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paint me naked

[ S. Mingi ]

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summary: mingi has never let himself fall under the influence of being an alpha. no knotting. no claiming. just paint. colors. grey hues of the smoke from a blunt….. until you moved in across the hall.

warning: soft dom alpha mingi, switch omega reader, masturbation, oral, fingering, overstimulation, unprotected sex, knotting, creampie, dry humping, edging, use of weed

pairing: alpha mingi x omega afab reader

genre: slow burn, omegaverse, romance, smut

word count: 33.4k

masterlist

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The high always hit different when Mingi was painting. The world dulled at the edges, softened under thick curls of smoke that rose from between his fingers as he tilted the blunt lazily to his mouth. His other hand dragged color across canvas, thick black smudged with violet, streaks of rust red slicing through pale grey. His studio reeked of oil paint and resin and burnt cherry kush, like it always did.

Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” crackled softly from the battered vinyl player tucked near the window. The scratch in the record made Freddie’s voice stutter at the edge of every phrase, like even the music was drunk on whatever spell lived in this apartment. Mingi didn’t notice the paint drying on his hands, didn’t notice the ash falling onto his ripped black hoodie. He was somewhere else entirely. High. Focused. Consumed. This was the only way he could create lately. One hit, and he could forget how long it had been since he touched someone. Another, and he could ignore the way his instincts had started clawing at the inside of his ribs.

No mate. No claim. No knotting. He’d never crossed that line. Not once in all his twenty six years had he let himself lose control. He refused to become like the alphas he saw growing up, snarling, territorial, breaking things just to prove they could. He kept that part of himself locked up tight. Smothered it with weed, paint, and music loud enough to drown out the call of his own biology. But all of that shifted the second your scent slipped under his door.

It was barely there at first. A breath. A tease. Something new. Something omega. Mingi froze mid stroke, brush hovering over the canvas. His blunt hung between his lips, forgotten as the faintest curl of pheromones snuck into the air like a whisper. He blinked. The record kept spinning, Freddie belting “Is this the real life” but it felt like everything else had dropped away. His breath hitched in his throat. Slowly, slowly, he turned his head toward the door of his loft, like his body already knew exactly where the scent was coming from.

And fuck, it was good. Warm. Clean. Unmarked. It threaded through the paint fumes like a challenge, delicate but thick enough to make his pulse trip. Something sweet beneath the surface. Fresh laundry and something floral, no, citrus, maybe shampoo? Mingi stumbled back a step from the canvas, the heel of his boot dragging through a pile of crumpled sketches on the floor. No. No no no no. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, dragging it down his face, leaving a streak of blue paint across his cheek as he hissed through his teeth.

“She didn’t even fucking move in yet,” he muttered. But you had. He knew it. He’d heard it earlier, the dragging of boxes, Wooyoung’s voice echoing in the hallway, the slam of a front door. His omega neighbor’s best friend. That was all he’d known. Until now. Until you. And now your scent was in his lungs. His instincts flared like fire beneath his skin, alpha pushing to the surface like it hadn’t in years. Possession curled hot in his chest. His dick twitched behind his jeans, entirely uninvited. The kind of reaction he couldn’t control, not even high.

He reached for the window with shaking fingers, yanking it open, desperate for air. The music was too loud. The smell was too much. But even the wind didn’t help. Because it wasn’t just your scent now. It was the need. And you only just moved in.

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The apartment wasn’t much, but it was yours now. Or at least half yours. A cozy two bedroom tucked at the end of the hall on the fourth floor, brick walls half painted white, plants in the window that definitely weren’t watered consistently enough, and a couch that had seen more than it’s fair share of questionable nights. But it felt like the start of something. You were barefoot on the worn hardwood, hoodie sleeves covering your hands as you unpacked the last of your toiletries into the shared bathroom cabinet. In the kitchen, Wooyoung was sitting cross legged on the counter, grinder in one hand, already rolling a blunt like he hadn’t waited a single second for you to settle in. “I swear to god, Woo, if you ash on my skincare again…”

“You act like your toner’s not gonna survive a little weed love,” he said sweetly, tongue poking the edge of the blunt as he sealed it. “Also, hello? You’re officially moved in. This is a celebration blunt.” You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway, tugging your hoodie sleeve up to stack the last of your meds and perfume on the shelf. “You’ve been alone up here for like seven months. You didn’t go feral or anything, right?” Wooyoung slid off the counter and wandered into the living room, blunt balanced perfectly between his fingers like a ritual. “Nope. But I did run out of people to annoy. And my weed guy said if I kept showing up unannounced, he was gonna start charging me. Rude by the way” he muttered, then brightened. “Anyway. I’m glad you’re here. Like, really.”

You looked up, surprised at the sudden sincerity in his voice. He was already on the couch, knees tucked under him, flicking the lighter. For a moment, the apartment went soft, just the warm glow of string lights, the faint hum of someone’s music two floors down, and the scent of weed curling sweet in the air. “Me too,” you said quietly, crossing the room and flopping down beside him. “Los Angeles feels… better. Like I can actually breathe.” Wooyoung passed you the blunt, eyes soft. “No more assholes trying to force a claim. No more New York alpha drama. You’re here, you’re safe, and you’re with me.” You took a slow hit, letting the smoke warm your lungs, and exhaled with a low hum. “And your hot drug dealer apparently that lives downstairs.”

Wooyoung choked on his laughter. “San is not my dealer. He’s my dealer’s roommate.” He said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “Still…. this place is good. I’ve got you now. And that means no more crying yourself to sleep over your ex and no more being afraid of your own heats.” Your smile faltered just a little. But Wooyoung didn’t push. He leaned his head on your shoulder, warm and safe, the same way he always had when you were both broke college dropouts trying to figure life out in New York.

You didn’t tell him the truth, that your heat was coming soon, that your scent had already started to shift, that the pheromones were getting harder to mask with suppressants. That a part of you was still scared, deep down, of what would happen if you did let an alpha have you again. You didn’t say anything. And you didn’t know that across the hall, your scent had already seeped through old apartment walls and straight into the lungs of the very alpha you hadn’t met yet.

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Mingi tried everything. Windows open. Music louder. A cold shower. Another blunt. A third. Nothing helped. Your scent was everywhere. It had seeped into the hallway hours ago, and now it was inside him, under his skin, in his bloodstream, pulsing in sync with his heartbeat. He stood barefoot in the middle of his loft, hoodie half zipped and hanging off one shoulder, sweat clinging to his neck despite the window breeze. His latest canvas sat untouched, streaked with the angry black lines he’d scratched into it before your scent had knocked him sideways.

He hadn’t painted since. He couldn’t. Instead, he paced. Five steps to the window. Five back. Over and over like he could walk the need out of his system. “She’s just an omega,” he muttered under his breath, fingers twitching. “Just a scent. Nothing more.” But his instincts weren’t buying it. Not when his entire body had been trained since birth to recognize this kind of scent for what it could mean. Compatible. Unclaimed. Close. He should’ve gone downstairs. Grabbed another blunt from Yeosang. Something stronger. Or gone out, anywhere but here. Instead, he grabbed the trash bag by the door, overflowing with torn canvas scraps and ash, and yanked the door open to take it down.

And that’s when he smelled it again. Closer. Lighter this time, a trail curling around the edge of the stairwell. He paused, chest rising. His hands curled tight around the trash bag, and he heard the sound before he saw you. Keys jangling. Quiet footsteps. Your voice, low and grumbling to yourself. “I swear if he locked the car again…” And then you turned the corner. Oversized hoodie. Messy bun. Slippers that barely made a sound as you padded down the hallway, too focused on whatever irritation you were muttering about to notice him. But Mingi noticed.

The way your scent swelled around you like heat waves. The way the bare skin of your thigh peeked beneath the hem of your hoodie. The way your eyes flicked up and locked with his. Everything in him stilled. Your lips parted. Just slightly. Your footsteps slowed. And in that moment, you both stared at each other like you were trying to place a dream you couldn’t quite remember. “Oh,” you said softly. “Hi.” Mingi blinked. Swallowed hard. Said absolutely nothing. He could feel it happening again, his alpha rising, his body reacting like it knew you. Like it recognized you before his brain had even caught up.

His mouth was dry. His jaw ached from how tight it was clenched. He wanted to speak, say something casual, neighborly, anything at all, but his tongue wouldn’t work. You waited another beat, then smiled faintly, like maybe you were used to awkward guys in hallways. “I’m Y/N. Wooyoung’s roommate.” He nodded. Still mute. Still staring. You didn’t push. You just reached past him toward the stairwell. “I left my phone in his car. I was just…. sorry. I didn’t mean to get in your way.” That finally snapped him out of it. He shook his head too fast, stepping back suddenly like you were made of fire. “You’re not. It’s fine. I… I was just….. trash.” Smooth, idiot.

You didn’t comment on the broken sentence. Didn’t say anything about how his voice was deeper than expected, or how he still hadn’t broken eye contact, or how he looked a little wrecked for someone taking out the trash. Instead, you gave him a soft, polite smile, sweet and brief and utterly unaware of the chaos you were causing inside him. “Nice to meet you.” And just like that, you were gone, down the stairs, leaving only the sound of your footsteps and the ghost of your scent trailing behind you. Mingi stood frozen, the trash bag still in his hand, heart pounding in his throat. Then, finally, under his breath, just for himself, “Fuck.”

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Mingi knocked three times, sharper than intended, knuckles tense, head swimming. The door creaked open to reveal Yeosang, as usual, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, black rimmed glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose, unbothered and glowing under purple LED lights. He didn’t even look surprised to see him. “Let me guess,” Yeosang said flatly, stepping aside. “You smelled her? She walked past me earlier and I nearly dropped my bong.” Mingi stepped inside the apartment like it offended him, pacing in a half circle before dragging both hands down his face. “I need something stronger. Like… forget your own name stronger.”

Yeosang raised a brow and sauntered toward the kitchen, where his “garden” glowed soft and green under LED lamps. San was on the couch, headphones around his neck, stretching out in a muscle tank that really had no business being that tight. San barely looked up. “Is this about the pretty omega best friend Woo moved in?” Mingi flinched like he’d been slapped. “You saw her?” San snorted. “Bro. Everyone saw her. Her scent is climbing the walls like ivy.”

Yeosang returned with a mason jar of pale green buds and a tiny dropper bottle. “Try this strain. It’s hybrid heavy. Mix it with two drops of this tincture and you might stop hearing your own heartbeat.” Mingi took it like it was holy. “Do you have anything that’ll also delete what I just said in the hallway?” San smirked. “What did you say?” Mingi hesitated before biting his bottom lip. “Trash. I called myself trash.” There was a beat of silence before San and Yeosang laughed.

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You closed the door behind you and immediately collapsed against it, pressing your palm to your chest like that might slow your pulse. It didn’t. Wooyoung was still on the couch, legs over the armrest, blunt in hand, scrolling on his phone like nothing was happening. You inhaled deeply. And then you grinned. Slowly. Like your body was only just catching up to what just happened. “So…” you started, peeling away from the door and flopping down beside him. Wooyoung arched a brow without looking up. “So?”

“Who’s the big tall hot guy across the hall covered in paint who calls himself trash?” Wooyoung choked at your question, eyes wide. “Wait…. You met Mingi already? That fast?” You laughed, tucking your feet under you. “Is that his name? He just kind of… stood there. All limbs and paint and panic. It was like meeting a cryptid who forgot how words work.” Wooyoung made a noise between a wheeze and a squeal, flailing dramatically. “That man has not spoken to anyone in this building other than San and Yeosang and you got a full sentence out of him?”

“Barely,” you giggled. “But he’s cute. Weird, but cute.” Wooyoung side eyed you like you’d just said you wanted to play hopscotch on a landmine. “Okay, listen to me carefully, Omega to Omega…” You rolled your eyes. “Oh god.” Wooyoung shook his head. “That man is dangerous.” You scoffed, laughing. “He called himself trash, Woo.”

“Exactly. You know what that means?” He leaned in. “It means he’s humble, hot, and emotionally unstable. And that, babe, is a recipe for ruin.” You shrugged, biting back a smile. “Maybe I like ruin.” Wooyoung gasped. “I knew LA was gonna turn you toxic.”

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By the time Mingi made it back upstairs, his hands were full, jar in one pocket, tincture bottle in the other, pre roll tucked behind his ear. He didn’t even bother with music this time. He lit up the blunt before his front door fully shut behind him.The first inhale was sharp. Sweet. Way stronger than usual. It curled down his throat and hit his lungs like heat, dragging a groan out of him as he sank into the overstuffed chair in the corner of his loft. Lights dimmed. Scent still there. Even though you weren’t.

That citrus and summer warmth clung to his hallway, his hoodie, the hoodie he still hadn’t taken off, because you’d looked at him in it. Because it smelled like you now too. He should’ve focused on the weed. Should’ve let it numb everything the way it always did. But his fingers were already twitching. Stained with dried blue and ochre. Reaching for the brush. And that blank canvas near the window? It suddenly looked like a solution.

He stood slowly, knees cracking, and stepped barefoot over discarded rags and old sketchbooks, blunt tucked between his lips as he reached for the easel. He didn’t think. Didn’t plan. He just… moved. Paint bled onto canvas in long, dragging strokes. Deep brown. A flick of gold. The curve of something soft. An edge that felt like a smile. Then the shape of a shoulder, a collarbone. Pale lighting on skin he hadn’t touched but remembered somehow. Time slipped. His mind was somewhere between the hallway and a dream, stuck in the space behind his eyes where your face had settled. The slope of your cheek. That little look of amusement in your eyes when he said he was “trash.” That hoodie that was just a little too short, giving him a glimpse of your thigh he hadn’t stopped thinking about since.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, barely breathing, eyes glazed, brush moving like it was guided by something outside himself. The blunt burned down to the filter and fell into an ashtray. The music didn’t play. The only sound was the soft scrape of bristles and the occasional curse under his breath when your image got too vivid, too clear, too intimate.

Until finally, he stopped. Shoulders tight. Jaw slack. Fingers stained. And in front of him, clear as fucking day, You. Your face. Your body, curled under a blanket, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, eyes half lidded like you had just woken up. Soft light behind you. Lips parted. The portrait wasn’t perfect. It was rough, emotional, primal in a way he didn’t know he was capable of. But it was you. And he had no fucking memory of deciding to paint it. He just stood there, paintbrush still in his hand, chest rising hard and fast, staring at the evidence of his own obsession.

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The basement laundry room always smelled like mildew, dryer sheets, and regret. You weren’t even planning to go down there tonight. You’d just pulled a shirt from your suitcase, only to realize it still reeked of plane air and sadness, and that wasn’t the energy you were bringing into your fresh LA start. So now here you were. One of Wooyoung’s oversized shirts hanging off one shoulder, bare legs chilled by the cement floor, mismatched socks and faded boy shorts visible every time you bent over.

You hadn’t expected anyone else to be there. Least of all him. Mingi looked up from the vending machine just as you turned the corner. Your breath caught in your throat. Shirtless. Paint streaked. Black hat pulled low. Grey sweatpants riding sinfully low on his hips like they’d been worn for three days straight, and judging by the dried smears of orange and red, maybe they had. You hadn’t seen him since the other day in the hall. For a second, neither of you moved.

The hum of the dryer behind him, the flickering fluorescent light above you, it all faded into the background as your eyes locked. You swallowed. Hard. “Hey.” Mingi didn’t answer immediately. His gaze dropped, once, slowly. Shirt. Legs. Bare thighs. Then back to your face like he was trying so hard to be polite and failing miserably. His voice was rough when it came. “Doing laundry?” You blinked. “I… yeah. Shocker, I know.” He huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh, then turned back to the vending machine like it owed him money. “Sorry. That was stupid.”

“I’ve heard worse,” you said, stepping further in. You passed behind him, the scent of him hitting you like heat, smoke, paint, and something darker. Something alpha. Your breath hitched again. Mingi kept his back to you, jaw tense. He reached up to adjust his hat like it would somehow shield him from the fact that he could smell you too, sweet omega pheromones thick in the air, unclaimed and soft, tugging at instincts he had no business listening to. “You’re painting again,” you said, leaning against the counter. “We could smell it. Me and Woo, I mean.”

Mingi’s knuckles went white where he held the vending machine but you didn’t notice. Or maybe you did and didn’t mind. “What’s the new piece?” you asked, casual, like your presence wasn’t making his heart beat hard enough to bruise bone. He turned toward you slowly, eyes darker now under the brim of his hat. “I don’t know yet.” You smiled a little, tilting your head. “Still figuring it out?” He said nothing for a moment and then, almost too soft to catch, “It just… started showing up.”

You arched a brow in curiosity. “What did?” His gaze dropped to your lips. “Her.” Your stomach flipped. Mingi blinked, realization hitting hard, like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. His cheeks flushed, his throat bobbed, and suddenly he was stepping back toward the washer like it might offer him cover from the embarrassment creeping up his neck. You let the silence stretch, the dryer rumbling behind you, his name lingering in your throat but unspoken.

Then, slowly, like you were testing the weight of the moment, you asked, “Is she pretty?” Mingi didn’t look at you this time. Just shoved a few quarters into the machine and muttered, “Yeah…. she’s beautiful.”

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You’d barely gotten two sips into your coffee when Wooyoung dropped the bomb. “Get dressed. We’re going downstairs.” You blinked over your mug, still wrapped in your blanket like a burrito. “Why?” Wooyoung walked past you into your room. “Because I’m doing God’s work,” he said, already in your closet like it was his own, rifling through your clothes with absolutely no shame. “And because you’ve been weird since the laundry room yesterday.” You flushed instantly. “I have not….”

“Babe, you’ve walked into our front door and sniffed the hallway three times this week like it owes you something. You opened your mouth. Closed it. “It smells nice.” He tossed a shirt and shorts at you. “Mmhm. You’re officially meeting San and Yeosang today. Come on.” You frowned. “Now? I look like I’ve been unconscious for nine hours.” Wooyoung rolled his eyes. “You look like the dreamy neighbor every alpha on Tumblr fantasizes about. You’re fine.”

Five minutes later, you were following him down the stairs, heart thudding a little too hard. You’d heard the stories from Wooyoung. San, the quiet alpha who worked at his parent’s restaurant. Yeosang, the impossibly chill beta who ran an indoor grow op and could roll a blunt one handed while judging you silently with his eyebrows. They lived in apartment 2C, the hallway already buzzing faintly with bass and that very specific sweet spicy weed smell.

Wooyoung didn’t knock. He just opened the door and strolled in like he paid rent. You lingered in the doorway until someone turned the corner, and there he was. San. Sweatpants slung low. No shirt. Tattoo peeking out beneath one pec. Arms crossed over a broad chest, and sleepy brown eyes that scanned you once, slow and assessing, before he gave you a lazy smile. “So you’re the girl making Mingi pace like he’s being hunted.”

Your jaw dropped and Wooyoung wheezed. “Oh my god, San!” Yeosang appeared from the kitchen then, cradling a coffee mug and already unimpressed. “You said you’d behave.” Sam grinned, not exactly as quiet as Wooyoung had said. “I am behaving.” Yeosang sighed and walked over to you, offering his mug like a peace treaty. “Welcome to the basement. We grow weed, play Mario Kart at ungodly hours, and bully Mingi for sport. You want coffee?”

You nodded slowly, still stunned, and stepped inside as San moved aside to let you pass, watching with a little too much interest. “You smell better up close.” Yeosang gave him a sharp look. “San.” San shrugged. “What? It’s true.” You turned to Wooyoung. “You brought me into the lion’s den.” He just grinned, flopping dramatically onto their beanbag. “No, babe. I brought you to the stoner circle of trust.” Yeosang raised a brow. “You’re not in the circle. You’re adjacent.”

“You literally gave me a key.” Wooyoung retorted and Yeosang glared at him. “That was an accident.” You were still adjusting to the energy when Yeosang handed you your own mug and tilted his head. “So. You planning to do anything about Mingi?” You choked. “Excuse me?” San popped an orange slice into his mouth. “We’re just wondering. Dude hasn’t shut up since you said, hi, in the hallway. You kinda short circuited his entire nervous system.”

You blinked. “I… he hasn’t even talked to me since… I mean… we kind of talked in the laundry room last night…” Yeosang hummed, thoughtful. “Yeah. That tracks. He’s spiraling.” San laughed. “Hard. He painted you, by the way.” You nearly dropped the mug. “What?” Wooyoung’s eyes went wide. “San!”

“What? She’s gonna find out eventually!” San once again shrugged as Yeosang ighed. “You really are a menace.” But you weren’t listening anymore. Because now you were picturing it, Mingi, shirtless and high, paint on his hands, sketching out your face like it haunted him. And you weren’t sure what was stronger…. The panic… Or the pull.

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Mingi hadn’t planned on staying long. He just needed to grab more tincture, his studio stash was low, and the last two paintings had left him so keyed up he’d accidentally deep cleaned his entire kitchen at 3:00 am. What he didn’t need was the smug look San gave him when he opened the door. “What?” Mingi muttered, stepping inside without a glance. “Nothing,” San said, biting into a slice of mango way too slowly. “Totally normal for you to show up twice in one day. No big deal.” Yeosang didn’t even look up from where he was fiddling with the temperature controls on the grow lights. “You’re early.”

“I just need a refill,” Mingi grumbled, heading toward the kitchen where they kept the jars, because of course these two treated their weed like fine wine. He was halfway to the counter when he heard it. Your laugh. Light. Nervous. Familiar in a way that made something in his chest hitch. “Back door’s open, Woo…. there’s a cross breeze.” Your voice. His body locked up so hard it was like someone had yanked a power cord from the wall. He turned his head, and there you were.

Curled on the end of their massive beanbag, wearing a cropped black shirt and legs bare in the shorts you had on, tucked beneath you, coffee mug in hand like you belonged there. You looked up. Saw him. And smiled. It was soft, like you weren’t trying to startle him. And for a second, he thought maybe this was fine. Maybe he could play it cool. But then he remembered. Laundry room. The painting. Paintings now. Fuck. His brain short circuited so hard he forgot why he came downstairs.

You sat perfectly still, watching him carefully, like you were trying not to spook him. San leaned over with a wicked grin. “Look who came by.” You looked at Mingi. Mingi looked at the wall and cleared his throat. “Didn’t know you’d be here.” Your smile didn’t falter. “Didn’t know you were coming by.” He nodded. You nodded. Everyone stared. Wooyoung, always the tactful one, beside you muttered muttered, “Should we kiss to break the tension or…”

Yeosang rolled his eyes. “Just get your refill and go, Romeo.” Mingi grabbed the jar without looking. His hands were shaking. You could see it. You pretended not to. You also pretended not to notice the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes. And he pretended you didn’t know. Didn’t know about the painting. Didn’t know about the brush strokes he’d dragged across canvas until your mouth was exactly right. Didn’t know that he’d looked at that painting every night for a week, hard and aching and trying not to rut into his mattress like some omega drunk teenager.

You sipped your coffee. “Hope your painting’s going well.” He froze. Then looked up, your eyes met, steady and Mingi swallowed. “It is.” And then, very softly, almost like he regretted it the moment it left his lips, “You looked good in the laundry room.” San choked. Wooyoung dropped his mug. Yeosang blinked. And you? You smiled. Slow. Like a secret. “Thanks,” you said, voice light. “You looked like trash.” Mingi exhaled a laugh, stunned and red to his ears. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That tracks.”

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Wooyoung’s parties were never chill. That was the one thing you should’ve remembered. It had started simple, balloons, cake, a very stoned Yeosang in the corner holding a sparkler like it was a war crime. But somewhere between the third round of Soju Pong and the moment San started pouring shots off his own abs, which you could not unsee, things went from cozy birthday party for Yeosang to crowded.

The apartment was packed. Sweaty. Loud. And you were starting to feel like your skin didn’t quite fit right. You’d already gone to the kitchen twice pretending to be looking for napkins. You’d taken your time lighting the candles. And now, standing in the hallway outside your bathroom while two strangers made out across from your bedroom door, you finally decided, I need out. You didn’t say anything to Wooyoung. He’d notice. Probably tease. Probably shove you into San’s lap and make you drink something neon and toxic.

So you slipped out. No shoes. Oversized old Fall Out Boy shirt and a pair of shorts. You barely got two steps into the hall before the door across from yours opened. And out walked Mingi. Black hoodie. Black sweatpants. Black hat pulled low. He stopped the second he saw you, mid step into the hallway, keys in one hand, blunt in the other, like the universe had sucker punched him. You both froze. Then you gave him a small smile, voice soft. “Hey.” He looked tired. Flushed. Like maybe he’d just finished something that took too much out of him. “Hey,” he echoed, nodding once.

You hesitated, looking back at your door. “Too loud?” he asked, voice rough like he hadn’t used it in hours. You turned back to him. “Too much.” He nodded. “Same.” For a second, there was just silence. Not awkward, just full. Charged. His eyes moved over you like he was checking for something, something he needed to see. And when he didn’t find it, he stepped to the side. “I was just gonna go for a walk,” he said. “Clear my head.” You bit your lip. “Midnight stroll around the apartment complex?” His smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Something like that.”

You didn’t know why you said it. You didn’t plan it. But it slipped out before you could stop yourself. “Want company?” Mingi looked at you, really looked at you for the first time since that day in the laundry room. Since the moment you made him laugh, then called him trash, then walked away like your scent wasn’t still embedded in his pillow. His jaw flexed and he nodded once. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”

You ducked back inside just long enough to grab your sneakers, Wooyoung didn’t even notice, too busy trying to convince Yeosang to take a jello shot from a pool float in the middle of the living room. When you returned to the hallway, Mingi was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He looked like he’d considered leaving without you and then decided he couldn’t. You didn’t say anything. Just gave him a nod and fell into step beside him as he pushed through the stairwell door.

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The world outside the apartment was still and quiet. The air was cool, not cold, just enough to raise goosebumps on your bare legs. Mingi didn’t say anything at first, and neither did you. Your steps echoed down the cracked sidewalk as you walked past the dim lit convenience store, the little corner bodega with it’s metal gate half closed, and the mural someone had tagged across the wall behind the recycling bins. You passed an orange cat sleeping under a busted up moped. Somewhere far off, a car alarm hiccupped and died.

Only then did Mingi speak. “You always this quiet?” You shrugged, shoving your hands into your shorts pockets. “Only when I’m trying not to say the wrong thing.” He glanced sideways at you. “What would the wrong thing be?” You smiled faintly. “I haven’t figured that out yet.” He let out a quiet huff, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Fair.” You walked a little farther in silence. Then you asked, “How long have you been painting?” His eyes flicked upward, like he had to think about it. “Since I was seven.”

You nodded. “That when you got good?” He barked a laugh, quiet, hoarse, real. “No. That’s just when I started. I didn’t get good until I stopped trying to paint for other people.” You turned toward him slightly, curious. “Who were you painting for before?” He hesitated. “Everyone.” You didn’t ask more. Just kept walking. When the silence stretched again, he cleared his throat. “What about you?” You blinked, furrowing your brows. “Me?”

“Why’d you move to LA?” His question made your steps slow just a little. The streetlight overhead buzzed. You looked down at the sidewalk and watched your shadows move beside each other. “Needed a reset,” you said softly. “Too many ghosts in New York.” Mingi nodded, slow. “Alpha?” You gave him a sideways glance and he held your gaze for a moment, then looked away as you sighed. “Yeah.” He didn’t press. Didn’t say sorry. Didn’t say that sucks. Just let it be. It felt… better that way. Real.

You reached the corner of the block and paused at the stop sign, even though no cars were coming. You turned slightly, enough that your shoulder brushed his. “Why don’t you come to Wooyoung’s party he’s throwing for Yeosang?” He scoffed. “You think I’d survive that many omegas in one room?” You snorted. “Fair.” He looked at you, eyes dark beneath the brim of his hat, but they softened when they landed on you. “You like parties?” You shook your head. “Not anymore.”

Mingi watched you. “Why not?” You laughed a little softly.” “Too loud.” He nodded, biting his lip, hands shoving into his pockets. “Mm,” he said. “Same.” The wind picked up slightly. You shivered. His eyes dropped briefly to your bare legs and bare arms before he looked away again like it hurt. “Cold?” he asked, voice low. You shook your head. “Not really.” He let the ghost of a smirk grace his lips. “Liar.” You smiled but he didn’t push again. Instead, you walked a few more steps in silence before you asked quietly, “Do you always paint in sweats and no shirt?”

Mingi froze and you caught the flicker of embarrassment, the flush climbing the back of his neck. Then, finally, he muttered, “No. Sometimes it’s worse.” You laughed, full and warm as he looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with the sound. “Worse how?” He gave you a long look. And then, just above a whisper,

“Sometimes it’s nothing.” You tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and tried to play it off. Mingi didn’t comment. But the smirk now fully tugging at the edge of his mouth said everything.

The walk took you past shuttered storefronts and silent intersections, through the backside of a run down neighborhood playground where a single swing creaked in the breeze. The park was technically closed but Mingi stepped over the low chain like he’d done it a hundred times before, and you followed without question. The grass was dry beneath your shoes, the benches faded with peeling paint, the air thick with quiet and something heavier, want. Mingi stopped near a little hill at the back of the park, one with a half broken jungle gym and a view of the distant skyline through the trees.

He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a blunt. No hesitation. Just instinct. “I always come here when I can’t think,” he murmured. “Do you always bring people with you?” He glanced at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “No.” You smiled as he lit the blunt with one hand, shielding the flame from the wind, then took a slow pull, eyes falling closed just briefly. When he exhaled, the smoke curled upward in lazy spirals. Then, without a word, he handed it to you. Your fingers brushed as you took it. Something about the weight of it felt heavier than expected.

You didn’t speak for a while. Just passed it back and forth between you, the silence not awkward, just full. The world had gone soft around the edges, blurred by smoke and the haze of whatever was building between you. Crickets chirped somewhere nearby. A dog barked in the distance. The chain on the swing clinked once, like punctuation. Halfway through the blunt, your legs were almost touching. You weren’t sure when that started. “Do you ever paint here?” you asked quietly, voice soft with smoke. Mingi exhaled slowly, watching the cloud disappear into the dark. “No. Too much movement.”

“Isn’t that… kind of the point?” You asked and he turned toward you slightly, hat shadowing his eyes. “I only paint things I can’t stop thinking about.” You looked at him then, really looked. His jaw was tense. His lashes were long enough to catch the light. His hand rested just an inch away from your thigh. “And lately?” you asked, heartbeat stupidly loud in your ears, remembering how San had said he painted you. He didn’t answer at first. Just stared out across the park like the grass might tell him what he was allowed to say. Then, slowly, he turned to you. Eyes darker now. “Lately I’ve been painting a lot of skin.”

You bit your lip. He noticed. And looked away as you passed the blunt back to him. He took it with fingers just a little too careful, like he was afraid of brushing yours again. “You ever get high while you paint?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light. He huffed a laugh. “Almost always.” You bit your lip again to hold back a smirk. “That why you called yourself trash in the hallway?” He groaned, dropping his head back to look at the sky. “Fuck.” You smiled, letting your head tip to the side, studying him in the soft orange wash of the nearest streetlamp. “I liked it,” you said. “Made you seem real.”

That stopped him. He turned to you, blinking slowly. “You think I’m not?” You shrugged, lazy and high and bold now. “You paint like someone who sees the world in pieces. It’s kind of nice knowing you’re just a guy who forgets how to talk when someone says hi in a laundry room.” He laughed, real and warm, looking at you. For too long. And you looked right back. The air changed. Thickened. You could feel the smoke in your lungs and something else in your blood. The scent of him, resin, smoke, and that deeper alpha edge, wrapped around your senses like a hug you didn’t ask for but didn’t want to leave.

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You didn’t talk about going anywhere. No “do you want to,” no “should we.” Just an easy shift in momentum. One minute you were finishing the last drag in the park, the next you were walking along the edge of the quiet street, sneakers scuffing pavement, stomachs grumbling softly between shared glances and lazy smiles. It was Mingi who mumbled it first, voice low and hoarse, “Kinda hungry.” You looked up at him, eyes red from the high and hooded. “Same.” He nodded toward the corner. “There’s a diner a couple blocks down. Open all night. Feels like it hasn’t changed since the ‘80s.” You smiled. “That sounds perfect.”

The place was a neon miracle, flickering sign buzzing over the door, plastic lettering on the windows advertising, BURGERS, MILKSHAKES, OPEN LATE, and a couple of cracked stools at the counter that no one ever seemed to sit in. It was empty, except for a half asleep waitress reading a paperback and an old man at the far end nursing what looked like his fourth cup of black coffee. The two of you slipped into a booth near the back, cracked red vinyl, sticky table, and that comforting smell of fries and maple syrup that somehow made you feel safe.

Mingi sat across from you, hat still on, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the paint on his hands finally starting to fade but not gone. You tried not to stare at the veins in his forearms or the way his ringed fingers drummed softly against the menu. He blinked at the laminated chaos in front of him. “Why does this have seven full pages?” You grinned, flipping to the omelets. “Because this place has pancakes, steak, and shrimp scampi all on the same menu, and that’s the kind of unhinged late night energy we live for.” He snorted. “I want everything.”

You pointed at the greasiest possible thing. “You want the hangover special.” Mingi shook his head, eying you. “I’m not hungover.” You smirked. “You will be. From all that brooding.” That got a quiet laugh out of him, low and genuine as the waitress shuffled over, barely looking up as she slid two waters onto the table and pulled a pencil from behind her ear. “Y’all ready?” Mingi looked at you, silently asking, you good? You nodded. “One order of pancakes. And hashbrowns. With cheese. And hot sauce.” She grunted and scribbled as Mingi leaned forward. “Double cheeseburger. Fries. Milkshake. Vanilla. Extra whipped cream.” You blinked at him. “That’s a very confident order.”

He laughed. “I’m a man of conviction.” You snorted, teasing him. “You paint in sweatpants and forget how to talk when people say hi.” Mingi hated that he was blushing. “I said trash. That’s poetic.” You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the grin pulling at your lips. When the waitress walked away, you both slumped into the booth a little deeper. The lights above buzzed softly. The whole world felt quiet. Slowed. Like the universe had taken a breath and forgot to exhale. Mingi was watching you again. You felt it before you saw it, glancing up and caught him, eyes a little glazed from the high, but focused, warm, like he was trying to memorize something. You tilted your head. “What?”

He blinked. Looked away. Then, quieter than before, “Just thinking.” You waited. But he didn’t elaborate. So instead, you reached for the water, took a slow sip, and let the silence stretch between you like a blanket. Not awkward. Not even heavy. Just comfortable. Somewhere on the other side of the diner, the old man coughed into his sleeve. A truck rolled by outside. And across the table, Mingi looked like a boy who’d never let anyone sit this close to him before.

The food came fast. Hot, greasy, piled high. Pancakes the size of your face. Hashbrowns with actual personality. Mingi’s burger dripping cheese onto the wax paper liner, vanilla milkshake with a mountain of whipped cream already melting at the edges. You were halfway through your plate when it finally slipped out. “So why Los Angeles?” Mingi didn’t answer right away. He picked at a fry. Dipped it in the milkshake. Ate it without looking at you. “grew up in Busan,” he said eventually, voice low. “Not a lot of room for weird kids who paint too much and don’t like following rules.” You stayed quiet, watching the way his eyes drifted to the edge of the table like he was tracing old memories into the woodgrain. “I tried Seoul for a while. Didn’t work. Too much noise. Too many people trying to tell you what your art should be.”

You nodded slowly, chewing, letting him have the space. “So I left,” he said simply. “LA made more sense. Fewer questions. More quiet. And… Yeosang was already here.” You smiled faintly. “So you followed the plug.” Mingi snorted. “Basically.” You took another bite of pancake. Washed it down with your water. You could feel him watching you again, like he could tell you were holding something. He didn’t ask. Didn’t push. But you answered anyway. I left New York because I thought I was in love with someone who wanted to own me.” Mingi blinked. His hand froze halfway to his shake but you didn’t look at him when you said it. Just kept cutting your pancakes slowly, like if you focused hard enough on breakfast food, the words wouldn’t taste like acid in your throat.

“He was older. Smart. Charming. And he made me think that was love, being protected, being provided for, being someone’s.” You paused. Swallowed. Mingi didn’t breathe. “But it wasn’t that. It was control. He didn’t want a partner. He wanted a thing. Something soft and obedient and his.” You finally looked up and Mingi was staring at you, jaw tight, knuckles white on the edge of the table. You tried to smile. It didn’t really land. “Wooyoung flew out to pack my shit and drag me back here when I finally said it out loud.”

“Did he ever…” Mingi started, voice sharp, but stopped. You shook your head. “No. Not physically. But it was close. Too close.” Silence hung between you for a moment, thick with smoke and syrup and old wounds. Then Mingi said, softly, “I’m glad you left.” You blinked, staring at him, heart racing. “I’m glad you’re here,” he added, quieter. This time your smile landed as you reached over and stole one of his fries without asking. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t even blink. Just dipped one in the shake and handed it over.

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The walk back was quiet. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… quiet. The kind of quiet that only exists between two people who’ve told each other something real. Mingi’s hoodie sleeves were pulled over his hands, head low under the shadow of his hat. You walked beside him, the music from your apartment grew louder the closer you got, Wooyoung’s party still in full swing, laughter and bass echoing down the hallway. Someone was yelling about karaoke. Someone else was clearly losing a game of drunken Uno. Mingi paused outside his door. So did you.

He looked at your door across the hall, then back at you. You didn’t move. The two of you just… stood there. The hallway light flickered once, soft and sputtering like even the building didn’t want to interrupt. He cleared his throat, voice rough. “You sure you wanna go back in there?” You glanced toward the party. Then back at him. “Not really.” He nodded. Didn’t say anything else as you looked up at him, barely a step between you. The hallway suddenly felt too narrow, the air too still. You could smell him now. Smoke and clean cotton and something warmer, sharper beneath it. Alpha. Undeniable. Your stomach flipped as you looked at his door.

“Are you… going in?” Mingi’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Just for a second. Then his eyes closed, like he needed to reset his entire system. “I should,” he murmured. You nodded. “But you’re not.” He breathed out a laugh. “No.” You didn’t move. Neither did he. The silence stretched until it felt like it might snap. You both looked at each other. And it was right there, the moment. Hanging in the air between your mouths like a held breath. He could lean in. You could reach. But neither of you did. You just smiled. Small. Soft. Devastating.

“Thanks for letting me walk with you.” His voice cracked when he answered. “Yeah. Anytime.” You nodded once, eyes flicking to his lips. Then slowly, you turned, stepped backward toward your door. Still facing him. Still smiling. You reached for the handle, pausing when the music spiked behind it. Then you said, like an afterthought, “Don’t paint tonight.” He blinked. “Why?” You shrugged, stepping into the doorway. “Because I’ll know.” And then you were gone. Door closing softly behind you. Leaving Mingi standing in the hallway with a heart that suddenly ached to be touched and hands that didn’t know what to do with themselves anymore.

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The cafe was small. Cozy. Smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso. You and Wooyoung had taken the corner booth, half for privacy, half because it was closest to the outlet and his phone was always on 12%. You were scrolling job listings, lip tucked between your teeth, laptop open in front of you, the screen glowing with phrases like “admin assistant,” “barista experience preferred,” and “health insurance after 90 days.” You weren’t even reading them. Not really. Your mind was somewhere else entirely.

Wooyoung was watching you over the top of his drink, something cold, pastel, and probably illegal in six states. He hadn’t said anything yet, but you could feel the questions building behind his eyes like a thunderstorm. “You’ve been weird since Saturday.” You didn’t look up. “I’m always weird.” He squinted at you. “No, like… Weird weird. Mentally not here. Not anywhere. Like your soul is still sitting in the hallway staring at Mingi’s lips.” That got your attention. You lowered your screen an inch. “What?”

“You disappeared from the party. Came back all glassy eyed and soft spoken. I heard the front door, Y/N. Don’t play dumb.” You rolled your eyes. “We just walked. And talked. And… he bought me pancakes.” Wooyoung snorted. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re so far gone the alpha fed you. You’re already nesting emotionally and you don’t even know it.” You narrowed your eyes. “It was just a walk.” Wooyoung gave you a look. The kind of best friend look that said, girl, I have seen you ruin omegas and alphas for less. “You like him.”

You went back to scrolling. “You like him,” he sing songed. “I like being around him,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. “He’s… quiet. Safe. Real.” Wooyoung grinned. “And hot.” You rolled your eyes, not denying it. “He listens. He doesn’t push. He’s not… trying to take anything from me.” Wooyoung leaned back, lips twitching into a grin. “So you like like him.” You dragged your hands down your face. “It doesn’t matter.” He scoffed. “It super matters.” You looked at him, exasperated. “Woo, I’m unemployed, I’m emotionally recovering from an almost mate, and I’m living in a shared apartment with my best friend who puts chili flakes in his cereal.”

“Bold of you to assume that’s not delicious.” You rolled your eyes at him. “I can’t fall for a guy who paints like I’m inside his head and then pretends like he doesn’t know I know.” Wooyoung blinked. “Wait… he still doesn’t know you know?” You stared at your coffee cup. “Nope.” He gasped, over dramatically. “Oh my god! Oh my god, Y/N.” You closed your laptop and buried your face in your hands. “He painted you. Like full body, brush to canvas, mused up, haunted alpha art boy vibes. And you’re just sitting here acting like you didn’t watch him watch you like you invented the moon.” You groaned as Wooyoung was now halfway through composing your wedding vows. “You need to tell him.” You peeked out between your fingers. “What if he freaks?”

“What if he doesn’t? What if he’s just waiting for you to say something because he thinks you’ll freak?” You blinked and he raised a brow. “Ugh,” you muttered, dropping your head to the table. Wooyoung patted your head. “You’ve got Mingi brain,” he said. “It’s terminal. Sorry, babe.”

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Mingi liked the art store on Melrose because no one bothered him there. No weird stares. No pretentious art bros. No one asking what he was working on or if he had an Instagram. Just aisles of canvas, racks of sketchbooks, the thick smell of paper and pigment, and rows of acrylics that always left him feeling weirdly calm. Today he needed brushes. And more of that one red, the one he only used for skin, specifically lips, specifically…. He didn’t finish that thought. Just grabbed the tube, tossed it in the basket with a new angled detail brush, some black oil pastels, and a big bottle of varnish he’d probably forget to use.

He checked out, paid in cash like always, hoodie sleeves tugged down over his hands, hat low. Everything was fine. Until he stepped out the front door. And walked right into you. Literally. Your shoulder bumped his chest and he immediately stepped back like he’d been electrocuted. “Oh… shit….. sorry…” You looked up. And froze. So did he. Mingi’s heart punched his ribs once, then stuttered, hard. You were wearing a sheer white long sleeved top with a white bralette for show underneath, and your cheeks were slightly flushed from the wind. Your hair was a little messy. You looked like a memory he hadn’t painted yet.

Wooyoung was standing beside you, sunglasses on despite being in the shade, sipping something aggressively green. “Well,” he said, after a beat. “If it isn’t the ghost of emotionally repressed alphas past.” You coughed a laugh into your sleeve. Mingi blinked. “I… uh. Wasn’t expecting to see anyone.” Wooyoung arched a brow at him. “You came to a store,” he replied dryly. “They tend to attract people.” You elbowed him, still smiling as Mingi stared at you like he couldn’t figure out how this was real. Like he’d dreamed up this moment and now he was trying to catch up to it being actually happening.

“Hi,” you said finally, voice softer than expected. “Hey,” he echoed, shifting the little bag in his hand like it weighed ten pounds. Wooyoung was watching everything. The silence. The awkward shuffle. The fact that Mingi hadn’t looked at anyone but you. “You buying stuff for a new piece?” you asked, nodding toward the bag. Mingi cleared his throat. “Yeah. Sort of.” You smiled at him, looking up to meet his gaze. “What’s it about?” He looked down at you for one long, agonizing second. “Still figuring it out.”

Wooyoung, sipping loudly. “Bet it’s got legs in it.” You turned bright red as Mingi made a sound like a laugh and a choke had a baby. “I’m gonna go,” he said, taking a slow step back. “Don’t be a stranger, neighbor!” Wooyoung sing songed as you waved, still pink cheeked. And Mingi? He walked down the sidewalk with his ears hot, bag of paint supplies clutched in one hand, the memory of your scent, and your smile, burned into him like pigment on raw canvas.

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The blunt was half gone before Mingi even noticed he’d lit it. He was sitting on the floor of his living room , back against the wall, bag of art supplies discarded at his side like evidence. Paint tubes rolling out onto the wood floor. Brushes still in plastic. The second he’d stepped through the door, he knew there was no chance he was getting through the night without putting brush to canvas. Not after seeing you. Not after the way you said, hi, like you hadn’t been echoing in his head for the last couple of weeks. Not after the way your eyes lingered just a second too long. He bit his lip, pulling his grey sweats up, shirtless, hat tossed somewhere behind him. His hair was a mess. His lips stained pink from the blunt. Eyes glassy. Hands twitchy.

Fleetwood Mac hummed low from the Bluetooth speaker behind him, “Can you hear me calling out your name…” He pulled a fresh canvas from the stack. Didn’t even prep it. Didn’t even mix the colors like he usually did. Just uncapped that new tube of red. The one he’d bought knowing damn well it was your mouth. The one he hadn’t let himself open, until now. He pressed the brush into it. Dragged a line. Then another. He wasn’t thinking anymore. Wasn’t planning. Wasn’t even painting from memory. He was painting from feeling. From the ghost of your presence still clinging to the inside of his ribcage.

From the sharp buzz in his spine when your arm brushed his chest outside the store. From the way your lips curved when you said his name. By the time the chorus hit, “I want to be with you everywhere” he was on his knees in front of the canvas, high and flushed and lost in it. He painted your hand first. Just your fingers. Not perfect. But familiar. Then the edge of your jaw. Then the slope of your throat, where his eyes had accidentally lingered when you laughed at Wooyoung’s dig.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling until the brush slipped from his grip. “Shit…” he muttered, shaking it off, wiping his stained fingers on his sweatpants. The blunt was nearly out. The room smelled like weed and varnish and need. He sat back on his heels, breathing harder than he meant to, staring at the half finished piece in front of him. Your mouth wasn’t on the canvas yet. He hadn’t gotten that far. But he knew… once he painted your lips again, it was over. He’d never stop.

Fleetwood Mac was still playing when he heard it. He was on his knees in front of the canvas, brush dripping red onto the drop cloth, blunt still smoldering in the ashtray by his knee. The only sound had been Stevie Nicks floating through the speaker, “I want to be with you everywhere…” Until the hallway erupted. A thud. A hiss of words. Wooyoung’s voice, high and sharp. Then a growl. A low, unfamiliar growl that prickled the hair on the back of Mingi’s neck. He froze, brush hovering in midair. Another sound, this time your voice. Low. Angry. Not afraid. Angry. The kind of anger that carries years in it.

He was already moving before he realized he’d stood up. The brush clattered to the floor, red streaking across the wood. He wiped his hands on his sweatpants out of habit but left smears of paint on his thighs anyway. His heart was hammering. He could feel the shift in the air, the pheromones, alpha, omega, beta, all tangled, but one stood out. Not yours. Not Wooyoung’s. A stranger’s. A male alpha’s. Mingi’s instincts slammed into him like a wave. He yanked open the door. The hallway was chaos.

Wooyoung had his back to the wall, palms out, chest heaving, eyes flicking between you and the man pinning him there. The stranger, tall, broad, blonde, jaw clenched, reeked of aggression. His scent was sour with adrenaline, pushing at the walls like it owned the place. His arm was braced across Wooyoung’s chest. The other hand reaching toward you. And you… You weren’t crying. You weren’t cowering. You were glaring. Shoving at the alpha’s shoulder, voice sharp. “Get your hands off him and get the hell out, Alec. I told you we’re done.”

Mingi’s vision tunneled. Everything he’d been holding back, the weed, the quiet, the slow burn, the self control he’d trained for years to keep, cracked straight down the middle. His scent hit the hall before he even realized he’d released it. Dark. Heavy. Alpha. “Let go,” Mingi said, voice low. Alec turned slightly, still gripping Wooyoung. “This isn’t your business…” Mingi stepped forward once. The floor seemed to vibrate under it. “I said,” his voice dropped, a growl threading through it like thunder “let. Go.”

Wooyoung shoved against the arm pinning him just as Alex hesitated, eyes flicking up at Mingi, scent faltering. The taller alpha took a step closer, head low, paint still streaked across his bare chest and hands like war paint, eyes gone dark. “You don’t touch her,” Mingi said and your eyes widened as Alec sneered, but his grip on Wooyoung loosened. “Who the hell do you….” Mingi closed the distance. He didn’t shove. Didn’t strike. Just stood there, his chest a breath away from Alec’s, shoulders squared, scent flooding the hall like a warning. “Let. Him. Go.” Alec’s instincts flickered. He stepped back just enough for Wooyoung to slip free and scurry behind you.

Mingi’s eyes stayed locked on the him. His hands flexed at his sides, still streaked with red paint like blood. “Leave,” he said quietly. “Right now.” For a second, no one moved. Then Alec looked at you, eyes narrowing. “We’re not finished.” You glared at him. “Yes, we are.” Mingi shifted instantly, just enough to put himself between you and Alec without even thinking about it. Alec’s nostrils flared at the new scent dynamic in the hall. Something in him finally faltered as he backed up.

Mingi stayed where he was, muscles coiled, watching until Alec turned and stalked toward the elevator. The doors closed leaving you in silence. Fleetwood Mac was still faintly audible through Mingi’s open door. “Thunder only happens when it’s raining…” You were breathing hard. Wooyoung had a hand on your arm, wide eyed but unhurt. And Mingi was still standing there, chest rising and falling, paint on his hands, his scent still thick in the hall like a storm cloud. Slowly, he turned his head toward you. “Are you okay?” he asked. His voice was still low. Still dangerous. But softer now. For you.

You just stood there, heart thudding behind your ribs like it was trying to break out. Wooyoung had moved back into the doorway of your apartment, watching carefully but staying quiet for once. But your eyes? They were on Mingi. He stood just a few feet away, chest rising slow, scent thick around him like smoke and thunder. His skin gleamed with a sheen of sweat, paint streaked across his arms, his chest and hands like blood. His hair was messy with streaks of paint, his jaw clenched tight, lips parted like he was still mid growl.

And his scent, god, his scent. Dark. Protective. Possessive in a way that wasn’t yours but made your omega ache like it was. You weren’t afraid. You weren’t overwhelmed. But you were ruined. And you were trying, so hard, not to show it as you swallowed around the lump in your throat and took a slow step toward him. “Hey,” you said quietly. Mingi’s eyes flicked up, locking with yours. “Thank you.” He didn’t respond right away. Just stared at you like he was trying to memorize your entire face. The sharpness in his shoulders didn’t fade, not fully, but something in his expression softened, just a fraction.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you added, voice lower now. “But you did.” His lips parted. You could see the struggle in his eyes. The part of him that wanted to say something, anything, touch you, and the part that was still shaking with restraint. “You were in danger,” he said finally, voice like gravel. “Of course I did.” And then he shifted forward just slightly, just enough that your senses screamed with proximity. His scent hit you hard. Like the heat of a fire that hadn’t caught you yet, but was close enough to warm your skin. Your omega flared so fast it scared you.

Everything in your body screamed closer. Your knees went soft. Your heart stuttered. You could feel the pulse between your thighs kick like it knew he was there, this alpha, this wild, beautiful thing who had bared his teeth for you. You forced your voice to stay even. “You okay?” You repeated his same question right back to him. He blinked. “You’re asking me that?” he said, jaw tight. You nodded once. “Yeah. I am.” His throat bobbed. “I’m fine.” Liar. He was shaking. You wanted to reach out. Grab his wrist. Press your palm to his chest and feel the drumbeat of his heart.

But instead, you swallowed the heat rising in your throat and said, “You smell like paint.” He huffed a tiny laugh that made you smile. The moment stretched. Behind you, Wooyoung slowly, quietly, slipped back into your apartment and shut the door with a soft click. Leaving just the two of you in the hallway. Alone. Scent thick. Emotions thicker. You shifted slightly. Closer. Just enough that you were almost touching. And when you spoke again, your voice was barely more than a whisper. “I’m glad it was you.”

Mingi’s breath hitched. And for one second, just one, you saw it… The instinct flicker across his face. To reach for you. To claim. To take. But he didn’t. He turned his head, jaw clenched, chest heaving once like he was forcing it down as you took a step back. Just enough to let him breathe. “Goodnight, Mingi,” you said gently. And then, before he could stop you, you turned and walked back into your apartment. Door clicking shut behind you. Leaving him in the hallway…. High. Haunted. And hurting with the need to make you his.

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It was just supposed to be a normal night. Mingi had picked up dinner, headphones in, hoodie pulled tight around his frame, brain quiet for the first time in days. No music. No paint. Just stillness. He turned the corner of the hallway like he always did, groceries in one hand, keys in the other, and didn’t notice anything at first. Until he did. Until he stopped cold halfway down the hall. And breathed in. Once. Then again. And again. His entire body froze. The keys in his hand went slack, almost falling. His bag hit his thigh as his grip slipped. His eyes snapped to the apartment door across from his.

Your door. And then he felt it. That ripple of instinct down his spine. Low. Deep. Dark. Mingi’s nostrils flared, chest tightening. His eyes fluttered closed and the breath he took this time was not slow. It was desperate. And the scent was unmistakable. Sweet. Warm. Sticky and soft and drenched in omega pheromones. But not just any omega. You. It was your heat. Your first heat since you moved in. Your heat, seeping through the crack under the door, curling down the hall like a hand curling into a fist, and punching him directly in the chest.

The bag fell from his hand. The keys hit the floor with a metallic clatter. Mingi staggered back a step. “Fuck…” he whispered, jaw tightening. His scent reacted instantly, pushing into the hallway, unintentional, dark and unfiltered. He slammed it back down, teeth clenched so tight it made his jaw pop. He blinked hard, trying to pull back, trying to breathe around it. But it was everywhere. His heart was pounding. His dick was hardening without permission. His entire body reached. He turned away from your door like it had burned him. Shoved his key into his own lock, missing twice before jamming it home.

Got the door open. Grabbed his stuff off the floor. Slammed it shut. Locked it. Leaned back against it, breathing like he’d run a marathon. His hand fisted the front of his hoodie. Your name pressed against the back of his teeth. His alpha was clawing at the surface. Every cell in his body screaming go to her. He was shaking. “Not mine,” he whispered. “She’s not mine. She didn’t ask.” But your scent…. Your fucking scent… It knew him. And now that he’d breathed it in, tasted it on the air, felt it coat the inside of his lungs? There was no going back.

He stood there for a second, forehead pressed to the cool wood of his door, trying to get his lungs to work. He could still smell you. Through the door. Through the walls. Through everything. His hands shook as he went for the tray on his coffee table. He ground up twice as much as usual, fingers clumsy, then rolled two blunts back to back with paint still smudged across his knuckles. The lighter sparked on the first try. He lit one. Deep pull. Hold. Exhale.

The room filled with smoke quick, grey clouds curling up to the ceiling, hazing the air until it smelled like resin and ash instead of you. He lit the second. Another long drag. Another cloud. The speaker in the corner played low Fleetwood Mac, but it was muffled now, as if even the music was holding its breath. He walked to the window and shoved it shut. Stuffed a towel under the crack of the door. Turned the bathroom fan on full blast. Hotboxed the entire apartment until his eyes burned.

Didn’t matter. He could still smell you. Sweet and sharp and ripe, curling under the smoke like a whisper against his skin. Every drag he took only made it worse, the weed lifting the edges of his control, making his senses sharper instead of duller. His dick throbbed against the waistband of his sweats, his alpha a low growl in his chest. “Stop,” he hissed to himself, pacing. “She didn’t ask. She’s not yours.” He repeated it like a mantra. Another drag. Another exhale. Smoke clung to his hair, his clothes, his hands.

Your heat clung harder. He sat down hard on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His breathing was ragged now, every inhale catching on a sound that was almost a whine. He’d never felt anything like this. Never been inside an apartment with an omega this close, this unshielded, scent spilling out like a storm, hitting every nerve in his body. His alpha instincts were pounding against his ribs like fists. Go to her. Go to her. Go to her. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing another drag, trying to bury it all under smoke.

He tried. He really tried. With the blinds drawn and the smoke thick, Mingi stripped down to nothing, skin already flushed, chest rising and falling in sharp, heavy breaths as he dropped back onto his bed. His hand wrapped around his dick, already hard and aching from the second he walked in the apartment. He closed his eyes, dragged his fist slow up the shaft, jaw clenched. But it wasn’t enough. Not even close. Your scent was seared into him now, laced into the air and his bloodstream, honeyed and sharp and fuck, it was driving him insane. Every time he stroked himself, it felt like edging on a scream. His other hand fisted the sheets, hips arching off the mattress, but the orgasm stayed just out of reach. Every inhale made it worse. Every drag of his palm was frustration.

He groaned, cursing out loud, throwing his arm over his face. His dick throbbed against his stomach, untouched now, angry and red and leaking. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he hissed, biting down hard on his knuckles. He couldn’t finish. Not like this. Not without you. And that was when it hit him. He got up, still fully naked, sweat glistening across his broad chest, and stumbled into the corner of the apartment where his easel stood waiting like a secret. His palette already had dried streaks on it, his brushes soaking in the jar of water he hadn’t changed in two days. He didn’t care. He grabbed a blank canvas and pinned it to the wall.

He didn’t sketch. He didn’t plan. He just painted. Fingers first, wet streaks of burnt umber and crimson across white. Then brush strokes, wild and wide. He dipped into blacks, deep violets, the tiniest bit of gold. Paint smeared across his chest, up his forearms, streaked his jawline as he worked, naked, high, hard, and utterly lost. He didn’t think. Didn’t stop. His alpha was silent now, watching from the inside, slack jawed. Because Mingi was painting you again. The way he saw you, not like he’d memorized, not like the girl in the oversized shirt at the laundry room or across the hallway at night.

No. He painted the ache. You, half in shadows. Your bare legs folded beneath you. Your mouth open, gasping. Head thrown back, hand on your chest, hair wild, back arched… He stepped back, chest heaving, dick still painfully stiff. He dropped the brush. And whispered your name.

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The apartment was dim. All the blinds drawn, the faint hum of the fridge the only sound. You were curled on the couch in one of Wooyoung’s hoodies, knees up, head tipped back, every nerve in your body burning. Your heat had never been like this. Never this strong. Never this sharp. Never this impossible to ignore. Wooyoung crouched down in front of you, trying for casual but his eyes worried. “Babe,” he said softly, “I’m gonna run to the store. You need anything? Water? Ice cream? A small exorcism?” You managed a tiny shake of your head. “No,” you croaked, your voice a thread. “Just… go. Please.”

He hesitated, studying you, nostrils flaring faintly at the scent rolling off you. Then he gave a short nod, squeezed your knee once, and got to his feet. “Lock the door behind me, okay? I’ll be back fast.” The door clicked shut. The silence hit you like a weight. You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to breathe around the heat. You’d been through bad heats, but this was something else entirely. You were slick, aching, trembling under the hoodie. Your thighs pressed together automatically, trying to soothe the pulsing between them.

And then you smelled it. Not your own scent. Not Wooyoung’s soap or the coffee on the counter. Him. It slid under the door like smoke. Thick and dark and warm, curling into the apartment, wrapping around your senses. The scent of resin, paint, and something distinctly alpha, something you’d been trying not to think about since the hallway. Mingi. You gasped, hips rocking involuntarily. Your omega instincts surged, drowning out thought. Your body went hot and soft and needy all at once, clenching around nothing.

You pushed the hoodie up over your hips with shaking hands, slipping one down between your thighs. Slick met your fingers instantly, hot and wet and so much. You dragged a circle around your clit, desperate for release, hips arching off the couch. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close. You tried harder, biting your lip to keep from moaning his name. The ache only grew, deep and unbearable, your muscles trembling as you rubbed yourself harder, faster, chasing an orgasm that refused to come. Because you could smell him. Because your omega knew he was there. Because every nerve in your body was screaming alpha and your fingers weren’t him.

You dropped your head back with a strangled noise, tears stinging your eyes from frustration. Your thighs shook, your breath hitched, and still, nothing. Just more ache, more slick, more need. “Mingi…” you whispered, not even realizing you’d said it out loud. The sound of his name in the empty apartment made your whole body shudder. And across the hall, the scent of his alpha rolled in heavier, like an answer you weren’t supposed to get. You buried your face in the couch cushion, hips grinding helplessly against your palm, every cell of your body begging, please, please, please. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The apartment was too small, too hot, too full of your own scent. Every nerve in your body felt stretched, trembling. Your slick fingers had done nothing but make the ache worse. And Mingi’s scent, resin and weed and dark, heavy alpha was rolling through the crack under the door like a tide, curling around your brain until you were shaking. Your omega stopped whispering. It started screaming. Go to him. Before you could think yourself out of it, you were on your feet. Thighs slick and trembling, barefoot on the cold floor. You unlocked your door, opened it, stepped into the hall. The cool air made you shiver, but it didn’t clear your head.

You crossed to his door. Raised your hand. Knocked. Once. Twice. Nothing. Your pulse thundered in your ears. You pressed your forehead to the doorframe, eyes squeezed shut, heat scent spilling around you like an invitation. Please. Inside, you heard a sound, the faint sound of Sunshine Of Your Love by Cream playing, the scrape of feet against hardwood, a low curse. A pause. Then the click of a lock turning. The door opened a crack. Then wider. Mingi stood there. Barefoot. Hair messy, eyes dark and glassy. His chest was bare, paint smudged across his collarbones and down his arms. The only thing covering him was a grey throw blanket wrapped low around his hips, barely clinging, leaving a stripe of skin from his navel down to his V line.

He stared at you like he wasn’t sure you were real. You stared back, your breath hitching, your scent curling up into the doorway like smoke. Neither of you spoke. Mingi’s nostrils flared once, twice. His knuckles whitened on the edge of the door. His alpha pushed against his control so hard you could feel it, a low growl caught in his throat. “You’re in heat,” he said finally, voice a rasp. You swallowed hard. “Yeah.” His eyes flicked down, then back up. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I can’t….” Your voice broke. “I can’t stop.” His jaw clenched. The blanket shifted against his hips as he moved, like he might step back or forward, you couldn’t tell which. He exhaled, shaky. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” You took a small step closer to the threshold, eyes locked on his. “I do. I know exactly where I am.” The scent between you swelled, heavy and electric. His alpha and your omega circling, testing, pulling. Mingi’s fingers twitched on the doorframe. “If I let you in,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, “I don’t know if I can stop.”

You met his gaze, pupils blown wide. “Then don’t.” For a long moment he didn’t move. Then, very slowly, his grip on the door relaxed. His other hand came up, braced against the frame just over your head, and he leaned down until you could feel his breath on your face, weed and paint and alpha heat, one heartbeat away from touching. “Say it,” he whispered. You trembled under him, eyes fluttering shut. “Let me in.” The blanket slid an inch lower. And Mingi stepped back, just enough to open the door wider.

He shouldn’t have opened the door. His entire body was trembling under the blanket, the one thing keeping him from completely giving in to the wildfire crawling under his skin. He’d tried everything, hotboxing the apartment, jerking off, even painting with your scent in his lungs like perfume, but none of it worked. And then you knocked. You. Hair mussed, pupils blown, standing in your oversized hoodie, bare legs glistening from the heat that dripped off you like honey. Omega. His omega. He knew it the second your scent hit him. Not just heat. You.

Now you were standing inside his doorway, and he was drowning. You stepped inside, and the door shut behind you with a soft click that felt like a gunshot. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I know this is…. I shouldn’t have come.” But he didn’t move away. He couldn’t. “Why did you?” he asked. You looked up, lashes fluttering. “Because I didn’t want anyone else. I only…. I can smell you. Everywhere.” His throat worked as he swallowed, hand clenching at his side. “You’re… you’re in deep. You shouldn’t be thinking.”

“I am thinking,” you snapped, desperate. “And all I can think about is you.” Your eyes flicked downward, to the blanket barely hanging on his hips. His whole body tensed. You could barely focus. He was taller than you remembered. Wilder. Messier. Hair damp against his forehead, paint smeared across his chest and down his arms, some of it dried, some still tacky. And he was naked. The throw blanket barely covered anything. Your eyes dragged down his torso, broad shoulders, sculpted chest, thick arms streaked with crimson and ochre, the sharp lines of his V disappearing under the grey knit.

You felt yourself clench at the sight. You’d never been this deep in heat before. Never felt your body ache like this. But it wasn’t just that. It was him. Even before the scent, before the high, before the door, it was always him. Mingi was staring at you like you might disappear as you whispered, “Can I touch you?” He didn’t answer right away, but he didn’t stop you. So you stepped forward, slow, one breath at a time. You reached out, fingers grazing the paint on his forearm. His skin burned beneath it. “Paint,” you murmured, your voice floating. “You’re always covered in it.”

Mingi’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t even know I was painting you.” You froze, eyes lifting. “What?” His lips parted like he might take it back. Too late. “I didn’t mean to. After you moved in. The hall. That night. After the laundry room. I got high and I…. I started sketching, and it just… came out.” You stared at him, mouth dry as he shook his head. “And then I couldn’t stop.” You blinked up at him, wide eyed and dazed. He thought you might yell, maybe laugh. But you didn’t. You just stepped closer. And then your hand landed on his chest. Right over his heart and his whole body stilled. “Still beating,” you said softly.

His breath hitched. “Barely.” The blanket slipped. Only an inch. But it was enough for you both to look down. Mingi’s dick was already hard, had been, and now it was curving beneath the blanket, thick, long and heavy against his thigh, flushed red at the tip. Your eyes widened, your scent spiked, and Mingi felt his knees buckle. “Shit,” he breathed. “Don’t look at me like that.” Your voice came out breathless. “Like what?” He closed his eyes, inhaling your scent. “Like you want me to lose control.” You licked your lips. And smiled. You were already soaked. Already aching. Already feral. You didn’t need to be touched, you just needed him.

The moment you smiled, he moved. One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripped your waist, and suddenly you were pressed to the wall of his apartment, your feet barely catching up. Mingi’s mouth ghosted over yours, his scent thick with warning. “You sure?” he asked. Your hands were already tugging the blanket free. “Please.” He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I’m not gonna fuck you through your heat. Not tonight.” You whimpered. “Why not?” His mouth pressed to your throat. “Because,” he whispered, voice a growl, “the first time I fuck you, it’s not gonna be because you’re desperate.”

You were shaking, breathless, your body pressed to his bare chest. “But I am desperate,” you gasped as his tongue flicked over your neck. “I know,” he murmured, mouth against your skin. “Let me take care of you.” You were shaking. Not out of fear. No, never that. It was need, pure, primal, overwhelming need. Yourscent was so thick in the air he could taste it, warm and sweet, like peaches soaked in honey and moonlight. Your thighs trembled against his palms, and your breath hitched when he kissed your neck again, right over the place a claiming mark would go.

But he wouldn’t. Not tonight. He couldn’t. Still, fuck, he had to taste you. He dropped to his knees before he even registered the movement. Fell to them like he was praying. Your hands gripped his shoulders like you thought you might fall too, and maybe you would. He wanted that. Wanted you to melt for him. “Gonna take care of you,” he whispered, nose brushing along the inside of her thigh. “Let me.” You nodded. You whimpered. You whispered his name like it was the only word you knew. And Mingi exhaled right against your core.

You didn’t know how you were still standing. Your back was to the wall, your hoodie bunched beneath your arms, Mingi on his knees before you, eyes dark, lips parted, hair wild and sweat damp. He looked up at you like he was starving. And you were the feast. You whimpered again as he spread your legs wider, his broad hands pushing up the backs of your thighs. One strong arm slid under each leg and then, fuck, he lifted. Your legs draped over his shoulders, and the wall held you in place. He was so strong. So effortlessly strong. Then you felt him nose at your inner thigh again, the faintest trace of stubble making your skin twitch.

He kissed just beside your clothed center. Then again. And again. “Please,” you breathed. “Need to taste,” he growled. The drag of your panties to the side. The rush of cool air. The heat of his tongue. It was addictive. You were soaked. His tongue slid between your folds and he nearly choked on the scent. The taste. The heat. His dick twitched hard against his thigh, but he ignored it. This was about you. His mouth was relentless, tongue thrusting into you, then flattening against your clit, then retreating, teasing, making you gasp before he gave you more.

You were whimpering above him, thighs clenching around his head, hips bucking forward, trying to chase more friction. He moaned into your pussy, grinding his tongue deeper. One of your hands tangled in his hair. The other pressed flat to the wall as if that was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. “You taste…. fuck, baby,” he mumbled against you. “You taste like….. fucking perfect.” Your heat scent flared at the praise, thick and wet and sharp with need. And that was when Mingi groaned. Loud. Needy. Wrecked. Because your slick was coating his chin and he hadn’t even gotten his fingers involved yet.

He was everywhere.You could barely breathe. Your legs were trembling, mouth open in a silent cry, hips jerking uncontrollably as Mingi licked into you like he was trying to memorize you with his tongue. Every time he moaned, you clenched. Every time you moaned, he sucked harder.

It was a vicious, blissful cycle. Your heat made everything too much, his scent, his mouth, the burn of your arousal in your belly. You were climbing fast. Too fast. “I’m gonna…. Mingi, I’m gonna…”

His voice was wrecked, half mumbled into your cunt. “Come on, baby. Want it. Let me taste.” And then his mouth sealed around your clit, tongue flicking just right, just once and you broke. Eyes squeezed shut, thighs tightening, pussy gushing into his mouth as the orgasm ripped through you like fire. You would’ve fallen if he hadn’t been holding you up. You would’ve cried if he didn’t keep licking, softer now, coaxing you down. You sagged into his shoulders. And he just held you there.

He was high. On weed. On slick. On scent. On you. He didn’t even realize he was rutting against the floor until his hips stilled, dick leaking against the blanket still half around his waist. But he didn’t care. Not if it meant he got to hear that sound again. The sound you made when you came for him, shaky, gasping, a broken little “Mingi” in the air like you weren’t sure if you were thanking him or begging him to do it again. He nuzzled against your core, one last kiss over your clit. And then slowly, gently, he eased your legs off his shoulders.

You were still panting, hands in his hair, eyes glassy with heat. “You okay?” he asked, voice low, thumb brushing your thigh. You nodded. Your omega wanted to drag him up by the hair. Wanted to pull the blanket off. Wanted to feel him split you open, knot you, fill you until you couldn’t think. You reached for him, voice breaking, “Mingi… please. Need you…” His hands tightened on your thighs. His forehead dropped to your stomach, eyes squeezed shut. He exhaled a shaky breath, paint and sweat and your scent all over his skin. “I can’t,” he rasped.

You whimpered, hips rolling against his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair. “Please…” He pulled back just enough to look up at you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, but there was still a line of control in them, taut as wire. “Not like this,” he said, voice low but firm. “Not when you’re in heat and not thinking clear.” Your breath hitched, your omega keened in frustration, but somewhere in the haze his words landed. A promise. A restraint that made your body shudder harder than his tongue had.

He brushed a thumb across your inner thigh, soothing. “Let me take care of you like this. Let me get you off, keep you safe, get you through it.” He kissed the inside of your knee, slow and reverent, then nuzzled back between your thighs. “When you’re lucid,” he murmured against your skin, “when you look at me and tell me you want it, then I’ll give you everything. Not before.” You shuddered, torn between wanting to scream and wanting to cry. His tongue stroked you again, gentle now, coaxing another tremor out of you while his words wrapped around you like a tether, keeping you from slipping under completely. And for the first time in your heat, even as your body ached for him, some small, clear part of you breathed. He wasn’t going to take what you didn’t ask for. He was going to wait.

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Mingi didn’t remember walking you to his bed. Didn’t remember how the blanket slipped off his hips to let his dick throb free. He only remembered the feeling of your skin under his hands, warm, flushed, slick with need. You were trembling, eyes glassy but locked on his face like you were terrified he’d disappear if you blinked. His mattress creaked beneath both your weight, the sheets already damp where your back met them. One leg was curled up, the other draped over his shoulder as he knelt on the floor between your thighs, forearms braced on the edge of the bed like he was praying. He wasn’t sure if he was.

You were completely bare now. You’d dropped the hoodie on the way from the living room and when he’d knelt to kiss your stomach again, you’d whimpered and begged him to take it all off. So he did. Slowly. Letting you rise up on shaking limbs just enough for him to tug it over your head and toss it to the floor. You were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And he’d painted a lot of beautiful things. Your skin glowed under the dim orange light of his lava lamp. Your fingers dug into the blanket, hips canting upward, scent curling around his brain like incense. Staining his sheets.

He pressed a kiss to your thigh. Then another. Then another, closer now, slower, until you were panting. “Still okay?” he murmured, voice hoarse. You nodded fast. “Please…” God. You were going to wreck him. You didn’t know how you were still breathing. Every nerve felt molten. Your skin was too hot, every inhale tinged with Mingi’s scent. He was kneeling between your legs like some wild, paint smeared dream, lips glistening, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to his forehead. But he didn’t move to climb onto the bed. Didn’t rut against your thigh or force himself inside you like your omega wanted him to.

He just looked at you. Like he could memorize you. “Oh my god,” you gasped. His tongue was back, soft at first, just a long, slow lick through your folds that made you jerk. He grunted softly and held your thighs open, mouth latching to your clit with a gentleness that almost made you cry. “Mingi…” You curled forward, fingers tangling in his hair. “Feels so good…” He hummed low, the sound vibrating against you. One hand slid up your stomach, pushing gently against your belly to hold you down as he flicked his tongue, steady and sure, like he knew exactly how to touch you now. Like you were a song he’d already learned the chords to.

His other hand moved lower, two fingers sliding through your slick, circling your entrance but not pressing in. Not yet. You whimpered, desperate. “Want them?” he asked softly, pulling back just enough to press a kiss to your clit. “Need my fingers?” You nodded, frantic. “Please… need….. need something…” He grinned, eyes heavy lidded. “Yeah? You gonna come all over them for me?” You moaned, legs shaking as he slid two fingers inside. You were so fucking wet. His fingers disappeared inside you like you were made to take them. He curled them carefully, watching the way your back arched, the way your head dropped back into the pillow with a gasp.

You clenched around him instantly. So tight. He didn’t move at first. Just let you feel it, his mouth back on your clit, tongue slow, fingers buried deep. His dick ached, throbbing, but he didn’t care. This wasn’t about that. This was about you. Taking care of you. He thrust his fingers slow and deep, curling them again and again, adding rhythm as your moans turned broken. He watched your stomach tremble, your nipples pebble, watched you lose yourself in it. Watched you fall apart.

You came fast, heat making you hypersensitive, your walls fluttering around his fingers as he moaned into your pussy. You tried to squirm away, overwhelmed, but he only sucked harder, riding it out, giving you everything he could without losing control. And when you finally collapsed, twitching and panting and soaked, he slowly pulled back. His lips were wet with you. His chin streaked with slick. His dick was leaking and he didn’t even move to touch it. Instead, he crawled up beside you and pulled you into his chest, painting stained fingers stroking gently down your spine.

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You wake up first. Your thighs are sticky. Your body’s sore in a way that’s not unpleasant, but everything is overheated, skin flushed, mouth dry, muscles still clenching around the ghost of his fingers, his mouth. The scent of paint and Mingi and weed hangs heavy in the room. It wraps around you like a second blanket. The sheets beneath your back are tangled, one of Mingi’s arms still draped lazily over your middle, palm open like he fell asleep mid caress. And god, he looks beautiful like this. Hair a mess. Bottom lip pouty and swollen. One leg hiked up over the comforter, he had boxers on now, slung low, hint of his hipbone on full display. You lie there for a second, drinking him in. Remembering everything, his mouth between your legs, his voice in your ear, his restraint.

He didn’t knot you. Didn’t even fuck you. But it still felt more intimate than anything you’ve had before. Which is maybe why you quietly slip out of bed. Mingi doesn’t wake up. You’re halfway across his apartment before your knees threaten to give out again, the ache between your legs enough to make you wince. You reach for the couch to steady yourself and that’s when you see it. The painting. Your breath stutters. It’s big, probably three feet tall, propped against the far wall, half hidden behind a crate of canvases. You know it’s you. There’s no mistaking it.

Your body, laid out like a fever dream in lavender and amber tones, one arm flung over your head, your shirt barely covering your breasts, a flush over your chest, and the shadow of your panties where they curve over your hips. Something that’s never happened other than inside Mingi’s imagination. Your mouth’s parted. Your eyes are closed. And it’s you, but softer, more reverent. Like someone looked at you while you weren’t looking and memorized you. Your chest aches. You reach out, fingertips brushing the edge of the canvas like touching it might make it disappear.

“You weren’t supposed to see any of them.” The voice is hoarse, sleep rough. You turn around. Mingi is standing behind you, bare feet on the hardwood, hair messy, eyes heavy lidded but watchful. The moment hangs suspended between you like smoke. “I was gonna ask you,” he says softly, “if I could show you.” You don’t say anything. You just walk over to him and place a hand against his chest, warm and solid beneath your palm. His scent is stronger now, more grounded as you look up at him.

Mingi’s heart stumbles. He barely slept. Not because of you, well, no. Definitely because of you. Because you were so soft, curled up in his bed with his hand between your thighs, moaning his name, trembling in his arms. And now you’re standing in front of him in nothing but that hoodie again, looking up at him like that, like you still want more. He’s not made of stone. But before he can say anything, before he can even think….. BANG BANG BANG. “Mingi!” a voice yells from the other side of the door. “Hey, bro…. uh, sorry if you’re asleep but…. is Y/N with you? I swear to god if she….. Y/N?!”

Your eyes go wide. Wooyoung. “Oh my god.” You groan. “He’s gonna kill me.” Mingi just sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair. “It’s fine. Just…. breathe.” Another loud knock. “You’re not answering! I swear if you’re both dead…. Mingi, open up!” You scramble for your phone still in your hoodie pocket where you forgot it. Twenty seven missed messages.”Y/N!” Wooyoung again, but this time his voice sounds worried. “Please just say something…. I don’t care if you’re… just say you’re okay.” You press your forehead to the door. “I’m okay,” you call out gently. “I’ll be out in a second.”

Ten minutes later, Mingi opens the door for you, you step forward, rising up on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you,” you whisper. “For last night. For not taking advantage.” He flinches like you struck him. “I would never.” You nod. “I know.” And then you slip out the door, across the hall, where Wooyoung is pacing barefoot in pajama pants and a hoodie of his own, phone in one hand and an energy drink in the other. He scowls at you, then grabs you in a hug so hard you can’t breathe. Mingi just watches from his doorway. His hand brushes his cheek where your lips touched him. His boxers are still half lowered, your scent still thick in the air, his painting of you catching the sunlight behind him. He’s completely and utterly fucked.

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The tiny café was warm with steam and bustle, tucked just off a side street where old locals argued over backgammon and university students hovered over laptops. A mix of garlic, broth, and fresh brewed barley tea filled the air. You sat in the corner booth by the window, stirring the lukewarm broth of your spicy tofu stew without much enthusiasm. The table between you and Wooyoung was cluttered, two bowls, three side plates, a crumpled napkin Wooyoung had used to blow his nose after the gochugaru hit too hard. He was watching you. Too quietly. You didn’t even look up. “Say it.” He blinked, feigning innocence. “Say what?”

“The question you’ve been sitting on for fifteen minutes.” Wooyoung leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, tongue poking the inside of his cheek. Then he pounced. “Okay, so just to clarify,” he said, voice rising with every syllable, “you disappeared during your heat, and I find out that you spent the entire night in Mingi’s apartment… You winced. “Keep your voice down.” Wooyoung ignored that. “and you’re sitting here trying to eat tofu like you didn’t get absolutely railed by that hot alpha who smells like sandalwood and smoke and paint and regret?”

You lowered your spoon slowly. “I didn’t get railed.” Wooyoung blinked. Once. Twice. “You’re kidding.” You shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “Nope.” Wooyoung scoffed. “You’re lying. You’re lying to my face right now in this holy place where kimchi jjigae was born.” You let your head fall into your hand, dragging it down your face with a groan as Wooyoung narrowed his eyes as he realized you actually weren’t lying. “What the fuck do you mean you didn’t fuck him?”

People were looking. You hissed, “Can you not yell the word fuck in the middle of the restaurant.” Wooyoung dropped his voice… barely. “How?! You were in heat. And he’s an alpha. And you’ve both been making goo goo eyes at each other for weeks.” Your lips pressed together. His eyes narrowed. “Oh my god. You tried. Didn’t you?” You picked at your rice. “You did go over there?” he asked, softer now, knowing that yes you did, but clearly not understanding your intentions. You nodded, slowly. “In what, exactly?” he asked, squinting.

“My hoodie…. And… just my panties” Your answer made his hand smack the table. “GOD IS REAL.” You rolled your eyes. “So you were basically presenting yourself to him like a fucking gift basket, and he… wait. He turned you down?” You finally looked up, gaze meeting his. “Not exactly,” you said. “He….. Got me through the worst of it. With his mouth. And hands.” Wooyoung froze. “He went down on you?” he asked, eyes wide. “Like… alpha down?” You gave a tight nod. “And didn’t ask for anything back?” Another nod. “He didn’t knot you?”

Wooyoung slowly pushed his soup away like it had suddenly lost all meaning. “That man is either a gentleman or a menace in disguise.” You laughed, quiet and quick. It wasn’t funny, really. Not the ache still curling in your belly. Not the memory of Mingi’s mouth on you. Not the way he pulled back when you begged for more. “I told him I wanted more. That I needed him. And he said he wouldn’t fuck me while I wasn’t in my right mind. That he didn’t want my heat making the choice for me.”

Wooyoung went quiet again. This time, not in shock. But something closer to awe. “That’s either the hottest thing I’ve ever heard,” he finally muttered, “or the most frustrating.” You shrugged. “Maybe both.” He took a sip of his drink, then jabbed his chopsticks toward you. “Okay. But real talk. Are you into him? Like…. really into him?” Your heart gave a little twitch. You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Wooyoung leaned back in his seat with a sigh and a dramatic shake of his head. “Damn. You really are down bad for paint boy.” You smiled, just barely, and said nothing. Because yeah. You were. And now? It was too late to pretend otherwise.

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The hallway smelled like someone’s neighbor was making kimchi jjigae or burning incense. Maybe both. It had been a long day of job hunting, your tote bag hung heavy off your shoulder, sneakers scuffing the concrete as you trudged toward your apartment, unlocking the door with a sigh. You were still a little raw. Emotionally. Physically. Since your heat passed, you hadn’t seen Mingi. Not once. Not in the hallway. Not outside. Not even that flicker of sandalwood and turpentine on the breeze. He was gone. Or maybe just avoiding you. Either way, it stung.

You pushed the door open to your shared apartment and immediately…. Oh! Warm. That was your first thought. The air was… hot. Thick. Then the scent hit you. Alpha. Omega. Heat. “Oh my god!” You barely had time to kick the door shut before your eyes locked onto the couch. Wooyoung shirtless, flushed, panting, and thoroughly wrecked, was straddling San’s lap like his life depended on it, both of them half naked, half lost, like they hadn’t even heard the door open. “ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!”

San’s head whipped around, sweat in his hair, lips parted. He blinked once. “Shit.” Wooyoung didn’t stop moving. “Lock the door behind you.” You gaped. “YOU’RE IN HEAT?” Wooyoung gasped, bouncing slightly harder now. “It snuck up on me!” San did not look remotely sorry. He just grabbed Wooyoung’s hips tighter and groaned against his throat, “He literally launched himself at me. I wasn’t about to let him hit the floor.” You stared. “You’re feral. Both of you.”

Wooyoung groaned, biting his lip, trying, and failing, to meet your eyes as he rode his alpha like the world was ending. “Can you come back in, like, thirty minutes?” You turned around. “Can you not fuck on shared furniture!” San panted. “We put a towel down.” You turned around and walked back out the apartment, slamming the door behind you. You needed air. You needed peace. You needed somewhere that didn’t smell like sweat and slick and Wooyoung’s perfume bottle exploded.

Which is how you ended up knocking twice on the door of San and Yeosang’s apartment. Blessedly, the door was unlocked. You stepped in, already announcing yourself. “Hey, I’m crashing here. Don’t care what’s going on. You’ll get no questions from me as….” You froze. Because sitting in the middle of the living room, completely relaxed, was Mingi. Black basketball shorts hanging low on his hips.

Paint stains on his hands, even though he hadn’t been painting. A blunt clipped to Yeosang’s glass bong, which he was currently passing like a seasoned veteran. And nothing but a loose, open flannel over his chest, no shirt underneath.

He looked up. Paused. Eyes locking on you, mouth parted, chest rising with a slow inhale as Yeosang snorted smoke. “Hey. Couch is yours. We’re high as balls.” You nodded, heart now racing. “Yeah, I can see that,” you mumbled, already regretting your outfit, fitted leggings and an oversized tee that did nothing to hide how flustered you were. Mingi blinked a few times, as if trying to process whether this was real or just a hallucination. Then he shifted, spreading his legs a little wider on the floor, one hand resting on his thigh, the other pushing the bong toward Yeosang. You squinted at him, tone teasing a little. “You live here now?” Yeosang grinned. “He just wandered in. Like a large, very stoned stray cat.”

You kicked your shoes off and flopped onto the armchair, deliberately avoiding eye contact with Mingi. He didn’t need to know how wrecked you were from the last time you saw him, or how hard it was not to think about his mouth when your body was still remembering it. But then… you caught him glancing. Not just a glance. A slow, flickering look, one that slid from your face down to your thighs, lingering too long at the way your legs were tucked beneath you. His throat moved as he swallowed.

Then he looked away quickly. Like he hadn’t just thought about that night. Like he wasn’t already half hard in those shorts.

Yeosang, completely oblivious, held the bong out to you. “Want a hit?” You took it with a muttered thanks and inhaled deep, trying to calm your nerves. If Wooyoung was going to act like a whole unhinged omega in heat, the least the universe could do was give you a break. But then Mingi stood. And stretched. Long torso. Wide shoulders. Every inch of skin on display. The flannel slipped off one shoulder as he walked into the kitchen for a water bottle, his shorts hanging dangerously low. You nearly choked on the smoke. Yeosang reached over to pat your back. “You okay?” You coughed. “Peachy.”

Mingi returned, bottle cracked open, that slow stoner grin on his face. “Rough day?” he asked. You didn’t even blink. “Wooyoung was in heat. San was helping. On our couch.” Mingi’s eyebrows went up. “Oh.” He paused a moment as if hesitating before saying, “I was about to head back to my place,” he said casually, reaching for his phone. “Get dressed. There’s an exhibit downtown. Opens in a couple hours. Gallery’s doing this whole night time thing with DJs and food trucks and rooftop views.” Your brows lifted. “Sounds… very LA.”

“It is.” His smile curled, eyes catching yours. “You should come.” Your heart jumped as you stared at him, trying to read his face, whether this was him being polite, friendly, or something else entirely. “I mean,” he added, stretching again, “you probably need a distraction. And you did walk in here like a feral raccoon.” You rolled your eyes, biting your lip to not smile. “Fine. I’ll come. But only if there’s tacos.” Mingi grinned. “There’s always tacos.”

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The door shut behind you with a soft click, and thank god, San and Wooyoung had finally migrated to Woo’s bedroom. The scent of slick and alpha still hung faint in the air, but you shoved it out of your mind. You had bigger things to worry about. Like the fact that Mingi had just invited you to an actual art exhibit downtown. What the fuck were you supposed to wear to that? Something casual? Something cool? Something that didn’t scream “I nearly fucked you during my heat and now I’m pretending to be totally fine?” Your closet didn’t have a category for that. But then your fingers brushed over a hanger tucked in the back, a skirt.

Black with golden suns, moons, constellations, and phoenixes soaring across it in shimmering thread. Thigh high slit. Dangerous. Magical. You grabbed a black top and tied it at the waist. When you checked the mirror, you tilted your head. Okay… this worked. Kind of witchy, kind of sexy, kind of you. You looked like the kind of girl an artist might paint. Your heart thudded in your chest. You didn’t expect the knock just five minutes later. And when you opened the door…. Mingi. In a loose charcoal button up, half open over a white tank top, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair still a little damp from the shower, hair falling soft against his forehead. Silver rings on his fingers, bracelets peeking from under one sleeve, and a faint hint of his cologne mixing with fresh laundry and paint.

And the way he looked at you? He blinked once. Twice. Lips parting slightly. “Damn.” You raised an eyebrow. “Too much?” He huffed a short laugh, looking you up and down slowly. “Nah. You look like… you belong in a mural or something.” You smiled. “You trying to say I look like art?” His gaze darkened, tongue gliding across his bottom lip. “I’m saying if you were up on a wall, people would stare too long.”

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You expected an Uber. Or maybe to walk down with him, catch the train, something casual. What you didn’t expect was to follow him to the curb and see that. A black 1970 SS Chevelle. All sleek chrome and muscle, matte black rims. “You have a car?” Mingi didn’t even look back at first, just smirked as he opened the driver’s side door. “I mean. Not like I ride it often.” You scoffed, nodding your head. “No shit,” you muttered, still stunned. “You own a literal sex machine on wheels and it just… what? Sits there?” He glanced over the top of the roof. “Didn’t really have anywhere to go before.” You didn’t have a comeback for that. Not with the way he was looking at you.

When he stepped around and opened your door, because apparently he does that, you just stared at him a beat longer, heart thudding. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, sliding into the worn leather seat. He shut the door with a deep thump and walked around to the driver’s side again. Once he got in and started the car, the engine rumbled. Deep, throaty, primal. The kind of sound that sent a little vibration right through your spine. “Of course it sounds like that,” you muttered, throwing him a look. “You probably painted flames on the engine too.” He laughed, low, amused, and turned the wheel with one ringed hand, pulling out onto the street like he’d done this exact drive in his head a thousand times. You tried not to stare at his forearms. You failed. Of course you did.

You don’t talk for the first few minutes. Not because you don’t want to. Just because you’re still recovering from the car reveal. The sound of it. The feel of it. The fact that Mingi, your stoned, paint splattered, bare chested neighbor, owns this gorgeous, sexy, absolutely illegal sounding machine and drives it like he’s not aware that it turns heads at every intersection. You finally tear your eyes away from the soft leather interior and glance over, his hand resting lazily at the top of the wheel, chain around his neck catching in the warm LA sun bleeding through the window.

“Alright,” you say, leaning back in your seat. “Real question time.” He grins but doesn’t look away from the road. “Okay, shoot.” You return his grin. “What was your first painting?” The question makes him laugh as he remembers. “First canvas was my mom’s white kitchen wall. Got my ass beat for that one.” You laugh. “Okay, but now she brags about your art, right?” He smirks. “She keeps a framed photo of that wall in her wallet. Like it’s my first exhibition or something.”

“Cute,” you hum, then glance sideways again. “How old are you, anyway?” He shoots you a look before moving his gaze back to the road. “Twenty six, You?” You watch him, smiling. “Twenty three.” He nods, one hand tapping the beat of whatever lofi jazz is humming softly through the speakers. “You feel older.” You raise a brow. “That a compliment or….” He shrugs. “I don’t know…. It’s a vibe. You’re not like most omegas I’ve met.” You try not to react at that. Try not to let your heart pick up at the casual way he says omega like it doesn’t scare him. Like it doesn’t immediately reduce you to heat cycles and broken instincts like it does with most alphas.

You shift in your seat instead. “So. You gonna ask me something now?” He thinks for a moment, then says, “Have you seen him again?” You blink. “Who?” You ask even though you have a feeling who he’s talking about before he says it. “Your ex,” he says, still not looking at you, voice quieter now. “Since that day. In the hallway.” Your heart twinges, just slightly. You lean your head against the window, watching the city blur past. “No. Haven’t seen him since.” Mingi’s fingers tighten just a little on the wheel. You keep going, voice flat but honest. “I don’t know why he even followed me to LA. I moved here to start over. He wasn’t supposed to know where I went. But… he always finds a way.”

Silence follows. The sound of the engine hums low beneath it, comforting somehow. You turn to glance at Mingi, expecting judgment, maybe, or curiosity, but he’s just watching the road. And then he says, softly, “He won’t bother you again.” It’s not a promise. It’s a fact. Like he already decided it. You swallow once, then nod. “Thanks for that night.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he replies. “He was fucking lucky it was me that opened that door.” Something hot coils low in your stomach. Not fear. Not even desire. Just… safety. But you don’t say that. Instead, you smirk. “Alright, now I need to know what music you think fits this car best.” He grins now. “Fleetwood Mac. Specifically The Chain.” You clutch your chest. “Okay, yeah, respectfully? You’re hot.” He laughs so hard the car wobbles a little in its lane.

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The exhibit is in an industrial loft building with exposed brick and glass walls that gleam under gallery lighting. It’s the kind of place that smells like old books, wet paint, and ambition. People speak in hushed tones, holding thin glasses of wine like they’re props in a play neither of you were invited to. But Mingi looks right here. Like he’s not just visiting, like he belongs. His sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar open to show just enough collarbone. His rings click softly against the stem of his glass as he lifts it, eyes roaming across a massive canvas of oranges and reds, oil strokes that drip downward like they’re melting from the heat of someone’s memory.

He’s not smiling, but there’s something soft in his expression. Focused. Quiet. And you can’t stop watching him. The way his jaw tics when he’s thinking. How his eyes narrow just slightly when he’s taking something in. How he crosses one arm over his chest and props the other at his chin when he’s really studying something. You’re not sure what it is that brings the memory back. The real one. Not just his hands or his mouth. It’s the sound he made. That low, almost desperate groan when your thighs had tightened around his head, his breath warm and broken against your core. The way his voice had shaken when he said your name, like it wasn’t just heat he was trying to help you through, but something else he didn’t know how to name yet.

“You good?” You blink, startled slightly. He’s facing you now, glass still in hand, brow arched in question. You clear your throat and look away quickly, pretending to admire a nearby piece of abstract sculpture that honestly just looks like someone’s messy breakup in metal form. “Yeah,” you say. “Just…. taking it all in.” Mingi steps closer, shoulder brushing yours lightly as he looks at the same sculpture. “It’s giving… divorced Aries.” You snort into your wine and he grins. “No? You don’t see it? The rage? The regret?”

You laugh softly, the sound low and warm. “Okay, yeah, I see it. Definitely cheated during Mercury retrograde.” He chuckles, gaze flicking to you again. He’s close enough now that you can smell his cologne, faint smoke, cedarwood, and the memory of your skin on his sheets. The conversation quiets again. You’re not sure who breaks it first, but you glance up at him at the same time he looks at you. And it hits you all over again. You’ve been kissed before. Fucked before. You’ve had people beg for you, try to ruin you, swear they’d never get over you. But you’ve never been looked at the way Mingi looks at you. Like you’re a painting that haunts him. Like you’re something he can’t figure out and doesn’t want to stop trying.

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The art had been cool. But this? This was Mingi’s vibe. A corner taco stand with flickering lights, a broken speaker playing Aventura on repeat, and two paper plates already dripping with salsa roja and grilled onions. He leans his hip against the curbside bench while you sit and hum around your first bite, like it might just be the best thing you’ve ever tasted. He watches you chew. His fingers flex on the edge of his plate, pretending he’s not imagining dragging the slit of your skirt higher with one hand while holding your hip down with the other. Jesus, focus.

You lick a bit of sauce off your thumb and Mingi feels a pulse behind his zipper. His jaw clenches. “This place is insane,” you say, mouth full. “I would have never…. mmm… thought to stop here.” He smiles at your reaction, nudging his own taco toward your plate like he’s offering tribute. “They don’t have a sign,” he says. “But it’s on every list. Top ten in LA. Best lengua in the city.” You hum. “You like tongue, huh?” Mingi blinks. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he tilts his head to look at you. “I’m not answering that,” he says, smile curling as he brings the taco to his mouth.

“Coward,” you murmur, stealing a bite from his second taco. He licks his lips clean, fully aware your eyes follow the motion. The tension buzzes again, but different this time. Softer. You’re leaning on your elbow now, watching him. And then you say it. “So that night…” His chewing slows as you continue. “When I was in heat. You said… you weren’t gonna fuck me while I wasn’t thinking clearly.” Mingi swallows as he wipes his mouth with a napkin he doesn’t need and sets the plate aside. Here we go.

He looks at you, really looks this time, and it’s not flirty, not teasing. It’s serious in the way only Mingi gets when his mind starts spinning too fast for his mouth to keep up. “I meant it.” Your brows raise as he clears his throat, fingers tapping against the curb. “You were vulnerable. Out of your head. I didn’t want you to look back and think I took advantage of that. Of you.” You blink at him, startled. “But I was begging you.” Mingi groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Trust me. I remember.” He runs a hand through his hair, that frustrated, aroused, tortured look creeping back into his face, the same one he wore that night when he dropped to his knees and swore he wouldn’t take it further than his mouth.

“It wasn’t about what you wanted,” he finally says, voice low. “It was about what I couldn’t risk.” You tilt your head. “Risk?” He nods. “You. Regretting me.” The words hang there. You’re silent for a second, chewing your bottom lip as Mingi watches the way your fingers toy with the edge of your cup, your gaze suddenly far away. “I wouldn’t have,” you whisper. He doesn’t answer at first. But then, he leans forward, elbow resting on his knee, gaze locked on yours with that look again, the one that makes your stomach tighten and your mouth go dry. “You say that now,” he murmurs. “But I wasn’t willing to gamble on it. Not when it’s you.”

You freeze. And for once, you have no quick comeback. The silence stretches. The streetlight flickers. The radio stutters. A car honks three blocks down. But Mingi’s just watching you, tongue flicking briefly along his bottom lip before he clears his throat and stands up. “You wanna walk it off? Or head back?” You stand too, shakier than you expected. “Walk.” He nods, “Yeah,” he says, hands shoved in his pockets, jaw tight. “Yeah. Walk with me.”

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Mingi locks the SS with a sharp beep, tossing a glance over his shoulder as the two of you cross the street, the smell of grilled meat and car exhaust still lingering in the warm air behind you. You’re walking just off to his side, steps easy, head tilted up to look at the city lights, but he knows you’re still thinking about what he said. So is he. You wouldn’t have regretted him. That’s what you said. And maybe that truth is still tucked somewhere between his ribs, wrapped in a tangle of need and memory and everything he refused to give into that night.

“Where are we going?” you ask. “There’s a bar up here,” he says, nodding toward the corner. “Local. Chill. Not loud.” You snort. “Wow. So not your average LA club rat then?” He smirks. “Do I look like a club rat to you?” You side eye him. “You literally walked around an art exhibit with your whole chest practically out.” He laughs. “That’s not club rat,” he counters, pretending offense. “That’s tortured artist core.” You laugh now, and fuck, Mingi likes that sound more than he should. It’s easy with you like this. Walking at night. Brushing against each other. That crackling undercurrent of what’s still unsaid, thick as the smog hanging low over downtown.

The bar is tucked between a laundromat and a record store, a neon martini glass flickering above the narrow doorway. Inside, it’s dim and cool. Booths line the far wall, low tables and bar stools scattered near the front. There’s a pool table in the back, jukebox glowing nearby. Mingi pushes the door open for you and follows behind, hand hovering just over your lower back as you pass. He’s already scanning the bar for a corner when he realizes, you’re standing still. Looking up at him. That look again. “You’re really not gonna kiss me, huh?” you ask quietly.

Mingi’s throat bobs. Not here. Not yet. But instead of answering, he steps in a little closer, just enough to smell the remnants of your shampoo and your skin and the faintest pull of your omega beneath it. “No,” he murmurs. “Not when you’re asking like that.” You narrow your eye’s teasingly. “Like what?” He stares at you a moment before his voice drops. “Like you think it’s owed.” Your brows lift as he keeps going. “I don’t owe you a kiss,” he says softly. “Not when I want to give you everything.” Then he pulls away, the space between you suddenly feeling colder for it.

He walks toward the bar, orders two drinks, his usual and something fruity for you, and nods toward an empty booth near the back. You follow, quieter now, watching the line of his shoulders, the flex of muscle beneath that loose shirt sleeve when he slides into the seat across from you. You’re both quiet at first until you break it. “You’re hard to read sometimes.” Mingi meets your gaze over the rim of his glass. “Good,” he says. “Because if you knew everything going on in my head right now…” You smirk. “I’d be scared?” You joke playfully.

“No,” he replies, eyes burning now. “You’d be on my lap.” Your drink stops halfway to your mouth and you swallow. “Now that’s club rat energy,” you whisper, heat creeping into your voice, heart pounding. He laughs, full and warm, head dropping for a second as he shakes it. “Shut up,” he mutters. “Drink your drink.” You do. But your foot brushes his under the table. And you leave it there as Mingi sipped the last of his whiskey, ice clinking gently in the glass as he leaned back in the booth. His eyes hadn’t left you in five minutes.

You were laughing again, loose and sun warmed by the tequila drink you’d half finished, chin resting in your hand while you teased him about being emotionally unavailable. He’d played along, of course, raised a brow, called you dramatic, tried not to stare at your lips every time you smiled. And now you were standing. “You want another drink?” he asked, reaching for his wallet. But you shake your head. “Nah. Gimme a sec.”

He watched as you stepped away from the booth, weaving through the low tables and toward the back wall. A glowing, old school jukebox sat in the corner like it had been there since the 70s, chrome edges worn, buttons slightly faded, soft amber lights flickering through dust. You tapped a few buttons without looking back. And when the song started playing, Mingi’s entire chest tightened. Fleetwood Mac. Silver Springs. He blinked slowly, realizing…. You remembered. You’d listened. You knew he loved them.

The vocals slid through the bar, smooth and bittersweet, Stevie’s voice curling through the air like a confession too old to burn out. It wasn’t a song for dancing. Not really. It was a song for feeling. You turned slowly, eyes finding his in the dark. And the moment stretched, so full of everything that hadn’t been said since that night. He could still taste you. Still remember the sound of your breath catching when he’d dropped to his knees and touched you like you were something he’d been waiting for his entire life. You walked back to the booth, sliding in next to him this time instead of across. “You picked this on purpose,” he murmured and you bit your lip, smiling. “Maybe.”

“You really trying to ruin me in public?” You shrugged at him. “You like them, don’t you?” He laughs under his breath, nodding. “Yeah, but pI didn’t say I wanted to feel like I’m getting broken up with in the middle of a bar.” You laughed, quiet, soft, like maybe you hadn’t expected him to say that as your knee touched his under the table again. “You wanna dance?” you asked, tipping your head slightly. “To this?” Mingi lifted a brow. “You trying to make me cry?” You reached out anyway, hand ghosting over his wrist. And maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the way your fingers curled slightly into his sleeve like you were trying not to hold onto him too hard. But Mingi stood. He stood, and let you lead him a few feet away, toward the emptier space near the jukebox, just far enough from the bar crowd.

You didn’t even fully press into him, not at first. You just swayed. Barely. Like the music was moving through your bones instead of your feet. And Mingi couldn’t stop looking at you. Even when you finally stepped in closer, arms loose around his neck, chin tilted up. Even when his hands slid to your waist like they belonged there. Even when you whispered against his collarbone, “I want you to kiss me.” His breath hitched. For a second, Mingi didn’t move. Not because he didn’t want it. But because everything in him ached for it, so much that it scared him a little. He was used to easy. Used to lust and pretty words and brush offs.

But this? You? You were dangerous in that way only someone real could be. He looked at you slowly, eyes dragging from your lips up to your eyes, and whatever he saw there, heat, hope, hesitation, it cracked him open. So he leaned in. No teasing smirk this time. No joking comment. Just the warm press of his lips to yours, slow, deliberate. The kind of kiss that curled into your chest and settled there. You exhaled against him like you’d been holding it in since the moment you first met him and he called himself trash. And when your hand slid into the back of his hair, tugging gently, Mingi groaned. Soft. Low. Almost like a warning to himself. Because now that he’d started… He wasn’t sure he could stop.

You kissed like you meant it. Like your mouth already knew his. Like your body had memorized him that night he laid you out in his bed and promised he wouldn’t take you unless you asked. You were asking now. With your lips. With your hands curling into his shirt. With the way you pressed up on your toes to kiss him deeper. When you pulled back, just enough to breathe, Mingi chased your mouth without even thinking making you laugh and whisper, “Easy.” He shook his head. “Don’t start something you don’t wanna finish.”

“I never said I didn’t wanna finish it,” you whispered back and his hands curled tighter on your waist, grounding himself as the jukebox shifted into a new song behind you and your lips brushed his again. “Take me home?” Mingi didn’t answer. He just nodded once… And took your hand.

The walk back to his car was quieter than before, but it wasn’t awkward. Not with the way your hand stayed in his, fingers loosely laced like it was normal, like it wasn’t the first time. Like it wouldn’t be the last. The kiss hadn’t ruined anything. It just made everything real. And now, with the moon slung low over downtown and the soft rumble of passing cars, the world felt like it had narrowed down to just the two of you. The low thud of his boots on pavement. The softer tap of your shoes. Your arms brushing every so often, every accidental graze feeling like a secret.

By the time you reached his car, Mingi unlocked it with a press of his key fob. The sound of the doors clicking open made you hesitate, just for a second. But you didn’t let go of his hand. He noticed. Didn’t say anything, just glanced at you, brow raised slightly. “Still good?” he asked, voice soft. You nodded. “Still good.” The drive back was silent but not in a bad way. The kind of silence that holds weight. You leaned against the window, your head tilted slightly toward him, letting the buzz of the night sink into your skin. Mingi tapped the steering wheel in time with whatever playlist was murmuring through the speakers, something vibey and low, probably something he’d added months ago and forgot about.

And when he pulled into the lot behind the apartment building, he sat for a second, engine idling as he looked at you. And you looked back. Still no one said anything. Still you didn’t let go of his hand. By the time you made it upstairs, the music behind your own apartment door was gone, but the soft thuds, muffled laughter, and low, familiar moans made it very clear that San and Wooyoung were still… occupied. You stopped in front of your door, keys in hand and turned slowly. Mingi had already opened his. The warm glow from his living room lit up half the hall behind him, casting a soft shadow over his bare collarbone. His hand was still on the knob. He didn’t ask. You didn’t need him to.

You stepped past your own door. Right into his and he stepped back, letting you in, watching you quietly as you moved through the threshold like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Thought you were going home,” he said, closing the door behind you. Locking it. You turned, standing in the center of his living room again, barefoot now, your heels in your hand, hair a little messy, lips still kissed and you smiled because the apartment smelled like him. Not just the faint trace of weed or the linen detergent on his blanket tossed over the couch, but that warm, musky, deep scent that hit you low in your belly. The one that had curled into your spine during your heat, and still lingered somewhere in your bones even now.

Mingi was at the coffee table, lazily grinding flower and dropping it into a wrap, his long fingers moving with practiced ease. He looked… relaxed. Wrecked in the best way. Collarbone bare, gold chain peeking out from under his shirt, his thighs wide as he sat, letting his fingers work. You didn’t say anything yet. Because your eyes were on the wall. Three canvases. Three versions of you. All different. All real. Mingi didn’t glance up when you moved closer to the paintings, barefoot, quiet. He just licked the edge of the wrap and sealed it, flicking the lighter once to test it, setting it aside to dry. “How many times have you painted me?” you asked, your voice soft, but steady.

He paused. The kind of pause that said, fuck, I knew you were gonna ask. And still, he didn’t lie. “Five.” Your head tilted. “Only three are here.” He glanced up, leaned back against the couch cushions, tongue pressing against his cheek before he replied. “One’s in my bedroom. The other’s still drying in the studio.” You turned to face him now. His eyes flicked to yours. “And why?” you asked, brows raising just slightly. “Why do you keep painting me?” Mingi reached for the blunt again. Lit it. Inhaled deep. Let the smoke curl out slow. Then he shrugged. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said, voice low and matter of fact.

Your mouth parted. Your heart thudded, uneven and sharp. Mingi took another hit, eyes still locked with yours. Then he patted the spot beside him on the couch. “Come here.” You moved, because of course you did. Because you didn’t want to pretend either. You sank down next to him, knees brushing, bare leg against denim as he passed the blunt. And when your fingers touched his, your voice was quieter this time. “Are you gonna paint me again?” Mingi looked at you, eyes dipping to your mouth, then lower, to your bare leg through the slit of you skirt. He reached out, thumb brushing over your cheek like he was already outlining you in his head and smiled. Small. Honest. “Yeah….. Probably.”

Mingi watched as you took the blunt from between his fingers, easy, like you’d done it a hundred times, and brought it to your lips. The cherry flared as you inhaled, your fingers brushing his, and he tried not to show how that tiny graze made his pulse spike. You let the smoke linger, then exhaled slow. Lazy. Like you had all the time in the world. Then you passed it back. And while he was taking another drag, you stood up. He barely had time to process the movement, let alone the shift in the room, before your fingers found the hem of your shirt and began to pull it up, slow like you were unwrapping something sacred.

“Wait…” he started, sitting forward, smoke still on his tongue. “What are you doing?” The fabric hit the floor. Your bra came next. Then your skirt. Then your panties. You stood in front of him, completely bare, unapologetic, and even in the dim glow of his apartment, your skin was lit like the inside of a flame. “I want you to paint me,” you said. Simple. Straightforward. No hesitation. Mingi didn’t say anything at first. Couldn’t. His throat felt dry, his fingers tensed on the blunt still burning between them, his eyes drinking you in like he was afraid to blink. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. “You sure?” he asked, voice quieter now. Hoarse.

You nodded. And then you smiled. That soft, crooked, dangerous smile that had been haunting his canvas for weeks now. “Yeah,” you said. “I don’t want to pretend anymore.” Mingi let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The blunt was snubbed out as he stood, eyes never leaving you as he crossed the room, as he reached for a canvas already prepped in the corner, grabbing his palette and the jar of water beside it. You moved without being asked, stepping toward the rug in front of the windows, the LA skyline still glowing just beyond the glass. You sat. One leg tucked, the other bent. One arm resting casually across your knee.

Every inch of you was open. Soft. Vulnerable. Proud. Mingi dropped to the stool a few feet away, brush in hand. He started without a word. The first stroke was gentle. Deliberate. He painted your shoulder first, the curve of it, the shadow beneath your collarbone. He dragged the brush down slowly, lips parting as he worked, his eyes flicking from canvas to skin to canvas again. You watched him for a while. The way his brows drew in as he focused. The flex of his hand, the little furrow in his cheek when he blended too hard. But it wasn’t long before you noticed it, his scent shifting. Richer. Thicker. Desire. It rolled off him like heat. And he was trying to fight it. Trying to stay focused. Trying not to look too long between your legs or trace the slope of your breast with more than just his eyes.

But you saw it. You saw him. The quiet unraveling of a man trying to memorize every inch of you, not just on canvas, but in craving. He wad nearly halfway done. Brush strokes had slowed, gone less precise as the minutes ticked by, but he refused to stop. Refused to touch you. Refused to give in to the ache pulsing under his skin. Unless you asked. The painting had become more than he’d meant. Less of a pose, more of a confession. Not just curves and shadows anymore, no, this was you the way he saw you. The way you felt. Soft but defiant. Lit from within. A storm dressed in skin.

He was sweating now. Not from the heat, but from holding himself back. You had shifted your position halfway through, laying back against the rug, arm curled under your head, legs lazy and spread without shame. You were watching him with this impossible look, like you knew what you were doing to him. Like you were waiting for him to break. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. And then your scent changed. It was subtle at first. A slow curl of something sweeter than before. Not the thick honeyed scent of your heat. No, this was deeper. Rounder. It filled the space between them like gravity. Like velvet. Like a signal. Mingi’s hand froze mid stroke. His nostrils flared. The scent punched straight into his lungs, raw and addictive.

Your eyes flicked to him. You knew. He knew you knew. He turned his head slowly, brush still poised in the air. His gaze dropped, and your thighs were slicked. Glossed with arousal, one knee twitching slightly as if you hadn’t even meant to move. But your scent didn’t lie. It told him everything. “You’re wet,” he said, voice cracked low. Like it hurt to say it out loud. You tilted your head slightly, lips curving. “I’ve been wet,” you murmured. “But now I’m wet because of you.” Mingi’s hand flexed around the brush. He finally set it down, fingers shaking as he let go of the palette too. His jaw ticked. “You weren’t supposed to…”

“What?” you asked, sitting up slightly, legs still parted. “You think I didn’t know what I was doing when I came over here?” His throat bobbed. “You think I didn’t remember exactly how your mouth felt?” you continued, your voice silk. “How you held me down and made me fall apart on your tongue?” He blinked slowly, like trying to shake something loose in his skull. “I’m not heat drunk this time, Mingi. I’m not confused. I want you. You.” Silence buzzed before Mingi broke it. “Say it again,” he growled as you crawled forward on your knees, closing the gap between you. His eyes dropped to where your slick glistened between your thighs. “I want you.”

He grabbed you before the last word had even left your mouth. The force of it knocked the breath out of you, one hand behind your back, the other cradling your jaw as he kissed you deep, hard, filthy. Tongue dragging over yours like he was finally letting himself taste as he picked you up, walking towards the couch and you pressed a single hand to his stomach, right beneath the base of his ribs and pushed, catching him off guard. You started pulling his shirt off, hands fighting at his pants until he was only in his boxers. He let it happen. Mingi stepped back slowly, his hands twitching at his sides as you followed him, calm, steady, focused in that way only omegas knew how to be when everything in them screamed mate but you weren’t rushing. No. You were savoring.

By the time the back of his thighs hit the couch, you sank to your knees before him. Still naked. Still dripping. But with the kind of power in your gaze that made Mingi forget how to speak. He watched you reach for the waistband of his boxers. Watched your fingers hook into the elastic, knuckles grazing skin that twitched in anticipation. “You don’t have to…” he started, voice frayed, but you cut him off with a look. That look. The kind that said shut up and let me worship you. Inside, you were burning. Not with heat this time, no. This was worse. More dangerous. This was clarity. The kind that sharpened everything else. You could smell him, fuck, his scent made your head spin. Rich and earthy with something dark underneath, something primal, tangled with the lingering sweetness of weed and the faintest hint of paint.

He smelled like Mingi. He smelled like home. You pulled his boxers fully down, letting them pool at his feet, and the second his dick sprang free, your mouth parted like your body had made the decision for you. God, he was gorgeous. Thick, long, flushed a dark pink at the tip, already leaking, already twitching toward you like he needed your mouth as badly as you needed to give it. You didn’t rush. You took a breath. Then another as Mingi looked like he was about to explode. His voice was hoarse. “Are you…” You cut him off again, this time with your tongue. One long, slow lick from base to tip, just to hear the sound he made. He groaned. Guttural. The kind of sound that made your thighs clench instinctively, made your slick get thicker between them.

You licked him again. Then kissed the tip. Then wrapped your lips around him, finally, slowly taking the head into your mouth and his knees bent slightly. “Shit…” he exhaled, one hand flying to your hair, not pushing, just holding. Like he didn’t know what else to cling to because Mingi didn’t know what he was looking at anymore. Because this? This was not a fantasy. This was you, real and alive and panting softly around his dick like it was the most natural thing in the world. You were stroking him with one hand, twisting just right, mouth drooling around him as you slowly took more. His dick hit the back of your throat and you relaxed, swallowing, pulling him deeper.

He choked on his own breath. “Fuck, baby…. slow…” But he didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. You were on your knees, looking up at him now, your lips swollen and slick, eyes glassy with hunger, and Mingi swore something in his chest cracked. His omega. The part of him he hadn’t let breathe in so long? It howled. Because this wasn’t just sex. This wasn’t just a blowjob. This was an offering. And fuck, you were good at it. Too good. You were moaning softly now, like you loved the weight of him, the taste, the stretch of your mouth around his length. Your free hand slid up his thigh, nails raking gently as if to say, you like this too, don’t you? He did. God, he did.

And when you pulled back, spit connecting your lips to the tip of his dick in a string that shimmered like silk in the low light, he nearly came just from the sight of it as you stroked him slowly, thumb teasing the underside. “I’ve thought about this,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “So many times.” Mingi’s head fell back. He hissed through his teeth, gripping your hair a little tighter. He was so close it hurt. Your mouth was perfect, too perfect, wrapped around his dick, lips swollen, spit and slick making the whole thing obscene. His thighs had gone tight. His abs were flexed. His jaw clenched like a vice as he watched you sink again, throat swallowing him down like you craved it. And you did. He could smell it. Even more than that, he could feel it. The heat behind your eyes, the way your thighs were pressed together, rocking ever so slightly with each suck, like pleasuring him was getting you off just as much. Fuck, he was gonna come. He was gonna…. No.

No, not like this. He tugged at your hair a little hard, a sharp gasp falling from your mouth as he pulled you back. Your lips popped off his dick with a wet sound, your eyes wide, dazed, pupils blown out. You looked wrecked. Beautiful.

And completely confused. “Mingi?” He dropped to his knees and kissed you. Hard. Tongue deep, possessive, claiming every drop of him you still had on your tongue. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them, and you barely had time to yelp before he was underneath you, pushing you back onto the couch cushions, spreading you open like a feast.

“I need to taste you,” he growled, voice unrecognizable. Then his mouth was on your pussy again, loud, hungry, unrelenting making you cry out. He devoured you like a man starved, lips wrapping around your clit, tongue flicking, dragging through your folds, fucking into you as his fingers joined, two thick digits plunging in, curling up, working that spot he already knew made you lose your mind. “Fuck…. you’re so sweet,” he breathed, tongue lapping over your entrance. “I could live between your legs.” You keened beneath him, body twitching, hips bucking into his face as he sucked harder, groaned into you, the vibrations making your vision go white.

You came hard. Slick dripping onto his chin, thighs clamping around his ears as your voice cracked on his name. He didn’t stop. Not until you were panting, twitching, begging him with your hands to slow down, he was still hard and pressed against the couch, aching. When he finally pulled back, his mouth was a mess. His eyes darker than night. And you, still gasping, barely managed a breath before he lifted you like nothing. One arm under your knees, the other cradling your back. You instinctively curled into him as he carried you to his room. His room was dark. Only the dim hallway light reached inside when Mingi nudged the door open with his foot, his arms tight around you, chest still bare and streaked faintly with sweat and slick.

He carried you in like something precious. Not desperate now, not frenzied, worshipful. You let him set you down at the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. But he didn’t let go right away. Instead, he stood there for a second, his hands still warm on your thighs, thumbs grazing your skin as if grounding himself. As if to make sure this was real. You. Here. Naked and flushed from his mouth, your scent soft and sweet and ripe with need. His voice was rough. “You sure?” You didn’t answer with words. You just leaned in on your knees, lifted your face, and kissed him. Soft at first. Then deeper.

Your hands found his chest, sliding up, palms skating over the lean lines of his torso. You felt his heartbeat thudding beneath your fingertips, fast, hard, matching your own. He kissed you back like he meant it, like your lips were the only thing that had ever calmed him down. Then you moved forward, crawling properly onto the bed on your knees, pulling him with you until he was kneeling too. He cupped your face. You bit his lower lip making him groan. And then his mouth was everywhere. Mingi kissed down your jaw, then your neck, slow and unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world. His tongue flicked over the slope of your shoulder before his lips dragged back to your collarbone, nipping gently.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin. “I’ve dreamed of this.” You gasped when his mouth reached your chest. He cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and then he took one into his mouth, warm and wet and so gentle it sent goosebumps down your spine. He sucked lightly, then harder. Swirled his tongue and looked up at you through his lashes as he did. His hand still rolled your other nipple, palm hot and broad and possessive on your skin. When he switched sides, it was almost too much. You were already breathing fast, thighs pressed together, needing him again and again and again…. But he was taking his time. Because he needed this. To taste you. To savor you. To show you how long he’d wanted you without saying a word.

He pressed open mouthed kisses lower, between your breasts, down the center of your belly, his hands wrapping around your hips to guide you gently back until you were lying down fully. He followed you as you reclined, dragging his mouth along the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist, the soft swell of your inner thigh…. But then he paused. Looked up at you. You were already staring at him. Bare, flushed, breathless. Eyes wide, lips parted. And all Mingi could think was, mine. “Say it again,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Say what?” you asked, dazed as his hands slid up your thighs. “That you want me to paint you. That you want this.”

“I do,” you said without hesitation. “I want you.” He kissed the inside of your thigh, eyes fluttering shut at the scent of you. Your scent had shifted. You were ready. For him. For more. The moment stretched between you like molasses. Thick. Warm. Slow. Mingi hovered above you, bare and reverent, his mouth still damp from the trail of worship he’d left on your body. Your thighs trembled beneath his touch, your skin flushed all the way up to your ears. Your lips were kiss bruised. Your breath was shallow as you suddenly grew impatient. So you flipped him. Fast, bold, needy.

Mingi made a startled sound as you rolled him over, climbing into his lap with your knees bracketing his hips. His back hit the pillows with a dull thud, but his eyes never left yours. Not even when you reached down, wrapped your hand around his dick, and grinned at the way his breath stuttered. “Baby,” he rasped, already thick and hard and leaking for you. “You sure…”You cupped his face before he could finish. Eyes locked. Voice steady. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” That was all it took. Mingi’s hands flew to your hips, fingers curling around the soft give of your waist as you lifted yourself just enough to align him, his tip dragging through your slick folds, already soaked, desperate. Your body pulsed, needing him, begging for the stretch.

And then you sank. Slow. Deliberate. Until he was buried to the hilt inside you. Your mouth parted with a choked gasp, eyes fluttering shut as he filled you up inch by inch, the stretch stealing your breath. Your nails dug into his chest, and his grip on your hips tightened as he groaned, deep, from his gut. “Fuck…” he gasped. “You feel… so good.” You both sat there for a second. Still. Letting the weight of it settle. The weight of him inside you. The weight of this moment. The weight of everything you hadn’t said.

You tilted your hips experimentally, and Mingi shuddered. His voice was wrecked. “Baby… please don’t move yet, I’m gonna…. fuck.” You leaned forward, kissed his forehead. “It’s okay. You can come. I’m not stopping.” Your voice was soft, breathless, wrecked from wanting. Then you rolled your hips again, just once, and Mingi whimpered beneath you. He looked up at you like you were a dream. A storm. A goddamn painting come to life. One hand slid up your spine, palm wide and warm, until he cradled the back of your head, your palms were flat on his chest now, nails biting faint crescents into his skin.

Mingi lay back against the pillows, jaw tight, eyes glazed, watching every roll of your hips. You’d gone from slow and deliberate to something else entirely, a rhythm that wasn’t careful anymore. It was hungry. It was you, taking what you wanted, grinding down on him again and again until the sound of your slick around him filled the room. “Fuck…fuck, baby…” he groaned, head tilting back as your heat clenched around him. “You’re gonna…” He moaned, voice breaking as another orgasm rolled through you, sharp and sweet and overwhelming letting him feel it all. Your thighs trembled as you kept moving anyway, riding him and yourself through it, chasing the next wave.

Mingi’s hands flew from your hips to your waist, gripping hard enough to still you. His eyes were wild, nostrils flared, sweat beading at his temple. He was right there, he could feel the edge creeping up, the knot threatening to swell whether he wanted it or not. “Stop…” his voice cracked, low and raw. “I can’t… if you keep…” You looked down at him, hair falling into your face, lips parted. “Then come…” He sat up instead, catching you under your thighs, lifting you off him in one motion. His dick slid free of you with a wet, obscene sound and he hissed at the loss, forehead pressing to your collarbone as he held you above his lap.

“Not yet,” he panted, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t wanna finish yet. Not like this.” You were still shaking, your release pulsing through you, slick dripping onto his stomach, your breath hot against his hair. He pulled back enough to look at you, eyes dark but steady. One hand slid up your back, thumb rubbing a slow circle against your spine. “Breathe,” he murmured. “Just…breathe for me.” You clung to his shoulders, heart hammering, the world narrowing down to the two of you, his dick still hard and throbbing against your thigh, your body still quivering from your orgasm, both of you balanced on the knife edge of what comes next. He kissed your throat, slow and soft. “I’m not done with you. I just…need a second.”

Mingi’s heart was still pounding. Not from fear, not even just from lust, but from that dizzying feeling of being completely undone by you. By the way you took him. The way you wanted him. The way you were still trembling slightly in his arms, even as he laid you back against the bed. His mouth found yours again, softer now, slower. Like he needed to kiss you just to come back to earth. His lips lingered, parted against yours, breathing you in, grounding himself as you cupped his jaw. His eyes fluttered open to find you watching him. “Come back to me,” you whispered. He kissed you again as he shifted, grabbing one of your legs and lifting it over his shoulder while your other wrapped naturally around his waist, locking him in.

“Ready?” he asked softly, and when you nodded, he positioned himself, then slowly eased back into you. You both groaned at once as he dropped his forehead to yours. “God,” he breathed. “You feel… fuck….. every time I swear it’s better…” He stayed there, buried deep inside you, not moving yet. Just breathing. Just holding you. It would be so easy to lose control. To rut into you like every cell in his body was screaming for. To knot you, claim you, fill you until your body kept him there whether he wanted to stay or not. Except he did want to stay. That was the terrifying part. He swallowed, still catching his breath, hips barely rocking, just enough to keep you both on that edge.

“I’ve never…” he started, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve never knotted anyone before.” You blinked up at him, mouth parted, heart thudding beneath his hand where it rested on your chest. “I’ve had sex, yeah. But I’ve never let myself….” he broke off, biting down on his lip. “I’ve never let it get that far.” He looked at you like he was afraid to even want this much. “I don’t… just knot for the sake of it. That’s not me.” Your hand slid up to the nape of his neck, fingers brushing through the longer strands of his hair. “Are you afraid?” you asked. He shook his head. “Not of that.” You kissed him, letting your lips linger against his own. “Then what?” He gulped, biting back a moan at the feel of himself buried in you. “That I won’t be able to stop.”

“Then don’t.” Your words snapped inside him. He started moving. He didn’t mean to go this slow. Not originally. But the moment he sank back into you, your leg over his shoulder and your other wrapped tightly around his waist, Mingi couldn’t rush a single second. Not when it felt like this. You were warm. Wet. Clenching around him like your body already knew him. And his knot, swollen, pulsing low, was already aching to lock inside you. He kissed you through the first roll of his hips, a slow drag, every inch of him drawing back before pushing back in. You moaned under him, your fingers threading into his hair, your lips brushing his jaw. “Fuck,” he whispered, breath shaking. The rhythm he set was deep, unhurried, each stroke hitting just right, just enough to keep you both teetering. He gritted his teeth as your walls pulsed tighter around him, a soft whine leaving your lips as your hips tilted up for more. “Need you, Mingi…”

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I got you.” He shifted lower, letting go of your leg to wrap both arms around your waist, pulling you up into him. His lips moved to your throat, brushing soft kisses between your collarbones. The pressure was building fast now. His knot was growing, pushing at your entrance with every stroke, and you felt it too, your breath catching, your back arching. You met his eyes. “You’re close,” you breathed. He nodded, jaw clenched. “Yeah.” Another slow thrust. His knot nudging harder. Another. And then your legs squeezed tighter. Your hands pulled him closer. And your voice, just a breath, “Let me have it.” He growled, low and guttural, as instinct finally overrode every cautious thought. His hips snapped forward once, twice, and then again, his knot popping inside you with a sudden fullness that made your whole body jerk under him.

“Fuck!” he gasped, eyes squeezing shut as your walls clenched desperately around his knot. “Oh my god…. shit… shit!” You were writhing beneath him, moaning his name, your nails sinking into his back as your orgasm hit hard and fast, ripping through you with the force of his knot locking you in place. Mingi barely held on. He stayed deep, buried to the hilt, grinding instead of thrusting now, helpless against the pressure building behind his knot. The first pulse hit hard, and then another. You felt him twitch deep inside you as warmth flooded your core in waves. Mingi moaned like he was in pain, like this was too much, too good, too overwhelming.

His arms were shaking from holding himself up. So he collapsed onto his forearms, breathing against your skin, holding still, his knot thick and swollen inside you. You both stayed like that, panting. Sweat clung to his back, the air thick with the mingled scent of your orgasms and something more, something new. Because Mingi could smell it now. Your scent had changed again. It wasn’t just yours anymore. It was his scent inside you. Around you. And something in him… tightened as you shifted, just slightly, whimpering at the sensitivity. “Still with me?” he whispered. You nodded, dazed, your arms wrapping around his neck as he kissed your temple. “Good.”

He stayed quiet for a while. Letting his body calm. Letting his knot slowly soften. But his mind… was anything but calm. He’d never done this before. Never knotted anyone. Never let himself go this far. But he didn’t regret it. Not even a little. Still, he hadn’t claimed you. He’d wanted to. For a split second, when you were shaking around him, begging for more, he’d nearly let his teeth sink into your neck, right over your gland. But he hadn’t. Because Mingi knew what claiming meant. And no matter how good this felt, no matter how deep you were inside him now, and he inside you, it had to be your choice too.

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It was the smell of paint that woke you. Not coffee. Not breakfast. Paint. Your body ached in a slow, satisfied throb, between your legs, along your thighs, at the curve of your neck where Mingi had pressed kisses so desperate you swore they’d brand you. But it was a good ache. Deep and heavy and warm. The morning sun filtered in through the open blinds, casting long golden streaks across the floor. You reached for the other side of the bed on instinct, fingers brushing only empty sheets. Still warm, though. You sat up slowly, sheet falling to your waist, and blinked away sleep. Somewhere outside, a car alarm chirped. Someone laughed. The real world was still turning.

But in here… Everything felt suspended. You slid out of bed, bare, your skin still humming with the memory of Mingi’s touch. You didn’t bother reaching for clothes. Not yet. Just padded quietly across the apartment until you reached the living room. And there he was. Mingi sat on the floor, cross legged, facing an easel near the window. His hair was still messy from sleep, ink black strands curling at his ears. A blunt burned low in an ashtray beside him, forgotten. A half eaten tangerine sat next to his knee. And on the canvas in front of him…. You. Nude. Lit like honey under the morning sun. One arm slung lazily across your chest. The curve of your hips, your thighs, the look on your face, half sleepy, half sated, entirely real. He didn’t even flinch when you entered. He just looked over his shoulder, brush paused mid stroke.

“You’re awake,” he said softly, smiling like it was the most natural thing in the world. You swallowed. Your voice still hadn’t come back, so you just nodded as Mingi looked back to the canvas, brushing a final stroke across your collarbone. He blew out a breath, leaning back to examine his work before he noticed you hadn’t moved. “You okay?” You stepped closer, slowly. Bare feet on cool floor. The painting still held your eyes as you nodded. He patted the spot beside him on the floor. “Wanna sit? I’ll show you.” You crossed the room and sank to your knees beside him, still naked, not even thinking to care. His bare thigh pressed against yours. He passed you the blunt. You took it, exhaled slowly. “Did you finish it?” you asked, nodding at the canvas.

He looked at it. “Almost,” he said. Then turned to you, his eyes traveling the length of your body again. Slower this time. His voice dropped. “You moved before I could finish your mouth.” You tilted your head, teasing. “Wanna fix that now?” His lips parted just slightly, eyes darkening. But instead of kissing you, Mingi reached for the brush again, dipped it in a pale wash of amber, and turned back to the painting, his hand steady, his face soft. And just like that, the moment stretched again. Gentle. Real. Yours.

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The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of whatever playlist he’d started hours ago and forgot to turn off. Some Metallica track with a beat that thumped low like a pulse. The kind that made you move without realizing. You were in his lap, soft thighs pressing into his sides, the hem of his shirt riding high on your hips, his shirt, oversized on you, sleeves swallowing your hands. The only thing you were wearing. And you were grinding. Slow, heavy rolls of your hips against the swelling pressure in his grey sweatpants. Just enough to tease, not enough to let him breathe. You brought the blunt to his lips, fingers brushing his jaw, eyes already half lidded. “Open,” you whispered, like a command. Like a prayer.

He did. Let you press the blunt to his lips and inhale, his eyes never leaving your mouth as you leaned in to take a hit after him, lips closing over the same spot on the wrap, smoke curling between you like a secret. You blew it out slow, watching it fog in the dim lamp light before rolling your hips again.

“Fuck…” he groaned under his breath, his head tipping back into the couch. His palm slid under the hem of the shirt, warm skin meeting the bare curve of your hips, waist, ass. You weren’t wearing a damn thing underneath. You never had to say it, he’d known the second you climbed into his lap and that scent of yours hit him like a sucker punch to the chest. “Thought you were gonna finish your painting,” you murmured against his jaw, voice thick and teasing, like you already knew you ruined him for anything else. He chuckled, low and breathy. “Couldn’t concentrate.” Not with the way you looked when you wandered out of his bed that morning, still marked with his mouth, the heat of you still trapped in his sheets. Not when you didn’t even glance at the door to your own apartment. Just stole one of his shirts, curled up in his space like you always belonged there.

And now? Now you were wrecking him in every way that mattered. Your hands were splayed over his bare chest, nails grazing just enough to make him shiver. You pressed yourself closer, and Mingi felt the outline of your breasts brush against him through the thin cotton. You rolled your hips again, slow this time, deliberate, watching his face the entire time. “You’re dangerous,” he muttered, dragging his hands up to grip your waist, thumbs pressing into the dip of your back. You smiled lazily. “So stop me.” He didn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to.

The smoke lingered in his lungs, in the air, on your skin. You smelled like weed and sleep and sex and him and it short circuited every last working part of his brain. His dick strained hard beneath the sweatpants, your slick already soaking through the fabric as you kept moving, dragging yourself over him with a kind of lazy confidence that made his jaw tighten. He kissed you then. Hard, with no warning. No softness. Just teeth and tongue and want. Your lips parted immediately, hungry for it, and you moaned into his mouth like you been waiting all day for this. You arched into him, and he could feel the heat of you against the damp spot growing on his pants. His hands slid up your back, dragging the shirt higher, revealing more of you to him inch by inch.

He barely had time to register what you were doing. One second you were in his lap, passing him the blunt with a smirk, tongue peeking out to wet your lips like you already knew what you were about to do to him. The next? You hand was slipping under the waistband of his grey sweatpants. You didn’t even warn him. Just curled your fingers around his dick, slow and deliberate, and pulled him out. Heavy. Hard. Already leaking for you. He hissed around the blunt, a low sound that melted into a groan as his head dropped back. “Shit…” You shushed him with a kiss to his jaw, soft and slow as he took another hit, deeper this time, trying to stay grounded, but his focus shattered the second he felt the slick glide of you against him.

You didn’t sink down onto him. You didn’t ride him. You just… used him. Your hips rocked forward, letting the thick length of his dick slide through your folds, hot and wet and soft, and Mingi nearly choked on the smoke still in his throat. “Y/N…” You moaned, biting your bottom lip, one hand steady on his chest as you kept moving, grinding yourself against him. His tip catching your clit each time you rocked forward, dragging between your soaked lips like you done it a hundred times before. “Fuck, baby…” he gasped, grabbing your hips, trying to do something, anything to hold on, but he couldn’t stop you. Didn’t want to.

Your pussy was dripping onto him, coating his length, the obscene slick sound of you using him echoing through the smoky room. His dick twitched, aching, and you felt it, smiled at it. “Feels good, huh?” You whispered, voice all sugar and sin. “You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he growled as you rolled your hips faster, letting the swollen head of his tip rub right over your clit again and again until your breath hitched. You were getting close, he could feel it, the way your thighs trembled, the way your hands curled against his chest. And still, you didn’t let him inside. Just kept using him. Slicking him up. Teasing you both to the very edge of madness. His hands clenched at your waist, trying not to lose it. “You keep going like that and I’m gonna come just from this,” he warned, voice hoarse, deep.

“Then do it,” you purred, grinding down harder, deliberately dragging his tip right along your clit again. “Come for me, Mingi.” His eyes rolled back. His jaw locked. You were fucking relentless. “Y/N!” he gasped, and his hips bucked, once, helplessly, thrusting up into nothing as your wetness coated every inch of him. And then it hit him. Hard. Hot. His breath punched out of his chest as his dick twitched violently between your folds, cum painting your thighs, stomach, the inside of his sweats, everywhere. He choked out a groan, the sound rough and broken, his whole body tensing under you as you kept rocking, riding out his orgasm like you owned it. Owned him. And maybe you did.

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It was almost peaceful. For once, their apartment didn’t smell like sex, takeout, and San’s cologne all blending together like the ghost of poor decisions past. Wooyoung had just brewed coffee, actual coffee, not the instant kind San always brought over in a jar, and was halfway through a bite of a croissant when he heard the telltale sound of the front door creak. He didn’t even have to look. He knew. He paused mid chew, blinking once. Then looked up slowly, croissant in hand. And there you were, sneaking in like you were auditioning for a spy movie. Hair messy in the way that only said one thing, wearing not your clothes, legs bare, one of Mingi’s oversized shirts barely hitting mid thigh, and that post orgasm glow all over your smug little face.

He took one long, slow sip of coffee, eyes narrowed over the rim of the mug. “Well, well, well,” Wooyoung said, voice flat, “if it isn’t the neighborhood slut.” He teased and you froze halfway to the kitchen. “I was….” you started, lifting your hand like you might defend yourself. He raised one perfect brow. “Don’t. Even.” You sighed and padded across the room, collapsing on the other side of the counter. “He bought me tacos,” you offered weakly, like that made anything better. Wooyoung stared. Then blinked. Then burst out laughing. “You didn’t even try to lie! I love that for you.” You dropped your head to the counter. “I’m so tired.”

“Oh, I bet you are.” He smirked, stepping around the counter to grab your face gently in one hand and squish your cheeks together like a judgmental grandma. “How’s it feel, huh? To betray me for a man with good dick and paint stains on his sweatpants?” You tried to say “I didn’t betray you,” but it came out more like “I did’n b’tray yuh.” Wooyoung let go of your face and slid onto the stool beside you, dramatically flipping his hoodie up. “Look. I knew this day would come. You meet a hot, quiet alpha. You disappear into his apartment for 48 hours. You come back reeking of sex and sage and sin.” You turned your head and deadpanned, “San was in our apartment for 48 hours.”

He waved you off. “That’s not the point. San leaves. You come back. I connect the dots.” You grumbled something about needing a shower and caffeine and maybe CPR. Wooyoung handed you his half eaten croissant. “Eat. Hydrate. Dehydrate again later when you go right back over there.” You groaned but took the bite anyway. “So?” he asked, nudging you with his elbow. “Was it worth it?” You paused. Looked at him. Then smiled. A slow, wicked, ruined smile. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It really fucking was.” Wooyoung cackled, loud and unbothered. “Oh, we’re never getting the old you back, are we?”

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It’d been three weeks since your first shift at Choi Family Grill, the old school Korean fusion restaurant nestled between a record store and a tattoo parlor just off 6th Street. The air always smelled like charred galbi and sesame oil, the windows fogged with steam during rush, and San’s grandma still came by every other afternoon to “supervise” from a back booth with her knitting needles and disapproving glances. You were finally settling in. The apron was worn in now, your name scribbled in thick Sharpie on the tag. Your regulars knew you. San gave you hell but always made sure you ate during your break. Wooyoung had taken to walking you there at least once a week just to “check the vibes” But Mingi? Mingi was different now.

Still the same teasing alpha with paint stained fingers and sleepy eyes, but something had shifted. Every time he picked you up from work, leaning against his car with sunglasses low on his nose and a half smile on his lips, that favorite black hat of his low on his head, you could feel it. Everyone could. The way he held your waist, kissed your temple in front of San. How he scowled when a customer flirted with you just a little too long. How his scent clung to you for days after you stayed over, stronger, deeper, almost like it wanted to stay. But he still hadn’t claimed you. And it was starting to gnaw at you. Not in a desperate way. Not yet.

But in that quiet, creeping way where you felt it everywhere, when your heat happened again, when he pressed his nose to your neck but never bit, when he knotted you and held you through it but whispered “not yet” like it meant something he wasn’t ready to explain. Even now, you could smell him on your hoodie. He’d dropped you off hours ago after staying the night, letting you ride him before the sun came up, before muttering against your neck, “I need to paint this…” and disappearing back across the hall to his canvas. You were in love with him. Maybe stupidly. Maybe recklessly. But you were. And when San yelled from the kitchen for you to grab Table 5, you shook the thoughts off like dust, moving with muscle memory now. The restaurant was busy. The sun was warm on the front windows and Mingi would be here to drive you home soon.

The lunch rush had just started to die down. A soft lull hung over the restaurant like a held breath, chopsticks clinking, the hiss of the grill from the open kitchen, one of San’s playlists quietly humming from the Bluetooth speaker perched above the counter. You were wiping down table four when the door opened. The bell above it jingled like always, but something in you stiffened. Skin prickling. Your hand paused mid swipe. You didn’t know why at first, until you turned your head. And saw him. Alex. Your ex. The one who’d followed you here. The one Mingi had stepped in front of a month ago in the hallway like a wall made of teeth and rage and heat. The one who hadn’t shown his face since. Until now.

His hair was longer. Sunglasses shoved into the collar of a designer tee he probably stole off someone’s Instagram. Hands in his pockets. That smug, lazy smirk on his face like he was exactly where he belonged. He met your gaze and tilted his chin like he knew you’d look first. And maybe you did. But this time? You didn’t flinch. You straightened. Threw the rag onto the table. And walked right up to him. Behind the counter, San clocked the way your shoulders squared. He’d never seen this guy before, but the shift in your scent? The way your jaw clenched and your eyes went cold? It said enough. Alex opened his mouth, probably to say something smart, maybe even sweet, but you cut him off with a sneer. “Are you stalking me or something?”

Your voice wasn’t loud. But it was lethal. A few heads turned. San stood straighter from behind the register. He hadn’t moved yet, but he was watching. One brow raised. His gaze flicking between you and the man who had clearly worn out his welcome. Alex smiled, slow and syrupy. “That’s how you greet me now?” You glared at him. “I didn’t think I’d have to greet you at all,” you snapped. “Especially not at my job. You lost, or are you just hoping to piss off my boyfriend again?” San blinked and Alex sneered. Boyfriend? His eyes sharpened. Oh, this was getting interesting. He chuckled, leaning against the host stand like this was some kind of game. “So what? You running around LA playing house with some art freak now? You really gonna pretend like we didn’t spend two years together? And now what, you’re working in some hole in the wall kitchen, dating some asshole who smells like weed and bad decisions?”

The door chimed again. You didn’t even have to turn to know who it was. That scent hit you like a balm. Earthy. Deep. Calm. Mingi. You turned just in time to see him step inside, black hoodie half zipped, hair tousled from the wind, that lazy grin tugging at his mouth, until his eyes landed on Alex who was still running his mouth. “You wouldn’t let me claim you. But this guy? The first alpha who gave you attention, and suddenly you’re all knotted and marked up like a bitch in heat.” Mingi moved. Not rushed. Not wild. Deliberate. He stepped right up to Alex, barely an inch of space between them, voice like fire under ice. “You don’t ever talk to her like that,” Mingi said. “You don’t talk about her. You don’t even breathe the same air as her. Let me make something real clear since your ego’s louder than your brain,” he said, stepping closer, slow and measured. “You didn’t lose her because of me. You lost her because you treated her like something you were owed.” Alex laughed under his breath. A short, ugly sound. “You think you’re different?”

“I know I’m different,” Mingi said, still not raising his voice. “I don’t take what isn’t mine. I wait until she gives it freely. Until she says, I want you, which, remind me, she never said to you, did she?” You could feel the heat crawl up your spine at that, your heart pounding now for entirely different reasons. Mingi wasn’t just defending you, he was protecting your dignity, your choice. Your autonomy. And he was doing it in front of the one person who had tried to take all of that away. Alex looked between the two of you, like he couldn’t quite figure out where the power in the room had shifted. But it had. It definitely had.

Mingi looked over at you now, eyes softer, mouth twitching like he could tell your pulse had jumped. “You ready to go, baby?” he asked, voice low, familiar. You nodded, stepping from behind the host stand. Alex opened his mouth again, probably to say something cruel, but you didn’t give him the chance. “Don’t bother,” you said flatly, staring him down. “You followed me all the way to LA to do what exactly? Watch someone else treat me right? Get a hobby.” San let out a quiet, impressed laugh behind you as Mingi’s hand slid gently to the small of your back, not possessive, not territorial. Just steady. Reassuring. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. Alex wasn’t worth another second.

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You wore red. A silky deep wine that clung in the right places, open in the back, with thin straps and a slit up the side that made Mingi blink twice when you stepped out of the building. “That’s not fair,” he’d said under his breath, already holding the car door open for you. “You gonna tell me to change?” you teased, sliding in. He smirked, leaning down to whisper, “No, I’m gonna tell everyone at the gala that you’re mine.” And then he kissed you. Softly. Like it was already true.

The gallery was in West Hollywood. High ceilings, polished concrete floors, chandeliers that looked like they belonged in some celestial ballroom. There were flutes of champagne being passed around and murmured conversations in pockets of linen and velvet. You walked beside him, fingers loosely hooked into his. It was a date. An actual date. Not a night tangled up in heat or smoke or afterglow or messy laughter on his couch. This was Mingi in his element, watching you out of the corner of his eye every time you caught someone else’s attention. This was Mingi introducing you to people, gallery owners, curators, fellow artists, his hand sliding to your waist in quiet, familiar claim.

But it was when you rounded the corner and saw it that everything slowed. One of his pieces. Hung in a gallery like it belonged there, because it did. It was acrylic, brushstrokes wild and deliberate all at once. You knew this piece. You remembered the day he painted it, that week when he’d barely spoken, holed up in his apartment. The colors were aggressive but controlled, like him. Like his mind. Like the things he never said but always felt. Your chest tightened. The placard read: Song Mingi, Untitled Acrylic on Canvas – $11,500 Eleven. Thousand. Dollars. Jesus. And he didn’t even blink at the price. Because of course he didn’t. You looked at him, really looked, and it finally hit you. You weren’t just infatuated. You weren’t just sleeping with an insanely hot alpha who could paint and roll blunts and talk about music and still make you laugh on the worst days.

You were in love with him. You were completely, terrifyingly, deliciously in love with Mingi. Every stubborn, cocky, soft spoken inch of him. He caught you staring, brow arching just slightly. “What?” he asked, quietly. “Nothing,” you said, smiling, stepping closer. “Just… proud.” Mingi’s expression flickered. Something softened there, the muscle in his jaw, the heat in his eyes. Like maybe he was realizing something too. But he didn’t press. He just leaned down, kissed your temple, and said, “Still not fair you wore that dress.”

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He’d always thought of the studio as his spine. The one place no one could touch, the one room above the noise of the city where everything was his, his mistakes, his unfinished ideas, his private colors. It wasn’t big. Just a converted attic room on the top floor of your building, with skylights instead of windows and old wood floors that creaked under his boots. Canvases leaned against the walls like an army, stacks of sketchbooks on the desk, jars of turpentine and paint water lining a shelf like strange potions. It smelled like oil paint, smoke, and him. He’d never brought anyone up here. And now you were standing in the doorway, red dress glowing in the dim light, looking at the room like it was a cathedral. “You really painted all of these?” you asked quietly. “Yeah,” he said, throat tight. “This is… my place. I don’t let people come in here.”

You stepped in anyway, slow, like you were afraid to wake something. Your fingers trailed along a stack of brushes, over a half finished canvas on the easel, a study of your collarbone and the hollow of your throat, though he hadn’t told you that yet. When you reached the worktable you picked up one of his brushes, heavy with cobalt blue. He blinked at you. “Careful…” he started. Too late. You stepped close and dragged the brush right across his cheek. A bright streak of blue against his skin and you grinned. “Now you look perfect.” Mingi froze. For a heartbeat he wasn’t Song Mingi the alpha, or the guy who rolled blunts, or even the artist who had managed to build a name in a city full of them. He was just a boy with paint on his face, staring at the girl in his studio, realizing she’d slipped past every wall he had.

You laughed softly, and before he could think, you were kissing him. Paint smudged between your palms and his jaw. Your lips warm, slow, sure. He kissed you back like he’d been starving for it all night, one hand sliding to your waist, the other curling around the back of your neck. When you finally pulled back, breathless, he pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closing. “Y/N…” he murmured. “I don’t… I don’t do this. I don’t let people in here. I don’t let people…” He swallowed, his thumb stroking a smear of blue from your chin. “You’re different. You’ve been different since the first day I smelled you in that hallway.” You didn’t speak. You just kept looking at him, eyes wide and soft and unguarded. And the words tumbled out of him before he could stop them. “I’m in love with you.” It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t rehearsed. It was just there, in the air between the two of you, honest and raw and terrifying.

You exhaled a shaky laugh, brushing more paint across his jaw with your thumb. “I was hoping you’d say that,” you whispered. “Because I’m in love with you too.” Something inside Mingi cracked open at that, and he smiled, big, shy, wrecked, pulling you in again, kissing you slow and deep, his hands already leaving smears of blue down the back of your dress. The studio smelled like turpentine and smoke and now, finally, you. Your lips were soft and insistent, tasting like cheap wine and something sweeter. Your hands already sliding down the front of his shirt, gripping the hem like you were claiming territory. Mingi let you pull him backwards, blindly, toward the old couch in the corner of the studio. His legs hit it first, and you went with him, half falling into his lap with a quiet gasp, both of you laughing against each other’s mouths. Paint smeared on your cheek. Cobalt blue on his jaw. Love in the air like static, about to strike.

You sat on top of him, straddling his thighs, and started peeling his shirt up slowly. Palms dragging across the hard slope of his stomach, up his ribs. “I love you,” you whispered again, like it was a secret just for him. Mingi closed his eyes. No one had ever said that to him like this, while touching him, while looking at him like he mattered. He didn’t even know how to hold the words yet. But he reached for you anyway, one hand curling around the back of your neck, the other slipping up your thigh beneath that dress. “Say it again,” he breathed, voice rough. “I love you, Mingi.” He groaned, head dropping back for just a second before he surged forward, kissing you hard, deep, tongue sliding into your mouth as his fingers gripped your hips. Your dress was already riding up. He helped you take it off completely, eyes raking over your bare chest like he hadn’t already painted you three different ways.

“God, baby…” he muttered, hands covering your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. “You drive me fucking crazy.” Your hands were back on his chest, pushing his shirt down his arms, slow and reverent. His skin was warm beneath your palms, his body hard and trembling slightly. You kissed the dip between his collarbones, then down, lower, your mouth dragging fire with it. He hissed when you kissed the spot right under his ribs, fingers curling into the cushion behind him. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” you whispered, nose brushing along the edge of his hipbone. Mingi’s heart was pounding now, loud in his ears, loud in his throat. You moved back onto his lap, lips ghosting over his again, hips grinding down just once to feel the shape of him beneath his pants. He was already hard. Already aching for you. But there was no rush. Not this time. You kissed him again. Slower. Deeper.

And as your fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his pants, dragging them down inch by inch, Mingi’s mind went quiet for the first time in years. Just you. Just this. Just the steady rise of something sacred between your bodies. When he was finally bare beneath you, your eyes met his, glinting with something that wasn’t just lust anymore. “I want to love you like this,” you whispered, settling your weight onto his thighs again. “Not just fuck you. Love you.” Mingi didn’t speak. He just nodded, completely undone. The moment you sank down onto him, Mingi forgot how to breathe. You were slow, like you wanted him to feel everything. And he did. God, he did. Your thighs framed his, your nails digging into his shoulders as you lowered yourself fully, inch by inch, until your hips met his. His eyes rolled back, mouth parting in a silent curse, hands grabbing at your waist, barely able to contain the tremble that ran through him.

You were so warm, so tight, clenching around him like you were trying to memorize the shape of him. His hands slid up your sides, thumbs tracing the curve of your ribs, eyes locked on where your bodies met. And then you moved. Slowly. Like a tide rolling over him. Rising, falling, every motion controlled, dragging pleasure through his spine like static until he was gripping the couch for dear life. “Mingi…” you whimpered, breath hot against his jaw as you leaned forward, your chest flush against his. “I’m gonna….” He caught your face in both hands, kissing you hard as you came around him, body shaking with it, your walls fluttering, squeezing, driving him mad. He didn’t move, not yet, just held you to him, kissing your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth as you gasped through it. “You’re so perfect like this,” he murmured, sweat cooling at the nape of his neck. “So fucking beautiful when you come for me.”

But when you slumped against him, dazed and wrecked, he couldn’t stay still any longer. He shifted, gripped your thighs and lifted you, just barely, enough to slide out of you before standing. You made a small, confused sound at the loss of him, but he was already moving, already laying you down on the couch, already crawling up behind you. He kissed the middle of your back, then higher, lips soft between your shoulder blades. He took his time, moving slow, dragging his mouth across your spine as your body arched instinctively beneath him. “Just wanna feel you again,” he whispered, brushing your hair off your neck as he nudged his length against you once more. “Wanna take my time with you now.” You gasped when he pushed in, deeper this time, the new angle stealing your breath. One of your legs bent beneath you, the other instinctively lifted and draped behind him, your foot curling at his thigh.

Your head dropped forward, fingers gripping the cushions like lifelines. He groaned against your skin, one hand grabbing your hip, the other stroking up your back, thumb brushing along your shoulder. “You feel so good, baby,” he whispered against your ear. “You always do.” His hips moved slow at first. Deep. Rhythmic. The kind of pace that drove you crazy with how complete it felt. And as he kissed your neck, your shoulder, your lower back again, worshiping you with every movement, Mingi realized something that made his chest ache….. He’d never want anyone else like this. No one else would ever come close. You were his muse. His lover and he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop the way his hips met yours, again and again, from behind, slow at first, measured, letting you feel the depth of every thrust as he stayed nestled deep inside you. Couldn’t stop the soft, low sounds he made every time your walls fluttered around him, still sensitive, still greedy for more.

“So good for me,” he murmured, eyes half lidded as he watched the curve of your spine dip under his hands. His other hand gripped your hip while the other moved to stroke up your side, thumb brushing under your breast before gliding to your throat, just barely resting there. A possessive touch, not choking, not pushing, just holding you, gently, like a promise. “You feel me?” Y… Yeah,” you breathed, wrecked. “Good girl,” he groaned, kissing your shoulder as his hips moved with more purpose now, the wet sound of you echoing against the walls of his studio, your back arching beautifully with every deep thrust. Mingi couldn’t look away. You were all he could see, all he could feel. His scent was all over you now, his need, his devotion. But it still wasn’t enough. He needed more.

With a low grunt, he slowed his rhythm just long enough to pull you up, guiding your back flush against his chest. One hand slipped down to circle your clit while the other stayed splayed across your stomach, holding you in place as he began to thrust up into you again, deeper now, filling you so completely you cried out. “I got you,” he whispered into your neck. “I got you, sweetheart. Just like this…” His lips grazed your pulse, brushing warm and soft over the skin. He let himself inhale you, mouth watering, eyes fluttering shut. You smelled like his. Like you already belonged to him. “Do it,” you whispered. “Mingi… I want you to claim me.” He froze. Heart pounding. Your voice was so breathless, so sure. Your head tilted without hesitation, baring your neck for him. “You sure?” he murmured, voice rough with restraint. “Yes. Make me yours.”

Mingi groaned like the words physically broke him. He didn’t wait anymore. His mouth found the crook of your neck, lips parting, tongue licking gently once, twice, tasting you, before he sank his teeth into the soft flesh right above your scent gland. You gasped, his name on your lips as he held you tightly, letting his knot begin to swell inside you, locking you in place. The pain was sharp, but the pleasure followed like fire. Warm, consuming, undeniable. Mingi felt the bond take root the moment he marked you. His whole body trembled with it, his chest, his throat, his dick pulsing as he spilled into you with a broken moan. “Mine,” he whispered against your skin, voice thick with awe. “You’re mine now.”

He kissed the mark and held you tight through it all, through the wave of his knot settling, through your soft cries, through your shaking thighs and fluttering walls. There was no going back. And he didn’t want to. The moonlight filtered in through the high window of his studio, casting silver shadows across the paint streaked floor and unfinished canvases. Somewhere behind them, a brush had fallen with a soft clatter. His shirt lay forgotten across the back of the couch. And you… you were curled into him like you’d always belonged there. Mingi’s knot was still nestled deep inside you, the warmth of it binding your bodies like a secret only the two of you would ever fully understand. His arms stayed wrapped around your waist, his chin resting gently on your shoulder as you both breathed in sync. Slow. Steady. Real.

His fingers traced idle patterns over the soft skin of your stomach. He wasn’t even thinking about it, he just needed to touch you, keep you close, remind himself this was real. That he was yours now. And you were his. Claimed. Not just marked. Not just mated. Loved. You shifted slightly, not in discomfort, but to press a kiss just beneath his jaw. The small gesture made his chest ache, in the best, most ruinous way. “You okay?” he whispered, voice low and rough, still tinged with awe. You nodded, one hand coming up to slide into his hair, fingertips brushing the damp strands at the nape of his neck. “I’ve never felt more okay.” He smiled then, soft and crooked, a little shy and a little wrecked. “You smell like me,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Like you’re mine.”

“I am,” you whispered and Mingi held you tighter, eyes fluttering shut. The bond pulsed quietly between you now, like a second heartbeat. He could feel your contentment. Your calm. Your trust. It wrapped around him like silk. No gallery crowd. No canvas. No filter of color or charcoal could ever capture what this felt like. Only you could. And as you drifted to sleep in his arms, the only sound in the room was your breathing, the quiet creak of the couch beneath you, and the soft hum of the city outside. His studio had always been a sanctuary. Now it was home.

Because you were in it.

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