Synopsis: It starts as joke and have been running between you and Minho for a while — until it isn’t anymore. (2,4k words)
It starts as a joke.
The first time you say it is when he cooks dinner.
You’re sitting at the kitchen counter, chin in your hands, watching him move around and looking annoyingly good doing something as mundane as stirring a pan. His focused, dark brown eyes. The strands of hair falling over his forehead. The sharpness of his jaws. The slope of his nose.
He wipes his hands on a cloth when he’s done. Then slides a plate toward you.
“Eat before it gets cold,” he says without the slightest of zest.
“Thank you, my beautiful, private chef,” you teasingly say.
You pick up the fork, taking a piece of the pan seared salmon and shove it into your mouth. It tastes exactly as it looks. As you expected.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes widen dramatically.
He rolls his eyes immediately. “What.”
“This is amazing,” you gasp, clutching your chest like you’ve just been emotionally wounded by good food.
The compliment doesn’t seem to faze him much as he continues eating his own dinner. Yet he looks just as attractive when he’s eating.
You put your hands under your chin, tilting your head slightly to the side as you dreamily sigh, “You’re hot and good at cooking…”
He only looks at you, unimpressed. And yet, his indifference is the biggest part of his charm.
You lean forward and sweetly say, “Please, marry me.”
He doesn’t even look up from his own plate of dinner. “No.”
Your lips curl into a pout. “No?”
“I already cooked for you. That’s more than enough commitment,” he simply answers and ever so casually, taking a sip of water.
The answer comes out so smoothly, so unexpectedly but at the same time, it’s so Minho. You burst out laughing, completely amused. And ever since, you can’t help but teasing him with the same joke, anticipating what his answer will be.
-
A week later he comes home with a fresh haircut.
You’re on the couch scrolling through your phone when he walks in, casually kicking off his shoes like he didn’t just drastically increase the apartment’s attractiveness level.
It amazes you how Minho losing a few inches of hair makes you stare and feel warm all over.
He notices as he walks to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. “What?”
“You look hot,” you say, biting your lower lip like it would help supress the dirty thoughts forming in your head. “Like… illegally hot.”
“It’s just a haircut,” he says, matter-of-factly.
You wait until he’s sitting on the sofa with you, scooting closer until you’re right there next to him and stare at him all over again with heart in your eyes.
“Gosh, I have the hottest man in the world as my boyfriend,” you sigh, a finger playfully tracing the prominent vein on his arm.
As usual, Minho is unfazed. He’s on his phone, typing on the screen with so much focus. You lean in closer, close enough to place light, little kisses along the side of his jaw and then a final one on the skin behind his ear, catching the hint of his perfume there.
“I’d destroy the world if you married someone else,” you feign seriousness as you whisper into his ear. “So please… marry me.”
That gets him turning his head toward you and stares at you for a long second. Then he shrugs and says, “Sounds like a you problem.”
With that, he turns his focus back on his phone, ignoring the way you pout and glare at him from the side.
But after a while, you smile as you soften around him again. You wrap your arms and legs around him, clinging to him despite him rejecting your playful proposal for the second time.
-
One evening you’re both sprawled on the couch. Minho is lying on his back with a cushion propped under his head and you — you lay on top of him with his muscular chest as your pillow, your legs are tangled with his. His arm wrapped around your back, fingers absentmindedly playing with the end of your hair.
Even doing something mundane like this — just watching a movie, cuddling on the sofa in a contented silence — feels special with him. It really is not about what you’re doing but who you’re doing it with.
You glance up at him and find him so focused on the TV, looking comfortable and warm and frustratingly boyfriend-shaped.
You sigh contentedly and softly call his name, “Minho.”
“Hm.”
“Please marry me.”
He doesn’t even look away from the screen. His tone flat and uninterested as he asks, “Why should I?”
You subtly shrug and say, “So we can do what married people do.”
One hand glides down to the base of your spine, threading his fingers there. He turns his head slightly. “Like what?”
You think about it seriously for a moment, humming in solemn. “We can open joint bank accounts.”
“Terrible idea.”
“Getting a mortgage.”
“Even worse.”
“Buying matching coffins.”
He finally turns fully toward you. “What?”
“So when we die we can be buried next to each other,” you explain matter-of-factly.
He stares at you like he’s reconsidering every life choice that led him here. “You skipped a lot of steps.”
You coyly shrug and grin.
“I’d prefer to be cremated though,” he says, putting both hands on your back now.
“Oh?” You softly gasp, slightly surprised. Then, a second later—
“Oh!” you gasp again, the kind that comes with an idea. A strange, weird idea. “We can have our ashes pressed into diamonds and inherit it to our future children.”
Minho’s lips quirk into a half smirk. “That’s actually a good idea,” he agrees.
You beam and snuggle closer, feeling proud of yourself. You burrow your head into the crook of his neck and softly whisper, “So let’s get married, yeah?”
He pats your head like you’re an overly affectionate cat. “No.”
The proposal isn’t that serious but your head lifts anyway when he rejects you for the third time. “No?”
This time, he looks at you when he says it again. “No.”
“Why not?”
He holds your face with both hands like you’re a fragile object but the answer he gives you is nothing like it. “Cause you’re getting harder to tolerate,” he flatly replies.
Instead of feeling offended, you crack a laugh and bump your nose with his. “I hate you,” you say, affectionately.
“See? Hard to tolerate,” he says, smirking.
But with each rejection, you find yourself falling harder for him. And a tiniest bit of hope that he’ll marry you. For real.
-
The joke continues.
Every time he does something nice.
When he brings you coffee.
“Please marry me.”
When he fixes the loose cabinet door you’ve been ignoring for months.
“Please marry me.”
When he wordlessly hands you a blanket because he noticed you were cold.
“Please marry me.”
His responses are always the same level of unimpressed.
“Unlikely.”
“No thanks.”
“Absolutely not.”
Or his personal favorite:
“I’m not in the mood.”
Even when you’re already tucked in bed, drowsy and tired, ready to sleep. You look at Minho who’s peacefully lying beside you with eyes closed. You lean in to his ear, whisper while half asleep.
“Please marry me, Minho.”
Minho’s eyes snap open and slowly, he turns his head toward you. He gives you a look of disbelief. Then he runs his fingers down your face to force you to close your eyes.
“Go to sleep.”
“But—”
This time, he cuts you off with by pressing a sudden, hard kiss on your lips. When he pulls away, he mutters, “Your proposal has been postponed.”
And you can’t really complaint when he shut you up like that. So instead, you snug closer to him and try to sleep. At the same, you’re already planning on proposing again tomorrow.
-
Weeks pass.
The joke never really stops. It just becomes part of your routine now.
As Minho is busy preparing dinner in the kitchen, you hug him from behind. You wrap your arms around him, resting your head on his shoulder and feeling comforted already by the mere feel of his body against you.
Minho continues cutting ingredients like this is just another Sunday afternoon. The sounds of his knife hitting the cutting board are the only thing filling the silence. Until—
“Please marry me,” you say, voice a little muffled as your mouth pressed to his neck.
Minho sighs but continues cutting the carrot now. “You’ve proposed to me twelve times today.”
You grin and teasingly say, “So?”
He turns his head, looking at you like he’s both impressed and bewildered that you haven’t given up already.
You don’t waver. Instead, you feel encouraged. “Statistically one of them will work eventually,” you confidently say.
He smirks and simply says, “Good luck with that.”
-
One night you come home exhausted. Work had been long and irritating and your brain feels like it’s running on fumes. When you open the apartment door, the smell of food greets you immediately.
Minho stands in the kitchen, the sleeves of his dark sweater rolled up to his elbows, putting too much focus on plating dinner.
Just the sight of him is enough to make the weight of the day vanishes into thin air. “I’m home,” you weakly announce.
“You’re late,” he says without looking up.
You walk up to him, giving him a quick hug while letting out a sigh. Like you’re trying to exhale all the heavy, worried minds out of your head. When you pull away, you offer him a small smile.
“I’m just going to put my bag away and wash up,” you say.
He seems to notice that you’re more exhausted than usual. He gives you a quick kiss on the lips before letting you go.
When you return, he’s already set everything on the dining table and now, filling your glass with red wine. You take your seat, stomach grumbling at the mouth-watering smell of the food in front of you.
It’s when Minho takes his seat, you finally allow yourself to start eating. It feels good to come home to the man you love and eat the food he cooked. You couldn’t be luckier than this.
“Good?” he asks.
You have to stop yourself from shoving more food to properly answer him. “So good,” you say with stuffed cheeks.
He smiles at that, warm and affectionate, before getting back to his own plate of dinner.
At the end of the dinner, you feel so content. Literally. Figuratively. You have a small sip of wine before leaning in to the side until your shoulder meets his and stay there.
You tilt your head, meeting his eyes. “Thank you for dinner,” you genuinely mutter.
Minho puts an arm around your shoulder. “Glad you enjoyed it,” he says, followed with a quick kiss to the top of your head.
You have another sip of wine and feeling playful when you look at him again. Then you hesitantly ask, “Marry me?”
For once, he doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looks back at you. He studies your face for a moment. Then, finally answers, “Okay.”
Wow! That’s a first.
But you know him too well to know that he’s only saying that as a joke, to boost your ego. Or lighten up your mood after a long, tiring day.
“You’re not supposed to say yes. You’re supposed to reject me,” you tell him, half-laughing.
He tilts his head slightly and blinks his eyes a few times. “Well, I changed my mind.”
You can’t tell if he’s being serious now or just messing with you. You nervously laugh and decide to entertain the idea. “Okay, let’s go to the city hall tomorrow and get a marriage certificate.”
“Okay,” he repeats.
Your heart starts beating faster. “You’re joking, right?” you carefully ask.
“I’m not,” his voice is calm. Serious.
Your stomach flips. “Minho…”
The arm around your shoulder feels warm and steady. He looks you in the eyes as he says, “I though you always wanted me to say yes.”
Your brain struggles to catch up. “Wait, are you actually—”
“Yes.”
You sigh, a part of you still struggling to believe this. “Minho, I need to know if you’re serious.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why would I joke about that.”
You stare at him, completely stunned. “But I thought—”
“That it was just a joke?” he finishes.
You nod weakly.
He nonchalantly shrugs. “It started that way. But I thought about it.”
“And?” you whisper.
He looks at you like the answer is obvious. “And I decided I wouldn’t mind doing those things with you.”
Your voice comes out small. “Even the cremated part?”
He sighs like he’s fed up of you doubting his proposal. “If that’s what you want.”
A shaky laugh escapes you, half disbelief and half overwhelming emotion. “You’re really proposing right now?”
“You’re the one who proposed first.”
“That was a joke!”
“And this isn’t.”
The room feels very quiet suddenly. Despite the confusion, the suddenness of this moment, and the fact that it hasn’t sunk into you… your eyes start to sting.
“You’re serious…” you mutter to yourself while laughing in disbelief.
He gently squeezes your shoulder. “Do you want me to ask properly?”
You nod quickly.
He takes a small breath. Then, in the most Minho way possible, he says, “Do you want to marry me so we can open a joint bank account, get a mortgage and have our cremated ashes turn into diamonds?”
You burst into tearful laughter. “Yes. A thousand time yes,” you say immediately.
He nods once, satisfied. “Okay.”
With that, he pulls you into his arms like this was the most normal conversation in the world. That this is not him finally asking you to marry him and said yes to marrying you.
You cling to him, still laughing in disbelief. “Told you, one of them will work eventually,” you mumble into his shoulder.
“I know.”
You tilt your head up, looking at him in love and disbelief that you’ll have your forever with him. “Marry me, Minho,” you softly murmur it’s almost a whisper.
He leans in and places a chaste kiss on your lips. when he pulls away just enough to look at you, he smiles and says, “Already working on it.”
-
Support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!
The immense joy, storm of butterflies in my stomach feeling, ear-to-ear grin this piece brings me is impossible to describe. I love him an unhealthy, not normal amount and I'm so glad I have you Effie to give me this 10/10 deluluness moment everytime I read something about Minho. She's is good at smut, angst, pure bliss moments, second chances, everything.
origamiaround
pixelskylines
jacobvanloon
