“Sometimes.”
You raise a brow, challenging, and he nods, hands finding your hips, guiding you to the beat. You sway, melding to him, hesitant then bold, hips rolling, denim brushing his jeans. You spin, surprising him, arms around his neck, fingers in his hair. His smirk is molten, tugging you flush against him. His hand slides up, cupping your neck, thumb on your jaw, tilting your face.
“Remember how I said I’m not always composed?” he murmurs, rough, thumb tracing your lip. “You’re making it very hard right now.”
“So don’t be,” you grin, batting your lashes, bold, breathless.
Minghao’s eyes darken and he pulls you tighter, the music slowing, sensual. You dance longer, bodies locked, hips grinding. His breath hitches, lips grazing your ear, grip tightening as you arch into him. Your eyes drift away for a second, a tingling sensation needling at you.
Jinwoo is staring, sour as he watches you.
Minghao notices your shift, loosening his grip to follow your line sight. “You okay?” He asks, hand on your back, protective.
“He’s just annoying.”
“Come on,” he says, firm.
Minghao steps away from you but grabs your hand, tugging. He weaves you through the crowd, past Mingyu pouring more shots, past Vernon slumped on the couch. You pass into a study that you immediately can tell is Wonwoo’s, with a desk and vinyl shelves.
He shuts the door, muffling the party, and it’s just you, the faint bass rattling through you, and Minghao, eyes burning.
Ye backs you against the door, hands caging you in. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ever since you started spending time in my Rain Room, you’ve upset the order of my life. I never come to these things, but honestly? The thought you might be here is what made me come.”
Your heart hammers at his candor, at the way his breath ghosts against your lips. “You are entirely distracting,” he mutters. “And I’m so unused to distractions.”
“What about now?”
“Hmm?”
“Am I distracting you now?”
“There is nothing else I would rather focus on right this second.”
Minghao’s eyes flicker, hesitant, like he’s waiting for your signal. You nod, breath lodged in your throat. Then he kisses you, slow and deep, lips commanding. He tastes like sangria and want, lips softer than you could have ever imagined.
His hands grip your hips, spinning you to press your front to the door, his chest warm against your back. He palms your ass, pausing to look at you. You nod, wanting - needing him to keep doing. He lifts your skirt a little, fingers exploring the round shape of your ass.
Minghao mouths at your neck and you go pliant under his touch, eyes closing as you gasp against the door. His tongue laves up and down your neck, eager to taste you as his hands continue to explore before he finally - finally - traces his finger along the line of your underwear.
“Minghao,” you breath, shuddering.
“Yeah?” He asks. “This what you want?”
You nod vigorously against the door. “You’ll tell me to stop? Tell me when you’re uncomfortable?”
“Yes.”
He kisses your shoulder. “Good.”
Minghao hooks a finger in your underwear, pulling them to the side. Cool air hits your heated pussy and you whine. He shushes you, his fingers teasing your folds, spreading your wetness. You gasp, hips bucking back into his hand while you see stars.
His fingers circle your clit, slow, deliberate, drawing a whimper. He catches your mouth as you crane back, kissing you deeply, lips tender but firm, swallowing your sounds. Trapped between the door and his chest, his fingers are sinful, sinking one deep inside, then another, curling against that spot that blurs your vision. The wet squelch is loud, intimate, and he hisses, breath hot.
“Fuck, you’re so greedy for me,” he says, voice rough.
You tremble as he slides in another, curling them, pumping slow and deep. Each stroke is precise, making you pant and go weak at the knees. He sucks at your neck gently, teeth scraping, tongue sweeping. You turn to liquid in his hand, the wet squelch filling the room as he finger fucks you properly, mouth pressed to your temple.
“Come on,” he murmurs, mouth buzzing against your skin. “You got it.”
Your orgasm crashes into you, walls clenching. You cry out, shaking as he works you through it, not stopping until you’re panting and boneless against him.
Minghao removes his hand and turns you toward him, kissing you and pressing the back of your head against the door. The kiss is hungry but controlled. He breaks away, eyes burning as he lifts his hand to lick his finger clean. He hums and it makes you shiver.
“Need a taste.”
You flush. He guides to the desk, swapping aside all of Wonwoo’s things before he helps you jump onto the edge. The wood is cool against your thighs. He drops down to his knees, hands kneading your thighs, squeezing as they tremble.
“You’re so good for me,” He murmurs. “Can you keep being good for me?”
Your head is dizzy with this new dynamic. Somehow, this makes sense. He’s still calm and collected, but you can see the chaos on the edge of him, the way he takes control of the situation - of you.
When you nod, he hums, pleased, and kisses your knee gently.
You lean back, skirt bunched, underwear still pulled to the side. He places wet kisses on your inner thighs, his breath warm and making you squirm. His hands hold you still, firm but gentle as his lips trail higher, each kiss a spark until he looks up at you, eyes fathomless as his tongue dips tentatively against your folds.
A gasp breaks from your lips. He grins, his tongue brushing long, languid licks up your cunt that make your hips twitch. He dives in, lapping, focused and hungry as his tongue circles your clit with slow, wet strokes.
Minghao is relentless, alternating between broad licks and precise flicks. He sucks your aching clit into his mouth, pulling softly with his lips, then harder, until you’re trembling, thighs closing in on either side of his head.
When he pulls back, his lips are wet with your arousal. “Fuck.”
He dives back in, keeping you spread as his tongue dips into your hole playfully, thrusting. His nose brushes against your clit, making you clutch the edges of the desk, sliding down the wall as you fight to stay upright. You reach a hand down, threading your fingers in his hair. He groans, doubling down, the wet sounds of his smacking lips filling the room.
The desk creaks as you shift again, losing control of your ability to remain upright. His tongue flicks faster and you start to peak, healing right for your orgasm. He senses it, increases the way he sucks at you, tongue hungry, perfect.
You shatter.
He drinks you in gently, tongue turning soft and lazy as he licks you through it. You turn oversensitive, pushing at him with a weak moan.
Minghao stands and leans over you, grabbing your chin to plant a wet, messy kiss on your lips. You lick into him, tasting yourself, eager to have his mouth on yours again.
His hands fumble against his jeans, fingers working the button until he’s finally free of them enough to shove them down. Your mouth waters at the sight of his heavy cock bobbing, hard and leaking from just pleasing you, from getting you off twice.
With a few pumps, he’s brushing the tip of his cock through your folds, collecting the wetness there. You moan in tandem, both of you transfixed with the way his shaft slides against you. He lifts your thighs, hooking his forearms behind your knees as he presses the head of his cock into your throbbing entrance.
“Shit,” you gasp as he breaches you, sinking in.
He groans too, easing in, slow and deep until he’s seated, hips pressed flush against yours. He slowly starts to fuck you steadily, each thrust perfect and sending your eyes rolling backward in your head. The desk creaks beneath you, wet sounds filling the room.
“You drive me crazy,” he admits, kissing your neck, teeth crazy. “Glad you disrupted my quiet days, though.”
That makes you whine. You kiss him, messy, nails digging into the side of his neck. He groans and speeds up, dropping a hand to slide between your legs and circle your slippery clit. That makes you moan his name, hips bucking as he sets a faster pace.
“Come for me,” he urges, grinning.
You do, clenching, his name on your lips. His thrusts turn messy until he grits his teeth and follows suit, spilling inside you. He rests his forehead on your neck, panting. Your fingers run through his hair, soothing, grounding for both of you.
“I,” he pants, voice raspy. “Have never fucked someone in a random room like that in my life.”
“Wanted me that bad?”
“You have no idea.” He lifts his head, looking up at you with dark eyes. “I thought you were going to be a nuisance. And then you kept showing up, kept being chipper. Sweet, even. You brought me slushies and asked about my music. You grew on me in a way I didn’t expect.”
“It sounds like you like me.”
He groans as you laugh, teasing him. “I guess, yeah.”
“Well, I for one, am glad I stumbled on that Rain Room.” He hums in agreement, tired. “Now how about you pull up my skirt and take me home to fuck me properly, Minghao. And maybe get a slushie on the way.”
