Breaking my hiatus for a minute to highly recommend this video from the Canadian TV (I don't know if it aired on TV too or just on youtube).
This is a documentary about the making of season 1, but most of all is a documentary about HudCon, their friendship, their relationship which is what made this TV show so good and so ICONIC. This video is a gift to the real HR fandom, the one who doesn't try to hurt and destroy one of the boys by lying, the one who doesn't cling on their SINKING stupid ship (spoiler: there was NEVER any ship to cling on, you idiotic illiterate motherfckers). The real fandom who is not racist and doesn't send d*ath threats to family members of an actor. The real fandom who is mentally STABLE and shouldn't be locked in a padded room and forbidden to ever access the internet ever again.
Let's spread this video as much as we can! Let's get back to what really matters: the show and the boys ❤️❤️
Everything changed the day Amira was born.
The world outside was collapsing — bombs, dust, screams, and fear. Yet inside a small room, by the dim light of a single candle, a new life began.
While others were running for shelter, I was holding my newborn daughter, trembling, crying, trying to believe that something so pure could still exist in a place like Gaza.
I named her Amira, because I wanted her to feel like a child of life —not a child of war.
A year has passed since that night, but nothing has really changed
Our house is still rubble, our streets still carry the smell of smoke, and the sky still echoes with sounds that make Amira flinch in her sleep.
She has just turned one.
She’s learning to walk, holding my finger with her tiny hand, laughing at the smallest things — as if she doesn’t see the destruction around her.
She doesn’t know the word “loss.”
She never met her father, but when she smiles, I see him there.
Sometimes I watch her sleeping, and I wonder what kind of world she will grow up in — whether she will ever know what peace feels like, what home smells like.
And yet, when she opens her eyes in the morning and says “mama,” everything becomes bearable again.
I want to rebuild our home.
Not just for the walls — but for her future.
For Amira to have a small room, a safe place to dream, a life that belongs to her, not to war.
I’m not asking for much. Only for a chance to give her a beginning filled with warmth instead of fear
My name is Saja. I am a mother, a wife, and just one of many women in Gaza trying to hold on — to hope, to my family, and to a life that no
A Mother’s Message
To everyone reading this — thank you for listening to our story.
Your kindness means more than words.
Every share, every message, every donation — it all helps me rebuild not just a house, but a future for Amira.
From the heart of Gaza, from a mother learning to hope again —
we will live. And I will make sure my daughter grows up in a world that knows love more than war.
A/N: I hope this was okay for you! @firstdivisiongirl 🥰🌸 I had a lot of fun with this one oh my gosh!
“You’re being ridiculous, Niko.” You groan, staring over at your guard, who was blocking the elevator inside the penthouse apartment. He stares at you, his huge arms folded across his chest, while he shakes his head at you.
“It’s for your own good,” He chastised, glancing over your shoulder at your husband, who was watching you with a smirk on his face. They all knew that you were going to try to get out without one of them, and it wasn’t going to work.
“No, it’s because you’re scared of Chan.” You counter, folding your arms over your chest and pouting like a child.
“With good reason. He’s my boss,” He adds, shaking his head at you.
You’d spent the last week trying to convince Nikolai and Chan that you could go out shopping this week without the presence of your guards around….All six of them at least. You’d been trying to prove to them that you could do this alone, though it clearly had all been for nothing.
“I’m your boss too, technically.”
“No, you’re my boss's wife,” he smirks at you before you glare at him. He had an answer for everything; he always did. There was no way either he or Chan was going to let you go out alone to the lobby, let alone to a shopping centre. You were a walking target.
“Terrorising the staff again, angel?” Chan smirks, coming over and dropping a kiss onto your cheek. You hum at him, rolling your eyes.
“I don’t see the big deal; it’s one day.” You mumble at him. You knew it was all about safety for him, but one day wasn’t going to hurt you.
“It’s not safe.”
“Chan-”
“I know you think I don’t want you to go out because I’m selfish or trying to control you, but that’s not it, baby, it’s never been that.” He says, wrapping an arm around your waist and bringing you closer to him.
“You have no idea what it’s like out there…What people would do if they knew how much you mean to me. The moment you stepped into my life, you became my weakness, and in my world, weaknesses get taken. Used and destroyed,” he told you. Stroking his hand on your lower back gently.
You knew all of this already, but you’d been together for years now, and luckily, nothing had happened. You knew he was powerful, but Chan had never let you see just how dangerous he really was. That was one side he never wanted you to see of him. He couldn’t risk scaring and losing you.
There were stories, of course. The butcher of Seoul. Before being with you, he was known to butcher those who wronged him, rip people apart for information, all sorts of horror stories he’d rather you not know.
Chan pretty much made sure that that whole side of his life was kept completely separate from you. Being one of Seoul’s head mafia don’s he did his best to keep you out of it all.
The two of you lived in a penthouse apartment right on the edge of Seoul, away from the businesses and out of harm's reach. But it also meant you were away from family and friends. Not that you had many.
The few you did have were all involved with Chan, which meant never getting any “girl time” unless it was with os me of the maids that worked for your husband. You knew it was out of security but you yearned for friends…and a normal day again. Which was why you’d been begging to go out for a shopping trip.
Chan had a birthday coming up, and you were determined to go out and get him something he wasn’t going to know about…Though that plan was going down like a lead balloon right about now.
“It’ll be a few hours…I’ll even wear a disguise if I have to.” You countered.
“I’ll text you, I’ll check in, you can have my live location on.” You suggested to him before he could say no. Niko glanced at Chan, there was something you weren’t aware of when it came to Chan knowing your location, but he just shook his head at Niko as a signal of silence.
“Four hours.” He mumbles at you. There was no fighting you. You were a dog with a bone...At least, if he let you out for a couple of hours, you would drop it for a while.
“Four hours?”
“You get four hours, 20 minutes to travel, shopping, and home…And I want live updates.” He tells you, the last part more directed at Niko than it was at you. Niko nods his head,
“I’ll grab two of the others,” Niko tells the two of you.
“Normal clothes. Blend in.” He orders, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he shakes his head. Already regretting this, but he had always struggled with saying no to you.
“You’re the best. I’ll make it up to you tonight.” You giggled, your fingers running across his chest and over his tie. You straightened it, standing up on your tiptoes to kiss the tip of his nose.
“I just want you safe, baby. I…I-I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to you.” He admits, sighing as he drops his forehead to yours.
“I promise I’ll be okay. Niko is the best…Remember? You trained him yourself.”
“And Jer and Riot are his next best,” He admits, glancing over his shoulder at the three men. He trusted them with your life almost as much as himself. He knew they’d never do anything to put you in danger, and he could trust them, but it was hard to let you go.
“Please just-” You cut him off quickly,
“I won’t dawdle, I’ll go in, get what I want, and leave. I won’t take the same route, and I’ll keep my eyes out.”
“And no-”
“Changing rooms,” you finish for him with a smirk. It had always been one of the rules when you started dating. No changing rooms, it was one of the places someone could get you when you were least expecting it.
“You’re going to be late for maths club.” You smirk at him, and he lets out a growl. The wives of the leading don’s of Seoul all called the meetings a maths club, so whenever they were together they could speak openly without fears of being overheard.
“Use your false name while you’re out. I don’t want any risks.” Chan whispers, kissing you softly. His lips lingered longer than he should have since he was already running late. Begrudgingly, he lets go.
Niko had been walking by your side the whole time while Jer and Riot were walking a few steps behind, trying to appear as though you weren’t all together. The whole trip had been going fine, so far, you’d managed to find a new tie for Chan, a money clip, and chocolates, but it was hard to buy for him.
“What do you even get the man that’s got everything?” You mumble as you walk into a new boutique.
“Diamond paper clips,”
“Funny.” You mumble looking at all of the displays. There wasn’t much you could buy in a store for him. You looked through the cabinets, actually looking for diamond paper clips at this point.
“Mrs bang, it’s lovely to see you again.” The shopping assistant said, and everything felt as though it was frozen in place. You could feel the hairs on your neck starting to stick up, and the creeping feeling of paranoia overtook you.
You knew it was probably nothing. Chan had always told you to use a fake name whenever you can so no one could link you to one another. The shopping assistant had been the one to help you with many things over the years, though, and had come to know you on a deeper level.
“Y-yeah, I-”
“We have that pocket watch you were hunting for a few months ago.” Your head shot to look at her, your paranoia slipping away. You had guards who were trained, and you were safe. No one was going to make a move in a packed mall.
“Oh…Can someone engrave something for me? That would actually be perfect,” You tell her, following her closely toward the counter. Sitting there was a gold pocket watch, something you’d wanted to get Chan for Christmas but hadn’t found in time.
“Of course, it can be finished within the next hour. We can bring you some tea and food while you wait?” She suggests. You slowly glanced over at Nikolai, who subtly nodded his head at you that it was okay. You grab some paper quickly writing down the engraving you wanted on the pocket watch.
Always come home to me.
Followed by your anniversary date. The lady smiled, slipping the paper into her hand and walking you toward a private section.
As you headed back into the parking lot to go home, your paranoia continued to grow; you could feel yourself being watched. Not to mention you were sure you’d seen the same car circling the car park as you walked.
“I feel it too,” Niko tells you, putting his hand on your lower back as he tries to rush you toward the car. At least if you were inside there it was bulletproof and no one could get in if you had the keys.
“Jer and Riot?” You question, not looking around. You didn’t want to make it more obvious that all four of you were together as a group.
“Watching from their car, they’ve taken the plate down and a description. Riot’s gonna get out and follow us.” He tells you, ushering you between some more cars, that it was a different route to the car as though he was trying to be sure you were being followed.
Just like that, everything felt as though it was moving all too fast yet all too slow at the same time. The tyres of a car screeched around the corner, and it sounded like a car backfired before Niko slumped against the car in front of you.
“Niko!” You yell, watching him hit the floor, blood was seeping out from his shirt, and you shoved your hands down on top of it. Applying pressure where he’d been shot. Your hands were quickly covered in thick blood as your head whipped around for signs of a threat.
“You have to get in the car.” Niko grunts, looking up at you. He knew it was over for him; the amount he was bleeding there was no way he was going to get through this.
“No, I-I can’t leave you.” You whimper a little, but he ignores you, pushing his gun into your hand along with the keys. This was the training. Get you safe and ignore their own lives. It was what they did for Chan, and it was what they were trained to do for you.
You were the priority. Not them.
“Run. Don’t look back, just run.” He groans, shifting a little as he feels himself getting lightheaded.
“I can’t-”
“Promise me you’ll make it back to Chan. He won’t be the same if you go…So go!” He yells, shoving you as hard as he could once more before grabbing his second gun and trying to shoot his way out of this. To at least buy you a little more time.
You scrambled to your feet, crouching between cars and trying to make it back to your own, but there were men everywhere.
“She’s here somewhere. Find her.” They spit out, You creep your way between another car, yours was just out of sight. Jer and Riot could handle a couple of the shooters…You could do this. The car wasn’t far. Hell, the elevator was right next to your car, you could slide inside...if it was on the floor and no one was inside...right? There was no way something would happen to you.
“Looky here,” A voice whispers in your ear before you feel a pin prick right in your neck. Your arms turned slack, and the gun clattered to the floor. Whimpering, you did what you could to fight off the sedative, but it felt dam near impossible.
“Got her,” Someone says before everything went black.
The first thing you felt when you came to was pain. It crawled up your arms and burst in your shoulders, a sharp, tearing ache that makes you wish you’d never opened your eyes. The air stunk of rust and something chemical, something wrong. You try to move, but your wrists won’t budge.
You whimper a little, your eyes moving up to your hands. Chains were wrapped around your wrists. Black, thick, and biting into your skin. Your feet barely touch the ground, your body hanging like an ornament someone forgot to take down.
You blink a little, fighting through the fog in your head from the drugs still in your system. Voices were echoing somewhere; you pulled at the chains, but they weren’t going to budge anywhere soon.
“You know Chan’s gonna skin us alive, right?” The first voice said, Your heart dropping as you heard them moving.
“The boss wanted her alive and unharmed.” Another voice snipped at the first.
“Yeah, well, she’s bleeding. You think that counts as unharmed!? If Chan finds us. We’re. Fucking. Dead.” Your breath caught in your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to stay still and limp. Pretending to be out cold.
“That’s bullshit, everyone knows Chan’s gone soft anyway.” The second voice had said again.
“Soft?” The first guy let out a cruel and bitter laugh.
“Did you not hear what he did to the Steel Club guy? Tortured him for a week. Left him praying for death.” Your whole world tilts. Your stomach twists. That Chan? The man who made you tea when you couldn’t sleep? The man who kissed your temple before work? The guy who bought you flowers every day in the month leading up to your birthday?
You bite back a sob, the chains above you rattling a little.
“I’m telling you, we should just dump her.” The first guy says, shaking his head a little.
“No,” another says, voice closer now, meaner than the first two.
“We kill her and run.” He adds, his footsteps getting closer. Almost too close to you. Your heart began to race.
But then there was gunfire. It was loud and deafening. The whole world exploding into chaos, it felt like it was moving too slow but too fast all at once.
People were screaming and shouting, the smell of gunpowder instantly filling your nose.
“Shit! Cut her fucking down!” The mean voice screams.
The hook releases and you hit the floor hard, your shoulder taking the full impact. A scream tears its way through your throat before you can stop it. White-hot searing pain flares as you roll onto your side.
“You stupid cunt! She’s gonna get us caught-” You don’t even see the guy until he’s right there, a hand in your shirt, yanking you up, dragging you against him. A gun presses against your temple.
“Move and I’ll blow her fucking brains out!” He screams. Your vision blurs with tears,the whole room is spinning but throughout it all you can see him.
Chan.
He was standing in the doorway, dressed in black. Blood splattered across his suit. Across his face. His eyes were burning with anger like you’d never seen him in before.
“C-Chan…” your voice cracks as you call out to him. He steps closer, his steps calm and measured. It was the kind of calm that was scarier than the rage.
“I’m here, angel.” He tells you quietly.
“You’re alright, nothing’s gonna happen to you.” The guy holding you laughs, pressing the gun harder to your skin.
“You’re gonna let me walk out of here with her. I get in a car, I leave, and she’s yours again.” Chan tilts his head, eyes flicking between you and the gun.
“What makes you think you’ll get that far?” His voice was cold and distant as he stares at the man beside you. The guy tightens his grip on you, pushing the gun harder against you. Your lip caught between your lip, not wanting to show that you were scared. You could feel yourself losing control, you were terrified.
“You willing to chance me blowing her head off?” He snaps at him. Chan’s jaw flexes,
“No.” The next sound was a single muffled gunshot.
For a second didn’t know where it came from, then the man behind you goes slack. His gun clatters to the floor, and warm liquid sprays across your arm as you drop to your knees in the puddle spreading beneath him.
“C-Channie…” You whimper, but he was already kneeling beside you, his hands on you,
2I’m here I’ve got you, angel, I’ve got you.” You look up at him through the tears and blood. He’s shaking. His suit is torn. There’s blood on his cheek, his collar, his hands, and you can’t tell which of it is his or someone else’s.
“Your shoulder’s dislocated,” he says, breathless, looking at you. God, he needed to get you home, he needed to have you in his arms but he couldn’t take you when you were hurting.
“I need to fix it.” You nod, still dazed from the fall. Chan hisses as he rips off his belt, and it between your teeth. “Bite down, baby.”
He counts to three and pushes. You scream around the leather, vision flashing white as the bone snaps back into place.
When it’s over, he pulls you against him, his heartbeat pounding against your ear. He’s whispering something, your name, maybe, or apologies that sound like prayers.
“Niko?” You ask, remembering your guard who you’d left behind. Chan freezes; the silence was answer enough for you. Your whole stomach dropped,
“Gone,” he says softly, stroking his hand over your back in a comforting way.
“Riot stayed with him. Jer tracked the ones who took you.” Your throat tightens at the thought of him dying because of you.
“That’s how you found me so fast?”
“Not exactly.” You feel him hesitate; it was the same hesitation you’d learned to recognize when he’s about to tell you something you won’t like.
“You have a tracker,” he says quietly. You blink at him. Trying to think of logical reasons…But they’d taken everything off you, there was no necklace or ring on your finger…that was the only possible place for a tracker…Right?
“They took my necklace and phone, Chan-”
“It’s under your skin.” At his words, the whole world seemed to stop for you.
“W-What?” you asked, your voice shaking as you turn to look up at him.
“I wasn’t taking any chances,” he says, voice breaking.
“Not with you.” Your body goes cold. You pull away from him, staring at your hands, your arms, as if you could see where he did it. The air between you shifts, heavy and choking.
“Angel-”
“Don’t.” You flinch when he reaches for you. His hands are covered in blood, and for the first time in your life, the sight of him makes your stomach twist.
“I just want to go home.” You mumble and he nods his head, rushing to get up from the floor,
“Okay. We’ll go home. Bath, food, bed. Cuddle up, I’ll even watch those films you love… Whatever you want.” You don’t answer him. You can’t.
Because for the first time, you’re not sure which version of your husband came to save you…
the man you loved,
or the one the world calls The Butcher of Seoul.
You moved into the guest room, barely uttering a word to Chan as you did so. The room had been made up by the maid who had left some food on the bedside table, as well as a bath being ready for you to be in as soon as you needed.
“Your pajamas are warm too….I-I had her warm them up,” He tells you, opening the door and watching as you simply nod your head. He knew you were retreating a little and he wasn’t going to push you on it.
“And there’s a hot water bottle in bed,” He tells you but you just hum, looking over at the bathroom door and disappearing behind it. Chan stared at the door for a second, he’d do anything to turn back time and have you come back to him.
“Boss?” Chan glanced over his shoulder to see Haden waiting for him,
“Stay outside her room, I’ll...I-I’ll go and prepare things for Niko,” he sighs, leaving the room and shutting the door behind him. He wanted his guard there, not to control you but because he was scared you would wake up screaming…that and he was scared you’d walk out.
“Give her time, boss,” Haden tells him, glancing at his boss, who just nods his head.
“I-I’ve never cared about someone being so scared before…I-I…i fucked up,” He groans, his head in his hands. He hadn’t thought about him being covered in blood as he rushed to get to you. His mind had just been screaming.
Mine
The whole time. He needed to get to you., he needed to make sure you were safe. Nothing mattered other than getting you home…But he’s scared you, he could see that now.
“She’ll come around.” Haden tries to reassure him.
“She saw me caked in blood…She saw me kill people.”
“She’s your wife…” Haden reassures him, but Chan shakes his head.
“I’ve never been like that around her,”
“Maybe it was bad hiding it all from her.” He adds but he just sighs and shakes his head. He needed to prove to you that while his world was bloody and dangerous, his love for you was never going to be like that. He could fix this.
He had to fix this.
The penthouse was quiet now, it had been for weeks since Chan had rescued you. It had been weeks of you sleeping in the guest room and Chan pretending not to notice the empty side of the bed…But it was hard not to when the sheets were so cold…Or when he would roll over in search of you and you were nowhere to be found. It was harder to sleep without you beside him too.
He became a ghost in his own apartment, refusing to be around you whenever you were awake. You knew he was waiting until he thought uou were sleeping to do anything. You could hear him moving in the kitchen, the faint clinking of dishes and running water. He always waited until he thought you were out cold to do anything.
You run your thumb over the scar that was on your wrist where the chain had been biting into your skin and you swallow a little, getting up and heading downstairs. You couldn’t avoid this forever…
Chan was standing over the stove, his sleeves rolled up and string something that smelt incredible. Behind him there was a small tray on the table, with the tea pot you’d seen a lot over the last couple of weeks, a new paperback book and some snacks. Next to that was a new blanket, fluffy socks and a stuffed animal. It wasn;’t much but Chan was doing everything he could for you.
He’d done this every night for the last couple of weeks. He never knocked on the door, he never waited. He left the tray outside of your door like a quiet apology toward you. The new paperback was something to keep you entertained while you were away from your room.
His hair stood up on the back of his neck when he heard your footsteps coming, he turned and stared at you. You looked tired, you had bags under your eyes and he knew it was from the nightmares you were having. Haden had let him know you were struggling, but managing on your own.
“You don’t have to keep doing that, you know.” you motion to the tray and then looking at him. Chan felt as though his heart was going to jump from his chest at the sound of your voice. It had been far too long since he heard it.
“I know…But it helps me feel as though I’m doing something right,” He says softly, stirring the tea. You swallow a little taking in the sight of his hands, his knuckles were bruised but they were fading now, and there was a scar on them too. But the one thing you noticed was his hand shaking a little, the hand that had easily pulled a trigger was now trembling because you were near him.
You sat down at the table slowly, looking at him as he sets a mug down in front of you, the tea tray long forgotten now as he sat down across from you in complete silence. He was terrified to speak.
He didn’t want to risk it and have you go back to the spare room again,
“You didn’t hurt me, Chan. You scared me.” You admit, wrapping your hands around the mug and letting it ground yourself a little. Chan lifted his head to look at you.
You’d heard him talking to Haden one night about him thinking he’d hurt you when he rescued you but he hadn’t.
“That night... the blood, the gunfire... I didn’t recognize you when you came in…Y-you were covered in blood and you just…you were different.” You whisper, not saying any of this to hurt him but for him to see your point in all of this.
“And then you told me about the tracker and it felt like I didn’t even recognize myself either.” Chan nods his head, swallowing the lump that was in his throat,
“I know. And I hate that. I never wanted you to see that part of me.
But I couldn’t- I can’t risk losing you. You’re the only thing that makes me feel like any of this means something.” He tells you, his voice cracking as he shakes his head. You look at him, studying him, the dark circles under his eyes, the weight in his voice; he looked nothing like the man who had stormed in with a gun.
“You really think a tracker was the only way to keep me safe?” You ask softly, your finger tracing the rim of the cup you were holding. Chan shifts a little and looks at you,
“No. It was just the only way I knew how…Niko begged me to tell you about it,” He admits as he shakes his head. Maybe if he had, he wouldn’t have missed you for almost three weeks.
“Everything I do is controlled, everything around me is about control…but you came along and I lost control a little.” He admits.
“You make it sound like I’m a problem.” You tease a little with a soft and nervous laugh but he smirks over at you.
“You are. The best kind I’ve ever had.” You smile a little, your hand reaching over the table and holding his softly.
“I would never make you scared of me,” He admits, glancing over at you and smiling weakly.
“You didn’t Chan…It was a mix of everything, I panicked.”
“You’ll never have to panic around me again, I promise.”
“I know.” You whisper to him, squeezing his hand softly. The two of you sat there in silence, just having a drink together for the first time in weeks.
"Where is the tracker...Just out of curiosity..." you say slowly as you glance over at him, he shifts a little, a pink creeping on over his cheeks.
"Back of your neck,"
"How-"
"You were a really heavy sleeper," He mumbles making you smirk a little
For the first time in weeks the two of you walk towards your bedroom, straight past the guest room,.
“You don’t have to-”
“I know” You cut him off, opening the door and finding the bedroom. The bed looked untouched, almost as if he’d been scared to sleep without you.
Chan couldn’t stop watching you, you climbed into the bed, curling up against the pillows but he just stays by the door, he was scared of moving.
“You gonna stand there all night?” you giggle a little and he exhualed, sounding like relief and disbelief mixed together. He crosses the room within seconds, laying down beside you but you could feel how tense he was. It was like he was afraid to even breathe beside you.
“You can move baby,”
“I know…b-But-”
“Please, just hold me…I mixxed you.” You add and he nods, shifting and moving toward you, letting you close the gap. Your head rested on his chest, listening to his heart racing as you cuddled into him.
“I love you,” He sighs, kissing the top of your head.
“I love you too…Sleep, Channie.” You beg.
He did. For the first time in weeks, he slept soundly throughout the whole night.
The first thing you noticed when you woke up was how warm you were, Chan had always been like a human heater, you loved it. For the first time in weeks you hadn’t woken up cold, you woke up in his arms and warm. You shuffle a little, the sun was coming through gaps in the blinds, Chan was still sound asleep, snoring softly.
The shadows under his eyes had faded a little, he looked better already. You smile to yourself, kissing his chest softly and snuggling into him, just enjoying the closeness of him again. You knew you had no reason to fear him…he might have been that scary guy to everyone else, but he never was with you.
A/N: this one is for my doctorry anon! hope you'll like it! i have put a trigger warning into the story for blood right before the scene starts, so if anyone gets easily triggered by that you can just jump to the end warning!
WORD COUNT: 12.1k
WARNING: sexual content, blood
SUMMARY: Y/N is determined to prove herself under the harsh supervision of Dr. Harry Styles, the brilliant but notoriously grumpy attending surgeon. The pressure to be the best is high, Dr. Styles seems to be living up to his reputation and Y/N can't help but think he pays extra attention to torture her. But can something else lie behind his cold behavior?
MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!
An excited buzz fills the conference room that’s packed with new, eager residents, nervous whispers, shuffling papers and whispered guesses about what’s gonna happen on their first day. They’ve dreamed of this day for years throughout medical school and today they will finally start doing what they studied so hard for.
Y/N is sitting in the third row in her brand new scrubs, heart thumping in her chest, she could barely sleep last night, nonstop dreaming of what this day will be like.
The door swings open and the room falls silent. A tall, broad-shouldered man walks in, a stone-cold expression on his handsome face. He hasn’t even said a word, but everyone knows who he is: Dr. Harry Styles, attending surgeon, a name every resident knows and… fears.
He puts his clipboard to the table, cold eyes sweeping over the room as he stands in front of them, arms crossed over his chest.
“Congratulations,” he says, voice low and clipped. “You made it through medical school. Now the real work starts. And let me be clear–” his eyes flick to the residents, sharp and serious, “you will not all make it as surgeons. Some of you won’t even last this year.”
The silence is almost deafening, the only sound in the room is the humming of the fluorescent lights on the ceiling.
“I don’t care what honors you collected or how much your professors loved you. None of that matters in my OR. What matters is focus. Discipline. The ability to think faster than everyone else in the room. If you can’t do that, you’re a liability.”
His words land heavily. One of the residents shifts uncomfortably in their chair. Another swallows audibly. Harry’s gaze glides over the fearful residents, eyes landing on Y/N in the middle. Her stomach drops instantly.
“What’s your name?” he barks.
“Dr. Y/L/N,” she says, sitting a little straighter. She smiles, determined not to look intimidated. “Sir.”
He arches an eyebrow.
“Sir,” he echos, as if he is testing how it sounds. His gaze slips down to the front pocket of her scrubs that holds a few colorful pens. “Give me those.” He holds his hand out nodding towards the pens.
With a puzzled look she does as he requested. He holds the pens up, examining them as if they are from a spaceship, then he walks over to the trash can in the corner of the room, then drops them into the can.
“Surgeons don’t use glitter pens,” Harry says flatly, dusting his palms together as though ridding himself of the offense. “We use precision instruments. Black ink. Clear notes. Anything else is a distraction.” His gaze snaps back to her, unyielding. “Do you plan on distracting me, Dr. Y/L/N?”
Heat creeps up her neck, but she forces her chin high, her smile never quite faltering.
“No, Dr. Styles,” she replies, though her voice wavers just slightly. “I plan on learning everything I can.”
Something flickers in his expression, maybe amusement, maybe annoyance. It’s impossible to tell before his face shutters back to stone.
“She’s the type to leave stickers on lab results.”
The guy in the back wasn’t as quiet with his whisper as he thought and Dr. Styles heard every word. His gaze snaps to him, catching him grinning to himself, but when he realizes that Dr. Styles is looking at him, his face falls.
“What’s your name?”
“Dr. Scott.”
“Care to share your thoughts with the whole group?”
Dr. Scott’s cheeks turn pink, at first he just stares back at Dr. Styles, thinking he didn’t mean it, but when he doesn’t budge he realizes he was serious.
“I-I was just… I was joking that she would put stickers on lab results.”
Dr. Styles arches an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side.
“Dr. Scott, don’t bother to come in tomorrow. Pack your stuff and leave.”
Dr. Scott blinks at him, pure shock on his face. He looks to the side, as if his mate would help him out, but everyone is just as shocked as he is and they don’t even dare to look him or Dr. Styles in the eyes. But Dr. Styles just waits patiently until Dr. Scott finally starts moving. He grabs his backpack and then saunters down the stairs and out of the room.
“This is not a playground, not the place where you come to hangout. I don’t want to hear about drama or fighting or mockery. If that’s what keeps you going, you can follow Dr. Scott out the door. You’re here to learn how to save lives, probably one of the hardest things known to mankind. I need you focused and mentally prepared at all times. Understood?”
The residents nod and mumble their answer, but that’s not enough for Dr. Styles.
“Understood?” he repeats, raising his voice, to which the room replies loud and clear.
“Yes, Dr. Styles.”
He then nods, eyes glancing over to Y/N one more time before he checks his phone.
“Rounds in fifteen minutes,” he announces, already striding for the door. “Bring your brains. Leave your egos.”
And then the door shuts behind him.
For a moment, the residents sit frozen, as if afraid any sudden movement might summon him back. Then the whispers start, mutters of shock, nerves, dread.
“He’s even worse than the rumors,” Y/N hears someone whisper behind her.
Y/N exhales slowly, her shoulders tight, pulse still racing. This did not go as she planned, but she won’t let it ruin the experience for her. This is everything she dreamed of, an arrogant surgeon will not shatter everything in ten minutes.
***
The coffee still tastes awful, even after chugging at least three at every shift for the past month, but Y/N drinks it anyway. It’s like a ritual she needs to do before starting work.
She has another long day ahead of her, but she doesn’t mind it. She quickly found common ground with some of the other residents and she even won the nurses over with some home-baked goods on her first week. Even when they are swamped and the patients just keep coming, she still enjoys and loves what she does.
The only downside? Dr. Styles.
That first day truly set the tone for working with him and he hasn’t eased since then. If something, he’s proven to be even tougher.
Ten residents quit in the first week. He fired three more the week after and now there are only seven of them. He chews them up and spits them out every single day and though he teaches so much, more than probably anyone could, he also makes them work harder than anyone.
“Are you ready for another beautiful day?” Nelly rounds the corner as she is putting her hair up into a ponytail.
“I was born ready.” Y/N does a little silly dance, making Nelly chuckle.
“Do you think Master will make someone cry today?”
The nickname for Dr. Styles was born their first week. After a particularly tough shift some of the residents went to grab a drink and they ended up making up theories about Dr. Styles and what he must be like outside of the hospital and someone said he must be dominant and probably gets off on being called Master and then the name just stuck. Of course, only behind his back.
“I’m praying he is in a good mood today,” Y/N gives Nelly a look as they head over to the nurse station where they always start their rounds.
A few minutes later the group is full, talking and laughing, but it all dies down when Dr. Styles appears. His clipboard is tucked under his arm, hair a little messy, eyes cold as usual. Y/N only allows herself to examine him only for a couple of seconds before she turns her gaze down at the tiled floor.
She was once caught by him, staring at him probably longer than she should have and she had to answer every damn question during that round. She has learned her lesson.
It’s hard though, not to stare at him and not just because of his reputation but also because he is annoyingly handsome. Despite the constant unapproving look on his face, he looks quite pleasant with his chiseled jawline, unruly curls and piercing eyes, let alone the tattoos that sometimes peek out from under his lab coat. He’d been unfairly blessed with his looks, that’s for sure.
“Dr. Y/L/N,” he barks, stopping in front of the group. “Fifty-four-year-old male, post-op day three following an open cholecystectomy. Fever overnight. What’s your first concern?”
“Anastomotic leak,” Y/N replies immediately, heart thumping but voice steady.
“And labs?”
“CBC, blood cultures, liver function tests. I’d also get a CT with contrast to evaluate.”
Dr. Styles narrows his eyes at her, but then nods curtly. He then fires away a few more questions, two more at Y/N which she answers correctly, but merely gets another nod.
“Alright, that’s it for today’s question round. Let’s start the actual work.”
The residents breathe out in relief as they follow him down the hall to the first room. With each visited patient, he keeps throwing questions at the residents and whenever someone answers wrong, they get the next about ten questions or at least until Dr. Styles gets bored of hearing their voice.
Y/N is an exception, however. In each room she gets at least a third of the questions. it’s like he is testing her. way more than anyone else in the group.
Once everyone is sent on their way to their separate tasks for the upcoming few hours they all sigh with relief, except those who are going into surgery with Dr. Styles. Y/N today is signed up for some ER work along with Nelly and Jason, a good team to be stuck with in her opinion.
“Jesus, what did you do to him today?” Jason asks on their way.
“Nothing, I guess he just really hates me,” Y/N rolls her eyes.
“If he does, why hasn’t he fired you yet? He has the power. why torture you?” Nelly muses.
“Because she is the most brilliant out of all of us,” Jason points out.
“No I’m not,” Y/N protests, heat crawling up her neck. She knows she is good, she works a lot to be the best she can, but she doesn’t take praise well, it gets her all flustered and nervous, never knowing how to react.
“Whatever, Teacher’s Pet,” Jason teases her.
“I’m definitely not that!” She laughs, holding up a hand. “She probably has a woodoo doll of me at home and he prays for the day I answer something wrong so he can get rid of me.”
“Or,” Nelly starts with a sly smirk, “he is actually into you, but doesn’t know how to approach you so he is picking on you like a kid.”
They all grab their clipboards with patient cases as they get to the packed ER, carrying on the conversation.
“I highly doubt that,” Y/N scoffs, scanning over the papers on her board.
“Why? You’re hot, he is hot, it’s a no brainer.”
“Ah, he is so hot!” Jason moans. “It would be like the perfect enemies to lovers story!” he chimes in, already getting carried away with his fantasy. “The grumpy, highly respected and feared star surgeon falls for the cheery resident, but because of their power imbalance nothing could happen between them so he does what he knows best: be the biggest asshole to her!”
“Oh my God, stop!” Y/N laughs, covering her face with her clipboard. “I don’t want to hear about this again, okay? See you at lunch?” She is backing away, eager to escape this conversation.
“Yes! And then we can discuss how you’ll hook up with Master!” Jason calls after her, way too loud to her liking, so she sprints away, heat creeping up to her ears.
***
The pager goes off just as Y/N sinks into the stiff couch of the residents’ lounge. She groans, rubbing her face before glancing at the glowing screen.
Trauma bay, incoming in ten.
There goes her chance to have a break.
She jogs down the hall, adjusting her scrub cap, and sure enough, Dr. Styles is already there. He stands at the foot of the empty trauma bed, arms crossed, jaw tight. His eyes flick to her as she enters, then back to the doors. Like there’s something he wants to say, but he keeps it to himself.
The doors burst open and the patient is rolled in. Adrenaline surges through Y/N’s veins and within seconds they are working in tandem. Harry barking orders, Y/N inserting an IV, relaying vitals, answering his sharp questions without hesitation. For almost half an hour it is pure chaos, until the patient stabilizes and is whisked off to surgery.
Only then Y/N feels like she is breathing evenly again. She leans against the counter, sweat cooling on her neck.
“Well,” she says between breaths, “that was fun.”
Dr. Styles shoots her a look, one that usually gets all the residents silent immediately, but then Y/N notices the twitch in the corner of his mouth that almost resembles a smile. She files it away in her memories as a once in a lifetime sight.
“You think that was fun?” he questions.
Maybe it’s her exhaustion, maybe it’s the double espresso she drank an hour ago, but she feels bold instead of scared as she answers.
“Sure,” she replies with a tired grin. “You’re terrifying, the patient’s bleeding out and somehow I’m the only resident on call with you tonight. This is surely fun.”
He huffs and it’s almost a laugh, as he shakes his head at her.
“It’s a hospital, not a circus.”
And with that he walks off, a growing grin stretching across Y/N’s face, because this interaction wasn’t even half bad, almost kind of human, which is something she hasn’t experienced with him before.
Two hours go by, Y/N makes a quick round fixing IV’s and checking temperature before she finally heads to the break room at around two in the morning. She expects no one to be there, so she almost jumps in surprise when she walks in and finds someone lying on one of the beds. Well, not just someone, Dr. Styles.
He’s stretched out on the too-small cot, one arm thrown over his forehead, chest rising and falling steadily. In the dim light, with his scrub top rumpled and his jaw slack in sleep, he looks… different. Not the sharp, unyielding surgeon who makes residents sweat through their coats, but a man who’s just as exhausted as the rest of them.
Y/N freezes in the doorway, suddenly unsure if she should retreat. Her brain tells her to slip away quietly, but her feet don’t move. It feels almost like walking in on something private, like seeing a wild animal at rest.
The floor creaks under her shoe, and Harry stirs. His arm slides down from his forehead, and his green eyes blink open, heavy with sleep. For a second, he just stares at her, caught between dream and waking.
Then his brows knit.
“What are you doing?” His voice is rough, lower than usual, almost intimate.
“Sorry,” she whispers, raising her hands in surrender. “Didn’t mean to wake you. I’m just here for a nap too. But I can do that later, if you want some… privacy.”
He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face as he sits up. His hair is messy, falling over his forehead and his voice is still husky when he says, “It’s a break room, not a hotel suite. You don’t need my permission to be here.”
Y/N hovers near the door for a beat, then crosses the room to the other bed, tossing her jacket down like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Still, her pulse hammers in her ears. It feels strange being in the same room with him like this, quiet, stripped of the chaos of the hospital and bleeding patients.
“Is this your second break?” he asks her, sitting on the edge of the cot.
“Um… no, first one.”
He frowns instantly.
“First? Y/N, you started at 8 am. It’s two am. You’re no good if you faint from exhaustion.” The scolding tone makes her feel like a kid who was caught doing something. She feels small and shameful as she buries her head more into the small pillow.
“Sorry,” she mumbles. But then she processes something else: he just called her Y/N instead of Dr. Y/L/N. There’s something oddly intimate in hearing him call her by her first name, it’s weird but warming as well and her first instinct is to tease him about it, but seeing his disapproving look she swallows her words.
Dr. Styles shakes his head as he stands from the cot.
“I don’t want to see you out in the halls before three am,” he orders in a low voice as he walks over to the door.
“Yes, Sir,” Y/N mumbles in reply and he freezes for a moment, hand on the doorknob, but then he twists the knob and walks out, leaving Y/N alone in the dimly lit room.
Eyes closed, she turns towards the wall, willing herself to sleep, but the way he said her name keeps replaying in her mind until her exhaustion really kicks in and she finally drifts off to sleep.
***
She emerges from the break room a little after three. She checks the time, making sure it really is past three so she doesn’t upset Dr. Styles before she returns to the trauma bay. After a few cases it calms down and she starts on some paperwork by the nurse station when Dr. Patel, one of the ER attendings, walks past and pauses.
“Dr. Y/L/N,” he says, glancing down at the file in his hands. “Good work in there earlier. That intubation you did? Smooth, efficient. You saved us precious minutes.”
Y/N blinks, caught off guard by the praise.
“Oh… thank you, Dr. Patel. I just… I just followed protocol.”
The doctor shakes his head with a soft smile.
“Plenty of people know the protocol, but not everyone executes under pressure like that. You’ve got great instincts. Keep it up.”
Before she could get a response out he is already shuffling down the hallway. Her cheeks burn as she clutches her chart to her chest. It was a simple compliment, but it got her all flustered and nervous, lips pressed together tight, fighting the urge to smile like an idiot.
From a few feet away, Dr. Styles watches the whole exchange. Leaning against the doorframe of one of the rooms, arms crossed, expression unreadable as the thoughts swirl in his mind and when Y/N ducks her head, obviously flustered and glowing from the praise, something stirs in his chest.
He’s used to residents either puffing up with arrogance or scrambling for validation when they get recognized. But Y/N… she looks like she doesn’t even know what to do with it. Like someone just handed her a gift she never thought she’d deserve.
When Y/N looks up and turns around, Dr. Styles is nowhere to be seen however.
***
A young patient lies on the table, a complicated trauma case that came in less than an hour ago. The room is packed with nurses and scrub techs, but it feels like everyone is holding their breath. A handful of the residents are standing at the edge of the room, watching the surgery, Y/N being one of them, eyes glued to Dr. Styles by the head of the operating table.
His gloved hands are steady, if you only saw his face you would never guess how complicated the surgery is he is doing right now. His focus is incredible, voice calm as he dictates each step.
“Clamp. Suction. Retractor. No, more to the left.”
Y/N can’t take her eyes off him, drawing in nervous breaths behind her mask. She has seen him work before, several times, she’s even assisted him before, but this seems different.
He’s in his element here, precise and unflinching, commanding the room without ever raising his voice.
When the bleeder comes into view, Y/N feels her stomach drop. It looks impossible, too hard to reach, at least for her. But it’s not her standing by the operating table, it’s Dr. Styles and he doesn’t even flinch.
“There you are,” he murmurs under his breath, like he just found a treasure he’s been looking for so long. His hands move with a speed and certainty that makes the impossible seem almost easy, the tension in the room just keeps growing as everyone waits for him to do his magic.
A couple of seconds and the bleeding slows, the levels on the monitors even out and a collective exhale sweeps through the OR.
Y/N stares, heart pounding, unable to hide her awe, she feels like she just witnessed a miracle.
Dr. Styles orders to start closing the wound up and his gaze flickers up and over to the residents. Or, to be more precise, to Y/N, who is still standing by the wall, hands over her chest as she is still coming off the high witnessing this operation gave her. Their eyes meet, he is even more unreadable than usual, since his face is almost fully covered, she can only see his eyes, but he is wearing glasses, so those are half hidden as well. Yet, she feels like there’s something in them, in the way he is staring at her from across the room, but she can’t make out the actual message.
He turns his attention back at the patient and finishes up the surgery, not looking her way again for the rest of the time.
Later that day Y/N sits wedged between Nelly and Jason in the cafeteria, her scrubs wrinkled from the long shift, a cold sandwich on her tray. Jason is recounting his last overnight call, arms waving as he tells the story of nearly fainting in the middle of a code. Nelly laughs so hard she nearly chokes on her fries, and Y/N can’t help but smile, warmth settling in her chest.
Her gaze wanders across the room though. Dr. Styles sits at a table near the windows, his posture relaxed in a way she rarely sees, but it looks good on him. Across from him is Dr. Rowe, one of the cardiothoracic attendings, a sharp, confident, undeniably beautiful woman everyone likes in the hospital. They’re leaning in slightly, heads bent together in a quiet conversation and when Dr. Rowe laughs softly, Dr. Styles’ mouth curves into an answering smile.
Y/N’s eyebrows furrow, a sharp feeling cutting into her chest, down to her stomach. She wonders what they talk about, what she said that made him smile, if they hang out outside of the hospital as well.
She’d seen him in the OR today, steady and brilliant, and she hasn’t been able to shake the image. And now, watching him look so… human with someone else, it stings in a way she doesn’t expect.
“Earth to Y/N,” Jason says, waving a fry in front of her face. “You spaced out. Who’re you staring at?”
Her cheeks flush instantly.
“No one,” she blurts, poking at her sandwich.
Nelly follows her gaze before Y/N could look away and hide her sudden interest. Her eyebrows shoot up, a sly grin tugging at her lips.
“Oooh! Dr. Styles and Dr. Rowe. Interesting.”
“That’s an unexpected pair, but I can see it,” Jason huffs, staring at them unapologetically.
Y/N forces a laugh, the sound a little too high.
“You watch too much reality,” she mumbles, biting into her sandwich, determined not to look at that table across the room.
***
The afternoon is dragging when Y/N gets paged to room 312, where a post-op patient is crashing. She sprints down the hall, heart hammering and bursts in, finding Dr. Styles already there along with two nurses.
The monitors are shrieking, the patient seems to be in immense pain and for a second she panics, but she is quick to shake the feeling and focus on what matters.
“Blood pressure is dropping,” one of the nurses calls out. Y/N’s eyes dart to the IV line, and she immediately spots that it’s dislodged.
“The line’s out!” she blurts, already grabbing a new catheter.
Dr. Styles glances at her once, sharp and assessing, then nods.
“Fix it, Dr. Y/L/N.”
Her hands move quickly, almost on autopilot, sliding the new line in place. The monitors steady within seconds and the room’s frantic energy simmers down. Relief floods her chest, though her hands start trembling just slightly as she tapes down the line.
Once it’s ensured that the patient is stable, the nurses take over while Y/N and Dr. Styles step back, getting rid of their used gloves.
“Good catch,” Dr. Styles says while Y/N is still watching the patient, but at his words she turns to him with wide eyes. He is looking at her, not with his usual gloomy expression, but with something that almost looks fond.
“You saw it before anyone else,” he continues. “That’s the kind of focus that saves lives.”
Her throat goes dry and suddenly she’s very aware of how hot her cheeks feel.
“I, uhh–I just… It was in front of my e-eyes,” she stutters.
“No,” he says firmly, his gaze still locked on hers. “You assessed the situation well, everyone missed the IV. Including me.”
“Well… Thank you,” she nods, or maybe more like bows to him. She becomes a nervous mess when someone compliments her, but now that it came from Dr. Styles, she has no idea what to do with herself. Her chest swells with a mixed feeling of nervousness, excitement, pride and… lust? Is that what she’s feeling at his praise?
In the meantime, Dr. Styles is watching her, intrigued. He can see the way her cheeks flush, the way her eyes flicker down before darting back up to his. She’s rattled, though not by the chaos of the patient or the emergency.
By him.
By his words.
His lips twitch, the barest hint of a smile tugging at them. He enjoys it, more than he probably should. The way her throat works as she swallows, the way she fumbles with her chart like it could shield her from his gaze that’s practically setting her on fire and burning her up.
When one of the nurses throws a question at him he snaps out of his awe though. Clearing his throat he answers and then walks out of the room, leaving Y/N a little confused about this tiny, but major interaction they just had.
But she’s not the only one, stuck on it. Because as Dr. Styles is walking down the hallway, he urges himself to forget about the sight of her as she reacted to his praise.
***
Y/N thinks of just going home when she arrives at the event, clutching her invitation in her hands like a lifeline. This whole gala is so out of her comfort zone with all those sparkly chandeliers, trays full of champagne everywhere and dresses that cost probably a thousand times more than her simple, long dress she bought in a vintage boutique a few years ago, but never got to wear.
Two days ago she wasn’t in on tonight on her own, Nelly and Jason swore to join her as well for the fundraising gala they hold for the hospital every year, but they both bailed kind of last minute. Nelly said it’s a family emergency, while Jason texted their group chat just two hours ago that he is deathly ill.
Aka terribly hungover probably, since he told them a million times the week before that he is going out with his old high school friends.
So now it’s just Y/N here, surrounded by surgeons and donors in expensive suits, and she feels wildly out of place.
She lingers near the edge of the room, sipping a glass of sparkling water, already planning to leave in about thirty minutes to spare her from having to be the weird resident no one really knows or wants to talk to. She tries the food which is at least good, she sees a few familiar faces, but none from her closer circle she spends her breaks with or eats in the cafeteria.
She then grabs a glass of wine, allowing herself that much fun and that’s when a familiar voice calls out her name.
“Dr. Y/L/N?”
The deep voice at her side makes her jump. She turns and nearly forgets how to breathe.
Dr. Harry Styles is standing there in a perfectly tailored suit, dark curls swept back, bowtie crisp. He looks nothing like the sharp, scrubs-clad figure she’s used to in the OR. He looks… devastatingly good.
“Dr. Styles,” she manages, forcing her eyes not to linger. “Hi.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying her.
“Where did you leave your friends?”
For some reason, she is surprised that he knows she made friends with some of her fellow residents, she always imagined that he has absolutely no interest in knowing any details about his students.
Y/N nods, feeling a bit embarrassed.
“The others… bailed. I’m starting to regret showing up.”
For a moment, she expects him to give a cutting remark about residents needing to network. But then he takes a sip of his drink, eyes scanning over the room as he nods.
“Yeah, me too.”
She blinks at him in surprise.
“You don’t like these? But everyone here must know your name and wants to talk to you.”
“That’s the problem,” he mumbles under his breath, making her laugh.
“So you don’t like the attention?”
“Not this kind.” His eyes cut to her, with a hidden meaning behind them, but she can’t translate it before it’s gone.
Before Y/N can press him, his gaze sharpens. He’s looking at someone across the room, a silver-haired man with a booming (and annoying) laugh making his way toward them, along with two other men. Dr. Styles’ composure changes rather quickly, his jaw tightens.
“Come with me,” he mutters, already placing a hand lightly at her elbow. It happens so fast she doesn’t even have the chance to freak out that his skin is touching her skin for the first time ever.
“W-What?!” she questions, but he just shakes his head. He steers her through the crowd with practiced ease, muttering a quick “excuse us” when someone tries to stop him and in moments they’re slipping through the glass doors onto the terrace.
The night air is cool, a relief after the heat of the crowded ballroom. String lights twinkle overhead, the muffled hum of conversation drifting from inside. Y/N blinks at him, breathless from being whisked away.
“Okay, what was that?!” she breathes out, placing a hand over her chest, feeling her heart thumping against her ribs.
He exhales, loosening his bowtie which alone would be enough to make Y/N forget about what she even asked.
“I needed to get away. That man–He talks so much and for so long and he always finds me at these events and I was just not in the mood to deal with him tonight.”
Her jaw drops slightly as realization settles over her.
“Wait. You used me as your escape?”
His mouth twitches the slightest.
“Well, it’s more excusable to walk off with someone and you happened to be standing there, so…” He shrugs, tucking his hands into his pockets and Y/N is staring at him in awe. Not just because he just used her, but because he looks so different now, so mundane, so… approachable. It looks great on him, but she definitely has to get used to this version of him.
She lets out a soft chuckle, folding her arms over her chest.
“Wow. Maybe I should feel honored. Dr. Styles using me as cover.”
His expression twitches, but this time it looks more unpleasant and Y/N instantly panics that she said something wrong or went too far.
“S-Sorry, I’m…”
“Sorry? For what?”
“You just looked like you heard something you did not like.”
He presses his lips together, glancing down at his shoes before his gaze returns to her.
“I just don’t quite like being called Dr. Styles when I’m not working,” he admits.
“Oh.”
“You can call me Harry. Outside of the hospital.”
His offer shocks her and part of her wants to bring some teasing into their conversation, ask him if they will see each other more outside of work, but she definitely thinks that’s too much, so she just bites her tongue, nodding.
“Well, you have called me Y/N already, so I have nothing to offer,” she chuckles shortly.Something flashes across his face and it looks like realization, like he just actually realized that he did in fact already called her Y/N before. That makes her think it was unintentional, which is weird, because she hasn’t heard him call anyone by their first name before.
She shakes herself from the thought, taking a deep breath as she glances inside through the glass door.
“So… what now? Are we gonna hide out here for the rest of the gala?”
Harry follows her gaze toward the lively crowd inside.
“Wouldn’t be the worst idea,” he says, his tone dry, though there’s a faint curve at the corner of his mouth. Y/N just nods absentmindedly, but then a laugh bubbles from her mouth, earning a puzzled look from Harry.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, I just find it funny that the man who terrifies half the surgical floor hiding out on the terrace with a resident.”
He thinks about her words for a few seconds and she starts to regret saying that thought out loud, but then a faint smile appears on his lips.
“Well, that’s my strategy. If people fear me they won’t bother me.”
She raises her eyebrows at him, smiling wide.
“But you just revealed it to me, now I’ll just bother you anyway.”
“You’re way smarter than to do that,” he answers quickly and that shuts her up, because it was another compliment. Dr. Harry Styles just called her smart.
She nervously smoothes her dress with her hands and then tugs her hair behind her ears, avoiding his gaze that’s examining her quite closely.
“You don’t like to be praised?” he questions, but there’s no mockery in his tone, it’s filled with curiosity.
“No–I mean I do! I just… I never know what to say or how to react when I get a compliment. That’s it.”
Even talking about it makes her nervous and she wishes she could just switch to another topic. Harry hums, tilting his head as if he’s studying her, the same way he does when they are discussing a case. Only this time, his gaze feels warmer, heavier.
When she dares to look his way, she feels like he wants to say something and maybe it’s the champagne she has drunk or the unusual setting she is talking to him, but she actually speaks her mind this time.
“What?” she tilts her head gently with a curious smile. Harry shakes his head. “Come on, I know you want to say something.”
“I do,” he curtly answers, but doesn’t continue just yet. Though when he sees her determination, he gives in. “I just… You might not know how to react, but you already have a pretty standard reaction to compliments.”
“Brushing them off?” she huffs out a laugh.
“No,” he shakes his head, eyes glued to her face. “Your shoulders hike higher and you start fumbling with your fingers, like you need to occupy them. You start blink rapidly and press your lips together.”
Her mouth parts at his observation, a sense of warmth jumping through every spot he just mentioned. Starting from her shoulders, down to her hands, up to her eyelids and then to her lips. Heat crawls up neck to her ears and she keeps glancing away, but this time her gaze is pulled back to him every time, like it’s magnetic.
“Do you observe all your residents this closely?” she finds herself asking in a hushed tone and though she meant it as a rhetoric question, she gets a reply instantly.
“No.”
She swears sparks ignite between them and for a second she expects him to close the distance with a stride and she realizes she wishes he would do that.
She wants him to get closer, she desires him to press up against her and she aches to be wrapped up in him.
When the glass door opens somewhere behind them they both sober up from the moment. Y/N nervously clears her throat, rubbing her hands on her upper arms as the evening chill hits her skin. Harry then realizes that she is out there in just a dress.
“Let’s… Let’s get back inside,” he suggests.
“What about your cover?”
“I’ll suck it up and be a big boy,” he says with a tight-lipped smile that makes her laugh.
They head inside and Harry holds the door open for her, placing a hand to her lower back out of instinct as she steps through the door, a spark of electricity traveling down her spine instantly and even when his hand is long gone, she can still feel the warmth of his palm, indented into her skin even through the fabric of her dress.
There’s a beat of awkwardness as they stop, unsure how to go on and Y/N is the first to break it.
“I’ll go to the restroom. I’m sure many want to have a chat with you.”
“Probably,” he nods with absolutely no excitement on his face.
“I’ll… see you later, I guess.”
“Sure.” Another nod.
After a moment of hesitation she wills her legs to move and carry her over to the restrooms, putting a much needed distance between them.
Once inside, she leans onto the counter, staring at her reflection in the mirror as she takes at least a dozen deep breaths to calm her racing heart’s pounding. But her mind is turning against herself, because she can’t shake the sight of him when he said he doesn’t pay that much attention to other residents and then the feeling of his hand on her back…
“Fuck,” she mutters, splashing some water into her face as realization sets in.
She is in trouble.
***
The hospital is in its usual rhythm. Beeping pagers, squeaking sneakers on the linoleum, the low murmur of nurses exchanging updates. But to Y/N, something feels off.
She notices it on Monday morning rounds. Usually, Dr. Styles fires his toughest questions at her, his sharp gaze pinning her in place until she answers. But today, he barely glances her way, his questions scatter across the group, never landing on her and when she offers an answer voluntarily, his only response is just a barely noticeable nod before he moves on to the next person, paying her no questions until they are done.
At first she tries to shake it. There’s nothing unusual, maybe he just grew tired of hearing only her voice. That’s something she should be thankful for.
But by midweek, she can’t ignore it anymore. He doesn’t make eye contact with her in the OR, even when she assists. Checking up on a post-op patient he hands the charts over to the other resident by his side, something that doesn’t happen often and only then does she realize just how much attention he was paying her all along.
And now it’s gone.
By Thursday afternoon, Y/N is convinced she messed up. She replays the terrace conversation over and over in her head. Maybe she acted too friendly. Maybe she asked or said something she shouldn’t have. She picks it apart over and over again, finding new details she could have done wrong.
She sees him a few more times in that shift and almost musters up the courage to ask him, but whenever she sees his hard expression she talks herself out of it.
***
Two weeks pass by in that cold manner and Y/N starts to settle into it, but it doesn’t mean she has stopped worrying about it. Her mind is still gnawing at the strange distance between her and Harry.
When the ER calls up with a patient who needs surgical evaluation, she jumps at the chance to prove herself again. Maybe if she works harder, sharper, better, everything will get back to how it was before the gala.
The patient is a middle-aged man, disoriented and bleeding from an abdominal wound. He is sitting on the edge of the exam table when Y/N walks in and starts checking her vitals as always, doing her best to soothe him.
But then something shifts in him when she tries to check the wound from closer. His eyes get glazed and Y/N notices his hands jerking before everything goes to shit.
TRIGGER WARNING: BLOOD
An alarm goes off in her, but it’s too late, he lashes out.
A tray crashes onto the floor, Y/N stumbles back as his arm swings, catching her across the cheek with a brutal punch that sends pain flashing hot through her face. Then a sharp sting blooms across her forearm too, the punch threw her off enough that she didn’t realize he grabbed the scalpel and sliced through the air with it, nicking her arm with the motion.
Y/N stumbles towards the wall, back smashing against it and the man is already readying himself to launch at her again, eyes widen, a guttural growl bubbling from his throat and for a moment Y/N thinks this is it, this is how it all ends.
“Hey!” a nurse shouts, rushing forward. But the man is thrashing, shouting incoherently and Y/N is frozen, blood dripping down her arm, to the linoleum.
Then it all happens just as fast as the attack.
Harry burst into the room, throwing the man against the wall across, holding him down with one arm, the other one catching the man’s hand that still holds the scalpel, pushing it against the wall as well with so much force, his fingers let go of the tool and it falls to the ground.
“Sedate him! Now!” he barks the order to the two nurses that followed him inside. A moment later an injection is pinned into the man’s thigh and while he is still shouting, his muscles start to relax from the medication. Once it kicks in at full force, the nurses take over, lifting him onto the bed, restraining his arms and legs this time.
Then Harry is at Y/N’s side.
“Y/N,” he softly calls out, the distance is long gone from his tone. “It’s alright. Come on, let’s clean this up.” He gently takes her arm and that’s when she looks down at the cut. It’s not deep, she can see that, but the blood has painted her lower arm and hand red. Harry doesn’t care that her blood is staining his lab coat too, he carefully steers her out of the room and into an empty one down the hall, sitting her to the edge of the exam table while her hands are still shaking and the pain starts to set in now that the adrenaline has worn out of her veins. The cut stings and the whole left side of her face feels like it’s on fire. But the worst of it all is the shame.
END OF TRIGGER WARNING
She watches as Harry cleans her arm and then focuses on the cut, tending to the wound with such care she hasn’t seen from him with other patients before.
He disinfects it, takes a closer look to see if she needs any stitches, but luckily it’s not that deep, so he wraps her arm in a bandage before looking up at her face to see the damage there, but then he sees the expression on her face.
“Y/N…”
“I–I must have messed up,” she stammers, tears pricking her eyes. “I must’ve said something wrong, I should have handled him differently, maybe I didn’t see somethi–”
“Stop.” His tone is quiet but commanding, cutting through her panic. His hand takes hers, giving it a gentle squeeze that successfully zeroes her mind out, the warmth of his touch sending shivers down her spine.
“This wasn’t your fault,” he reassures her as her lips wobble and she bites into it to stop herself from fully sobbing.
“B-but–”
“You did everything right,” he insists, eyes locking on hers. “Patients like this… it happens. No one could have predicted it. Do you understand? You did nothing wrong.”
The weight in his words steals her breath. For once, there’s no criticism, no test, no impossible bar to clear. Just reassurance.
At last she closes her mouth and nods in defeat. Harry exhales sharply through his nose as his eyes start assessing her face. A bruise is already starting to form over her cheekbone and the left side of her lower lip is swollen with a little split. Under his scrutinizing gaze she runs her tongue over the wound and she swears his eyes darken just then.
He reaches up, palm cupping her jaw as he lifts her head as if he is examining the bruise, but his gaze stays glued to her eyes. Her breath hitches in her throat when he runs his thumb across her bottom lip, but it’s not because the split hurts.
She swallows, time has stopped moving around them as he leans in the slightest. She even questions if she saw it right, but when she does the same, he moves again and this time she is sure he is getting closer.
Her hand finds his lab coat, fisting the fabric in anticipation and she has already closed her eyes when something is dropped outside, the loud thump making them both jump and just like that, the bubble is popped.
Harry’s hand drops and when he takes a step back she lets go of his coat and she has to fight the urge to pull him back.
He looks away before his eyes flutter closed and when they open again, he is back to reality.
“Get an ice-pack for your face. Change the bandage after you shower tonight.”
They sound like orders, but come out softer than usual. Her mind is racing, still stuck on what was about to happen just moments ago and all she can do is nod, dazed and confused.
Then Harry walks out of the room, like he wasn’t about to kiss her just a minute ago.
***
Y/N is way too disoriented after the incident. And it’s not just because that patient attacked her, what happened, or more like almost happened afterwards is what has her all over the place.
Everyone starts asking what happened and how she is, the nurses get her an ice-pack and some soothing gel, though the bruising is already there, a vivid reminder of what happened.
She tries to get back to work, but patients give her weird looks when they see her beaten up face and she also notices that her focus is definitely elsewhere.
Because of the incident, she is let off early this time so she can rest. She changes out of her scrubs and heads out, but only reaches one of the benches just outside the hospital. She sits, her mind still replaying that scene with Harry, the touch of his hand on her face, his soft gaze, the way he leant closer, the kiss already hanging between them.
She won’t be able to get it out of her head and the more she thinks of it, the surer she gets that she needs answers. The gala could have been just her imagination, she could have just made up whatever she felt then, but today was not just in her head.
He almost kissed her and she wanted him to, she ached to be kissed by him.
When she glances towards the entrance, Harry walks out just then, backpack over one shoulder, still wearing his scrubs, he just threw his jacket over.
She moves like she’s on autopilot as she stands and starts walking towards him. When he spots her, the surprise on his face is obvious.
“Y/N,” he softly says, his steps coming to a halt. “I thought you already left. How… How are you feeling?”
She ignores his question, the urge to get answers is now taking over her.
“What was that?” she asks and his face gives him away just for a split second before returning to its unreadable state again.
“What was what?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. In the exam room, when you were bandaging me up. What was that?”
He exhales sharply through his nose, looking away for a second before his eyes return to her.
“Y/N, don’t do this.”
“I want answers,” she demands, standing her ground. “Ever since I’ve started working here, it seemed like you were fixated on always questioning me, you were obviously harder on me than on any of the other residents. I thought that was just because maybe you hated me, or maybe… maybe you saw potential in me and expected more from me, whatever. But then at the gala…”
Harry’s jaw tightens, just like his hands on the strap of his bag, but he doesn’t interrupt, so she continues.
“I thought I just imagined it, the… the spark, I thought I was just an idiot for thinking there was more to it, but then you acted so distant, like you wanted to shut me out of your life and then today…”
Her throat is closing up, she is getting worked up, but she fights through it, she needs to say all of it out loud finally.
“You wanted to kiss me, didn’t you?”
She waits for an answer, but it never comes, he is just staring back at her, eyes darkening.
“Did you want to kiss me?” She repeats the question with more force and this time his answer comes instantly, like he’s been trying to swallow it down, but he couldn’t hold it down any longer.
“Yes.”
She was expecting this answer, but it still feels like something bursts in her. Her thoughts are racing and she can’t get a word out, but he takes over the talking.
“I wanted to kiss you even though I’m your supervisor. That’s… It’s one thing that I’m not supposed to do that, but I shouldn’t even think of that, Y/N.”
His voice is hard, clipped, but in a different way, he seems to be angry at himself this time.
“It’s messed up, I’m messed up. I’m trying everything I can to… get you out of my head, but I can’t. Not since… since…” He is breathing heavily, eyes on fire.
“Since when?” she questions, just as worked up.
“Since the first damn day I walked into that conference room!” he snaps. It’s like the wall he’s been building up around himself relentlessly is now falling apart. “I saw you with your… colorful pens and bright eyes and I couldn’t think of anything else for the rest of the day. And since then, with every right answer you gave me, every operation you assisted me, every shift spent together, it just grew inside me no matter what I did.
“Then I saw you at the gala, no scrubs, no… rubbing alcohol smell and… Fuck.” He rubs his face with his hands before continuing. “Today was a mistake, but it would have been an even bigger one if I let myself go further. I can’t want you this way, I’m your mentor, your teacher. This is… I need to keep a distance.”
This last part is more like it was said to himself rather than to her, but she hears it and speaks before she could think twice.
“But what if I want you the same way?”
There’s a whole storm raging behind his eyes when his gaze snaps back to her.
“Y/N, stop…”
“But I do want you the same way.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he shakes his head and tries to step away, but she grabs his hand, the physical contact immediately changing their balance. Involuntarily, his fingers hook together with hers.
“Please…” she whispers, but she’s not even sure what she is begging him for. Yet, he understands her.
There’s a few moments of hesitation, a staring contest and then he shakes his head and she thinks she lost, but then he gently tugs on her hand.
“Come with me.”
She follows him blindly, not even questioning where they are going. In the parking lot Harry unlocks his car and Y/N takes the passenger seat without a word. He starts the car and rolls out of the parking lot, the hospital shrinking in the mirror as Y/N sits in the heated seat, a little anxious, but more excited.
They don’t speak on the short ride, not even when Harry parks in front of an apartment building. She just follows him inside, up to the second floor where he stops in front of one of the doors and he unlocks it, holding it open for her.
She walks in, cautious but also curious. She never really thought of what Harry’s home looks like. Is it modern? Tidy or messy? A small and cozy place or a spacious, cold one?
When he flicks the lights on she is met with a mixture. She finds herself in an open concept kitchen that flows into a living room that’s just the right size. The furniture looks updated, but she spots several vintage pieces that bring character to the place. She sees colors, but not too many to overwhelm her, warm reds and oranges mixed with blue, purple and a little bit of yellow pops out here and there.
It fits him, oddly. Even despite his gruffness, she sees him in the apartment.
Behind her Harry closes the door and drops his backpack to the small bench by the door. She turns around, staring back at him expectantly, unsure what is going to happen next.
He starts moving closer, slow and calculated and Y/N feels like a prey. He stops, just a step away from her and reaching up his palm cups her face again, running his thumb across the bruise on her cheeks. She flinches, just a bit, but it makes him frown.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not that much,” she shakes her head lightly. “I’ll be fine in a few days.”
“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, surprising her.
“For what? For saving me from him? For tending to my wounds?” she asks in disbelief.
“I… If I went in there with you this wouldn’t have happened. But I saw you go in and thought I would just take the next one, but I should have gone in with you, so he would have attacked me instead.”
He is visibly beating himself up and she wonders how long he’s been doing that. She reaches up, curling her hand around his wrist gently.
“None of it was your fault. You haven’t been coming to the exam rooms with us for weeks, there was no reason for you to come with me.”
“But I wanted to be close to you,” he admits, surprising her once again. “I always want to be around you.”
“You do?” she asks, almost in disbelief.
Harry nods and she leans into his touch, closing her eyes.
“You’re so smart and passionate about everything you do. You take care of everyone the best possible way you can, never exclude anyone. I have… never met anyone like you, Y/N.”
A shaky breath slips past her lips, the familiar heat crawling up to her ears already. When the blinking starts, Harry breaks out in a tiny smile.
“And I love how you react when I praise you,” he adds and she almost whimpers at his words. “Tell me, Y/N. Do you like to be praised? Does it feel good?” He reaches up with his other hand, cradling her face in both palms now, eyes grazing her face relentlessly.
“Y-yes.”
He nods, almost approvingly, running a thumb across her bottom lip, making them part and the words roll down her tongue before she could think twice.
“But I love it the most when you praise me.”
He groans, his thumb pushing into her mouth and she sucks on it without a second thought, swirling her tongue around the tip and as she pushes herself closer to him, her front meeting his, she can already feel his erection pressing against his scrubs.
“Fuck, Y/N. You’re… so fucking perfect,” he groans, forehead pressing against hers and she is trying to push closer so their lips could finally meet, but he pulls back. “We shouldn’t do this.”
“I don’t care,” she shakes her head. “I want this. I want you.”
“But I’m your–”
“I don’t care,” she repeats with more force.
“What’s gonna happen after? What are we going to do at work?” He is not asking these to sober them both out, but because he actually worries about these and these questions are the last restraints holding him back.
“We will figure it out. I promise.”
“It’s not that easy and you know that too.”
“You think we are the first one to do this? Harry, it’s nowhere near impossible. We can just… keep it out of the hospital, focus on work and when we’re not there…”
Harry stares back at her, his face is unreadable again and panic starts to rise in her chest as she thinks he is about to back out.
But then he reaches up, gently running his knuckles down the side of her face before his hand moves to the back of her head.
“I need you to say out loud that you want this and not because I have power over you in the hospital. I need to hear this.”
“I want this, out of my own free will. It has nothing to do with–”
She doesn’t get to finish before his lips crash against hers, hard and demanding, almost knocking her off her feet. But she’s quick to return it just as vehemently, her arms hooking around his neck to bring him even closer while he pushes against her, backing her until she bumps against the wall.
He pushes a knee between her legs, his thigh making contact with her center and she moans into his mouth when she grinds against it shamelessly.
“Fucking Hell, you sound so perfect,” he groans between kisses.
She blindly grabs his jacket and drags it off him, just as he is pulling her sweatshirt up and over her head and he doesn’t waste a second before he does the same with the tanktop she wears underneath. For a moment Y/N regrets not putting on something sexier, the simple wireless bra is definitely not the most flattering piece she owns, but when she sees the look on Harry’s face roaming her body, she couldn’t care less about what she’s wearing.
She wiggles a little, eager to get close to him again, but he keeps her in place with his hands on her waist, pinning her against the wall.
“Are you gonna be a good girl and do what I want? Do you want to get praised, Y/N?” he asks in a low, lustful tone. She nods eagerly.
“Yes! Please!”
“You’re gonna follow my orders as if we were in the OR?” A wicked smirk tugs on his lips and she squirms when one hand moves to her chest, hooking a finger into the cup to pull it down so her breast spills out.
“Yes, Sir” she breathes out, back arching when he pinches her nipple, playing with it.
“Remember when you called me Sir the first day?” he asks, hand moving to her other breast to do the same. Y/N nods, unable to form words as he starts playing with both of her nipples at the same time. “I almost got a hard-on from that. I could see you call me that while kneeling in front of me. I had to distract myself so I don’t embarrass myself in front of the whole group.”
Y/N’s head falls back against the wall, when he tugs on her nipples, letting go of them, only to replace his fingers with his mouth. His hand slips to her back, unclasping her bra with a practiced motion, throwing it to the side as he sucks and bites on her nipples and all over her breasts, most likely leaving marks on her chest, but she couldn’t care less. She is sure she could come just from this if he kept doing it for long enough.
She whimpers in protest when he takes a step back, already craving his touch.
“Stay right there,” he orders, when she tries to push away from the wall and she obeys instantly.
He takes a moment to look at her, bare top, her jeans still on but judging from the way she is pressing her thighs together she is aching for more friction. He takes his top off too, revealing his tattoo littered, hard chest and her palm is itching to touch him everywhere she can reach, but she wills herself to stay put. His erection is fully visible though his pants and she gulps hard seeing the indent of it.
Harry takes his time ridding himself of the pants, leaving him in only his briefs, then he steps back to her and starts undoing her jeans, pushing them down but only to mid-thigh. He then reaches between her legs and cups her through her panties that are already drenched, all while he keeps her eyes locked on hers.
She gasps for air when he pushes the fabric to the side and runs two fingers over her cunt, coating his digits in her arousal.
“Fuck, you’re so wet. Is this all for me?”
“Yes,” she whines, hips tilting with the intention to guide his fingers inside her, but he just keeps teasing her, dragging them back and forth between her slick folds.
He hums, his free hand cupping the back of her neck as he leans his forehead against hers.
“Such a good little girl, so perfectly wet for me.”
Her mouth slacks open when his fingers push past her opening and just as they enter her, he kisses her at the same time, tongue pushing into her mouth.
She whimpers and moans and wiggles some more, eager for more friction, but he drags his movements slow, teasing her as he lazily moves his fingers in and out, in again and then he curls them inside, making her cry out from pleasure before they move out and he does it all over again.
She can feel her orgasm building already when he pulls his hand back. Her eyes pop open just in time to see him lick his fingers clean before his hand moves down to palm himself through his underwear. She runs her tongue across her lips, her eyes talking for her.
“You want a taste too?” Harry asks, cocking his head to the side slightly, almost curiously.
“Yes, Sir,” she nods.
Harry leans down and grabs his jacket from the floor, throwing it down in front of him and Y/N kneels onto it instantly, hands clasping his hips.
“Go ahead. Do what you want,” he gives her the go.
She blinks up at him once more before she hooks her fingers into the elastic and pulls his underwear down, his cock springing free right in front of her face. Her legs starts shaking for a moment, seeing how big he is, hard and ready, his precum glistening on the pink tip. She wraps her hands around the base at first, as if she is testing the waters, then she leans in and takes just the tip into her mouth, sucking on it gently.
“Fuck,” he groans, one hand coming to the back of her head, but it’s not doing anything, he just feels like he needs to be touching her.
Then, slowly, her head starts moving, back and forth, taking more and more of him with each movement, her saliva coating his length while her hands squeeze the base.
She glances up at him through her lashes and finds him watching her with a burning gaze.
“So good for me,” he mumbles, hips moving forward slightly so she swallows even more of him and he thinks she is about to pull back but she surprises him by grabbing by his ass and holding him in place, then pushing some more so her nose is almost touching his pubic bone, the tip of his cock in the very back of her throat.
“Shit, Y/N,” he groans, head falling back at the sensation.
Tears prick her eyes when she pulls back, gasping for air. Harry helps her up in a rush, gathering her in his arms, his erection wedging between them as he kisses her with full force.
“I want to fuck you,” he grunts against her lips.
“I want you to fuck me,” she rushes out, clawing at her shoulders.
“How were your last test results?” he asks and she needs a few moments to make out what he asked and then she remembers. Everyone got the chance to test themselves just last month in the hospital and Y/N took it as well as Harry if she remembers correctly.
“Clean. Haven’t been with anyone since,” she breathes out.
“Same for me. Do you want me to use a condom?”
“No, I want to feel you,” she practically begs. Harry nods and then kisses her while pushing her jeans down her legs fully, so she can step out of them.
Then he picks her up, a gasp slipping past her lips that turns into a chuckle before they are kissing again, Harry carrying her into the bedroom. She finds herself on his bed in seconds, but she doesn’t have the chance to even look around before he is on top of her, erection pressing against her lower stomach as he kisses her again with so much hunger and lust her mind blurs and only senses him.
Slowly, he starts kissing down her neck, her chest and stomach, then moves to her thighs, pushing them open as he nears her center. He takes off her last piece of clothing, her panty flying across the room so Harry now has full access to her.
At first he is gentle, just tasting, licking at her, but then he buries himself into her more and more, sucking on her clit and pushing his tongue inside her, turning her into a full mess with each swipe of his tongue.
Once again she almost comes, but before she could tip over the edge, he pulls back, climbing up her, kissing her with the taste of her arousal still on his lips. This kiss a little slower, gentler, as he settles between her legs. Reaching down he grabs the base of his cock and positions himself, the tip already pushing in, but he stops there, lifting his head just enough that he can look at her face. Her eyes flutter open and just then, he pushes in.
He is moving slowly, letting her adjust, but he doesn’t stop until he is in fully, every inch of him. She is gasping for air as she opens her mouth to say something, but her mind blanks and words die in her throat. He stays still for a bit, then shifts a little before pulling back and then thrusting in again.
Gradually, he picks up a rhythm, pushing into her all the way every time. He buries his face into her neck, kissing and nibbling on the soft skin as she stares up at the ceiling, clawing at his back, her orgasm building up in the pit of her stomach rapidly.
Harry can sense that she is close, her walls tightening around him. He lifts his head and kisses her.
“You’re doing so good for me. So fucking good, Y/N.”
The praise just adds to the sensation. She moans out something that almost sounds like his name, then he wraps his arms around her and turns them over, but keeps her locked against his chest as he sets his feet into the mattress firmly and starts thrusting up into her fast and hard, essentially tipping her over the edge.
She moans and grunts against him, even bites into his shoulder as her hips grind against him as well. He drags out his thrusts as she is riding her orgasm out, her walls still pulsing around him when he bursts inside her too.
He holds her so tight, almost knocking the air out of her, but she doesn’t mind, she loves feeling and seeing him fall apart, his usual, guarded self now fully bare for her.
They stay like that, even when he has stopped moving and their breathing has slowed. He is still inside her, even though he is has softened, but she just don’t want the physical contact to be cut. With her face pressed against his chest she listens to the steady beating of his heart as his fingers gently graze her naked back.
“I thought you hated my guts,” she eventually breaks the silence. She lifts her head and rests her chin on her hand over his chest so she can look at him. “I always thought you asked me the most because you were just waiting for me to give one wrong answer so you could kick me out.”
Harry chuckles softly, the vibration dancing through her body too.
“I did test you a lot and was waiting for you to mess something up at first, but only because I wanted to prove to myself that you weren’t as special. As brilliant. But then you proved me wrong over and over again and then I just… I wanted to hear your voice, your quick thinking, your clever ideas.”
“Then how come you never praised me?” she asks, eyebrows furrowed. Harry shrugs.
“I’m not big on that, I tend to brush over that kind of things. But then I saw how you reacted that day, when you spotted the IV.”
Y/N nods, remembering that day and how it was the first time he praised her work.
“It messed with my head, seeing you all… flustered and nervous. Wanted to know how much effect I could have on you.”
“Guess we found that out now,” she smiles cheekily, making him laugh.
“Yeah, yeah we did.”
Pushing up on her hands she hikes herself up until she can reach his lips with hers. She kisses him, slow and tender, taking her time tasting him and he does the same, exploring each other with no rush. Then Harry grunts and she pulls back, giving him a puzzled look.
“What is it?”
“Now that I know what some praising does to you, I want to do it all the time, but I can’t, because people would notice.”
“You’ll have to go back to acting like you hate me,” she grins and he slaps her ass gently, making her shriek, but it turns into a laugh pretty quickly.
“I have a reputation to keep up or else overly-eager fresh residents would bother me all the time.”
“Oh, am I bothering you? I’m sorry, let me just grab my clothes and–” She tries to climb off him, but he is quick to pull her back, caging her in his arms.
“Shut up, Dr. Y/L/N and kiss me.”
“Is that an order as my boss?”
“Yes. It’s critical for your learning curve, they don’t teach this in medical school.”
“They really don’t,” she grins. “But I guess I want to learn everything,” she hums before doing as he said.
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It’s SPN’s 20th anniversary today! (Holy hell!) On this momentous occasion, the cast has a message for you. When you have answered our call, reply & share it with your friends! It’s important! I want to know you’re in. bit.ly/SPN20th
Finally finished watching Good boy. Hmm it isn't the best kdrama I've seen but all in all it deserves the applause. The cast and the crew absolutely killed it. Annnd Park Bo Gum what spell have you casted on me you you.. gorgeous gorgeous man. I love him sm. 😏 ❤️ Now on to watch Law and the city.
A few years ago while trying to find ways to commit suicide as painlessly as possible, I came across a PDF of Dr. Paul Quinnett's The Forever Decision. Thinking it might go into actual methods of suicide (I read an article once that actually did that and was trying to find it again) I started to read it, and I think I only got about two pages in before I was crying too much to actually see the words.
I downloaded the PDF to my hard drive and I open it again whenever I'm feeling too suicidal to do much else, but not enough to start booking a ride to the hospital. And every time without fail I only go up to a few pages before backing off and choosing to live another day just because suicide suddenly seems even more unbearable than whatever the hell upset me in the first place.
All the book really does is [I'm pulling a summary from GoodReads here as, again, I've read no more than 5 pages] "discusses the social aspects of suicide, the right to die, anger, loneliness, depression, stress, hopelessness, drug and alcohol abuse, the consequences of a suicide attempt, and how to get help."
But it also starts with the author kindly asking the reader to complete the book before going through with anything, and for some reason I'm compelled to really just try to read it all before finalizing everything. Despite not yet completing it (hopefully never will) I think I can safely say it's saved my life at least a few times now.
It's intentionally legal to copy and redistribute this book to keep it as accessible as possible, and it's very easy to find, but here's a link for it anyways.
Synopsis: After a strange accident on movie set, you and a stunt actor, Minho, wake up in each other’s bodies. The two of you are forced to live one another’s lives while searching for answers. But the longer both of you are stuck, the more both of you begin to see each other differently. (15,1k words)
Author's note: Ah... we're on the final chapter. I had so much fun writing this so I hope you have fun reading this too. Lastly, thank you for following this series & the feedbacks ♡
You don’t know what this is supposed to mean—what it’s supposed to fix or prove. All you know is the way Minho looks at you like he’s searching for something, and somehow you want to be the one who helps him find it.
Your body is unfamiliar in this way. Every touch you give and receive is strange, too foreign to fully own but too electric to ignore. You’re still learning what makes this skin tick, what makes this heart beat faster—and yet, when Minho kisses you, when he guides your hands and lets you touch him with trembling fingers, it’s the closest thing to clarity you’ve felt since this whole mess began.
He tells you to touch him the way you like to be touched. So you do, carefully, reverently. Your breathing grows heavier against his throat, and you don’t miss the way his body arches, the way he breathes your name like it’s something sacred. It doesn’t feel like pretending. It doesn’t feel like confusion. It feels like something real.
Even though the questions still echo in your mind—about your body, his body, this accident that threw your lives off course—you find a strange kind of peace in the heat of his skin against yours. You find comfort in the way he moans so honestly, in the way he reaches for you without hesitation.
It’s unfamiliar. It’s terrifying. But it’s also beautiful. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel lost. You feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
Your breath hitches as Minho cups your face in both hands, holding your gaze with a steadiness that anchors you. His thumbs sweep softly across your cheekbones, and then, in a low voice that’s both gentle and certain, he tells you, “We’re ready for this.”
And you know what he means. You feel it too—that quiet certainty that there’s no turning back now, no more waiting. So you nod, the weight of the moment sitting somewhere between your lungs and your heart.
Minho pulls you into another kiss, deep and slow, and you melt into it, letting him guide you until he’s beneath you, arms still around you as he parts his legs with intention. You hesitate for just a second—out of nerves, awe, respect—but then he whispers, almost teasing, “You know what to do.”
You nod again, trying to steady the way your heart pounds, the way your body hums with heat and tension. With careful hands and more focus than you thought you had, you position yourself, slow and precise. And when you finally press forward—inch by inch—you feel the shift ripple through both your bodies. It’s strange. Different. And still, somehow, unmistakably yours.
The sensation is almost too much. It builds from your core and climbs your spine, dizzying and all-consuming. You don’t mean to collapse against him, but you do—your chest against his, your face buried in the warm curve of his neck as you try to breathe through the flood of everything. He holds you there, his fingers threading gently through your hair, grounding you.
Your entire body is buzzing with the weight of it—of him, of this, of the reality that you’re both in someone else’s skin, but in this moment, nothing could feel more real.
You try to stay still. You try to calm the thunderstorm under your skin. But the way Minho exhales, shaky and sweet against your ear, tells you he feels it too, the rightness, the madness of it and the ache for more.
But then Minho shifts beneath you. He wraps his legs around your waist, ankles locking together behind your back, and pulls you in—deeper, impossibly closer.
A groan escapes before you can stop it, pulled from your throat by the heat and the pressure and the way he holds you like he’s never going to let you go. You’re not ready to move. You want to, but you need just another second to gather yourself.
Still, Minho’s gaze is locked onto yours, half-lidded and shining, and the slight arch of his body silently urges you on. He tightens his legs—drawing you deeper into him with a deliberate tension—and you feel everything at once. It’s too much but it’s also not enough.
You shift, just barely, and the ripple of sensation it sends around you, through you is near-blinding. You hesitate, body stiffening again, terrified that if you give in even a little, you’ll unravel completely. But then Minho lets out a soft, breathless moan—his head tipping back, mouth parting—and he whispers your name like a plea.
That’s all it takes.
Your body takes over before your mind can catch up. You start moving—tentative at first, then deeper, caught in a rhythm that feels both unfamiliar and entirely right. Every sound Minho makes fuels you: the low gasps, the tremble in his voice, the way he clings to you like you’re something sacred.
You lose yourself in it. In him. And before you can even try to hold it back, it hits you—hard and fast, cresting all at once. You press yourself into him, breath caught in your throat as everything inside you spills out in waves, and you cling to him like you’ll break apart if you don’t.
You're still trying to catch your breath when you realize what just happened. The heat slowly ebbs from your body, but your heart doesn't slow. Instead, it spikes with a new wave of panic as you open your eyes and see Minho staring up at you, wide-eyed.
“What?” he says first—just one word, sharp and incredulous.
You blink at him, your chest still rising and falling fast. “I—” you start, but you don’t know how to finish.
Then Minho curses. “Did you just come?”
You open your mouth again, trying to form words, but your brain’s too busy spiraling. “I didn’t mean to,” you stammer, completely frozen, still inside him, still breathless. “I-I just… it was too much—and you pulled me in, and I couldn’t—”
Minho’s expression twists into something between disbelief and annoyance. “Oh my god,” he mutters, throwing his head back for a second before glaring at you again. “Are you serious? I just started to enjoy it—just started—and you’re telling me you’re already done?”
“I didn’t mean to be done!” you blurt. “I lost control—it just happened—”
“And inside me?” he shoots back, voice climbing, eyes still wide.
You feel your face burn with embarrassment. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—it was just so—”
Minho doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just stares at you like you’ve personally offended him. Then, with one sharp motion, he shifts the both of you, flipping your bodies so fast the air is knocked out of your lungs. Now it’s you lying flat on your back, breathless, and Minho is above you—his hands braced on either side of your face, his legs straddling you like he’s reclaiming something.
“Don’t even think we’re done,” he says, voice low and pointed. “Not until I say so.”
You barely get the chance to react before he starts moving again—his hips rocking against yours with a slow, deliberate rhythm that’s somehow gentler and more punishing all at once. The sensation is overwhelming. You gasp, your body already too sensitive, already spent—and yet Minho doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause.
You want to tell him it’s too much, that you need a second, a breath, something. But the words dissolve the moment you see him—eyes fluttered closed, mouth parted, head tilted up as he chases what was taken from him too soon. He moves like he knows exactly what he wants from you, and you can only hold on, your hands gripping his hips, your body trembling beneath him.
And then it happens—his breathing catches, his movements falter, and you feel the tension leave his body in waves as he reaches high. He collapses onto you, heavy and warm and utterly spent. For a moment, neither of you move, hearts pounding between skin-on-skin contact, the air thick with something unspoken.
Then his face shifts closer, searching blindly until his mouth finds yours. The kiss he gives you is messy and desperate and full—of something you can’t name. And as his arms tighten around you, pulling you deeper into him, you can’t help but wonder… Was this still about returning to your own bodies? Or had it already become something more?
-
Minho stirs before the sun’s fully up, pulled out of sleep by the gentle chill of the morning air and the quiet weight of another body curled up close beside him—your body. His body.
It takes him a second to remember why it feels so strange to be wrapped around himself. And then it all comes rushing back—the pool, your hands, his voice coming out of your mouth, and the way the night ended with skin against skin, breath tangled, and something deeper neither of you dared name.
Minho closes his eyes and breathes in slowly, his nose brushing against the nape of your neck. You’re still asleep, chest rising and falling evenly beneath the duvet. Peaceful. Blissfully unaware.
The realization hits him slowly, like cold water lapping at his ankles: it didn’t work. The sex—the connection, the intimacy, all of it—it didn’t bring them back to their bodies.
He should be angry. Or frustrated. He should feel like he’s hit a wall all over again. But as he lies there, staring at your sleeping face, the sunlight barely beginning to filter through the curtains, Minho finds that he doesn’t feel regret. He feels… warm. Because last night, for the first time since this mess started, he didn’t feel like he was running from something. You didn’t flinch. You held him. And for that brief moment, it didn’t matter what body he was in.
A sharp buzz interrupts the quiet. Minho tenses as his phone begins to ring on the bedside table, vibrating against the wood. He scrambles for it—not because he’s eager to take a call but because he doesn’t want it to wake you.
Too late. You stir under the covers, your eyes fluttering open just enough to take in the sound. Your hand instinctively clutches the blanket to your chest, your posture guarded, unsure, like you’re bracing for something. For him.
Minho winces and fumbles to swipe the call, answering with a barely concealed sigh. “Yeah?”
It’s the AD, as expected, launching straight into a rundown of everything he is expected to do today. Call times. Blocking. A quick meeting with the director. Some kind of last-minute script change. He hums and nods through it all, his responses half-hearted and distracted as he drags himself out of the bed, pulling on clothes that still feel strange against your skin.
The call ends. He lets the phone drop onto the bed with a heavy thud. As he shrugs on your jacket, he catches your eyes again, still wary, still confused, but watching.
Minho runs a hand through his hair, half-turning toward the door. “We’re gonna talk about this later,” he says, voice low but firm.
Then, without waiting for a reply, he steps out of the room—back into your life, your job, your name—leaving behind the warmth of the bed, and the mess of what you’ve both just become.
-
Minho spends the morning darting across the set in your body, ticking off tasks that don’t belong to him but feel oddly familiar now. He knows how you move, how you speak, how you handle the crew. The lines between your life and his blur a little more with every passing hour.
He’s holding a file, the finalized version of today’s changes, ready to hand it to Flickerman. It’s part of your job. Routine. Normally, you’d do it without question. But as he heads toward the director’s trailer, the AD cuts across his path.
“I’ll take that,” the AD says quickly, reaching for the folder in Minho’s hands.
Minho pulls it back instinctively. “I can bring it myself. It’s part of my—”
“No.” The word comes fast. Firmer than usual. The AD grabs his arm—not harsh, but enough to stop him in his tracks. “He uh… he asked that you not come.”
Minho blinks. “What?”
The AD shifts on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. “Flickerman doesn’t want to see you. He said to make sure you don’t report to him.”
Minho’s grip on the folder loosens. His fingers twitch. “But why? Did I do something?”
There’s a beat of silence too long to be casual. “I don’t know,” the AD says, and Minho knows that’s not entirely true. “He just said to make sure you don’t show up at his trailer.”
And with that, the AD gently pries the file from his hands and walks off before Minho can press further.
Minho just stands there, frozen, heart pounding beneath a chest that still doesn’t feel like it belongs to him. It hits him slowly at first—like embarrassment bleeding into shame. Then faster, a panic that coils low in his gut.
He thinks about the last time he talked to Flickerman. Not as himself—but as you. He’d confronted him. Called him out on ignoring your script. Pushed back harder than you ever had. Because he was angry for you. Because you deserved better.
But now—
Now he’s paying for it. No, not him. You’re paying for it.
And all Minho can think is: What if I ruined it? What if I made things worse?
A sick feeling creeps in. Like he’s cracked something fragile and doesn’t know how to fix it. He turns away from the trailer slowly, not sure where to go next, the weight of guilt heavy on his shoulders. You gave him your trust. Your life. Now, without meaning to, he might’ve put your entire career on the line.
And the worst part is—he’s not even sure how to tell you.
-
You sit across from Mr. Kim near the edge of the set, the pool behind him already being prepped by the stunt team. The air smells like rubber and chlorine, and even though your body is dry, there’s a weight sinking into your chest as you listen.
“There are two phases,” Mr. Kim says, holding a clipboard that looks heavier than it should. “Today, we’ll test the car inside the pool—interior shots, mostly. Underwater sequences where you’ll be strapped in. Tomorrow’s the lake stunt. We’ll rig a crane to keep the vehicle from submerging completely. You’ll drive it into the water, and once it hits a certain depth, we’ll pull you up immediately.”
You nod slowly, every detail committing itself to memory. “Got it.”
Mr. Kim watches you for a long moment. His voice lowers, “Are you sure about this? It’s not too late to back out. We can use a double for tomorrow—nobody will say anything.”
You meet his eyes. There’s something soft about his concern. Genuine. You can tell he means it. But you shake your head and offer a small smile. “I can do it.”
He studies you, still not entirely convinced so you quickly add, “I’ve been training for this. I’m ready.”
And you are. At least… physically. Inside, you’re a storm of conflict, anxiety, confusion. But if Minho can face it—if he’s already facing it—then you won’t back down either.
Mr. Kim sighs through his nose, glancing back at the stunt crew setting the safety rigs. “Okay then. Just know we’ve got every precaution in place. If you panic or need out, signal the divers. Someone will be on standby the entire time.”
You nod again. “Thank you.”
He returns your nod, though the concern doesn’t leave his face. He turns back to the clipboard, walking you through safety measures one by one—emergency hand signals, oxygen availability, harness locking mechanisms.
You focus. You have to. Because this isn’t just about doing your job right. It’s about showing Minho that you can carry him too. Just like he carried you. Even if your chest tightens the moment you glance at the water, you push through it. You’re ready. Or at least, you will be.
The water is cold at first, but your body adjusts quickly. It’s almost surreal—how calm it is underwater when you're strapped into the driver's seat of the submerged car. Maybe it’s the controlled environment. Maybe it’s knowing that there are safety divers hovering just off-frame, ready to pull you out with a single signal. Maybe it’s that you’ve already seen the worst of what fear can do, and this… this doesn’t even come close.
The director calls “Action,” and you hold your breath, staring ahead as if you’re actually sinking, as if panic should be clawing at your throat. But it never comes.
You stay underwater as long as needed. One shot. Then another. Scene after scene, you go through the motions, climbing out of windows, swimming through the frame, resetting again and again until the whole sequence is captured. By the time they call it, your fingers are wrinkled, your arms tired, and your teeth start to chatter, but not once did fear take over.
You climb out of the pool, chest heaving from hours of effort, and someone hands you a towel—but your eyes catch movement across the deck.
Minho. He’s standing at the far end of the pool, near the shadows behind the lighting rig, arms crossed and face unreadable. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t wave or come closer. Just watches. And then, without warning, he turns around and walks away.
You blink, towel halfway to your face. He saw the whole thing. You know he did. So why leave?
Mr. Kim returns to your side, wrapping another towel around your shoulders, and says something about your next call time, but it barely registers. All you can do is watch the spot where Minho—you—just disappeared.
You should feel proud. Relieved. You did it. You faced the thing that’s haunted him since the beginning. But instead, a strange emptiness sinks into your chest.
Was he… upset? Or was he afraid? You don't know. But you have a feeling you’re going to find out very soon.
-
The steam follows you out of the bathroom, clinging to your skin like the weight of everything that’s happened. You towel your hair with one hand and glance at the clock on the nightstand.
11:47 PM. You’d been expecting him hours ago. Ever since he left this morning—your jacket half on, his voice sharp with finality: “We’re going to talk about this later.”
But there’s been no knock. No call. No text. Well—except that one moment at the pool.
You saw him standing there at the edge, watching. He didn’t stay. Didn’t say anything. He just turned around and walked away. And you’ve been turning it over in your head ever since. Did something change? Did he feel… regret?
You sit at the edge of the bed, reaching for your phone before you can stop yourself. Your thumb hovers over the screen.
You type: “Can we talk?” Then delete it.
Type again: “Are you still coming?” Delete.
You sigh, start typing something a third time—just something to break the silence—when there’s a knock.
Your heart leaps before you can stop it, and you have to actively keep your expression calm as you set your phone down and walk to the door. You open it, already knowing who it is.
Minho stands there in your hoodie and sweatpants, damp hair pushed back like he ran his fingers through it a hundred times. But it’s his face that gets you. Tired, drawn, unreadable. He doesn't smile. Doesn’t say hi. Doesn’t even look surprised to see you. And somehow, that hits harder than if he’d said nothing at all.
You open the door wider, silently stepping back to let him in, and Minho walks past you into the room, quiet as ever. You close the door behind him and now you’re both here, but it doesn’t feel like last night at all.
You open your mouth, ready to speak—to ease into it gently—but Minho doesn’t give you the chance. He rushes at you, fast and urgent, and crashes his lips against yours.
You gasp into him, caught off guard, but your body caves for a split second. His kiss is desperate, and part of you wants to disappear into it—let it mean something again. But something’s different now.
You pull away, stepping back, breathless. “Minho… wait,” you whisper, holding a hand between your bodies. “Just—give me a second.”
He starts to lean in again, lips parted, but this time you place both hands on his shoulders. And with your strength—his strength—you’re able to hold him in place.
“Let’s do it again,” he breathes out, eyes wide and glassy. “Last night—it has to be that. We just did it wrong. We’ll try again. I know it’ll work this time.”
“Minho.” You try to steady your voice. “Stop.”
But he doesn't. He’s trying to kiss you again, moving toward you with single-minded desperation. You glide your hands down his arms and hold him there, really stopping him this time.
“We had sex,” you say quietly. “And it didn’t work.”
“It has to work.” His voice breaks. “Maybe it didn’t because—because we weren’t in the right place—emotionally, or whatever. We just have to try again.”
You look into his eyes. All you see is panic. Frustration. The kind of unraveling that comes from wanting something so badly, it’s eating him alive.
“Minho,” you say softly. “You want to do this because you’re scared. And I get it. But this—doing it again out of desperation—it’s not going to fix anything.”
You gently push him. Not hard. Just enough to create space and lift your hands. “I’ll do it, Minho. The stunt. I’ll do it for you.”
He blinks at you like he’s barely hearing you.
“I’m okay,” you tell him. “I’ve trained. I’m ready. I can do it.”
Minho’s chest is heaving now. He looks like he’s about to either scream or shatter. His breaths come sharp and jagged. His nostrils flare. His eyes burn. And then, with a voice that cracks clean down the middle, he snaps, “Do you even know what it would do to me if something happened to you?”
Your words vanish from your throat as he steps forward, eyes glassy, voice rising. “I should be the one doing it. I should be in that car. In that water. Not you.”
You try to cut in—“Minho, I want to do it—”
“No!” he barks, shaking his head violently. “You don’t get it.”
He comes at you again, and this time, your instinct kicks in—reflexively, you push him back harder than you meant to. He staggers and nearly loses balance.
You instantly regret it. “Sorry—Minho, I didn’t mean to—”
He steadies himself, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. When he looks up at you again, his eyes are fiery and red, his whole face twisted with anguish.
“I can’t do this,” he snaps. “I can’t bear the guilt anymore.”
And then—quiet, broken: “I don’t think I can live with myself if I lose you, too.”
Something inside your chest splinters, slow and sharp. Because now you understand. He’s not just afraid of staying in your body. He’s not just desperate to go back. He’s carrying the kind of guilt that claws at your bones when you’re alone at night—the kind that eats away at you until you start to believe you deserve it. And if he loses you, that guilt will bury him.
Without waiting for your response, Minho storms out of the room. The door slams behind him and stillness crashes down like a wave.
You don’t chase him because even if your body aches to do so, you understand. You understand why he did that, why he said that and why it all hurts too much.
-
Minho lies on his back, staring at the dark ceiling of his room, the dim shape of the overhead fan barely visible in the moonlight leaking through the slats of the curtain. The silence is thick. Suffocating. But not as loud as what’s in his head.
He can’t stop seeing it— You, submerged in water, trapped in that car, even if it was just a test. You holding your breath for seconds that stretched too long. You smiling when you surfaced like it was nothing. Like you weren’t inside his worst nightmare.
And then, earlier in the motel room. Your eyes when you stopped him. The push. The plea. The heartbreak that laced your voice when you said you'd do it for him.
Minho drags a hand over his face. It’s all too much. He feels like he’s spiraling, tethered only by the raw edges of guilt and helplessness. He’s supposed to be protecting you. He’s supposed to be the one in that water. He’s supposed to be himself. But instead, he’s here—stuck in your body, in your life, in your skin—and he’s helpless. Unable to stop you from taking on something that should have been his responsibility.
He exhales shakily, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. The pressure builds behind them, and he tries to swallow it down, bury it deep where it won’t rise again, but it doesn’t work.
A sob breaks through his chest, unexpected and sharp. Then another. And another. The tears come fast and hot, carving a trail down your cheeks, because this body—your body—knows what to do with pain. It doesn't bottle it up the way he always does in his own skin. It lets it pour out in silence. And so he lies there, in the dark of his motel room, and lets it happen.
He cries because he’s scared. He cries because he’s angry. He cries because, for once, there's no fight left in him. Because he’s lost control of everything—your body, your job, this entire situation—and he doesn’t know how to fix it.
And worst of all, he doesn’t know what he’ll do if something happens to you.
So he cries until his breathing slows. Until his chest stops aching. Until there's nothing left to spill. Only then does he whisper into the dark, almost like a prayer, “Please be okay.”
Because it’s all he can ask for now.
-
You wake before dawn’s light fully seeps into the room, chest tight with purpose rather than dread. It isn’t fear of the stunt itself—you know the drill, you trust the safety team—but a deeper need to prove you can handle this, for Minho’s sake as much as your own. You glance sideways at your phone on the bedside table, thumb hovering over his name. A part of you wants to send a quick message: “I’ve got this. Don’t worry.” But you resist. Actions speak louder now: the only way to reassure him is to see this through safely, and let that proof speak for you.
The knock on the door comes precisely when you’re steadying your breath after sitting up. Mr. Kim’s calm voice follows: “Minho, you're up, kid?”
You answer with steady composure, even if your heart thuds in your ears. “Yes. I'm up.”
Mr. Kim responds a second later. “Get ready. The car will be here in twenty.”
With that, you swing your legs out of bed, planting feet on the floor with deliberate confidence. As you dress, you replay safety checks in your mind: hand signals with the divers, the harness release, the crane timing. Each step—breakfast, hydration, gear check—feels like a promise: you will come through this.
Outside, the morning air is crisp. You inhale fully, tasting resolve. Today, you will surface safely. Today, you’ll show Minho that he needn’t bear this fear alone. With every measured step you take, you carry that determination with you—focused, calm, ready to finish this and return stronger.
-
Mr. Kim’s voice is steady as he goes over the final checklist, running through each movement, each technical cue like he’s drawing a map you’ve already traced in your head a hundred times. “Remember to exhale slowly once the car hits the water. Don’t fight the harness when it locks. Wait for the diver’s tap before unbuckling.”
You nod along, absorbing every word, but your body already knows the motions. It’s not arrogance—it’s muscle memory, built from rehearsals and hours of mental preparation.
He finishes the rundown with a long exhale, then meets your eyes. “You sure you’re ready?”
“Yes,” you say without hesitation. Your voice is firm. Clear. Even you are surprised by how steady it sounds.
Mr. Kim studies you for a beat longer, then gives a small nod. The worry that was etched across his face yesterday has softened—faint now, as if your conviction has peeled it away. That small shift, barely noticeable, is enough. Enough to keep your resolve upright.
“Good,” he says. “Stretch. I’ll see you at the rig.”
As he steps out of the tent, you begin your warm-up—shoulders, neck, arms. You move through each stretch like a quiet mantra, trying to slow your breath, to keep your heart from racing too far ahead of you.
The soft thump of returning footsteps makes you glance toward the entrance. “Did you forget something?” you call without looking, assuming Mr. Kim’s back for one last pointer.
But when you turn, it’s not him. It’s you. Minho.
You blink, and for a second, everything inside you stutters. He stands there in the opening of the tent—your body, your face, but none of the steadiness you tried to muster all morning. He looks different now, not physically, but in the tension around his eyes, the way he’s holding his breath.
Your arms fall slowly to your sides. “Minho...” you murmur, not sure what else to say yet.
You see it in his eyes before he even takes a step—Minho’s going to try to stop you again. You open your mouth, ready to cut him off before he can even start, but he moves faster. One stride, two—and suddenly he’s there, cupping your face and leaning in to kiss you. His lips press gently against yours—soft, careful, not desperate like last night. It’s quiet, grounding, like he’s anchoring you with just that small gesture.
When he pulls back, his eyes find yours, sharp and stern. “You’re not allowed to die in my body,” he says, voice low and even. “Got it?”
You nod, more than once. A small, urgent movement. “Got it,” you whisper.
He presses another kiss to your lips—shorter this time—and when he pulls away, his fingers hook into the front of your shirt, tugging you just a little closer.
“And most importantly,” he adds, his voice dipping just slightly, “don’t make me look unprofessional.”
You huff a laugh, the tension easing just a bit from your shoulders. “I think you need to sort out your priorities right.”
Minho smirks, that same crooked smirk that’s all him, and it spreads warmth right through your chest. Then he kisses you again, deeper this time, and your arms naturally reach up, wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him in. He melts into the touch, arms slipping around you as his body presses flush against yours, and for a moment, you just stay like that—holding each other, breathing each other in, until the fear eases and something steadier takes its place.
When you finally pull away, Minho’s eyes are still on you, softened now. He brings one hand to your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone. “Come back safely,” he says quietly, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around you tighter than any harness ever could.
You nod. “I will.”
He doesn’t move immediately. His hands stay on your chest like he needs to feel you breathing just to believe it. Then, finally, he steps back with a smile. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
Your lips twitch with a smile of your own. But just as he turns to go, he pauses, glancing over his shoulder with that familiar glint in his eye.
“Oh—and I’ll make sure to save you a box of donuts.”
That pulls a laugh out of you. “Does that mean I can eat whatever I want now?”
He shrugs, feigning indifference as he walks out of the tent. “We’ll talk about that after you don’t drown.”
And just like that—something heavy lifts from your chest. You feel lighter like you’re finally breathing in air that’s yours.
-
As Minho steps out of your tent, the weight on his shoulders feels… lighter. The fear doesn’t vanish entirely, but it shifts—makes space for something steadier. He chose to believe in you, and that choice brings a strange sense of peace. You’re going to be fine. Not just because he needs you to be, but because deep down, he knows—if there’s anyone who can pull this off, it’s you.
With a soft exhale, he walks toward the craft services table, already thinking about the donuts he promised you. A box. He told you he’d save one, and he intends to keep that promise.
The long table is cluttered with trays and boxes—fruit skewers, sandwiches, half-empty chip bags—but no donuts in sight. Minho furrows his brows, scanning the spread.
“You looking for this?”
Minho turns at the voice. Felix stands a few feet away, holding up a familiar pink box, the kind the catering team always uses for the donuts.
Minho nods, stepping forward. “Yeah—thanks,” he says, accepting the box.
Felix smiles, popping a grape into his mouth as he leans casually against the edge of the table. “I guess it's for Minho?”
Without missing a beat, Minho says, “Yeah.”
Felix lets out a small chuckle, sudden and breathy. It catches Minho off guard, and for a second, he thinks Felix might be choking. He quickly grabs a water bottle from the table and holds it out.
“You good?”
Felix takes the bottle with a laugh. “Yeah, yeah—thanks. Just… wasn’t expecting that answer.”
He takes a sip, still smiling, but his eyes have shifted—curious now. “So does that mean you two are dating?”
Minho tilts his head slightly, considering the question. He could laugh it off. He could avoid it altogether. But instead, he answers truthfully.
“No. We’re not dating.”
Felix nods once, slow. Then after a pause, he asks, a little softer now, “Do you like Minho?”
His voice is directed at “you,” but the question lands squarely on Minho's chest. Still, Minho doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t want to lie—not to himself, not to anyone.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”
There’s a flicker in Felix’s expression. A moment—so brief most people would miss it—but Minho catches it. Disappointment. The kind you try to swallow before it shows. Felix smiles quickly after, the same sunny grin he always wears, and it almost hides it completely.
“Well,” Felix says, tossing the last grape in his mouth, “I should— Gotta run lines before the next scene.”
Minho watches Felix walk away, the box of donuts still in his hands.
Now, standing alone among paper cups and snack wrappers, Minho lets the silence settle. He looks down at the box in his hand, then out toward the direction of the lake where they’re prepping the set.
He said it aloud. He likes you. And maybe it’s not just the relief of choosing to believe in you. Maybe it’s more than that. Maybe he’s finally being honest—with himself, with what this connection has become, with what it’s always been building toward. Maybe… he’s already falling.
-
Minho slides into position behind the monitor, the donut box tucked under one arm as if it’s some kind of ridiculous good luck charm. He sets it down carefully beside him—untouched—and crosses his arms as he fixes his eyes on the screen.
The crew bustles around the lakeside set, tension running thick even in the open air. He watches as Mr. Kim gestures toward the rigged car, pointing, demonstrating, his expression focused but calm. You’re nodding along, serious but grounded, hands resting on your hips as you listen.
Minho knows it’s the final rundown before filming.
Mr. Kim claps your shoulder once, and then he walks off, leaving you standing beside the car. You glance around the set, eyes sweeping over the crew, the water, the camera team—and then your head tilts slightly. Searching.
Minho raises his hand and waves it once, not too frantically, just enough.
And then your eyes find him. Your lips tug into a soft smile, and in that moment, it’s like your entire face says, I’ve got this. But he can see the other part too—the part that’s looking for something only he can give. Be with me. Believe in me.
Minho smirks back at you, signature and sure, and gives you a slow, affirming nod. It’s all you need before you turn and climb into the car.
The crew swarms in around you like a choreographed dance—checking straps, oxygen tank flow, camera mounts, the stunt rig that’s designed to suspend the car just beneath the lake’s surface.
Minho’s fingers twitch against his forearm, resisting the urge to step closer, to shout be careful like it would somehow change the outcome. Instead, he stays rooted behind the monitor and watches as the crew finishes their checks and begins to clear the set.
The assistant director raises the walkie-talkie to their mouth. “Quiet on set!”
The wind rustles through the trees. The lake water laps gently at the shore. Minho’s heart hammers in a way that’s not entirely fear anymore. It’s belief. Hope.
Minho watches as the car speeds toward the incline. The vehicle launches—flies for half a heartbeat—and then crashes into the lake with a thunderous splash that echoes through the set. On the monitor, ripples spread out in concentric circles. The water churns before slowly settling into murky stillness.
Minho doesn’t blink as he watches as the car begins to sink, the heavy body groaning under the surface, nose tilting downward. Water creeps through the cracks, rising with terrifying patience. Inside, you brace yourself, inhale deeply, and hold it.
Then you start to act—panic blooming in your face, your hands trembling as they fumble for the door handle, the seatbelt, just like the script says. You kick at the window once. Twice.
Minho grips his arm tight, digging his nails into skin, grounding himself. It looks real. Too real. Then—
A horrible, echoing crack tears through the air, not from the car—but from the crane.
Everyone on the set stiffens.
Minho hears it before he sees it: the metal support groaning, bending unnaturally, then shattering with a sharp clang that pierces the sky. The rig gives out. The car plummets.
The monitor shakes—literally and figuratively—as the car begins to sink faster and deeper than anyone anticipated. Minho sees the panic flood your face, then your limbs. You try to move, to brace yourself again, but the window won’t give and the pressure is building.
Something must have happened because you go still. Your limbs float lifelessly. Your eyes flutter closed.
Minho freezes. He doesn’t know what to do, he— wait, he knows what to do. Without thinking, he runs, sprinting across the set, pushing past crew, yelling be damned. His jacket comes off mid-run. His shoes are kicked free by the shore then he dives.
The water swallows him whole almost immediately. It’s not warm like the pool. It’s cold. Heavy. Dark. But none of that registers.
He opens his eyes, stinging from the lake’s murk, and looks for the sinking silhouette of the car. His muscles burn as he cuts through the water, pushing himself harder than he ever has. His own terror—the trauma that’s haunted him for years—is nothing but background noise now.
This isn’t about him. It’s about you.
The car grows closer, darker, more twisted in its descent. He gets to the door and pulls. It won’t budge. Again. Again. On the third try, it flings open and a cloud of air and debris bursts into the water. He reaches for you—you’re floating, weightless, unresponsive.
Minho grabs your face and shakes you, bubbles escaping his own lips in a silent scream. No response. He presses his mouth to yours, trying to give you oxygen, but it slips right back out, spiraling into bubbles above.
No time. No air. He knows that the only way to save you is getting you out of the water so he wraps his arms around you and kicks toward the surface. But it’s harder now. So much harder. Your body—his body—is heavier, limbs limp, offering no help.
Minho’s legs scream. His lungs collapse inward, begging for air that doesn’t exist. Still, he pushes. Kicking. Rising. But the light is getting fainter, not closer. His arms tighten around you, desperate, defiant. He doesn’t care if he has to rip his chest open to breathe again.
He won’t lose you. But it’s getting harder to see. Harder to think. Everything inside him aches with fading strength and then— Darkness.
-
You wake to the burning sting of water in your throat, choking and gasping as your body lurches upright.
“Hey—no, lay back down—”
You push off the gloved hands trying to settle you. Your entire body is trembling, soaked, your lungs working double just to get air back into them. The metallic scent of the oxygen mask lingers, but you barely notice.
“What—what happened?” you croak, voice hoarse and raw.
The EMT crouching beside you hesitates, then answers, “You jumped in after the stuntman. You pulled him out of the car—saved his life.”
Your brows knit, head spinning. That doesn’t make sense. You were the one inside the car. You were the one sinking, fading into unconsciousness. You blink hard and look down at your hands, slick with lake water and trembling.
They’re your hands. Your body. You’re... back.
“Where is he?” you ask, already pushing yourself off the gurney in the back of the ambulance.
“Miss, please—”
You’re not listening. You leap out of the vehicle barefoot, cold gravel biting into your feet as you stumble across the set. People are moving in a panic around you. Some stare. Others whisper. But you don’t care.
You start calling his name. “Minho?”
Louder. “Minho!”
Your voice cracks. “Minho!”
Your wet clothes cling to you, dragging your steps, but your mind races faster than your body can keep up. Then you see it, Minho being carried in a stretcher and into the back of an ambulance. Mr. Kim gets in after him, concerns etched on his face and then, the doors are closing.
“No—wait—wait, Minho!” you scream, forcing your legs into a sprint, slapping through puddles, reaching out like you could somehow stop time or distance.
However, the ambulance pulls away, its sirens off, quiet and clinical, as if it didn’t just rip someone from you.
You freeze in the middle of the lot, your hands shaking, tears mixing with the lake water still dripping from your chin. You don’t even realize you’re crying until the sobs break free. Your knees almost give out beneath you.
You were supposed to protect him. You promised you’d be the one to go through it. Instead, he risked everything. Again.
“Minho...” Your voice is broken. Empty. “I’m... sorry. I’m so sorry.”
You feel the warmth of fabric drape over your shoulders, and you flinch before turning around.
It’s Felix. His expression is soft, concerned—heartbroken, even—as he meets your eyes. He says nothing, only opens his arms.
You don’t hesitate. You crash into him and let yourself fall apart in his hold. He wraps his arms around you tightly, grounding you, shielding you from the chaos around.
A moment later, you’re back in the ambulance, the sterile scent of gauze and antiseptic stinging your nose. The EMT crouches in front of you, carefully wrapping your foot with practiced hands. The cuts from the gravel aren’t deep, but they sting sharply against your already raw nerves. You flinch as he presses disinfectant against one of them.
Felix sits beside you, quiet but steady, his presence anchoring you even as your mind races. You’re still shivering, the heavy blanket clutched around your shoulders barely enough to keep the chill away—whether it’s from the cold or the shock, you can’t tell anymore.
“You okay?” he asks gently.
You don’t answer right away. Because no, you’re not okay. You feel everything all at once—frantic, guilty, scared, grateful, devastated. But also nothing at all—like you’re a hollowed-out version of yourself.
You open your mouth, but there’s no answer that can hold all of that.
Felix just nods when he sees your silence and rubs a slow circle between your shoulder blades. “It’s okay,” he says quietly, like he’s not expecting you to lie or fake a smile. “Minho is going to be okay.”
But all you can think is that Minho isn’t and that it might be your fault. And that you’re scared—scared he’s not coming back.
Once the EMT finishes, taping the last piece of gauze and checking your vitals one last time, he nods and leaves to give you space.
Felix shifts beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close again. You lean into it—not because you’re sure it helps, but because you don’t want to feel alone right now.
“You did everything you could to save him,” he says, voice firm in a way that’s meant to ground you.
But the words land heavy on your chest. You shake your head, your voice cracking as you whisper, “I could... I could’ve stopped it from happening in the first place.”
Felix immediately pulls you in tighter, as if trying to hold your guilt down before it swallows you whole. “Hey. No. Don’t do that,” he says softly but with weight behind his words. “You were just trying to do what was right.”
Your breath stutters as more tears slip down your cheeks. You finally understand what Minho meant—that awful, aching fear of what it would feel like to lose someone you care about. The way it haunts you, grips you by the throat and refuses to let go.
You press your face into Felix’s shoulder, and he keeps his arms tight around you. “He’s going to be okay,” Felix repeats, his voice steady against the storm building in your chest.
And you pray—truly pray—that he’s right. Because you don’t know what you’ll do if he’s not.
-
A week has passed. Seven full days since the accident. Since Minho saved you—no, saved himself—no… you don't even know how to phrase it anymore without your throat tightening.
And now, you’re back on the set. Back in your rightful body. Back to doing your job as the assistant assistant director. Only this time, the weight on your chest feels heavier than any clipboard or walkie-talkie could explain.
You're quieter than usual, going through the motions—checking prop placements, confirming extras, skimming over the schedule—but it’s all mechanical. Your mind wanders too often. To the lake. To Minho’s face just before everything went dark. To the sirens. The panic. The stillness.
You haven’t seen Flickerman since that day. But the silence from his side has been loud. You know he’s angry. You don’t blame him. In his eyes, you—Minho—acted irresponsibly, risking not just one life but two. A whole production day was lost. Budgets were shaken. Reports were written.
You haven't had the courage to step into his line of sight since. When you do catch glimpses of him around set, he looks through you like you're a ghost of a mistake. And maybe, in some ways, you are.
You sigh quietly as you half-heartedly arrange a stack of scripts on a table, only to realize they’re not even needed for today’s scene. You don’t bother fixing it.
The AD who’s been watching you out of the corner of his eye for the past hour, finally steps up. “Hey,” he says, voice calm but firm. “Why don’t you call it a day?”
You blink. “What?”
“Just go home. Get some rest,” he gestures vaguely to your whole body. “There’s not much left to do anyway.”
You start to protest, because that’s the automatic response—you always work hard, always pull your weight—but the truth is, he’s right. You’re moving, but you’re not working. So you nod, slowly.
“Okay,” you mutter, voice small.
The AD nods back once, like he’s relieved you didn’t put up a fight. “Take care of yourself, alright?”
You force a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.
You start walking off set with your bag slung over your shoulder and your thoughts too loud in your head. You’ve got time now. But all you can think about is what you’re supposed to do with it…
…and whether Minho’s awake yet.
When the light turns green and the road forks left toward your apartment and right toward the hospital, your hands turn the wheel without asking for your permission. The tires hum along the asphalt, the city passing by like a blurry afterthought, and before long, you find yourself in the hospital’s underground parking.
You know where to go. Room 417. You slip inside quietly, like you're afraid you might wake him. But Minho is still there—just like before. Still lying in bed, monitors quietly beeping in rhythm, the white sheet pulled over him, his hair tucked behind one ear by someone who must’ve visited earlier.
But it’s him. Still not awake. Still not moving.
Your chest tightens as you approach. You pull the chair up, sit next to him, and just… look.
His face is calm. Peaceful, even. Like he’s dreaming of something soft. Something warm. Something better than this.
You reach for his hand, wrap your fingers around his slowly. Your voice cracks as you whisper, “You’re out of the water now…”
You squeeze his hand a little tighter, lips trembling. “…so why don’t you wake up?”
And of course, there’s no answer. Just the steady beeping sound of his heartbeat and the sterile hum of a hospital room.
“He’s just resting,” someone says gently from behind you.
You turn your head and see Mr. Kim standing at the foot of Minho’s bed, arms crossed, the lines on his face softer than usual.
You manage a small smile. “A much needed one, huh?”
Mr. Kim nods. “I’d say he’s earned it.”
You glance back at Minho and huff a quiet laugh. “I just hope he doesn’t get too comfortable.”
“Knowing that kid?” Mr. Kim chuckles. “He’ll be back on set before you know it.”
You smile at that. Yeah. That’s Minho.
But Mr. Kim studies you for a moment, then gently nods toward the door. “You should rest too.”
You shake your head instinctively. “I’m fine—”
“I mean it,” he says, more firm this time. “Go home. I’ll stay here with him. If anything changes, you’ll be the first to know.”
You look into his eyes and something in them convinces you—he means it. And if there's somone you can trust Minho with, it's him, Mr. Kim.
You rise to your feet, reluctantly releasing Minho’s hand, and gather your things. Before you leave, you turn on your feet to take one more look at him. One more lingering glance. And in your heart, you whisper, Come back soon.
-
Minho dreams of water. Still, dark water—so quiet, it feels like the world has finally stopped spinning. There's no fear here, no panic or pressure on his lungs. Just weightlessness. Just… peace. He floats deeper and deeper, and though the water around him should be cold, it’s warm like a memory. Familiar. Then—
He sees you. Your face breaks through the shadows, soft and distant. Like a light underwater, flickering just out of reach.
And you’re speaking—your voice is distant, muffled, dreamlike. "You're out of the water now… so why don’t you wake up?"
Minho’s eyes flutter. He opens his mouth to respond—but instead of water pouring in, he chokes on air. Sharp and dry. Too dry. His lungs burn, his throat aches, but he’s breathing.
He’s awake.
The quiet hum of the hospital floods his ears—the soft beeping of machines, the sterile scent of disinfectant, the weight of blankets over him. Too bright. Too real. He blinks against the light, eyes struggling to adjust as the dream fades.
Where…?
His lips part again, but his throat is too raw to speak. It comes out as a broken rasp.
The door opens and then a nurse walks in, her eyes widening when she sees him conscious.
“Oh—! You’re awake!” she says, moving quickly to his side. “Try not to move too much yet. I’m going to check your vitals, okay?”
Minho lets his gaze follow her, slow and disoriented. Everything feels distant. Disconnected.
“You’ve been unconscious for a while, Mr. Lee. Do you remember anything?” she asks gently.
He tries to answer again, but only a dry breath escapes.
“It’s okay,” she soothes. “That’s normal. We’ll get you water in a second. Just breathe.”
And then, as she checks the monitors, it only registered to him that she called his name— “Mr. Lee.”
Minho flinches. And suddenly—It clicks. He turns his head, his movements sluggish but purposeful. Slowly, he raises a trembling hand. Stares at it.
It’s his. The fingers, the joints, the scar on the knuckle. He reaches for his face next, fingertips brushing his jaw, his lips.
He’s back. He’s really back.
The nurse is still talking, but Minho can barely hear her over the rush in his ears—
Relief. Gratitude. A strange, silent grief he can’t explain. Because yes, he’s back in his body.
But his first thought isn’t I’m safe now. It’s Where are you? Are you okay?Did I make it in time?
And in the middle of all that noise in his head, one thing rings clear— He’s not just relieved. He’s overwhelmed. Because the truth is… He didn’t know if he’d ever come back.
-
Minho lies still on the hospital bed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, careful breaths. The doctor has just finished explaining that there’s no serious injury, no lasting damage—just exhaustion, dehydration, and the aftereffects of a body pushed past its limit. What he needs now is rest. Time. Healing.
Minho nods faintly as the doctor closes the chart and exits the room, leaving him alone with Mr. Kim.
The silence that follows is gentle but heavy. Mr. Kim steps closer, his presence as familiar and steady as ever. He places a hand on the bed rail and looks down at Minho with soft eyes. “How are you feeling?” he asks. “Do you want anything? Water? Food?”
Minho looks up at him. That voice. That tone. Always calm, always kind. And it twists something deep in Minho’s chest.
He swallows. Once. Twice. Fighting back what he knows is coming, but it’s been sitting there, quietly festering for so long—and it only takes this man’s kindness to shake it loose.
“Why?” Minho says, voice rough.
Mr. Kim’s brow furrows, confused. “Why what?”
Minho clenches his jaw. “Why are you like this with me?”
A beat later, Minho asks again. “Why are you so good to me?”
Mr. Kim blinks, caught off guard by the sudden sharpness behind Minho’s voice. But before he can answer, Minho continues, the words coming fast now—too fast to stop.
“You shouldn’t—treat me like this. Like I didn’t…” He chokes on his breath, his voice cracking as it dips into something far more fragile. “Like I’m not the reason your son died.”
Silence wraps around them again, heavy and immovable.
Tears fall—Minho doesn’t even try to stop them this time. His hand clenches the blanket over his lap. He turns away, ashamed to even meet Mr. Kim’s eyes. “You shouldn’t be kind to me,” he whispers. “You should hate me.”
Mr. Kim doesn’t speak at first. It’s not because he’s shocked. He just… lets it hang in the air, lets Minho sit in the truth of what he just said. And when he does speak, his voice is quiet—gentle.
“So that’s what you’ve been carrying.”
Minho says nothing. But the tears keep coming.
Mr. Kim pulls the chair closer and sits beside the bed. “It was an accident, Minho. No one saw it coming. No one could’ve stopped it.” He pauses. “Not even you.”
Minho hears it. He’s heard it before—from you. But hearing it from him—from the man who lost everything—it hits like a crack in the dam he’s been holding shut for years.
“You think I don’t miss Jae every day?” Mr. Kim continues. “I do. I always will. But he’s gone. And blaming you doesn’t bring him back.”
Minho’s lips tremble. His hand rises to his face, trying to hide what he can no longer hold in.
“You’re here. You’re alive,” Mr. Kim says softly, reaching out to place a steady hand on Minho’s shoulder. “And you’ve carried enough. Minho… I may have lost a son. But I still have you. You are a son to me.”
And just like that—Minho breaks. A sob bursts out from his chest, and he brings both hands to his face, trying to contain it but failing completely. The guilt, the shame, the years of silence, of pretending, of running—everything collapses at once.
Mr. Kim doesn’t rush him. He moves his hand to Minho’s back, rubbing slow circles. “Let it out,” he says quietly. “Stop blaming yourself. Just let go.”
So Minho does. He sobs into his hands, the sound raw and desperate. And it doesn’t matter how long it takes—because for the first time in a long time, Minho is not drowning. He is not trapped under the weight of it anymore.
For the first time in a long time, he’s out of the water now and he can finally breathe.
-
It’s the last day of filming. The air on set buzzes with a kind of quiet satisfaction—the kind that only comes after long hours and countless takes, and now… it’s finally done. The final scene wraps, and applause breaks out from cast and crew alike. You hang back, watching as people surround Felix, patting his back and congratulating him with bright smiles and heartfelt words.
You wait by his trailer, bouquet in hand—something simple but thoughtful, wrapped in soft paper and tied with a black ribbon. When Felix finally approaches, a little winded from all the farewells, his eyes light up at the sight of you.
“For me?” he asks, smiling as he accepts the bouquet.
You nod. “Congratulations. You were incredible.”
He cradles the flowers in one arm and looks at you warmly. “Thank you for everything. All the help. The support.” Then, with a cheeky little grin, he adds, “And for that motorcycle ride that day.”
You chuckle, feeling a flicker of guilt twist lightly in your chest—but you brush it away. That was Minho. Still, you say, “And thank you for making my job easier. Always so nice to me.”
Felix shrugs, playful. “I think you know that’s ‘cause I like you.”
It catches you off guard. You blink. “Wait… what?”
He looks at you, slightly amused by your surprise. “I told you that before.”
Your lips part as you search your memory, and realization hits—of course. He told Minho. Not you.
Felix studies your face with growing curiosity. “Do you already know what you’re going to do about it?”
A soft laugh escapes you, more out of disbelief than anything else. So Minho didn’t tell you. Or maybe he meant to. Either way, you don’t feel hurt. Just… quietly amused by it.
You start to speak, but Felix chuckles first and says, “It’s okay. I know. You like Minho.”
You blink again. “You… know?”
He nods. “Pretty obvious. But it’s okay. I still like you. I just hope he treats you well.”
You feel your chest tighten with something tender. “Thank you,” you say, sincerely. “For being honest. For being… you.”
He smiles, softer this time. “I hope we work together again.”
You nod. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
And as if the moment calls for it, the two of you step into each other’s arms—no hesitation, no awkwardness. Just a long, warm hug shared between two people who understand each other, even if it didn’t end the way one of you had hoped.
When you pull away, he gives you one last sunshine smile before retreating into his trailer, and you watch the door close behind him. You smile to yourself, tucking the moment away gently, like a photograph pressed between pages. It’s a good ending. But something else is just about to begin.
-
You approach the AD to report in as usual, your mind already winding down from the emotional stretch of the day, but instead of the checklist of wrap tasks, the AD stops you with a simple, “Flickerman wants to see you.”
Your breath stutters. That… could mean two things. Either he’s going to fire you—or something equally devastating. You nod, mumble a quiet “Okay,” and start making your way toward Flickerman’s trailer, every step heavier than the last.
You pause before the door, heart pounding with dread. “It’s me,” you announce quietly, then push the door open.
Flickerman is already inside, sitting in the corner booth with his usual unreadable face. He doesn’t say anything. Just gestures for you to sit across from him. You nod and do as you’re told, settling into the seat across from him, your hands clasped tightly in your lap under the table.
And then, to your surprise, he pulls out a script. You read the title and immediately recognize it as yours. Your stomach turns.
“I read it,” Flickerman says flatly, flipping to a page with scribbled notes. “Wrote down a few comments.”
You blink, stunned. You’d all but given up on him ever reading it—he’d pushed it aside too many times, brushed it off with vague promises and noncommittal nods. It has to be something Minho said or did. You glance at the script again, and then at Flickerman, unsure how to respond.
He crosses his arms and continues, “It’s raw. Needs refining. A lot of work, to be honest.”
You nod slowly. Your pulse is thumping in your ears.
He stares at you, voice still flat and almost bored. “I’ll be honest with you—this isn’t my kind of story. Wouldn’t make this in a million years.”
Your chest tightens. The words sting a little, even if you knew they were coming. Not everyone’s going to like your work. That’s just part of it.
But then Flickerman says, “I know someone who would.”
You blink again.
“Jess Johnson. She’s working on something new. You’d be a better fit there,” he adds. “Already recommended you as AD for her upcoming project.”
Your lips part. You stare at him, trying to process everything at once. Is this real?
He raises an eyebrow, noticing your shock. “Look, I’ve been unfair to you,” he admits suddenly, quieter. “Selfish. Kept you here longer than I should’ve, forgot why I hired you in the first place. You wanted to learn. That was the deal.”
You open your mouth, but he beats you to it. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no—don’t apologize,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “I’ve learned a lot. I mean, really. From everything. From you.”
And for the first time… Flickerman smiles. It’s not wide. Not warm. But it’s real.
You smile back, a soft understanding settling between the two of you. And just like that, the tension in the room lifts.
Flickerman clears his throat, looking vaguely embarrassed. “Now go,” he mutters. “I’ve got a hundred things to do.”
You chuckle softly and stand. “Thank you,” you say genuinely, your voice steady. “Really.”
He gives a small nod in return, already flipping through some paperwork, and you step out of the trailer with something you haven’t felt in a long time: Hope.
When you finally make it back to your car, you sit in the driver’s seat, close the door, and pull the script into your lap. You open it.
His handwriting is everywhere. Scrawled comments in the margins. Circles around certain lines. Suggestions for pacing. A note on a particular scene that just says, “This hits.”
You flip through more pages, reading every scribble, every underline. He really read it. He really saw it. You close the script, holding it tightly to your chest.
And for the first time, maybe ever, you believe—truly believe—that you can do this. That you’re going to make it. You smile to yourself, warm tears prickling at your eyes.
The future doesn’t feel so far anymore.
-
You step into your apartment and let the door click shut behind you, the silence settling in like a long exhale. Your eyes immediately land on the mirror as it's sitting there in the living room. The same one that started it all. Its surface glinting faintly under the soft light, utterly ordinary, and yet you feel yourself drawn to it. You walk toward it slowly, your eyes catching your own reflection—your actual reflection, this time. And for a second, it’s hard to believe this is you again. You, in your own skin, standing where it all began.
You stare as your mind plays back everything: the morning you woke up in Minho’s body, the arguments, the laughter, the things in between. The confusion. The longing. The way it brought you and Minho together.
Despite everything, despite the fear and the chaos—you feel something else blooming in your chest now. Gratitude.
Then—
“We should get rid of that mirror.”
Your head whips toward the voice and there he is. Leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed loosely, signature smirk curling on his lips like this is just another casual afternoon.
Minho. In the flesh. Real.
“You don’t look that happy to see me,” he says, tilting his head with mock offense.
A short, stunned laugh escapes you. It breaks out of your chest like you can’t hold it back anymore. And then—
You run. You don’t even think, just move—across the room, straight into him. Your body crashes into his, hard enough that he groans from the impact.
“Easy there,” he says with a grunt, arms instinctively catching you. “I'm still recovering, you know.”
Instead, you wrap your arms around him tighter, press your face against his shoulder, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you loosen your grip even a little. Minho chuckles—soft and warm—before hugging you back just as tightly, his hands rubbing gentle circles into your back.
The two of you stay like that for a while. Breathing each other in. Finding your balance again.
When you finally pull away, you look up at him, into his eyes—those eyes you’ve missed so much. “Thank you,” you whisper. “For coming back.”
His gaze softens instantly. He brushes your hair back and cups your jaw, his thumb grazing your cheek. “Did you wait for me?” he asks gently.
You nod. “You made me wait too long.”
Minho’s lips quirk—not into a smirk this time, but a soft, sincere smile. And then he leans in. The kiss he gives you is not rushed. It’s not frantic or questioning. It’s full. Full of everything left unsaid. Full of things you both only learned how to feel once you walked in each other’s skin. It's a kiss that feels like it’s been waiting to happen all this time.
-
Kissing you feels like returning, like finding his way home through a storm, only to open the door and be met with warmth and the scent of something familiar—something that’s always been waiting for him.
Minho keeps his lips on yours, slow and steady, not wanting to let go, not even for a second. He draws you in with every press, every breath shared. You’re the air he breathes now, and he’s never known how much he’s needed it until this moment.
Without breaking the kiss, he slides his hands to your waist and lifts you with ease. Your legs instinctively wrap around him, holding on just as tightly, like you're just as unwilling to part.
He carries you to the bedroom and the door swings open without a thought, and he lowers you onto the bed like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. He only pulls away slightly, just far enough to look at you, to touch you. His fingers trace the lines of your face with a tenderness he didn’t know he was capable of—your cheeks, your brows, the curve of your nose. Then, he uses his lips next. Soft kisses, planted one by one, mapping out the shape of you, committing it to memory all over again.
He cups the back of your neck, tilting your head to the side, and continues his path down to your jaw, then your throat. He feels you melt into him. Hears your breath catch. And it only fuels the fire growing slowly, surely, between you.
His other hand fumbles with the buttons of your blouse, but frustration takes over his patience. He tears it open, hears the snap of fabric, but doesn’t care—he just needs to feel you. His lips meet the skin of your shoulder, then lower, then higher, tasting, breathing you in.
You’re pulling at his clothes now too, your hands hungry but steady, and together, you strip each other down, layer by layer, until there’s nothing left between you but the heat rising from your skin.
Minho takes your arms, gently placing them around his shoulders again, and his hands slide to your waist to lift you once more. This time, he lays you down with infinite care, as if placing you on silk, as if afraid to wake from a dream.
He pulls back just enough to really see you. All of you. Laid bare beneath him, framed by white sheets, your chest rising and falling in anticipation, in trust.
And then it hits him—how much he missed this. You. Even when he was inside your body, even when he had your hands and your skin and your heartbeat, it wasn’t you. Not like this. Not with your smile.
“I didn’t think I’d miss this body so much,” he murmurs, half to himself.
You smile—genuine, warm, quietly amused. And he didn’t think he’d miss that either.
Minho brushes his thumb over your lips. That smile. That softness. You’re real, right here, with him again. So he leans in and kisses you—deep and slow, pouring all the things he never got to say into it.
The world fades until there’s only this: the weight of your bodies tangled together, the warmth of skin against skin, the way your lips meet and stay.
When he finally pulls back, breathless, he rests his forehead against yours and whispers, “Let’s do it right this time.”
You chuckle, the sound low and tender, and nod against his lips. And Minho smiles—because he knows this time, you will.
-
Minho lets his gaze linger, drinking in the sight of you laid bare beneath him, and for a moment, he just breathes—slow and steady—as if trying to memorize the shape of you all over again.
His fingers trace your skin like he’s reading something sacred, slow sweeps across your collarbone, down the center of your chest, over the softness of your stomach. Your skin responds to his touch, rising under his fingertips, and when he leans in to replace his fingers with his lips, you gasp softly—just enough to make his pulse skip.
He kisses you there, right at the center of your chest, right on the valley between your breasts before continuing lower, pressing his mouth gently to your navel. When he pauses, he lifts his eyes and meets yours—half-lidded, flushed, breathing unevenly—and there's something in your gaze that stops him. Something vulnerable and full of need. Something that mirrors what he feels.
A slow smirk tugs at his lips, but it softens into something more reverent. He knows your body in a way no one else possibly could—he’s lived in it, moved in it, learned every part of it. And now, as himself, he uses that knowledge like it’s a secret only he gets to keep.
Minho leans in again, placing his mouth on your throbbing core and you arch toward him almost instinctively. He places slow, deliberate kisses on your inner thighs before planting his mouth on your sex again. Then his tongue parts your folds apart so he can run it in between, making you even wetter, hotter. With the knowledge he earned from living in your body, he knows you like the way his tongue flicking your clit or the way he sucks on it after. He does it repeatedly that he hears the shaky way your breath escapes you.
His hands are steady as they slip under, guiding your body closer to him, holding you through every tremble, every quiet plea that slips from your lips. He sucks. He licks. He's drinking in the mix of his saliva and your essence like it’s the only thing that quench his thirst.
Minho knows you like it, he knows you like the gentle pressures he applies on your clit with his tongue. But he also knows that his mouth isn't enough to please you.
He smirks as he runs his two fingers in your drenched cunt, wetting them before he pushes them inside, curling them to nudge the spot that makes you—
“Oh...” you breathlessly moan as your hips jerk and lifted off the bed for a brief moment.
Minho smirks with his mouth on your pulsating clit and he syncing the two stimulations, mouth and fingers moving together to give you the utmost of pleasure. He takes his time, coaxing every reaction with care and precision. When your breath starts to hitch and your body begins to shake under the weight of sensation, he doesn’t stop—he only steadies you, anchors you, and keeps going until he feels you tightening, quivering around his fingers and come all over his mouth.
Even then, he doesn't let go of you. He presses his lips to your thigh, then rests his cheek against your skin, holding you as you come down, body warm and trembling beneath his hands.
There’s a quiet pride in his chest—not because of what he’s done, but because of what he’s shared with you. This closeness, this tenderness, this truth. And as he kisses the inside of your knee and slowly makes his way back up to you, it’s clear: this isn’t just about pleasure. It’s about coming home. To each other.
-
Minho hovers above you, propped on his elbows, just watching. You're still catching your breath, your body flushed and warm beneath him, and there’s a haze in your eyes that makes his chest tighten in the best way. He wears the smirk he knows drives you a little crazy—because he’s proud of what he just did, and he’s not trying to hide it.
And of course, you catch him in the act. Your eyes flutter open, soft and lazy, and you look right at him as if you've known all along.
A slow smile curves your lips as you breathe, “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
Minho leans in, lowering his voice, “Of course I am.” His tone is low, satisfied, teasing—and honest. There’s no point in denying it. Not with the way you’re looking at him like that, as if you’d let him do it all over again.
You reach up, threading your arms around his shoulders, pulling him down until there’s no space left between your bodies. Your skin against his makes him shiver. You kiss him then, slow and deep, lips parting easily like there’s no rush, like you could stay here with him forever.
You slip your fingers into his hair, scratching gently at his scalp, making his eyes flutter closed—only to open again when your nails dig down his back, just hard enough to leave a trail of heat.
Minho groans under his breath. But then—you move. Your hips lift, slow and deliberate, grinding into him. The friction steals the air from his lungs and every thought from his head. Your eyes don’t leave his as you do it again, making sure he feels just how badly you want him now.
Minho blinks, caught between control and the urge to lose it completely.
And then you smirk, that mischievous glint dancing behind your gaze. “Let’s see if you can last longer than me.”
His lips part, but no words come out at first—not when your body is still pressed close, not when your challenge is whispered against his lips. So instead, Minho lets his smirk return, darker this time, as his eyes narrow and his voice drops low.
“Oh, you’re on.”
And with that, he sinks into the moment, determined not just to rise to the challenge—but to win it.
Minho kisses you again—deep and slow—before pulling back just enough to watch your face as he settles between your legs. One of his hands glides down your thigh, gripping the soft curve as he shifts closer. He can feel it, how ready you are, the way your warmth draws him in like a promise.
You part your legs wider for him, inviting him in without a word. His jaw flexes at the sight of your glistening wet cunt that he exhales through his nose, steadying himself.
Every part of him is tense with anticipation, but he focuses, aligning his cock to your entrance with care, not wanting to rush this moment.
With a sharp inhale of air, Minho begins to push in. The air in his lungs stutters as his tip planted inside you. You’re hot, tight, impossibly soft around him. His grip on your thigh tightens as he slowly eases forward, the stretch coaxing a low, ragged groan from somewhere deep in his chest. It's overwhelming—how good you feel, how real this is—and he suddenly understands exactly why you didn’t last long.
When he finally bottoms out, fully seated inside you, he stills. Not because he wants to—but because he has to. His eyes close briefly, his breath uneven as he tries to pull himself together.
And just when he thinks he might succeed, you hook your legs around his waist. It pulls him deeper—too deep—and a raw sound escapes from his parted lips before he can stop it.
You’re grinning when he opens his eyes again, and your voice is light, teasing as you ask, “Are you okay?”
Minho smirks, even if he’s barely holding on. “Never been better.”
You hum, amused by his answer, and decide to test him further. You clench around him deliberately and you ask, all too innocently, “How about now?”
His response is a string of muffled curses, hissed through his teeth—and you laugh, breathless and smug.
Minho retaliates. He leans in, burying his face in your neck, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses against your skin, letting his teeth graze before sucking just hard enough to make you gasp, just enough to leave a mark on the skin. You moan—sharp and sweet—and he keeps going, trailing his mouth lower until he finds your breasts. One hand fondling, kneading on it before he takes the erect nipple into his mouth, tugging with his lips before sucking it in deep and slow.
Your back arches and your hand flies to his hair, tugging. “Minho—” you gasp, pushing at his shoulder, breathless with pleasure. “Stop teasing. Move.”
But he doesn’t—yet. Instead, he pulls back and looks at you, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You still taking your birth control?”
You let out a soft chuckle with eyes closed. “Daily.”
A smirk blooms on his face. “Even when you’re not getting any?”
You shrug, lifting a brow. “But I knew this would happen.”
That earns you a kiss—slow, satisfied—before he finally, finally rolls his hips into you.
He starts slow, deliberate. Every thrust measured, like he wants to make it last, like he wants you to feel every second of it. Once in a while, he glances down to see the way his cock slips in and out of you. And the way you take him well. Too well.
With the way your fingers clutch at his shoulders and your breath stutters against his lips, he knows you're enjoying it and that’s exactly how he wants it.
Minho moves with a rhythm that’s slow but deliberate—thrust after thrust sinking him deeper into your warmth. His lips find yours again, but the kiss is more instinct than finesse, a blend of breathless urgency and need. You try to kiss him back, but most of your energy goes into the quiet gasps and moans that escape between every drag of his hips.
He swallows the sounds, tasting your breath on his tongue, feeling your body react under his in all the ways he remembers—and in all the ways he missed.
And then you press your lips to his cheek, your mouth brushing his skin softly as you lean up to whisper near his ear.
Your voice, sweet and low, vibrates against his jaw. “I take birth control because I want you to come inside me.”
Minho’s body reacts before his brain does. His control slips. The rhythm he'd been holding onto so carefully shatters beneath the weight of those words. His hips stutter, the pace turning messy, erratic, driven by pure instinct and desperation.
You're gasping his name now—over and over—as your body tightens around him, pulling him deeper, drawing him closer to the edge. He groans, voice rough and cracked, burying his face into your neck as your walls flutter and clench, sending a rush of heat down his spine.
Every nerve in his body ignites at once—and that final snap inside him, that last thrust—there’s no stopping it. He falls apart against you, hips stilling, body shaking as he spills his seed inside you. Everything else vanishes—thoughts, sound, the world beyond this moment—gone, until all that remains is the warm, dizzying bliss of losing himself in you.
And it’s a good thing you’re on birth control because there’s no way he could’ve pulled out in time.
-
You press your lips to his collarbone, your fingers tracing the ridges of old scars like they’re constellations, your own way of reading him. Each one tells a story you weren’t there for, but you still honor them—by kissing them, slowly, reverently. He breathes a little deeper beneath your touch, and your lips travel back up to find his, kissing him with the kind of tenderness that carries every unspoken word.
When you pull back, your eyes meet his—and there’s so much you could say. So much you want to. But instead, with a crooked grin, you murmur, “Why didn’t you tell me Felix said he likes me?”
Minho tilts his head back, one brow quirking as he shrugs with that trademark nonchalance. “Dating a movie star sounds like a headache.”
You burst out laughing, your body lightly shaking against his. “And dating a stuntman isn’t?”
With his eyes closed and a smirk tugging at his lips, he asks smoothly, “Which stuntman are you dating?”
You lean in, grinning as you press a kiss to his jaw. “The most annoying one.”
He chuckles, low and warm. “Still less of a headache than a movie star.”
You break into a wave of laughter before resting your head on his chest again, the rise and fall of his breathing grounding you in the moment. His fingers slip into your hair, combing through it with a gentleness that almost makes your eyes sting.
For a while, neither of you speak. The silence is full, not empty. Then, out of nowhere, his voice breaks the stillness. “Funny that I learned a lot about myself,” he says quietly, “when I was in your body.”
You lift your head just enough to look at him, stacking your hands under your chin as you listen to him continue talking.
“In some weird way, I saw… myself in you,” he continues, his gaze meeting yours without hesitation. “And if you don’t already know this—you’re stronger than you look.”
Your heart folds in on itself, touched. A slow smile curves on your lips. “And if you don’t already know this,” you reply playfully, “you’re not as strong as you seem.”
Minho smirks at that, eyes gleaming. “At least I lasted longer than you.”
You gasp, half-laughing as you rise and shift, straddling him, your hands planted on his chest as you hover over him. His smirk deepens, clearly pleased with himself.
“Don’t even think we’re done,” you say, staring down at him. “Not until I say so.””
His smile falters—only for a second—replaced by something else: adoration, wrapped in desire, tempered with trust. His hands slide up your thighs, settling at your hips as he whispers, “Then don’t say it yet.”
And just like that, you dive back into him—into this. Into everything that’s yours and his, and now finally, something shared.
-
The wrap party is in full swing. Music thumps from the speakers, echoing across the set like the closing credits to a long, chaotic, beautiful film. People are dancing, drinking, laughing. Someone pops open a bottle of champagne and half the cast screams as the spray hits the ceiling of the wrap tent.
You decide to slip away. Not because you’re overwhelmed. Just… because you want a moment to breathe. To look. To take it all in.
You find yourself in the backlot, where the set stands stripped bare—costumes packed, lights powered down, cables coiled at the edges of the street you know by heart. It’s quiet here. Still. Just you and the bones of the story you helped bring to life.
Your eyes wander over the scene. The rigged car. The tent where you almost gave up. The trailer where your heart first ached for someone you barely knew. Every corner holds something—joy, fear, heartbreak, laughter. All of it lingers like the fading echo of a film scene after the cut.
You breathe it in. One last look at where it all happened. And then, slowly, you smile. Because as wild and messy as it all was… you made it. You really made it.
This was more than just a movie set. It was the place where you began again.
You turn to leave—and that’s when a familiar voice reaches you. “You always do this,” Minho says from behind you, his voice soft, teasing. “Disappear during the fun part.”
You glance over your shoulder and smile as he walks up beside you. He’s still in his suit from earlier—hair messy, shirt unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up like always. You take a breath. He’s here. Still here. Still yours.
“Well, you found me,” you say.
Minho shrugs, eyes shining. “I always will.”
And somehow, that line hits deeper than it should. You look at him—this man who’s lived in your body, breathed through your lungs, broken and rebuilt his heart alongside yours. And now, he’s standing here like you’re the only person left on earth.
Minho holds out a hand. “Dance with me?”
You scoff. “Why— There’s no music.”
He doesn’t budge. “So? It’s the wrap party. Gotta celebrate properly.”
You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away as you take his hand and let him pull you close. He sways you gently, the two of you moving in a slow circle in the middle of an empty street built for cameras and stories.
“This feels fake,” you whisper.
Minho leans in, rests his forehead against yours. “Then we must be doing it right.”
You smile with eyes closed as you mutter. “You do realize we’ve basically lived an entire movie together.”
“Yeah,” he says. His hand squeezes yours. “And I want a sequel.”
You laugh softly, your heart doing that thing again—expanding and aching and beating all at once. Minho kisses you then, slow and certain, like he's sealing a promise before he pushes you away only to give you a spin and pulls you back into his arms. Just like that, the two of you continue dancing under the sky full of stars.
The set is empty now—props half-covered, trailers locked, footprints slowly fading into gravel. It feels like the final page of something important. But instead of sadness, there’s a sense of calm. Of arrival. Minho’s hand is wrapped around yours, warm and steady, and when you look at him, he’s already looking at you like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. For once, there's no pressure, no lines to deliver, no roles to play. Just this. Just you and him.
The camera’s not rolling. The lights are off. But somehow, this feels like the best scene yet.
-
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Tattoo Artist!Lee Minho x Reader | Exes. Ink. Unfinished business. And nowhere left to run.
🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You go in for a touch-up. He’s the one holding the machine. Your ex. The one who fucked you like he loved you—and left like he didn’t. Now he’s working on your skin again. And you’re both trying not to fall back in. Too late. You never stopped wanting him. He never stopped being yours. This time, he’s not letting go.
💌a/n: bro. BRO. i am ✨deceased✨ this fic nearly ate me alive. i was so lazy writing it my brain was just like . . . O.O static noise the ENTIRE time. BUT I DID IT. I DID IT. SHE’S DONE. Minho's demon dick: delivered. Tattoo angst: served. You: ruined. also not me having a day™️ — my cat knocked over a potted flower like she pays rent in this house?? broke the damn pot. soil everywhere. ON. THE. CARPET. and guess who was sitting in the mess like a chaotic forest gremlin? her. the criminal. not even sorry. anyway enjoy the filth I bled for <3
p.s. reblog for minho's sake. he worked very hard.
p.p.s. if you read this and didn’t moan once, you're lying.
p.p.p.s. minho said “mine” and I folded like a lawn chair in a hurricane.
⚠️ warnings: 18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI | Exes to lovers with years of tension | Fingering (f. receiving), oral sex (f. receiving), face riding | Protected sex because Minho is a King | Overstimulation, squirting, rough sex | Hair pulling, light choking, possessive behavior | Filthy talk™ and degrading praise | Clit play so intense you might ascend | Reader is gone. dumb. dripping | Minho lives upstairs. You live upstairs now too. It’s canon.
📌 Please read with caution. Scream into a pillow. Mop your floor. Apologize to your downstairs neighbors.
You met Lee Minho back when he was still building himself. Not the man with a waitlist. Not the name clients whispered like prayer. Just a perfectionist with ink-stained fingers, a cigarette habit, and a sketchbook full of obsessions.
He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Like cityscapes carved into skin. Like cathedrals swallowed by shadow. You used to tease him—“Do you ever draw anything soft?”
He never answered.
But he kissed you like his mouth was a vow.
You were chaos to his control. Bright to his brutalism. A fire escape on legs, always halfway out the window—but you stayed for him.
The first tattoo he gave you was on your ribcage. Fine lines. Intricate, dark, permanent. He said, “I’ve never done this for someone I care about before.”
You said, “Don’t make it perfect. Just make it ours.”
He made it perfect anyway.
But love wasn’t enough—not when his world narrowed to ink and reputation, and yours was spinning with needs he couldn’t name, let alone meet. He stopped coming home. You stopped trying to explain.
The last fight was quiet. The kind of silence that ends things.
You left. He let you. Neither of you ever reached out again.
Seoul, South Korea. Wednesday, 4:03 PM
The bell over the door jingles.
It’s the same goddamn sound. That soft metallic chime, like a warning.
You step into NO SAINT INK and inhale the familiar scent—disinfectant, ink, citrus cleaner, and something darker beneath it. Nostalgia, maybe. Or just Minho’s ghost.
“Hi! Welcome to—”
Jisung’s voice cuts off the moment he looks up. Eyes widen. Blink. Blink. Jaw slightly drops. He’s behind the counter in a ripped vintage tee, one glove on, holding a paper cup of iced Americano like it’s mid-scene in a music video.
“...Holy shit.”
“Nice to see you too,” you deadpan, stepping up to the reception desk like it’s a confession booth.
From the back, Felix emerges, sliding in with a practiced spin on the rolling stool. His crop top says “NO SAINT, JUST HOT” and he’s chewing pink bubblegum like it’s personal.
He squints. “Wait. Waitwaitwait—no way.” He turns to Jisung. “That’s her, right?”
Jisung nods slowly, eyes still on you like you might disappear if he blinks. “Mm-hm. That’s her. The ribcage girl.”
You sigh, reaching for the clipboard. “Still the same greeting process, I see.”
Felix leans in over the counter, lashes weaponized. “So. What brings you back to the scene of the crime, gorgeous?”
“Tattoo,” you say simply, checking the box marked cover-up on the intake form.
Felix raises a brow. “Cover-up? On what?”
You give him a flat look. Then slowly, deliberately, tap your rib.
Jisung immediately chokes on his iced coffee. “Oh my god. You’re covering Minho’s piece?” he hisses.
“Don’t say it like that,” you mutter.
Felix gasps dramatically, grabbing your form. “Does he know? Does he know you’re here?”
“No.”
“Does he know you're gonna cover the sacred rib tattoo of doomed romance™?”
“Still no.”
Jisung is now whispering to himself in horror. “He’s gonna combust. He’s gonna short-circuit like a printer from 2003.”
Felix pats your hand. “You’re braver than the Marines.”
You slide the completed form back to them. “You gonna let me through, or you want me to relive the breakup right here?”
“Booth Three,” Jisung says instantly. “He’s in there right now. I’ll text him that a client is coming in.”
Felix grins like the devil. “We won’t say who. Surprise trauma!”
You exhale slowly as you make your way to Booth Three and pushing the door open.
Minho is inside, doesn't even look up. Of course he doesn't. He is seated at his workstation, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, long fingers flying over his iPad. The screen glows with precision: a mandala lattice interwoven with brutalist architecture, all angles and absence. It’s violently elegant. Just like him.
He’s got one AirPod in. The other rests on the desk, silent. His tattoo gun is prepped and sterilized beside it. Black gloves folded, still untouched.
You stay silent for a beat.
He’s changed, but not really. Hair darker now. Under-eye shadows deeper. Forearms inked in blackwork he used to say wasn’t “for him.”
You recognize his neck tattoo—you designed that motif. He said he’d never use it. Guess he changed his mind.
You speak, voice even, soft.
“Hope you still remember how to do ribs.”
He freezes. Literally freezes mid-stroke, like someone hit pause on a film reel.
His eyes flick up.
And when they meet yours—his stylus drops.
“...No fucking way.”
You smile, tight-lipped. “Hi.”
Minho blinks. Once. Twice. Then leans back slowly in his chair, as if needing distance just to believe you're real. He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes drag down you like a scan—lips, collarbones, arms. His gaze stops right where it used to rest: the dip beneath your ribs.
“What the fuck are you doing here.”
You shrug, like this isn’t a slow-burn emotional arson scene. “Cover-up.”
He exhales like he got sucker punched.
You don’t say it. You don’t have to. He knows which one. For a moment, neither of you move. The only sound is the quiet buzz of the fluorescent light, and your pulse hammering against silence.
Minho finally breaks it, voice lower now. Raspier. Rough around the edges.
“Sit.”
You walk forward. The vinyl of the chair squeaks as you lower yourself onto it.
Minho adjusts his stool with one foot, pulling closer—close enough that your knees nearly touch. He reaches for a fresh pair of gloves and pulls them on with a muted snap.
“You still flinch?” he asks, without looking up.
“Only when it matters.”
A breath leaves him like a short laugh, disbelieving and hollow. He nods at your ribs.
“Show me.”
You tug your top up slowly. The air is cool against your skin. But his gaze is colder.
The tattoo’s still there—his lines, his shape, the intimate architecture of a design he once called a cathedral just for you. You watch his eyes trace it like he’s reading a language he forgot he wrote.
He exhales through his nose, once. Then leans in. Not touching. But close.
“Still healed well,” he mutters. “Even after everything.”
He lets out a short sound—not quite a laugh. Not quite not.
Then turns to grab his iPad.
You watch him swipe past old sketches. Lines. Shapes. A few human figures, but mostly… structures. Always structures. Stained glass, brutal staircases, the shadows between pillars. And suddenly—one design with your face sketched into the edge of a crumbling spire flashes past.
You blink.
He quickly flips to a blank layer.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, stylus in hand.
You hesitate. Then: “Something clean. Cold. Geometric. No softness.”
He looks at you. Just looks. Then tilts his head. “So the opposite of what you used to want.”
You lift a brow. “People change.”
“Do they?” He doesn’t say it like a question.
Silence. Only the soft tick of the stylus moving. Drawing. Erasing. Redrawing.
You glance over.
The lines are sharp. Intricate. Interlocking shapes—architectural, yes, but still haunting. There’s depth beneath the harshness, shadows where light should be. He’s already building something brutal.
“You always sketch this fast for clients?” you ask.
He doesn’t look up. “Only the ones who know how to bleed for it.”
Your breath stutters. He notices.
After another beat, he holds the iPad out to you, jaw tense. “You want this? Final answer.”
You study it. And it’s beautiful. Devastatingly so. The kind of piece that erases history—not by covering it, but by burying it in monument.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s perfect.”
He huffs softly. “It’s not.”
“Minho—”
“It’s not what I wanted to put here.”
The sentence hits like a quiet car crash. No screech, just impact. You say nothing. He turns away to print the stencil. You watch the lines appear on paper, black and cruel.
“This gonna take long?” you ask lightly, trying to breathe again.
“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It’s big.”
“Good. I’ve got time.”
He turns. Looks at you—really looks. The gloves are still on. The stencil in hand. “You sure you can lie here for hours with me that close?”
“You sure you can touch me for that long and not fall apart?”
For one suspended moment, the room goes still.
Then Minho steps forward. “Let’s find out.”
He sets the stencil aside. Pulls out the prep tray. It’s methodical—his ritual. You remember it. He moves with that same detached precision: antiseptic wipe, alcohol spray, barrier film over his tray, black nitrile gloves pulled snug with that quiet snap that used to make your stomach twist.
The scent of alcohol hits first. Then the click of the spray bottle. Then his voice—low, close. “I’m cleaning the area.”
He waits. You nod.
And then his hand—gloved, cold—presses gently at your side, just under your ribs. The contact makes your breath hitch. He feels it. “Still ticklish,” he murmurs, but there’s no amusement in it. Just memory.
His fingers move across the old tattoo and you close your eyes as he presses the stencil on.
“Hold still,” he says softly. Too softly.
You feel the pressure of his palm, the warm slide of his knuckles against your waist, the careful tension as he positions the design.
Then he pulls back. Steps away. And you exhale.
“Mirror’s there,” he says, voice neutral.
You sit up, top still raised, and step to the full-length mirror near the booth’s edge.
The stencil is stark black. Clean. Brutal. It spans from just under your chest down to your hipbone—an interlocking spiral staircase, collapsing inward on itself, surrounded by broken geometry and cathedral archways. Inside the spiral, there’s a single vacant silhouette—like a missing piece in the shape of a person.
“It’s…” you begin. But you can’t find the word.
“Empty?” he offers.
“Yeah.”
Minho shrugs slightly, adjusting the height of the chair. “You wanted cold. Unsweet. Brutal.”
You nod. “I did.”
He doesn’t move until you return to the chair and settle in again. He leans down, pulls the stool closer—so close his knee brushes yours. “Ready?”
“No.”
A pause. Then: “Good. That’s honest.”
The machine buzzes to life. He dips the needle into the ink—pitch black—and presses the foot pedal. Then the first contact hits. The sting. The bite. The sound.
Your breath stutters. His hand is firm on your waist, grounding. “Still breathe like that,” he murmurs.
“Still touch like that.”
The buzz of the machine fills the booth like static between stations.
Minho works in silence. You breathe in silence. Time stretches. His gloved hand stays steady on your waist—anchoring, professional, unyielding. But every time his fingers shift to wipe the ink, every time his forearm brushes your side, you feel something buried rattle. Like bones under floorboards.
You focus on the ceiling tiles. Count them. Try not to flinch when he drags the line near your ribcage. He’s precise. Too precise. You feel every goddamn millimeter.
And still—he says nothing. It’s been maybe an hour. Then—quietly, like a thread being tugged:
“You finish school?”
Your eyes blink open. “Yeah. A while ago.”
“Thought so,” he murmurs. “You used to study here. In this chair.”
You huff. “I used to do a lot of things in this chair.”
He pauses. Then wipes your skin with slow, deliberate pressure. “Still mouthy.”
“Still quiet.”
“One of us had to be.”
The machine hums again. You both fall silent. But the air isn’t. It hums now—charged and heavy. After another few minutes, you speak, voice softer.
“You still living above the shop?”
Minho’s hand doesn’t pause, but you hear the answer in the way he exhales. “Yeah.”
“You ever fix the leak by the kitchen window?”
“Eventually. Felix slipped on the water and broke his assbone, so…”
“Justice.”
A faint smile ghosts across his lips. You catch it. Pretend not to. “What about you?” he asks. “Where are you now?”
You shrug. “Seoul. Still. I work freelance—mostly visual design, some concept art stuff. Clients suck. Pay’s decent.”
“Still draw?”
“Always.”
He nods, as if that explains something only he understands.
Another beat of quiet. Then: “You tattoo now too?”
That makes you pause. “A little. Not full-time.”
“Anyone ever ink your ribs like this again?”
You meet his eyes. “No one ever touched me here again.”
That silence? Not like before. This one cracks. Minho sets the machine down slowly. Wipes the needle. Re-inks. Doesn’t speak for a full thirty seconds.
Then: “Good.”
You shift, heart thudding. “Why?”
He glances up, and for once, doesn’t look away. “Because it’s not theirs to touch.” He says it like he didn’t just lay a claim. Like it’s fact. Like it’s law.
You don’t reply. You can’t. Your ribs ache—not from the needle, but from the breath you’ve been holding since he started this goddamn piece.
Minho presses the foot pedal again.
The machine whirs to life, slicing through the silence. The black ink spreads, sharp and deliberate, marking over what was once softness.
His hand settles against your waist again. Firmer now. Less technician—more… anchor. His fingers brush under the hem of your top again. Not on purpose.
But he doesn’t apologize.
“Gonna do the lower spiral now,” he murmurs. “I need to adjust your position.”
You nod. Try to keep your voice even. “Tell me what you want.”
His gaze flicks up. Something flashes in it—heat, recognition, regret. “Lift your arm. Stretch back.”
You obey. Your back arches slightly. The angle shifts. Your shirt slides up higher. And suddenly, his breath catches. Not visibly. Not loudly. But you feel it—in the tiny hesitation between glove and skin. He moves slower now. Drapes the barrier cloth gently over your chest. Focuses on the lower edge of the design.
His hand brushes the curve of your hip. “Still got the scar,” he mutters.
“From your old chair. That screw that stuck out.”
“I told you to stop climbing into my lap during sessions.”
“I told you to fix your fucking chair.”
Another small ghost of a smile. Another memory you didn’t mean to let through.
The machine buzzes. The lines go deeper now. Bolder. You wince slightly—less from pain, more from the weight of his closeness. “Hurts?” he asks, quiet.
“Not as much as losing you did.”
The machine goes silent. He sets it down. Slowly. His head tilts up, eyes dark, unreadable. “You think I didn’t lose you too?”
Before you can answer—knock knock knock.
The booth door creaks open an inch, and Jisung’s head pops in. “Hey, just checking—OH.” He blinks. Stares. Feels the temperature of the room. “Never mind.”
Another head appears behind him—Chan, black tee, clipboard in hand. Owner. OG. Quiet ringleader of this whole tattoo circus.
“Minho, did you review the—” He pauses mid-sentence. Eyes shift from Minho to you. To your lifted shirt. To the way Minho’s gloved hand is hovering just above your skin.
Chan arches a brow. “...So this is happening again.”
Minho doesn’t even flinch. “Out.”
Jisung salutes. “Godspeed, soldier.”
Chan just sighs. “Try not to punch holes in the wall this time.”
The door shuts. The lock clicks. Silence again.
You exhale. “They always this nosy?”
“You always this distracting?” His voice is low now. Tight.
You blink. “Minho—”
“Lie back.”
You obey. He pulls the stool closer. Closer than necessary. Then, gloved hands on your hip, he says—quiet, slow: “I’m finishing this. Every goddamn line.”
You nod. And the machine starts again.
You lose track of time somewhere around the fifth wipe.
The sky outside is darker now. The booth hums with that post-tattoo stillness—low light, blood buzz, the deep ache under your skin like something blooming and bruised.
Minho’s working slower now. Not out of fatigue. No—he’s dragging it out. You can feel it in the way he traces your skin. The pauses. The glances.
It’s 7:23 PM.
You know this because your phone buzzes uselessly on the counter and Minho glares at it like it’s an intruder. Then again—he hasn’t looked away from you much at all.
“You’re almost done?” you ask quietly, voice hoarse from the hours of not speaking.
“Final shading,” he says, shifting. “Then bandage.”
You nod, letting your head fall back against the chair. You close your eyes.
Until—click. The door opens again.
“You better not be tattooing her feelings back on,” Jisung says, peeking in once more.
“It’s after seven,” Chan adds, stepping in behind him. “We’re leaving. You can lock up.”
Minho doesn’t even glance at them. “Bye.”
“Damn,” Jisung mutters. “I missed when you were nice.”
Chan folds his arms. “He was never nice.”
Minho wipes your side again. “Do you two need something, or are you just doing walk-in commentary now?”
“We’re giving you the key,” Chan says patiently, tossing it toward the counter. It lands with a clatter. “And also warning you: no sex on the chair.”
“Especially not that chair,” Jisung adds. “That’s the holy one. Client blood and heartbreak juice only.”
You blink up at them. “You do know I can hear you, right?”
“Sweetheart, you’re like three moans away from a confessional,” Jisung grins.
Minho’s hand tenses on your hip.
Chan gives Jisung a sharp look. “Okay, that’s enough. Let the man finish tattooing his ex.”
Minho’s voice cuts in—low, flat, and dry: “I’m raising the booth rent if you two don’t leave.”
Jisung gasps. “You can’t evict my vibe.”
“Watch me.”
With one final laugh, Chan tips an invisible hat at you. “Pleasure seeing you again. Don’t break our boy, yeah?”
You don’t respond. You just hold Minho’s gaze.
The door closes. The lock clicks again. Alone. Again.
He exhales. “They never change.”
You hum. “Neither do you.”
“Not with you.”
His hand brushes your skin again, wiping the last bit of ink away. He doesn’t move it. Just leaves it there. Warm and steady.
“I’m done.”
You nod. Slow. Dazed. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”
But neither of you move.
The machine is off. The gloves are still on. His hand is still resting on your bare waist.
You watch his throat move as he swallows.
“I need to bandage it.”
You nod.
Minho finally pulls back. Peels off the gloves, slow. Tosses them into the bin with a soft crack. His hands are bare now—warmer, familiar, devastating. He reaches for the tattoo film. The kind that clings like a second skin.
“This part’ll be cold,” he murmurs.
“So were you.”
His hands pause.
Then, with infinite care, he presses the bandage to your ribs. The plastic clings, sealing the ink beneath. His fingertips ghost over your side. Flattening. Smoothing.
Too gentle.
His hand lingers a second too long on your hipbone. Then again on the edge of your waist, just under your breast. You don’t move. You don’t breathe.
Neither does he.
“You’re still warm here,” he murmurs. “Still soft.”
“I never stopped being yours here,” you whisper. “Even after you let me go.”
His hand freezes.
And then—
Minho exhales. Slow. Controlled. Devastated. “Fuck,” he says. “Don’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”
“I do mean it.”
He looks up at you, finally. Face unreadable. But his eyes? Wrecked.
“I didn’t stop wanting you,” you say, soft. “I just stopped begging.”
And that’s when something inside him cracks. Minho drops the rest of the bandage. One hand cups your jaw. The other pulls you forward by the waist. His lips crash into yours—not neat, not planned, not patient. Just real. Messy. Hot. Familiar. Like all the years you lost were just smoke.
He tastes the same. Regret and hunger.
You kiss him back. Desperate. Needy. Home.
When he pulls away, he’s breathless. “The shop’s closed,” he says hoarsely.
“I know.”
“You’re not leaving yet.”
“I know.”
But he can't stop kissing you and his kisses leave you gasping, lips parted, your ribs burning with fresh ink and something even hotter under your skin.
But Minho doesn’t move for your mouth again.
He just looks at you. And presses the last edge of the bandage into place. Palms flat on either side of your ribs, holding it there. Holding you there.
“You need to keep this clean,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Saniderm on for at least a day. No sweat. No friction. No heat.”
You smirk. “So I shouldn’t fuck my tattoo artist, huh?”
He closes his eyes like that physically hurts. Then opens them again, and they’re darker. Gone. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Come here.”
He grabs your face and kisses you again—harder this time. His mouth is warm, demanding. He tastes like ink and restraint and the last piece of something you thought you’d never get again.
You whimper into it, fingers fisting into his hoodie, tugging him closer. He moves fast now, pulling you upright, spinning you around so your back hits the wall behind the chair.
Your top rides up, exposing your waist. His hands drag along the un-tattooed side of your ribs, his touch finally hungry.
“Minho—”
“You still talk too much.”
His hand finds your thigh, fingers digging in as he lifts you onto the edge of the chair.
“Don’t you dare come undone on this chair unless you want your name carved into it,” he growls.
“Do it,” you whisper, breath hot. “Like old times.”
He groans. Hands gripping your hips, pulling you forward against the bulge in his jeans. But even now—he's careful. His fingers skirt around the bandage. His mouth trails everywhere but the fresh ink.
“I can’t touch there,” he pants. “But everywhere else? Mine.”
He leans in—bites at your neck. Licks under your jaw. You shudder. “Mine.”
You nod, breathless. “Yours.”
“Say it again.”
“Yours.”
He groans into your skin. One hand slips under your waistband—slow, deliberate, filthy. “Keep still. You move too much, I’ll stop.”
“Minho—”
He kisses your collarbone. Soft now. “I never should’ve stopped touching you.” His voice is low, almost broken against your skin. And then his hand dips further—sliding past the waistband of your pants, then beneath your underwear. You flinch at the first brush of his fingers against your bare heat.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “Already soaked?”
You moan, soft and unfiltered. “You did this.”
“Damn right I did.”
He doesn’t dive in right away.
Minho’s fingers ghost along your folds, barely there—just the suggestion of touch. Teasing, cruel, worshipful. Like he wants to remember this. Every slick, desperate twitch.
“Still so fucking warm,” he murmurs. “Still react to me like this.”
“Because I never stopped needing you.”
That does something to him. His jaw tightens. His free hand grips your thigh harder.
His fingers stroke your clit now—slow and purposeful. He still hasn’t pushed in. Just teasing, rubbing, feeling every tremble in your core.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “All this time and I still ruin you like this.”
You whimper, hips bucking up—but he presses you down against the chair again.
“What did I say?” he growls. “Keep. Fucking. Still.”
You nod, gasping. “I’m trying—fuck—Minho, please—”
He slips one finger inside. Just one. It glides in so easily, so wet, he groans low into your neck.
“Still tight,” he pants. “Still perfect.”
You clench around him and he curses, fingers curling just slightly as he begins to move.
“Say it again,” he whispers, lips dragging over your ear.
“Say you’re mine.”
“I’m—fuck—Minho, I’m yours—”
His second finger joins the first. Scissoring. Filling. So slow it’s maddening. His thumb circles your clit in rhythm, expertly cruel. You’re grinding against him now, trying not to cry out.
But it’s no use.
“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you. You think I forgot what you sound like?”
You moan—loud this time—and he smiles against your skin.
“There she is.”
His fingers curl again—deep, deliberate, cruel. You cry out, thighs trembling, body completely unhinged on his tattoo chair.
“Fuck, you’re clenching so hard,” he groans, dragging his fingers out almost entirely before plunging back in with a wet sound that makes you whimper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”
“Y-Yes,” you gasp.
“How much?”
You can barely breathe. “So much—Minho—fuck—”
“That’s not good enough.”
He pumps harder. Faster. His fingers scissor deep inside you, stretching you wide while his thumb circles your clit with just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged, jaw clenched like he's holding back a growl.
“Feel how fucking hard I am for you,” he grits, grabbing your free hand and dragging it down between you both.
Your fingers brush the bulge in his jeans and—fuck. He’s thick. Hard in a way that hurts even through the denim.
“All that from just your voice,” he rasps. “From your pussy sucking my fingers in like it still belongs to me.”
You whimper, hand tightening instinctively over his cock. He twitches under your grip.
“You’re gonna make me cum just from your fist at this rate,” he breathes, panting into your mouth. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”
Your hips roll against his hand, the wet slap of your cunt obscene now, the squelch of each pump making your eyes roll back.
“M-Minho—can’t—too much—”
He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Take it. You used to take it so well.”
You cry out, grinding shamelessly against his hand, your wrist still caught against the outline of his cock. His fingers are relentless now—deep, punishing strokes that angle just right, hitting the spot that makes your back arch.
“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, voice hot and filthy. “You gonna cum for me?”
“Please—need to—”
“You think I’m letting you go home with anyone else’s cum in you again?” His hand grips tighter. “Nah. You’ll cum on my fingers. Then my tongue. Then my cock. One by one. Until you remember who you belong to.”
You sob into his shoulder, body locking up.
“Then cum,” he growls. “Let me feel you fucking fall apart.”
And you do. You shatter. Right there in his chair, cunt clenching around his fingers so hard he curses, hips bucking involuntarily, thighs shaking. The orgasm crashes through you like a wave that never breaks.
You’re still gasping, barely coming down, when he kisses you again—rough and breathless.
Then he pulls his hand out and brings his digits to his lips, licking his fingers clean with a sinful groan. “Still the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Minho leans in—presses a soft kiss just beneath your jaw. Then another. Then pulls back, his lips swollen and wet with you.
“Stay,” he says simply.
“Yes.”
“Upstairs.”
You nod again, dazed. He grabs a clean towel, wipes his fingers off, then flicks off the booth lights.
You stumble to your feet. He steadies you with a hand on your lower back—protective, but firm. The other hand? Already sliding down to cup the curve of your ass.
“Don’t test me,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Or I’ll take you right here. Front door be damned.”
You laugh breathlessly. “You always talk this much now?”
“Only when I’m starving.”
He steps out first. Walks to the front.
The shop’s dark now—just the glow of the neon sign outside, and the sound of him flipping the lock with a click. Pulling the blinds. Turning the CLOSED sign.
The only other sound is your breath. And the creak of stairs.
Minho turns back to you. Extends his hand. “Come home.”
And you do. You follow him up the stairs—your fingers tangled in his, your heart in your throat. He pulls you behind him, not once looking back.
The upstairs apartment is dim, clean, and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.
His hoodie hits the floor first. Your shirt follows. Your bra is gone with one snap of his practiced fingers.
“Fuck,” he breathes, stepping in closer. “I’ve dreamed about this. Exactly this.”
“Then stop dreaming.”
“I’m not stopping anything tonight.”
He kisses you hard, mouths crashing, tongues tangled. His hands roam over every inch of skin he missed—the good side of your ribs, your back, your thighs. He lifts you. You wrap your legs around his waist.
Your back hits the hallway wall.
Your pants are yanked down, barely a memory. His belt clinks open, jeans shoved past his hips. You’re both gasping, biting, pulling, years of silence poured into filthy, reckless touch.
“I missed your body,” he mutters into your mouth. “Missed how you sound. How you taste. How you fucking feel.”
“Then take me.”
“You think I won’t?”
He kicks the bedroom door open with one foot, lays you down onto his bed, and finally—finally—he crawls over you like you’re something holy. You are.
Minho kisses you again, slower now, lips dragging down the column of your throat. Over your collarbone. Across the top of your chest. He palms your breast—squeezes, just enough to make you gasp—and then closes his mouth over your nipple.
You arch.
“Still so responsive,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue over the peak before sucking hard, slow. “Still so good for me.”
Your hands knot in his hair.
He kisses across to the other one—giving it the same attention, tongue lazy, mouth open and hot. Every sound you make fuels him.
Then lower.
His mouth trails down the center of your stomach—soft kisses, open-mouthed and hot, then bites just sharp enough to leave blooming heat behind. He kneels between your legs, hands parting your thighs.
You’re soaked again. Dripping. Panties long gone.
He growls low, eyes locked to your pussy like it’s fucking divine.
“You knew this was next,” he says, voice low, hands sliding under your thighs to lift your hips. “I told you.”
“Then shut up and—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
Minho licks one long stripe up your slit—slow and filthy—from the bottom of your entrance to your clit. And moans. Loud.
“Still taste like a fucking fever dream.”
Your hands shoot into his hair again. “Minho—fuck—”
He flattens his tongue against your clit, then circles it. Slow, heavy pressure. Just enough to make your thighs jerk around his head. “Keep them open,” he mutters, pulling back only to kiss your inner thigh, your hipbone, your mound. “Let me see all of you.”
And then he devours.
Tongue pressed deep. Lapping. Sucking. Flicking. He eats like he missed meals for years and this is how he survives now. Your moans go from soft to broken, gasps ragged, legs shaking around his head.
“Oh my—fuck—Minho—”
He groans into you, the vibration making your hips buck. His arms wrap tighter around your thighs, holding you down, keeping you right there as his tongue circles your clit in tight, ruthless rhythm.
He sucks your clit—harder now. Lips wrapped around your clit, tongue swirling in circles so precise it feels like he mapped this out. Every flick is a promise. Every kiss, a punishment.
“Minho—fuckfuck—please—”
Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, toes curling, head thrown back into his sheets. But he’s relentless. Focused. Cruel in the way only someone who knows your body this well can be.
Then—suddenly—his tongue dips lower again.
He licks into you—deep—pressing into your entrance, slow and wet and hot.
Minho—”
He moans into your cunt, arms flexing around your thighs, nose pressed into your mound like he never wants to come up for air. He tongue-fucks you harder, the slick sounds obscene now, spit and arousal dripping down his chin.
He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, messy and loud—then goes back down, tongue fucking you like it’s a competition. Like it’s penance. Like he’s going to draw the second orgasm out of you with his mouth alone.
“You’re close again,” he pants. “I feel it. You gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna soak my face?”
“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”
He doesn’t. In fact, he doubles down—tongue driving in and out while he rubs tight, fast circles on your clit with his thumb. Your thighs snap around his head. You try to pull away, too sensitive, too much—
But Minho just growls, deep and possessive.
“Fucking take it.”
Fuck you do. You fucking do take it. How can you not. And you finally break apart on his face, legs locking, body spasming as that second orgasm rips through you harder, wetter, longer. He holds you through it, licking and sucking until your voice is nothing but choked whimpers and your body can’t stop twitching.
When he finally pulls away, his mouth is glossy, chin soaked.
He smirks—wild, satisfied, dark before kneeling up, grabbing a condom from the drawer, tearing it open with his teeth.
“Now I’m gonna ruin this pussy properly.”
You’re barely conscious of the way he tears the condom wrapper open—just the sound of it, sharp and needed in the haze of your wrecked body. He rolls it on quick, jaw clenched, hand pumping his cock once, twice, eyes locked on you like you’re prey he’s finally allowed to devour.
“Get on all fours.”
You try to move, limbs shaking, but he grabs your hips and flips you himself—effortless, firm, like muscle memory. You barely get your arms under you before he’s behind you, one hand gripping your ass, the other dragging along your spine.
“You remember how loud you used to get?” he mutters, voice thick. “Gonna make you scream into my fucking sheets again.”
He guides his cock to your entrance—rubbing the tip through your soaked folds, slow and teasing, soaking himself in your mess.
“Fuck—you’re dripping,” he groans. “You came so hard for my mouth, and you’re still ready for my cock?”
“Please—Minho—need it—need you—”
He sinks in. Deep. One smooth, devastating thrust that punches the air from your lungs.
“Oh my fuck—”
“That’s it,” he growls, bottoming out. “Tight as ever. Like your pussy never forgot me.”
You choke on a moan as he pulls out slow—just to slam back in, harder this time. Your arms buckle, face falling into the mattress as his hips snap against your ass with punishing rhythm.
“Minho—fuck—you’re so—deep—”
“Yeah? You missed this cock?” His voice is ragged, filthy. “Tell me. Tell me who fucks you like this.”
“Only you—fuck—only you, Minho—”
“Damn right.”
He grips your hair, pulling you up by the back of your neck, arching your body so your back curves into him. His mouth is by your ear now, panting, biting.
“No one touches you here,” he growls, fucking into you harder, deeper. “Not your mouth. Not your thighs. Not your pussy. All mine. Say it.”
“I’m yours—Minho—I’m fucking yours—”
“Louder.”
“I’m yours!”
He snarls into your neck and slams into you so deep you see stars. One of his hands slides down to your clit, rubbing fast, relentless circles while his cock drags against your g-spot.
“You gonna cum again?” he pants. “On my cock this time?”
“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”
“Let go for me, baby.”
You don’t even need to try.
His thumb circles your clit with such devastating precision, and his cock hits so deep, so right, you come apart again—body locking up, mouth falling open in a moan that barely sounds like your own.
Your orgasm slams into you like a wave, sharp and overwhelming, your pussy fluttering around him, gripping him, milking him like your body knows he’s supposed to stay there.
“Fuuuuck—Minho—!”
“That’s it,” he growls. “Cum on my cock like a good girl. So fucking wet—so tight—I can feel you pulsing, fuck—”
Your vision blurs. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting through it, relentless, dragging it out with brutal pace, your pussy so sensitive now you can barely breathe. His hand’s still on your clit, rubbing slow now—just enough to make you whimper.
“Minho—please—I can’t—”
“Yes you can.”
He leans over your back again, teeth dragging along your shoulder, breath hot and harsh. “You gonna take it, baby,” he pants. “You’re gonna be good and take it. All of it. Until I cum too.”
You cry out when he fucks you harder, cock slamming in deep, hips slapping skin, the sound so obscene it makes your whole body flush. You feel your own slick running down your thighs, pooling under you—and still he keeps going.
“You said you were mine,” he groans. “So act like it. Let me fuck you how you need.”
“Minho—f-fuck—it’s too—too much—”
“It’s never too much,” he hisses. “Not for my good girl.”
His fingers leave your clit, only to grip your throat—lightly, possessively, pulling you up so your back is flush to his chest. His cock drives into you deeper from this angle, the stretch unbearable, perfect.
“You feel this?” he whispers into your ear. “You feel how hard I still am inside you? I’m not even close, baby.”
“Oh my god—”
“You’re gonna take every fucking second of it.”
You moan, broken and needy, as he slams into you again and again. His hips are ruthless now, fucking you straight through your oversensitivity, chasing his own high while demanding you keep up.
“Gonna ruin you,” he groans. “Gonna fill you up and fuck you until you can’t even stand—until all you know is my name in your throat.”
“Please—Minho—yes—yes, please—”
You feel another orgasm building and he knows it. His hand snakes down again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing quick tight circles just as he starts fucking you even deeper, fucking into your sweet spot with perfect, punishing rhythm.
“Cum again,” he growls. “Do it. Show me how good your pussy gets when it’s mine.”
Your legs are trembling now, slick and spent, but Minho doesn’t let up.
“C’mon,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Give it to me again. You know you can.”
His fingers never leave your clit—tight, ruthless circles in time with the brutal rhythm of his thrusts. He’s fucking into you so deep you swear he’s carved out space inside you. Your body’s a live wire, too sensitive, too soaked, too close.
And then—
You break.
A cry tears out of you as your body convulses, squirting hard around him, wetness gushing as your vision whites out. He curses low and vicious, gripping your hips to ride it out, holding you through the aftershocks.
“Fuck—just like that, baby. Look at this mess. All for me.”
You’re limp, gasping, gone—and he’s still fucking you, chasing the edge with a growl in his throat. His rhythm stutters, hips snapping faster, deeper, until he finally buries himself to the hilt with a sharp gasp.
“Mine,” he groans. “Taking all of me—fuck—mine.”
You feel the shudder of him spilling into the condom, body tight, muscles locked, every filthy, pent-up second poured into you.
And then—
Silence.
Only breath. Sweat. Your heartbeat in your ears. He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there, chest pressed to yours, mouth by your ear and pressing soft kisses.
Then finally—slowly—he pulls out. You both shiver from the loss.
Minho moves carefully now, the storm in him simmered down to something softer, raw-edged but human. He slides off the condom, ties it off, discards it in the bin by the bed. Then he vanishes for a beat—into the bathroom maybe—but returns just as fast with a warm cloth, water, tissues.
“Easy,” he murmurs as he wipes between your legs, his touch gentle, reverent. “Let me take care of you.”
You wince slightly when the cloth brushes too close to your clit, overstimulated and twitchy. He notices immediately.
“Sorry,” he says quietly. “You okay?”
You nod. Too gone to speak yet, but he sees it—your blinking gratitude, the softness returning to your breath. He kisses the inside of your knee before tossing the cloth aside.
And then he climbs back into bed, arms open. You crawl into them without hesitation. He pulls the blanket over both of you, tucks your head beneath his chin. One hand rubs slow circles into your back; the other is tangled in your hair.
For a long time, neither of you say anything. Just breath. The muted thud of his heartbeat under your ear. The faint creak of the studio pipes somewhere above.
Until you finally whisper, “Why’d we stop talking?”
His fingers still for a moment. Then resume. Slower. “I was angry,” he says. “And stupid.”
You hum. “Me too.”
He sighs. “I hated that you left without saying goodbye.”
“I hated that you let me.”
A pause.
“You came back,” he says quietly.
“I never stopped thinking about you.”
Another beat of silence, heavier now. “I never moved on,” he admits.
You look up at him, eyes glassy. “Neither did I.”
His jaw flexes. His thumb brushes your cheek. And this time, when he kisses you—it’s slow. Deep. No lust. Just longing. A kiss built on what-ifs. On might-have-beens. On maybe-again.
He whispers against your lips, “Stay the night.”
You nod, barely breathing. “Okay.”
It’s been three weeks since that night. Since Minho locked the studio door, fucked you senseless, and told you—without words—that he never stopped wanting you.
Now?
Now, your toothbrush is in his bathroom. Your sketchbook’s on his kitchen counter. Your bra’s been living on his bedpost for four days and counting.
You’re upstairs more than not—first it was overnight visits, then a drawer, then a closet, then one morning he just grunted, “Your stuff’s already here. Might as well stop pretending.”
So you stayed.
Mornings are quiet. Shared coffee in oversized mugs, his hand on your thigh while he skims client bookings. Nights are louder—sometimes it’s just TV and takeout, sometimes it’s moaning into his mouth while he fucks you over the arm of the couch, one hand tangled in your hair and the other keeping your legs spread.
Rebuilding hasn’t been linear. You argue. You remember old fights. You see old wounds still healing. But you talk now. And when you don’t have the words, he kisses the silence out of you, palms framing your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.
One afternoon, Jisung barges in to drop off a delivery and freezes at the top of the stairs. You’re half-naked in one of Minho’s shirts. He’s behind you, tattoo gun still buzzing.
“Are you seriously tattooing her naked again?”
Minho doesn’t even flinch. “My apartment. My rules.”
Jisung groans. “I’m gonna start charging rent for the trauma.”
Minho just smirks, wiping your skin clean and pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Close the door on your way out.”
You laugh into the sleeve of your shirt. You’re glowing. A little inked, a lot in love.
Synopsis: After a strange accident on movie set, you and a stunt actor, Minho, wake up in each other’s bodies. The two of you are forced to live one another’s lives while searching for answers. But the longer both of you are stuck, the more both of you begin to see each other differently. (19,3k words)
Author's note: I know it can be confusing at times but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless and I'd appreciate it if you leave a feedback ♡
They say we all want our lives to feel like the movies.
The perfect shot. The perfect line. The slow motion kiss in the rain. The third act redemption.
But no one ever talks about what it takes to actually make a movie. No one talks about the early call times, the underpaid crew, the twelve-hour days that somehow stretch into fifteen. No one talks about the taped floor marks, the blood squibs, the rewrites at midnight. And definitely no one talks about the ones behind the camera—the ones holding the boom, wrangling the extras, fetching coffee with blistered feet and a cracked smile.
You work on a movie set, but your life is nothing like the movies. Your name’s not in lights. You’re not even in the credits half the time. Still, you show up. Day after day. Because somewhere, under all the exhaustion and underappreciation, there’s still a dream clinging to the edges of your heart. Maybe one day, you’ll get to tell your own story. But for now? You’re just trying to survive this one.
The call time was 6:00 AM, but you’ve been here since 5:15. Not that anyone noticed.
Your sneakers squeak across the slick studio floor as you juggle a tray of coffees, a clipboard, and your phone wedged between your shoulder and your ear. The walkie strapped to your waist crackles every few seconds with more problems that aren't technically your job, but end up being yours anyway.
"Yes, I did call props yesterday," you mutter into your phone. "The harnesses are here, I saw them with my own eyes. No, I haven’t spoken to the extras yet, because I’m currently delivering caffeine and peace offerings to five different department heads—"
A production assistant brushes past you without so much as a glance, nearly knocking the clipboard out of your hands.
"Thanks, Kevin," you call dryly after him. He doesn’t look back.
Your walkie buzzes again. "Hey, where’s my coffee?"
You sigh. That’s the assistant director’s voice. Your boss’s boss. The one who sends you panicked texts at 2:00 AM and calls you by the wrong name at least once a day.
"It’s in my hand," you answer through gritted teeth, speeding up your steps. "I’m on my way."
You hand off one coffee, then another. Someone asks you if the weather cover’s still on for the night shoot. Another asks if you can double-check the catering menu because apparently someone’s allergic to tofu now.
By the time you find the director, Argus Flickerman, he’s lounging behind the monitor, sunglasses on even though you’re inside. He’s surrounded by department heads all nodding as if every word he says is gospel. You take a breath, straighten your shoulders, and step forward.
"Hey," you say, trying to sound casual, confident—like a real filmmaker and not the glorified gopher everyone seems to think you are. "I just wanted to check if you had a chance to look at that script I gave you last week. My script."
He doesn’t even glance your way as you talk to him. "Yeah, yeah," he says, waving his hand as if swatting a fly. "Remind me later, alright? Go check with craft services about the vegan mix-up."
You stand there a beat longer, clutching the dog-eared binder to your chest. Then you nod, even though he’s already forgotten you exist. "Sure. Right away."
You walk away, the words burning a hole in your throat. It’s the third time you’ve tried this week. You could recite the rejection in your sleep.
As you pass the stunt zone, you catch a blur of motion out of the corner of your eye—Minho, mid-air, flipping off a crash mat like gravity doesn’t apply to him. He lands cleanly, stretching his arms behind his head as the techs scurry to reset.He glances your way. Not a nod. Not a smile. Just a look. Blank, unreadable.
You’ve worked on four films with Lee Minho now. He’s the top stunt performer on every one, and you’ve probably exchanged fewer words with him than with the craft services guy. You’re not sure if he even knows your name.
You tighten your grip on the script binder and head toward the prop room. If someone doesn’t figure out what’s wrong with the fantasy set vault door, there’s going to be another twenty-minute delay. And guess who they’ll send to fix it? Right. You.
-
You’re halfway through updating the call sheet when your walkie crackles to life again. "Hey. Can you go brief Felix on his scenes today? I don’t have time."
It’s the assistant director. Of course. You pause, already juggling three tabs on your tablet and a phone call on hold. "That’s literally your job," you mutter under your breath.
Still, you press the button and reply, “On it.”
You sigh, rub your eyes, and gather the folder with today’s shooting schedule. Your name isn’t printed on any of the official paperwork. You're just a shadow behind the people who get credited. But apparently, you brief main actors now, too.
Despite the groan you let out, you're not exactly dreading this one. Not because it's your job. But because it's Felix.
Everyone loves Felix. A movie star, the golden boy, camera darling, all charm and warmth wrapped in a heart-melting accent. But more than that, he's kind. Kind in a way that feels rare on this set, where kindness is often seen as a weakness or a waste of time. He says “please” and “thank you” to the lighting crew. He remembers your name. And he never talks down to you. Not even once.
You make your way to his trailer, weaving through cables and gear carts, past a couple of stylists arguing about continuity. You knock gently on the door.
It opens a second later, revealing his assistant. “He’s in the middle of a fitting,” the guy says, already half-turning back inside. “Come back in—”
“It’s okay,” comes Felix’s voice from behind him. “Let her in.”
The door opens wider and you step in carefully, keeping your eyes respectful and trying not to stare—even though it’s kind of impossible not to.
Felix stands near the vanity, barefoot, wearing only a pair of dark jeans as a wardrobe assistant adjusts the fit of a tailored coat across his shoulders. He flashes you that sunbeam smile. “Hey,” he says, and it’s not casual or distracted. It’s real. “Good morning. Everything okay?”
Your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. “You know I can come back later.”
He shakes his head, the coat sliding off as the wardrobe assistant nods and starts gathering pins and threads. “It’s okay,” Felix says gently. “Just give me one sec.”
You step aside, glancing down at your folder to focus your thoughts. It’s too warm in here. Or maybe that’s just your face. You try not to look as his shoulder blades shift, defined and toned, every muscle visible beneath his skin as he stretches his arms back, letting the stylist tug the coat off completely. By the time he turns toward you again, he’s pulling on a white T-shirt, the thin cotton clinging to his damp skin.
You clear your throat and hold out the folder. “Just came to brief you on today’s scenes. The AD bailed. Again.”
Felix takes the folder, motioning for you to sit on the couch. He perches on the edge across from you, elbows on his knees, giving you his full attention like you're the most important person in the room. And that’s the thing about Felix. That’s what makes people love him. He has this way of making everyone feel seen.
You go through the scenes one by one, and he asks questions, makes notes, actually listens. It’s easy. It’s the only time all day you feel like you're talking to someone who cares. You don’t let your eyes linger too long, but your mind slips anyway.
He’s way out of your league.
The thought hits without warning. Not bitterly. Just fact. He’s the lead actor. You’re the assistant to the assistant of the person who probably forgot what your title is. Still… there’s something in the way he looks at you. Not flirtatious. Not fake. Just… kind.
When you finish, he smiles and taps the folder lightly. “Thanks for this. You always make things easier.”
You smile back, grateful but painfully aware of the flutter in your chest that has no business being there. “Yeah,” you say. “No problem.”
You stand to leave and Felix kindly walks you to the door. For a second, just before you step out into the chaos of set again, you wonder what it would feel like to matter to someone like Felix. To be looked at like that… for real.
But then the walkie crackles again, reality calls and you answer.
-
Minho wakes up before the sun.
It’s just a habit now—his body knows the rhythm. The quiet stillness of 4:45 AM, the sting of cold air on bare skin, the smooth stretch of muscle over bone as he swings himself out of bed. No alarm needed.
By 5:00, he’s already moving. His apartment smells like liniment and instant coffee, the floor cold under his feet as he begins his warm-up routine—shoulder rolls, deep squats, core stretches, precision. Everything counts.
He trains in silence. There’s no music, no distractions. Just the sound of his own breath and the low groan of tension releasing from his body. The scar on his shoulder tugs as he shifts into a plank. His muscles flex with each movement—abs taut, arms roped with definition, his entire frame carved by years of impact, recovery, and discipline.
When he catches his reflection in the window, he barely looks twice. The body is just a tool. One he keeps sharp.
By 6:30, he’s showered, dressed in black athletic gear that clings to the cut of his form, and walking onto set with a quiet confidence. The others greet each other in loud bursts of conversation and clinking coffee cups. He just nods in response.
Minho sees you before you see him. You’re hunched over a clipboard, three phones ringing around you like an orchestra from hell. Your hair’s tied up in a knot that’s halfway undone, and there’s a smudge of something—ink? coffee?—on your sleeve. You’re moving fast, already issuing instructions while reading from two different pages at once.
He finds you… fascinating. Not in a romantic way. But in the way someone watches a dam somehow holding back a flood. There’s so much pressure on you, and still, you don’t crack.
“Minho!” you call, jogging toward him with the clipboard tucked under your arm. You’re already talking before you stop moving. “So—three stunts today. Two dry, one wet. You’re vaulting off the overturned truck in the salvage yard scene. We need a safety rehearsal by ten. Oh, and props says the door rig is sticking, so we might need to adjust the angle.”
He stops you for a second. “Wet?”
You wince. “Rain machine. You’re rolling out of a puddle. Not deep. Two seconds tops.”
Minho’s jaw tightens slightly. You don’t notice. Or maybe you do, but you’re already onto your next point. “And I need to double-check with effects about the glass break, but they promise it’s tempered this time. I told them you’re not doing another take if you end up cut again.”
You say it with a hint of fire in your voice, but not like you care personally. Just that you care about doing your job well. Minho wonders if anyone’s ever thanked you for that. He studies you a little too long. You look tired. Like you haven’t had a full night’s sleep in a week. You handle everything—scheduling, props, stunt details, even food crises. And no one ever says your name. Just “hey” or “you.”
“How do you even function?” he mutters before he can stop himself.
You look up, caught off guard. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
You don’t press him. You just nod and walk off, already answering another call.
“Minho.”
He turns to see his coach approaching—clipboard in hand, baseball cap low over his eyes. The man frowns like it’s his default expression. “You got your check-in today,” the coach says flatly.
Minho wipes a hand over his face, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah. I remember.”
“You can't skip again,” the coach warns him.
Minho hesitates. The thought of sitting in that small office, talking about that again, makes his stomach turn. “I’ll go,” he lies, then he walks away, heading straight for the mats to rehearse his stunts instead. He’d rather throw himself off a moving truck than sit in that chair again.
-
Minho stands on top of the overturned truck, breath steady, hands flexing at his sides. Gravel crunches below, voices murmur around the set, but they all fade into the background. Up here, it’s just him, the height, the wind, and the mark. The dumpster waits ten feet away, lid open, lined with thick mats and a few hidden camera rigs.
He’s done this a hundred times—jumps, rolls, crashes, fire, glass, pain. It's muscle memory by now. Still— Every single time. Right before he jumps, that sliver of fear wedges itself into his chest. The whisper that maybe this is it. Maybe today’s the day he lands wrong. Or the rig fails. Or something just—breaks. No one ever knows. No one ever sees it on his face.
Minho crouches, counts silently. Three. Two. One. He jumps. The air rushes past his ears in a roar. The world tilts. His body twists mid-air, legs tucked, arms tight. And then—impact.
A clean roll. The mats groan under his weight. He winces as his knee smacks something harder than expected, but he stays down for the beat, letting the cameras get their shot.
“Cut!” someone yells.
Cheers follow. A few claps. A PA whistles.
Minho lets out a sigh of relief as he sits up, the sting in his leg sharp and real. He checks the knee—cut open, a shallow gash, already bleeding. Nothing serious. He wipes at it with his sleeve and gets to his feet.
The adrenaline still hums under his skin. His heart thuds in his chest like it's proud of him. He loves this part. Not the danger—but the moment after. When he’s made it. When he’s sore and bruised and scraped and breathing. It makes the world slow down. It reminds him that he’s in control. He chooses the fall. He decides when to jump. When to land. And for a few glorious seconds, he has no fear. None at all.
Except the one he keeps hidden. The one that waits in dark water and tight lungs. The one he doesn't talk about. Doesn’t even name.
He pushes that thought away and grins at the medic who jogs over.
“Nice fall, Minho,” they say.
“Thanks,” he replies, brushing dust off his pants. “One more for the reel.”
He limps slightly as he walks off set, sweat cooling on his skin, bruises blooming already—but he feels good. He feels untouchable. At least, for now.
-
The set is quiet now. The kind of quiet that hums.
C-stands cast long shadows under the cooling lights. The camera rigs have been wheeled away. Most of the crew has clocked out, voices fading into the parking lot beyond the trailers. But you're still here, clipboard in hand, double-checking the call sheet for tomorrow, inventorying props, and mentally sorting through who forgot what. You move like muscle memory. This part of the day—the part where you’re invisible again—has its own rhythm.
When you spot Mr. Flickerman still lingering near the monitor setup, you hesitate. He’s alone, arms crossed, squinting at the playback of today’s final shot. For once, he’s not surrounded by producers or barking orders at someone.
This could be your moment so you take a small breath and approach carefully, your footsteps soft against the scuffed flooring. “Mr. Flickerman?” you ask gently.
He doesn’t look at you. “Hmm?”
“I—uh, I know it’s been busy, but I was wondering if maybe you had read my script? I know it's just a draft, nothing big, but I’d really appreciate any notes. Whenever you have a moment.”
You keep your voice light. Sweet. Respectful. Like you were taught. Like it’ll make a difference.
He finally glances at you, distracted, eyes already drifting back to the screen. “I'll get to it eventually,” he says absently. “Sure. Good work today. Can you make sure the prop’s ready for tomorrow?”
You swallow air. “Which prop?”
“The mirror. The one for that dream sequence. Have the stunt team check it for safety, too. Just in case.”
Of course. He didn’t hear you. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care.
“Yes, sir,” you say, already turning to go.
You’ll check the mirror. You’ll chase down the stunt coordinator. You’ll handle it, like always. Because if you don’t, no one will. And maybe—maybe—if you keep working like this, if you keep smiling and saying yes, one day he’ll see your value.
One day, he’ll say your name in a meeting. One day, he’ll hand you a camera and say, “Your turn.”
But today isn’t that day so you swallow the bitter disappointment down your throat like a real grown-up, then head toward the prop storage.
-
Minho stretches his arms above his head, the pull across his shoulders sharp but satisfying. He’s drenched in sweat, his shirt sticking to him, muscles sore in that familiar way that means he did something right—or at least didn’t break anything.
The shoot ran long today. Too many resets, too many takes. He was ready to leave an hour ago. He peels off his training top and wipes his face with a towel, already reaching for his hoodie when footsteps crunch softly outside the tent.
“Minho?” a voice calls.
Your voice and he turns on his feet. You stand at the opening, tablet in hand, eyes dimmed with exhaustion but still alert, still moving. He knows you’ve probably been running around since before the sun came up. He wonders if you’ve even had time to eat.
“Yeah?”
“Sorry to bother you,” you say, hesitating like you’re already expecting a no. “I know you’re done for the day, but Flickerman asked me to check a prop for your stunt tomorrow. He wants you to look at it too, just to make sure it’s safe.”
Minho sighs. He was already halfway out the door. His stomach’s growling and the thought of a cold shower sounds like heaven. But then he really looks at you.
You’re gripping the tablet too tight. You look like you’ve taken on ten other people’s jobs just since lunch. No one else is going to do this. No one else cares. So, he throws on his hoodie and grabs his bag.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s get it over with.”
You look surprised. A little relieved. “It won’t take long, I promise.”
“Yeah, alright,” he mutters, falling in step beside you as you lead the way down the gravel path. The set is mostly cleared now. Someone’s wrapping up a dolly track, and a lone PA waves tiredly as they pass.
Minho watches you from the corner of his eye. You walk fast, efficient, like you don’t trust the ground to stay still unless you’re already halfway across it. You always look like you’re one errand away from collapsing, but somehow, you never do. He wonders how long you’ve been running on fumes.
The storage is tucked between the containers, bathed in the orange haze of a dying sunset. Inside, the air is thick with the smell of old paint and plywood. You walk toward the back, weaving between crates.
“This is it,” you say, stopping in front of a tall, antique mirror. “The one for tomorrow’s dream sequence.”
It towers over both of you—ornate, freestanding, with a frame that looks like it belonged in some cursed manor house. Gold leafing darkened by time, carved vines twisting along the edge. The glass itself is clean but gives off a strange, almost cold gleam.
Minho frowns. “This thing looks haunted.”
You huff a quiet laugh, running a hand along the edge of the frame. “Don’t jinx it.”
He crouches to inspect the base. “Stable. No visible cracks. Just heavy as hell.”
You kneel beside him, tapping the side of the mirror lightly. “It should be locked in place tomorrow, but Flickerman said to let you give it a once-over.”
“Yeah. Looks fine.”
You both stand at the same time—and for whatever reason, your hands reach out together to touch the mirror at the exact same moment.
The second your fingertips brush the glass, the air shifts. A sudden breeze swirls through the tent, even though nothing outside is moving. The lights above flicker once, twice—then hum sharply before returning to normal.
Minho stiffens. You both pull your hands back and look at each other.
“…What the hell was that?!” you ask, voice quiet.
Minho doesn’t answer at first. He glances at the mirror again. The reflection ripples for a heartbeat—not the glass itself, just the image, as if the two of you shimmered like a bad signal.
“That was weird,” he says finally.
You force out a half-laugh. “Maybe the mirror is haunted.”
“Or we’re just exhausted.”
You nod, though your eyes linger on the mirror longer than they should.
Minho shrugs it off and grabs his bag again. “Anyway. I’m good with it.”
“Cool,” you murmur, already taking a note on your tablet. “I’ll let them know.”
As you both step out of the storage room, the air outside feels cooler, stiller, like something’s holding its breath. Neither of you says anything about it. But behind you, the mirror pulses—once—then falls still again.
-
Minho unlocks his apartment door and steps inside, greeted by the silence he’s grown used to. He flicks on the light and toes off his shoes, the ache in his knee making him wince.
Now that the adrenaline’s gone, everything hurts. He shrugs off his hoodie, drops his duffel on the floor, and heads straight for the bathroom. The mirror above the sink catches him—sweat-damp hair, dirt streaked along his jaw, and a shallow cut on his cheekbone he hadn’t even noticed.
His body’s a patchwork of bruises: shoulder, ribs, thigh. A scrape blooms across his forearm, angry red. His knee is swelling under the dried smear of blood. The pain didn’t hit until now.
He wets a towel with warm water and starts cleaning the wounds. His jaw tightens as the sting sinks in, but he doesn’t flinch. Pain is part of the job. Pain is proof of work. Proof that he’s still standing. Bandages, antiseptic, painkillers—he moves through the motions like a ritual.
Once he’s done, he grabs the worn folder from his bag and flops onto the couch, flipping through the stunt breakdowns for the rest of the shoot. Each page is full of scribbles—timing notes, angles, padding placement, safety reminders.
Most of the stunts are familiar. Falls, fire walls, bike skids. He’s done variations of them before. But one stands out.
Scene 57 – Tank drop + underwater hold
He stares at the header. His fingers go still. There’s a big circle around it, notes scrawled in the margins from his coach: Reassess oxygen hold time. Test with shallow depth first. Not final — needs confirmation.
Minho reads it twice and the back of his throat suddenly goes dry. He closes the folder slowly. His palms are damp. It’s the one stunt he’s not sure he can do. It’s the one where the fear is real, not just a thrill. The one where water becomes a cage, and his mind forgets how to breathe. He lets the folder drop to the coffee table with a dull thud.
“I’ll deal with it later,” he mutters to himself against the silence lingering in the space, but the knot in his stomach doesn't loosen.
He turns off the lights, crawls into bed, and pulls the covers over his sore body. His muscles throb under the weight of exhaustion, but sleep doesn’t come easy. Not with the memory of water pressing against his chest. Not with the sound of a silent scream echoing in his ears. Still, he forces his eyes shut.
Tomorrow is another day and there’s no room for fear. Not yet.
-
The door shuts behind you with a soft click, and you don’t even bother turning on the lights. You kick your shoes off in the dark, bag slipping off your shoulder and landing with a dull thud somewhere near the couch. Your body moves on autopilot—keys on the hook, jacket over the chair, bathroom light on for comfort.
You collapse onto your bed face-first, the covers unmade, pillows a mess. Every part of you is sore—legs heavy, shoulders tight, eyes dry from staring at screens and squinting into sunlight all day.
However, sleep has to wait. You groan into the pillow before dragging yourself upright and reaching for your laptop. The familiar whir of it booting up is a comfort and a curse.
You open your planner, typing out tomorrow’s to-do list: Update shooting schedule. Send revised call sheet. Follow up on prop inspection notes. Confirm Felix’s trailer move. Reply to wardrobe email. Coffee for Flickerman.
You pause to let out a sigh before start replying to emails, fingers flying fast, writing and rewriting the same sentences, the same apologies, the same polite tone.
And then—your gaze lands on it. Tucked under a stack of binders and half-read paperbacks on your nightstand, your script notebook peeks out, its worn spine barely visible. You reach for it without thinking.
The cover is scuffed, soft around the edges, smudged with coffee stains and your own fingerprints. You pull it into your lap, flip it open, and the pages welcome you back like an old friend.
Scene 4 – kitchen light flickers / she doesn’t notice
Scene 12 – voiceover cuts in mid-sentence
Scene 27 – rain on the window / not metaphorical / just lonely
You remember where you were when you wrote these. Some on the subway, others between takes. One late at night with cup of noodles beside you, your mind racing with images and dialogue that wouldn’t wait. You remember the feeling—your fingers flying over the keys, heart full, eyes tired but alive. You were in love with film. Still are.
That’s the whole reason you took this job, right?
Even if it means being an assistant to an assistant director, fetching coffee, running schedules, picking up tasks no one else wants. Even if your name’s never in the credits, even if you barely get a “thanks” because it’s a step. A toe in the door.
And honestly you’re afraid. God, you are. Afraid you’ll get stuck here. That this is it. That passion isn’t enough. That you’ll burn out before anyone even gives your script a glance. But you’re not ready to give up. Not yet. Maybe—just maybe—things are about to change.
You run your hand across the page like it might come to life beneath your touch. Then you close the book gently, like a promise.
Tomorrow, you whisper to yourself. Maybe tomorrow things are about to change. For real.
-
Something feels… off.
You stir awake slowly, head heavy, limbs heavier, like you’ve been drugged or slept through an earthquake. The air smells different. Muskier. Clean, but not your detergent. And the sheets aren’t yours — they’re softer, higher thread count maybe, and way too big. You blink your eyes open, and the ceiling above you isn’t familiar. You sit up too fast and immediately freeze.
Your arm. Wait— That’s not your arm. That’s… a muscular, tan, veiny forearm, the kind you only ever see in action films and on gym freaks who live off protein powder.
“What the—”
Your voice cracks in your throat. It’s deep. It’s not your voice.
Panic claws up your chest. You throw the covers off and stumble out of bed — legs wobbling, feet hitting the ground harder than you’re used to. You glance down and—holy hell—those are not your thighs. Or calves. Or abs. Or anything, really.
You rush toward the mirror across the room, nearly tripping over a duffel bag and a foam roller on the floor and when you finally see your reflection, your heart stutters to a full stop.
Instead of you, you see someone else. Lee Minho.
Wide brown eyes. Fluffy bedhead. Bare chest. Abs. The kind of body sculpted by hours in the gym and dangerous stunts. And he's staring back at you — well, you’re staring back at you, but it’s him, but it’s you—
You grab your face with trembling hands. “Oh my god.”
You turn. The reflection turns. You lift a hand. It lifts a hand. You scream. You curse. You pace the room like a caged animal, hands running through hair that isn't yours. It feels too thick, too soft, unfamiliar against your fingers. Everything about this body feels wrong — the weight of it, the height, the strength in your legs as you move, the sheer heat of it like it runs warmer than yours ever did.
"This isn't happening. This is not happening," you mutter to yourself over and over, your—his—voice too deep in your ears, too jarring.
It has to be a dream. A really weird, lucid dream. Maybe you passed out at work. Maybe you’re still on set. Maybe you fell asleep watching some random body swap movie and your brain is just doing its thing.
"Okay," you breathe, standing still and clutching the edge of the desk like it’ll stop the world from spinning. "Okay. I just need to wake up."
You slap yourself. Hard. Nothing. You pinch your inner arm. Bite the inside of your cheek. Close your eyes and count to ten, then twenty, then thirty. Still here. Still in Minho’s body. Still in his freaking boxer briefs in a room that smells like aftershave and protein bars.
You’re two seconds away from spiraling when a knock makes you flinch so hard you nearly trip over a foam roller again.
“Hey,Minho? You up, kid?” a deep voice calls through the door.
You know that voice. You’ve heard it on set. That’s his coach, Mr. Kim. The one always nagging him about training, safety protocols, and... something about important appointments?
“I know you only have one stunt to do today,” he calls again, lighter this time. “I didn’t see you train this morning. Are you okay?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. He thinks you're Minho because you look and sound like Minho.
The silence hangs for a beat too long. Then the coach knocks again. “You good in there?”
“Yeah!” you shout in sheer panic. It comes out deep and awkward and all wrong. “Yeah, I’m—fine. Just… getting ready!”
There’s a pause. Then a muffled “Alright. Don't be late.”
His footsteps fade down the hallway and you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for ten years.
This isn’t a dream. This is real. Somehow. Against all logic and reason, this is happening. You throw on a hoodie and sweatpants — Minho’s hoodie and sweatpants — and grab his phone, wallet, and keys like your life depends on it, because it does. You pull the hood up, duck your head, and slip outside, praying no one recognizes you. You hail the first taxi you see and slide in.
“Where to?” the driver asks.
You give your address — your actual address — before you can even think twice. The words feel foreign coming out of this mouth, but you don’t care.
You sit back, heart hammering against ribs that aren’t yours. You need to get home. You need answers. You need to figure this out. You need to see your body. You need you.
-
Minho groans softly, shifting under the blanket.
"Come on," he mumbles to himself, voice thick with sleep. "Get up. You’ve got training."
But his body won’t move. He feels… sore. Not the usual sore. A different kind of sore. Heavy in the limbs, tight in the joints, and strangely stiff like he’s been sleeping curled up too long. The bed under him feels smaller than usual. Firmer.
He exhales, arm flopping over his face. "Just five more minutes," he mutters.
His voice sounds— Wait. That doesn’t sound like him. He peeks an eye open. And then the other.
What the hell?
This isn’t his ceiling. This isn’t his bed. And those definitely aren’t his hands.
Minho bolts upright, heart slamming against his chest — a chest that is… not his chest. He throws off the blanket and stares down at himself. Smaller frame. Softer build. One of those oversized sleep shirts from a drama set. Legs bare and—
“Holy—”
He leaps out of bed and stumbles, crashing into the wall. The jolt sends a mirror on the bookshelf rattling and he catches it just in time. That’s when he sees it. You. Your face. Blinking back at him. Wide-eyed. Messy hair. Lips parted in shock. And wearing the same panicked expression he feels right now.
"No. No no no no—"
He spins around like the room might change if he moves fast enough. But it doesn’t. It stays exactly the same. Cramped apartment. A desk buried in script drafts and empty mugs. A corkboard with storyboards and post-its. A laptop blinking in sleep mode. A poster of a cult classic taped slightly crooked on the wall.
It smells like you too. Like that citrus shampoo and burnt coffee and the scent of a candle that never quite covers it all.
“What the f—” Minho breathes, gripping the back of the desk chair for balance.
He looks down at his—your—hands again. Smaller fingers. Short nails. A callus on the side of the middle finger. He flexes them. Opens and closes them. Still here. Still real.
His mouth opens but no sound comes out. For once in his life, Minho is completely, utterly speechless. This has to be a joke. A prank. Maybe he hit his head during that dumpster stunt and this is all a concussion-fueled fever dream. But when he slaps your—his—cheek, it hurts. This feels too real. Way too real.
Minho drags a shaky hand through his — no, your — hair and starts pacing, muttering under his breath like that’s going to summon a miracle.
“Okay. Okay. Think, Lee Minho. Think.”
He spots your phone charging on the nightstand and lunges for it like it holds all the answers. The screen lights up. Passcode required.
“Of course,” he mutters. “Because this would be too easy.”
He tries 0000. 1234. His own birthday. Your name. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong again.
Minho groans in frustration and flops back into your chair, rubbing at your temple. The wrong skin. The wrong face. The wrong everything.
Then the phone starts ringing in his hand. He jumps, nearly flinging it across the room. A name flashes across the screen: Assistant Director From Hell
Who names someone that in their contacts? Oh, wait, yeah, he knows this person, the AD is the one who always wears his hat backward and yells at you.
The phone keeps ringing. Loud. Insistent. Minho stares at it, torn between throwing it out the window or letting it go to voicemail. But it just keeps ringing as he stares at it so he slides to answer.
The second the line opens, he’s met with yelling. “Where the hell are you? I’ve been standing here like an idiot waiting for that coffee and now I have to do everything myself—”
Minho winces and holds the phone an inch away from his ear. Then, with all the deadpan sarcasm he can muster, he says, “Wow. That's a character development right there. Good for you.”
And he hangs up.
Immediately, the phone starts buzzing again. He throws it on the bed like it’s cursed and stalks across the room, looking for… something. Anything. A clue. Maybe in your shelf full of book has a manual titled "So You've Turned Into Someone Else" . He rifles through the mess on your desk, scans the corkboard like it’s going to explain the universe. Nothing.
Then— Knock knock knock. Three sharp bangs on the door.
Minho freezes. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Another round of knocking, faster this time. Frantic.
What if it’s someone else from work? What if it’s the assistant director coming to scream at you in person? He creeps toward the door, slow, quiet. Then he hears it—
“Open up!” a voice hisses. “It’s me! Minho! I mean, you!”
Minho’s heart drops. He grabs the knob, takes a deep breath, and opens the door. Standing on the other side is himself. His body. Same hoodie. Same messy hair. Same scowl.
But the eyes? Not his. It’s you. Wide-eyed. Breathless. Clutching a phone like it’s a lifeline. Your chest rising and falling like you’ve just run the whole way here.
And for the first time since he woke up… Minho feels a strange, cold relief. “You,” he says, pointing. “You’re me.”
“And you’re me!” you shoot back, flailing a hand at him — your own hand.
There’s a beat of silence. Then, in perfect sync, you both say: “What the fuck is going on?”
-
You stare at Minho. No— not Minho. You.
It’s your body standing in the doorway, hair a mess, oversized t-shirt slipping off one shoulder, eyes wild. But the way it moves, the furrow of the brows, the barely restrained panic simmering behind your usual blank expression—
It’s Minho, alright. The real one. In your body.
“What the fuck is going on?” you both blurt out at the same time.
Then—
Minho-you rubs a hand down your—his—face and mutters, “Okay. This is bad. This is very bad.”
“No kidding,” you snap, shoving past him into your apartment.
Minho closes the door behind you, slowly, as if slamming it might explode something.
You pace across the room, arms flailing. “I woke up and everything was taller and muscle-y and there were bruises everywhere and then your coach showed up and I had to lie to his face and take a taxi just to get here—”
“You took a taxi?” Minho interrupts, incredulous.
“I don’t drive motorcycles at sunrise, Minho! I also don’t wake up with an eight-pack and a death wish!”
Minho huffs and plants your—his—hands on your hips. “Okay, well, I didn’t exactly wake up in a spa either! I woke up to a man screaming at me for not bringing him coffee!”
A tense silence settles. You're both breathing hard. And then, slowly, the absurdity hits you.
Minho’s lip twitches first. Then yours. And suddenly, both of you are laughing. That hysterical, oh-no-I’m-losing-it kind of laugh. But it dies just as quickly.
“This is real, right?” you whisper.
Minho nods grimly. “Yeah. Too real.”
You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Okay. We need a plan.”
“Agreed.”
You turn to face him—except he’s you—and it’s… unsettling. It’s like looking in a mirror, but the mirror has way more attitude. You’re pacing again, arms crossed over your—his—broad chest, trying not to think too hard about the way your current biceps flex when you frown. “Okay. We need to retrace our steps. Something happened. This—this body-swap thing—it’s not random. It has to be connected to something from yesterday.”
Minho props himself up on one elbow and squints. “Okay, let’s see. I jumped off a truck into a dumpster. You wrangled five egos and still had time to brief Felix. Nothing weird about that.”
You nod slowly. “And then I stayed late to do prop checks.”
“And I stayed because you showed up to check a prop with me.”
You stop pacing. You both blink. At the same time, you say: “The mirror.”
Minho sits up fully, his eyes wide in your face. “Told you, that thing is haunted.”
“That’s explain why I felt weird after that like...” you don't dare to finish your sentence, heart racing.
Minho nods quickly. “Yeah. The lights flicker when we both touched it.”
You stare at each other. “That’s it. That has to be it.”
“Okay, so what do we do? Break the mirror? Kiss in front of it? Say a spell? Call an exorcist?”
You hesitate. “…We could try slamming our bodies into each other?”
Minho’s jaw drops. “What?”
You shrug. “Like in the movies! You know, sometimes a big impact resets the swap.”
Minho stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. Which technically, from his perspective, you kind of have. “You want me to run at you full speed and body slam you. As me.”
You nod seriously.
“That’s your big idea.”
You nod again.
“…Okay,” he says, standing up and brushing off your—his—pajama pants. “Let’s try this chaos science.”
You both position yourselves across from each other in the living room, your knees bent, arms ready.
“This is so stupid,” Minho mutters.
“On three,” you say, ignoring him. “One… two… THREE!”
You both sprint and collide. Hard. There’s a loud THUD, a crash, and you both go down like bowling pins, sprawling onto the floor with twin groans of pain.
You stare at the ceiling, your breath knocked out of your lungs. “Are we back?”
Minho, sprawled next to you, lifts your—his—arm and flexes the fingers. “Nope. Still you.”
You exhale. “Well. It was worth a shot.”
“Next time,” Minho grumbles, “let’s try the kissing idea.”
You elbow him—yourself?—in the ribs. “Not helping.”
The two of you lie there on your apartment floor, still stuck, still freaked out, and still very much not in the right bodies. You're still lying on the floor when your phone—Minho’s phone—starts ringing again from the kitchen counter. Loud, persistent, and impossible to ignore.
Minho groans next to you. “That thing has been ringing nonstop since I woke up. How do you live like this?”
You sit up and rub your—his—face. “Okay, maybe we should just stay in. Lay low. Pretend we have the flu or food poisoning or—”
“No.” Minho pushes himself up and looks at you, dead serious in your face. “We can’t stay in here forever. Staying here won’t help anything.”
You gape at him. “Are you seriously suggesting we just go out of the door? Like this?”
Minho shrugs. “We pretend to be each other. Get through the day. Figure out how to reverse this later.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“It is,” he says. “I checked the call sheet before I went to bed—I mean, before you did. I only have one stunt to do today. One. Easy.”
You raise an eyebrow. “And what about you doing my job?”
Minho scoffs. “It’s not like you’re operating heavy machinery. You just run around getting coffee and wrangling people, right?”
You give him a sharp look. “Wow. Okay. Cool. So you think all I do is errands?”
He shrugs again, and you can tell he’s trying to downplay it more out of panic than arrogance. Still, it stings.
You point to the buzzing phone. “Great. You can start by answering that.”
Minho groans but picks it up, holding it like it’s a cursed object. “What’s the passcode?”
You tell him.
He answers. “Hello? …Yes, this is… her. What? No, I’m—I’m on my way right now. Yes. Coffee. Got it. Extra hot. Yep. Bye.”
He hangs up and looks at you, horrified. “Okay, your job is a waking nightmare.”
You cross your arms. “Still just errands, huh?”
He mutters something under his breath.
You sigh and stand. “Alright, if we’re doing this, we need rules. Ground rules.”
Minho nods. “Fine. Rule one: don’t die in my body.”
“Rule two: don’t quit my job.”
“Rule three: don’t embarrass me in front of people. Especially Felix.”
He smirks. “Especially Felix? Why? Do you like him.”
You scoff and pretend to deny it. “I do not.”
He just raises a very skeptical eyebrow and you groan before continuing. “Whatever. Rule four: don’t tell anyone what’s going on.”
Minho nods again. “Agreed. We act normal. We blend in. We switch back tonight.”
You hold out your—his—hand. “Deal?”
He shakes it with your—his—much smaller one. “Deal.”
Then you both just stand there, still completely swapped and not remotely ready. But you put on your best Minho scowl, and he straightens up like he’s about to lecture a crew full of interns.
This is going to be such a disaster.
-
Minho sits stiffly in the passenger seat—well, technically it’s not his body sitting there, it’s yours. But inside, it’s him. And that alone is enough to make his temple throb. Next to him, you—trapped in his body—are clutching the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip, staring out at the set parking lot like it’s a battlefield.
You exhale sharply before shifting on your seat to face him. “Okay. Let’s go over this again.”
Minho leans back in the seat, arms crossed, your smaller frame feeling oddly fragile under the tension. “First, you head to the stunt tent. Warm up. Stretch with the guys. Just do what they do.”
You nod slowly. “Copy that.”
“And don’t talk too much. I don’t usually make conversation.”
You raise an eyebrow—his eyebrow. “Oh really? You don’t say.”
Minho rolls his eyes. “Just—grunts, nods, maybe crack your neck now and then. Keep it cool.”
You breathe out through your nose. “What about you?”
“I’ll do your job,” he replies, glancing out the windshield. “Run around. Look irritated. Get bossed around by people in cargo shorts.”
You snort. “It’s more than that and you know it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll check the props too. Especially the mirror.”
Your stomach twists at the mention. “You really think it’s that? The mirror?”
He gives a small shrug. “You got a better theory? ‘Cause I woke up in your body and you woke up in mine. That mirror’s the only weird thing that happened.”
You hesitate. “Yeah. No... you’re probably right.”
He grabs the door handle, but pauses. “Also—your stunt today?”
Your eyes widen. “What about it?”
Minho pastes on a casual smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Easy. Just a little jump. Nothing to worry about.”
Relief floods your face—his face. “Thank god.”
Minho doesn’t tell you the truth. He doesn’t say that the jump is high for you and that he’s not even sure you would be able to feel confident doing it. He’ll deal with it later. Hopefully, you won’t even have to do it. He’ll figure this out before it comes to that.
“Okay,” you say, reaching for your—his—door. “You handle the mirror. I’ll stretch and try not to die.”
“Good plan,” Minho mutters.
You both step out of the car, standing for a second in bodies that don’t feel like home. He glances at you one last time. “You sure you’ll be okay?”
You scoff. “Says the guy who thinks my job is just carrying coffee.”
He winces, then grins. “Alright. Point taken.”
You both head off in opposite directions, moving like strangers inside each other’s skin. Neither of you says it out loud, but you’re both thinking the same thing: This better not last forever.
-
Minho makes a beeline for the storage room, moving quickly down the corridor with your lanyard bouncing against your chest. His goal is clear: find the mirror, get answers, and fix this madness before it gets any worse. But before he can even reach the end of the hallway, a voice booms behind him like nails on a chalkboard.
“There you are!”
Minho freezes. He doesn’t have to turn around to know who it is. The assistant director—your boss—is stomping toward him with a coffee cup in hand and a permanent scowl etched into his face like it’s carved from stone.
“Do you know what time it is?” the AD barks, gesturing dramatically at his nonexistent watch. “I needed the prop list an hour ago. Felix’s call sheet is still not updated. And where the hell is my second coffee?”
Minho blinks. “You… already have a coffee,” he points out flatly.
The AD scoffs. “This one’s from makeup. Makeup, for god’s sake. Is that your job? No. Your job is assisting me, which apparently includes making my morning slightly less miserable.”
Minho bites down on his tongue, hard. It takes everything in him not to roll his—your—eyes so far back they get stuck.
The man slaps a thick clipboard into Minho’s hands. “Here. Schedule, scene breakdowns, deliveries, sign-offs. Make yourself useful.”
And just like that, he turns and walks away, muttering something about incompetence under his breath.
Minho stares at the pile of tasks like it’s a live grenade. “What the actual hell,” he mutters, your voice low with disbelief.
He glances down at the clipboard, then toward the direction the AD disappeared in. Then back at the clipboard. Then at the door to the storage room. He breathes out through his nose. Hard. “How do you do this?” he murmurs under his breath, thinking of you—really thinking of you for the first time. “How do you not lose it on that piece of shit every single day?”
His jaw tenses. The sting of someone barking orders at him, treating him like a forgettable errand runner—it’s new. Unfamiliar. Unpleasant. And this is what you’ve been putting up with? Every day?
He takes a step forward, then stops—and kicks the air in sheer frustration. It’s not satisfying. At all. “Great,” he mutters. “Just great.”
Clutching the clipboard like it personally insulted him, Minho turns and trudges toward the production trailer. He’ll do the work. He’ll grit his teeth and get through it. Because the sooner he plays his part, the sooner he gets to that damn mirror. And hopefully, the sooner he gets back to being himself.
-
You walk across the lot toward the stunt tent, trying not to let the sheer absurdity of your situation make your legs give out. With every step, you're hyperaware of the way Minho’s body moves—he’s all long limbs and muscle, the kind of strength that doesn’t just look intimidating, it feels it.
You roll your shoulders once, trying to act casual. Confident. Masculine. Whatever that means. You're Minho now. You’re a stuntman. And according to Minho, you don’t talk. You nod. You keep your cool. You keep repeating that to yourself like a mantra as you approach the tent.
Inside, a few stuntmen are already moving through their warm-up drills—stretching, light cardio, and some kind of complex joint-rolling thing that looks both impressive and mildly painful. The air smells like sweat and athletic tape, and the floor mats are covered in chalk footprints and scuff marks.
One of them bumps into you as he jogs backward in a warm-up run. He grins and claps you on the back like it’s just another Thursday. You nod. Just like Minho told you.
“Rough night?” the guy asks, chuckling, then jogs away before you have to answer.
Okay. So far, so good.
You eye the group for a second and slowly make your way toward the stretching circle, sitting down cross-legged and watching their movements out of the corner of your eye. One guy pulls a leg over his shoulder like it’s no big deal. Another does a series of pushups on his knuckles. You swallow and try not to panic. You mirror their stretches as best you can, focusing hard on making each move look smooth, like you’ve been doing it your entire life. Minho’s body helps—a lot more flexible and capable than yours—but you can feel your lack of rhythm. Your motions are just a beat too slow, too unsure.
Still, no one’s called you out. Yet. Someone claps beside you. You turn your head just enough to see one of the stunt guys—someone you vaguely remember seeing on set a few times—gesture to the crash mats behind you.
“Wanna run some practice rolls?” he asks.
Your heart stutters in panic, but you nod, keeping your expression blank.
He tosses a foam baton toward you. You catch it—barely—and follow him to the mat, mentally bracing yourself. You’re not sure what’s worse: the possibility of failing spectacularly in front of actual stuntmen or the fact that Minho’s body might get injured because you don’t know what you’re doing.
You whisper to yourself, “Okay. Just don’t die.”
And then, you lunge forward, trying to look like you belong here—even if you feel like the world’s worst impostor in someone else’s skin.
-
You’re already out of breath by the time warm-ups are done, sweat slick on Minho’s back and your lungs burning from the effort. You try not to hunch over or pant too hard—everyone else looks like they’ve barely broken a sweat, and the last thing you need is to stand out.
You're mentally begging for a moment to catch your breath when the stunt director appears, barking your name—Minho's name—and waving you over. You hesitate a split second too long before jogging toward him, muscles aching in unfamiliar places.
“We’re setting up your jump today,” he says as he checks something off on his clipboard. “Let’s go take a look.”
You nod mutely and trail behind him, hoping it’ll just be a demonstration or a quick safety walkthrough. Maybe you can fake your way through this without throwing up or falling on your face.
He leads you to the parking structure and then you follow him up flight after flight of concrete stairs, each step echoing with your own dread. By the time you reach the second floor, your legs are trembling—not from fatigue, but from the creeping realization that this isn’t just a talk. He’s going to show you the real thing.
You step out into the open and the sun stabs at your eyes. The stunt director strides toward the edge of the building, casually ducking under the safety rail. You don’t want to follow—but you do.
“Here,” he says, pointing. “You’ll come running from that corner, full speed, and jump off this edge. The dumpster down below is padded. We’ll have the rig crew ready. Should be an easy drop.”
You step forward cautiously and glance down. It’s high. The kind of high that makes your knees feel like jelly and your palms start sweating all over again. The wind whips through Minho’s hair, but it doesn’t cool the flush rising in your face.
"Easy," he says.
You want to laugh—easy, he says, as if jumping off a concrete ledge and trusting gravity and foam mats below isn’t completely terrifying. You nod slowly, trying not to show how pale you’ve gone.
“Just like the rehearsal last week,” he adds. “Same pace, same tuck on the landing. You remember the drill.”
Nope, you think. I was too busy being myself last week.
The director keeps talking—something about the angle of the camera, how fast you should be running, and where exactly to aim when you jump—but the words start to blur. All you can focus on is the open air in front of you and the distance to the dumpster below.
You swallow hard and nod again, every part of you screaming that this is a bad idea. Because you might be in Minho’s body—but you’re definitely not him.
-
Minho balances a tray of four overpriced coffees in one hand and an armful of clipboards in the other as he weaves through the chaos of the film set. Someone yells at him to move faster, and he barely restrains himself from responding with a few choice words. Instead, he forces a tight smile and mutters, “You’re lucky I’m not in my actual body.”
Your job truly is a nightmare. He’s delivered coffee, answered at least twelve emails he barely understood, got scolded for not replying sooner, and now he’s carrying props across the lot like a glorified intern. How do you survive this every day? More importantly, how have you not completely lost your mind?
He checks the time on your—his—watch and realizes he has a few minutes. Without wasting it, Minho slips away from the chaos, navigating through the back corridors until he reaches the storage room.
The door creaks open, and he steps inside, the scent of dust and old metal filling his nose. His eyes scan the dim space, skipping over piles of unused props and covered furniture—until they land on it.
The mirror. It stands leaned against the wall, cloaked partially with a thin tarp like someone tried to forget it existed. Minho walks toward it slowly, heart beating faster the closer he gets. He pulls the tarp down and the mirror’s surface glints under the single overhead bulb. It looks… normal. No glowing aura. No ancient runes. No cursed fog swirling inside.
When he looks into it—he doesn’t see himself. He sees you. Your face stares back at him from the glass, wide-eyed and confused. It’s the same expression he knows must be on his real face right now. He slowly lifts his hand and the reflection copies him. You copy him. Or—he copies you. Either way, it sends a chill down his spine.
“What are you?” he mutters under his breath, scanning the frame for any engravings, hidden switches, anything that might hint at what this mirror really is, but there’s nothing. Just that eerie reflection and the heaviness in the air like something is watching, listening.
“How do we fix this?” Minho murmurs as leans closer.
He crouches beside the mirror, eyes narrowed, fingertips brushing lightly over the cool, dust-coated frame. He doesn’t know what he expected—an inscription? A hidden compartment? Maybe the mirror to whisper "swap complete" in some demonic voice? But nothing happens. Just his—your—reflection blinking back at him. Then the static pops from the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, and Minho flinches.
“Have you briefed Felix yet?” the assistant director barks through the device, tone already laced with irritation.
Minho clenches his jaw before pressing the button. “On it now,” he says, his voice pleasant but tight, his thumb lifting just in time to roll his eyes to the ceiling.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” He mutters it to no one in particular, then jogs out of the storage room, ducking around equipment carts and crossing the set like he actually knows where he’s going. When he finds Felix’s trailer, he barely stops before knocking.
The door to his trailer swings open almost immediately a d Felix stands there, relaxed in a loose hoodie and jeans, his signature sunshine smile already in place.
“Oh, hey!” he greets warmly.
Minho nearly scoffs. He forgets for a second that Felix is one of those people who actually means it when they smile. He also remembers—unfortunately—that you like Felix. Like like-like him. He can feel it faintly inside the borrowed body, a residual trace of admiration like perfume on a shirt collar.
Whatever. He’s not here to psychoanalyze your hopeless crush. He’s here to do your damn job.
Minho clears his throat and lifts the clipboard he’s snagged on the way over. “You’ve got three scenes today. First one’s the rooftop sequence—fight choreography’s been updated, so it’ll be a new take. Second’s that emotional bit in the stairwell, the one with your co-lead. Third is a green screen pickup at the end of the day. You’ll need the harness ready before lunch.”
He rattles it off smoothly, without emotion, and Felix listens with the same gentle attentiveness that makes everyone like him. Once it’s over, Minho doesn’t waste a second. He turns toward the door, eager to get back to the mirror, to anything else.
And then, a hand catches his wrist. Not harsh, but firm.
“Hey,” Felix says, his voice softer now, serious in a way that makes Minho pause. “Are you okay?”
Minho turns slowly, face falling into a confused frown. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Felix tilts his head a little, studying him. “I don’t know. You just seem… different today. Like something’s bothering you.”
Minho swallows hard. He notices? Seriously? Inside, he panics. But outwardly—he smiles. Not his smile. Your smile. The one you’d probably use to brush things off. Just tight enough to be believable. Just warm enough to not raise questions.
“I’m fine,” he says with a practiced lightness. “Just… tired. It's been a long day.”
Felix nods slowly, still watching him like he’s not quite convinced, but respectful enough not to press. “Alright. If you need anything—”
“Thanks,” Minho cuts in gently, pulling his wrist free and giving a small nod before making his exit.
Once he’s outside, he lets out a long breath, picking up his pace toward the edge of the lot. He’s barely been in your shoes for a few hours and already? He’s exhausted and he still hasn’t figured out how to fix this mess.
But just as he rounds a corner and nearly collides with a crew cart, it hits him. The stunt. Your stunt. His stunt, technically—but it’s you in his body. That jump—that jump—is scheduled to be filmed this afternoon.
He rubs at his temple, groaning. “Oh, crap…”
There’s no way you can pull it off. No way you’re ready. It’s not just some minor tumble—it’s a carefully timed fall from a second-story ledge into a crash mat, flanked by sharp camera angles and tight choreography. And if he doesn’t find a way to switch back before the call time, it won’t matter how good you are at pretending to be him. You could get hurt. Badly.
-
You try not to let your nerves show, but your legs betray you. You’re pacing around the edge of the tent like a trapped animal, arms folded tightly against your chest, eyes darting every time someone walks past.
You’re dressed in Minho’s stunt gear, the padding uncomfortable against your body, the weight of it pressing down on your thoughts. You’re supposed to jump from a ledge today. A ledge. And everyone in the tent acts like it’s just another Wednesday.
You steal a glance at the other stuntmen—stretching, checking harnesses, laughing like it’s all just fun. Like they’ve done it a thousand times. Maybe they have. You haven’t. And your heartbeat won’t stop hammering in your chest.
You try to breathe through your nose. In, out. In, out. You can’t mess this up. You can’t. Minho said it was a simple stunt. You keep repeating that. It’s simple. He said it’s simple.
Still, your hands shake. You turn toward the table lined with protective gear, eyeing the elbow pads and harnesses. You’ve been trying to figure out which goes on first without making it obvious you’ve never done this before. You're one second away from panicking again when—
The tent flap lifts and you nearly jump. It’s Mr. Kim. Minho’s coach. His sharp eyes immediately scan the table, then settle on you. “Have you suited up yet?” he asks, gesturing toward the gear. “You should be getting ready.”
“I—I was just about to,” you manage to say, your voice a little higher than you’d like. You clear your throat and try again, “Yeah. Getting to it.”
Mr. Kim narrows his eyes slightly. Not with suspicion. Just… confusion. Like something about you isn’t quite adding up. He steps a little closer, eyes flicking down at the gear still untouched, then back at your face. “You feeling alright, Minho?”
You force a stiff nod, doing your best impersonation of someone who knows what they’re doing. “Yeah. Just… focusing.”
But his eyes linger on you for a beat too long and just when you think the situation couldn’t get worse—
The tent flap flies open again. It’s you. Well, your body. Minho. His hair’s a little messy, chest heaving like he sprinted across set, and his eyes immediately land on you. There’s a flash of urgency in them before he shifts his expression into something more controlled, more you.
“Hey,” he says quickly, looking at Mr. Kim. “I need him for something. Production stuff.”
Mr. Kim frowns. “Now? We’re about to—”
“It’ll be quick,” Minho says, grabbing your wrist like it’s second nature. “I’ll have him back in five.”
Mr. Kim doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t stop him either. Minho’s already tugging you out of the tent, muttering a quick “Thanks” over his shoulder.
Once you’re outside, he picks up the pace, still holding onto your wrist as he drags you away from the tent, the set, and the people who are expecting you to be fearless.
You stumble a little to keep up. “Minho—”
“We need to talk,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. His voice is tight. “Now.”
You don’t argue because the look on his face tells you what you already feel deep in your gut. Something’s wrong and time is running out.
-
The space is dim, the flickering light overhead casting long shadows across crates and metal racks. You’ve been here before, but this time, your heart races for a completely different reason. You follow Minho further into the storage room, still feeling the ghost of panic clinging to your skin.
Minho walks straight toward the corner, where the tarp-covered object looms like a secret waiting to ruin your life. Without saying a word, he grabs the edge of the fabric and yanks it down.
The mirror. Your stomach flips at the sight of it. It looks ordinary. Heavy. Old. The frame is tarnished gold, the glass dark around the edges like it’s been absorbing years. But the thing that really makes your skin crawl is the reflection. Because it’s not your face staring back at you. It’s Minho’s. Still.
Minho crosses his arms, frustration settling in the crease of his brows. “I checked everything,” he says. “Every inch. There’s nothing. No switches, no marks, no inscription—nothing that says, ‘This is cursed, don’t touch it.’”
“That’s very comforting,” you sarcastically mutter, inching closer to the mirror.
The closer you get, the more your reflection—or Minho’s reflection—taunts you. You watch as he mirrors your movement exactly, down to the anxious bite of your lip. You tear your gaze away. “So… what do we do now?”
Minho doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the glass like he wants to shatter it. Then he sighs and says, “Maybe we try touching it again. Like we did last night.”
You blink at him. “You think that’ll work?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But we don’t have other ideas.”
You both stand in silence, neither of you moving. Because honestly? You’re scared.
“What if it only makes it worse?” you whisper.
Minho hesitates. Then nods once, slowly. “We touch it together. On three.”
You draw a shaky breath, then raise your hand alongside his.
“One…”
You swallow.
“Two…”
Your fingers hover a breath away from the glass.
“Three.”
Both of your palms press against the mirror at the same time and nothing happens. No shimmer. No jolt. No flash of light. Just silence.
You pull your hand back, disappointment crashing down like a wave. “Of course,” you mutter, stomping your foot against the ground, the sound echoing off the concrete. “Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.”
Minho lets out a breath like he's been holding it too. He rakes a hand through your hair—his hair—and looks at you. “I don’t know what else to do.”
You pace in a small circle, head spinning, and then— You stop. Your eyes snap to him. “Wait. Didn’t you say something this morning?”
Minho narrows his eyes. “I said a lot of things this morning.”
“No, you said something about—about kissing in front of the mirror. As a joke.”
He stares at you. “You’re not serious.”
You lift your shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I know it sounds dumb, but I’ve seen weirder things work in movies, okay? It’s not like we have a list of rules here.”
Minho exhales sharply and rubs the back of his neck. “This is ridiculous.”
“Do you want to be stuck in my body forever?”
He scowls. “Fine.”
The two of you stand in front of the mirror again, reflections aligned like some strange alternate reality. You’re facing each other, close enough to feel each other’s breath. The awkwardness is so thick it nearly drowns you.
“This is so weird,” you mumble, your eyes flicking down to your—his—mouth.
“You think I’m enjoying this?” Minho retorts, glaring at his own face.
Still, neither of you move away. You close your eyes first. He does too. And slowly, awkwardly, your lips meet in a kiss that’s more confused than romantic. It’s soft, hesitant—clumsy, even—but you both stay still, hoping maybe… just maybe…
Please, let this work.
After a moment, you both pull away, eyes blinking open as you glance quickly at the mirror. Still you. Still him. Nothing.
You let out a frustrated groan and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Well, that didn’t work either.”
Minho sighs beside you, tilting his head back with a dramatic groan. “We just kissed ourselves. For nothing.”
You nod solemnly. “We really need a better plan.”
-
Minho takes a step back from the mirror, lips still tingling with the awkward memory of kissing himself—well, you—and the growing frustration that nothing happened. Not even a flicker. He exhales sharply through his nose and turns to say something, anything, but you beat him to it.
“This is bad,” you mutter, pacing now, hands flying in frantic gestures. “This is really bad, Minho. I can’t do that jump—I can’t—have you seen how high that is?”
Minho blinks. “Yeah. That’s kind of the point of a stunt.”
You turn to him with wide, panicked eyes. “I looked down, Minho. I got dizzy just looking down. And now they want me to leap off it? On camera?! In front of everyone?!”
You lunge for him suddenly, grabbing his arms. Minho flinches—not because of the movement, but because you’re using his strength in his body, and your fingers dig into the muscle of his—your—arms like steel clamps. “You have to fix this. You have to,” you plead, panic riding high in your voice. “I can’t do this. I’m not trained for this. I can’t even jump a flight of stairs without breaking something!”
Minho opens his mouth, but then you’re talking again, the words crashing out of you like waves.
“Why didn’t you tell me this stunt was this intense?! You said it was simple, you lied, and now I’m gonna die and everyone’s gonna see me—you—fail and fall on my face, and they’ll blacklist me forever and—”
“Hey,” Minho snaps, gripping your shoulders. He forgets for a second that he’s still in your body, and how strange it looks—you holding yourself. “Breathe. Just breathe, alright? We’ll fix this. There has to be a way.”
But you’re too far gone in panic to hear him and just then, the walkie-talkie clipped to your—his—belt crackles to life.
“Minho, where the hell are you?” Mr. Kim’s voice blares, stern and urgent. “Get back to the set. We’re rolling in ten.”
You freeze and so does Minho. His jaw clenches in either concern or panic. Or both.
Your wide, frantic eyes lock onto him. “I can’t do it, Minho,” you whisper, barely audible now. “I can’t.”
Minho’s gut twists as he watches your face—his face—completely unravel. You’re terrified. And as much as he wants to tell you to get a grip, he can’t blame you. You didn’t sign up for this. Not really. And worst of all? He doesn’t know how to fix it either.
“Okay,” he says, softer this time. “Okay. Come on. We’ll figure something out. Just… give me a second to think.”
And as the walkie-talkie continues to crackle impatiently at his hip, Minho realizes time is the one thing they don’t have.
-
Minho pulls you into an empty storage room down the hallway, shutting the door behind him with a quiet thud. You are still in full-blown panic mode, pacing the tight space and tugging at the hem of your borrowed shirt—his shirt, technically—muttering under your breath about death, embarrassment, and shattering every bone in his body.
“Stop moving,” he says, more gently than his words sounded. “Come here.”
You hesitate, but shuffle closer, visibly trembling. Minho crouches down and picks up the padding gear someone must’ve dumped in the corner earlier. “Arms up.”
You obey, albeit reluctantly, and Minho begins fastening the elbow pads, strapping them tightly around your joints with practiced hands. He tries to focus on the motions—secure, align, tighten—but it is hard when you are radiating so much panic that he can practically feel it buzzing in the air between you.
“I’ve never jumped off anything in my life,” you mutter as he move to your knees. “Not even a pool diving board. And now I have to—what—leap off a parking building?! I’m going to die. I’m going to die and they’re going to say it’s your fault and everyone will hate you and—”
“Hey.” He doesn't snap, not this time. He straightens up and catches your shoulders before your thoughts can spiral further. “You’re not going to die.”
You give him a skeptical look that mirrors his own expressions so well it is eerie. He let out a sigh and reaches for your chin, tilting your head up until your eyes met his.
It is surreal—seeing his own face like this. Pale. Anxious. Lips quivering, jaw tight. It hit him then: he’s never seen himself afraid. Not really. Not until now.
“You’re safe,” Minho says, firmly but with something softer beneath the surface. “You’ve got padding in all the right places, the rig guys triple-check everything, and the mat down there is like landing on a bed. You’re going to be fine.”
You stare at him, not entirely convinced so Minho moves his fingers to your jaw, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “All you have to do is jump. That’s it. Just one jump. You don’t even have to look down.”
“But—”
“And once it’s over,” he cut in, gently but firmly, “we’ll figure this out. The mirror, the curse, whatever it is. We’ll fix it. I promise.”
You bite your lip—his lip—and nod slowly. Minho sees it in your eyes, the fear still clinging to every thought, but also something else: trust.
His lips quirks, a small smile just for you. “See? You’ve got this.”
The walkie-talkie on his hip crackles again, Mr. Kim’s voice barking for the third time, increasingly annoyed. Minho doesn’t even bother responding this time. He flips the switch and turns it off with a pointed click. He isn’t leaving. Not yet. Not until you're ready.
-
You stand just off set, fully padded and jittery, the building looming behind you like a threat. You try not to look up at the ledge where you’re about to leap from, even though it’s all you can think about. Your heartbeat is a loud, erratic drum in your chest.
The only thing keeping you from bolting is the thought Minho planted in your head: the sooner you finish this, the sooner you can fix this. That’s it. That’s the only thing keeping your legs from locking up.
You’ve rehearsed it. You’ve gone over every step with Minho, run through the motion a dozen times on flat ground. The scene is straightforward. You just have to sprint and jump. You’ve watched Minho do stunts before—this one is small compared to the usual—but it feels colossal now that you’re the one doing it.
You stand on your mark and wait for the instruction.
“Action!”
You don’t think. You just run. The wind cuts past your ears, and the edge of the building rushes up on you faster than you expect. You hit the mark, your foot bouncing off the tape, and you leap.
Air whooshes past your face as the world tilts. Your stomach flips, your body tenses, and a sound you don’t mean to make escapes your lips. And then—impact. Soft, pillowy, like crashing into a giant marshmallow.
You lie there, limbs splayed, your eyes shut, breathing hard. It’s quiet except for your heart pounding and the distant sound of crew members moving around. You don’t move. You feel like your soul is still clinging to the top of that building.
Then you hear your voice. “Hey.”
You open your eyes and see Minho—your body—standing beside you with a hand extended. You take it, letting him pull you up.
“Oh, my God!” You gasp in disbelief, chest still rising and falling. “I can’t believe I actually did that.”
Minho scratches the back of your—his—head, lips pressing into a flat line. “Yeah, but… you’re gonna have to do it again.”
Your smile drops. “What? Why?”
He steps in closer and lowers his voice. “You screamed. You’re not supposed to scream during the jump.”
You blink, horrified. “I didn’t mean to. It just—it just came out!”
Minho doesn’t scold you. He just sighs and gives you a small, understanding nod. “It’s okay. Just do it again. Don’t think about it too much this time. Remember what I told you: shoulders relaxed, don’t lock your knees when you land, and breathe. You’ve got this.”
He crouches beside you, helping you adjust your padding again, tightening a loose strap on your elbow guard. You nod slowly, drawing in a deep breath. You have to do this. One more time. Then maybe—just maybe—you’ll be one step closer to waking up in your own skin again.
-
By the seventh take, you finally get the hang of it. Your knees don’t wobble as much, and your scream stays buried in your throat where it belongs. You land right on the mat, smooth and silent, and when you get up, the director gives a loud, satisfied “Cut! That’s the one!” You can hardly believe it. Relief floods through your body like a warm rush, and you’re already looking around for Minho—to tell him you survived, to ask if he saw it, but he’s not there.
Instead, Mr. Kim walks toward you, and your stomach sinks. His expression is unreadable at first, firm as usual, like he’s about to throw more instructions your way. You stiffen.
“Come with me,” he says, not unkindly. “We need to talk.”
You hesitate, then follow him, nerves crawling all over your skin. He still thinks you’re Minho. You have no idea what kind of relationship Minho has with this man, what you’re expected to say, or how to behave. You can only follow and pray you don’t blow your cover.
Mr. Kim leads you behind one of the trailers, where it’s quiet and out of view. He turns to face you, and when he does, something changes in his face. His features soften, his brows furrow—not in frustration, but in concern.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
You straighten up and force a small nod. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
He doesn’t buy it. His hand comes up gently, resting on your shoulder, and he makes you look at him. His voice is lower now, careful. “Minho. Are you really okay?”
Your breath catches. His eyes are sharp, too sharp. You’re afraid he’ll see right through the lie, right through you—and you can’t afford that. So you take a risk.
“I… don’t feel like myself today,” you say quietly.
It’s not a lie. Just not the whole truth. Mr. Kim studies you for a moment longer, then slowly lowers his hand from your shoulder. Something settles in his eyes—understanding. He nods once, firm but kind. “Take a day off tomorrow.”
“Oh?” You blink, surprised. “Thank you.”
But before you can fully exhale, he adds, “I’m giving it to you because I want you to go to your appointment.”
Your heart skips. Appointment? You nod quickly, masking your confusion. “Right. Of course. I’ll go.”
“Good,” Mr. Kim says. He gives your shoulder two reassuring pats before turning and walking away, leaving you behind the trailer with a dry mouth and a thousand new questions.
Once he’s gone, you let out a long, shaky sigh and run a hand down your face. What appointment? And what exactly is going on in Minho’s life that you’ve just walked into?
-
Minho feels like every inch of your body is about to shut down.
The second he finishes logging the last of the day’s call sheets and returns the borrowed walkie to the charging dock, he slumps against the nearest wall in the hallway. The ache in your lower back is sharp, and his legs—your legs—feel like they’ve been walking for ten hours straight, which, unfortunately, they have.
He hates this job— your job. Not because it’s hard—he’s used to hard. But because it’s the kind of hard that goes unnoticed, thankless. And worse, he can’t understand how you do it. How you put up with the never-ending orders, the too-long hours, the bosses who treat you like a personal assistant rather than a professional. He wonders how much you bite your tongue each day. How often you do someone else’s job because no one else will. And most of all, he really wonders how you put up with that damn AD.
Minho groans as he pushes himself off the wall and trudges toward the storage room. The mirror is still there, tucked behind shelves and crates, hidden under the dusty tarp. He yanks it back and looks at the frame, eyes narrowing. There’s still no answer. No inscription. No symbols. Nothing magical about it except the wrong person staring back at him when he looks.
However, he has a plan now. He figures if he brings it home, you and him can test it in a more controlled setting. Try again without the rush, without worrying about being caught. He can set it up, maybe even try using different lighting, mirrors in movies always need the right light, right?
With that in mind, Minho wedges his hands underneath the frame and lifts, or tries to as your arms give out halfway through.
The mirror barely rises off the floor before his grip slips, and it lands back with a dull thud. He exhales a string of curses under his breath. Your body just isn’t strong enough to carry this alone. His body could, no problem. But your frame is smaller, and your muscles are clearly not used to hauling heavy things. He huffs and pulls out your phone.
Minho scrolls through the recent calls and presses his own number—your number, technically. When you pick up, he doesn’t waste time.
“Storage room. Now. I need your help carrying this damn mirror.”
As he waits, he leans against the shelf, arms crossed, eyes flicking between the storage room door and the mirror beside him. The minutes tick by slower than he wants, and just when he considers calling again, the door creaks open and you stumble in, panting.
He frowns as he takes you in. “What took you so long?”
You open your mouth to respond, but Minho catches the glint of something white on your upper lip. His brows knit together, and without thinking, he reaches out and swipes his thumb over your skin.
“What is this?” he mutters, holding it up for inspection. Icing sugar.
You blink at him before replying, “I got hungry. Like starving. The second the adrenaline wore off, it just hit me, so I raided the craft table.”
Minho sighs sharply. “Great. So now you’re feeding my body garbage.”
You scoff, clearly offended. “Excuse me? Are you saying I’m not allowed to eat?”
“I didn’t say that,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “Just… don’t ruin my metabolism.”
You shoot him a glare, but before the back-and-forth can spiral, he jerks his chin toward the mirror. “Help me carry it. We’re taking it.”
You blink. “Taking it where?”
“Home. Somewhere private. We need to inspect it properly and figure things out.”
You pause, then nod, surprisingly quick to get behind the plan. Together, the two of you peek out into the hallway. No one’s there. Minho grabs one side of the mirror, you take the other, and you both move in sync, quietly sneaking the thing across the back corridors of the set and out the emergency exit that leads to the parking lot. It takes some maneuvering to fit the mirror in the back of your car, but you manage it—barely—without cracking the glass or your patience. Minho exhales deeply, wiping his hands on his pants when it’s finally secure.
You straighten up beside him and say, “We should stay at my place too.”
He gives you a look. “Why?”
You shrug like it’s obvious. “Didn’t you say we need to figure this out together? Kind of hard to do that if we’re in two different places.”
Minho groans under his breath, then rakes a hand through his—your—hair. “Fine. But I swear, if I find out you’re feeding my body more sugar—”
“You’ll what? Body slam me with your fragile little arms?” you tease.
He throws dagger with his eyes but then sighs. “Just get in the car.”
-
You and Minho struggle a little getting the mirror through your front door, the frame bumping against the hallway walls before it finally lands in your living room with a soft thud. As soon as it’s upright against the wall, you sigh and wipe your forehead with the back of your hand.
Without saying anything, you bolt toward the kitchen.
Minho’s voice follows you, sharp and scolding. “Are you seriously eating again?”
“I’m hungry,” you grumble back, flinging the fridge open and pulling out whatever looks remotely edible. After the day you’ve had—stunts, screaming, and the stress from this soul-swapping thing—you feel like you’ve earned a sandwich. Maybe two.
Minho huffs behind you but doesn’t argue. Good. He doesn’t need to know about the six donuts you inhaled earlier in a post-stunt haze.
As you line up slices of bread and pile on meat and cheese like you're building a house, you glance over your shoulder. “So... what’s the plan now?”
Minho doesn’t answer immediately. He’s pacing the living room with purpose, already back in his ‘problem-solving’ mode. “We need to find out where this mirror came from. If we know its origin, maybe we’ll understand what kind of... magic or whatever is tied to it.”
You nod, even though you’re more focused on not cutting your finger with the butter knife. “Okay. Research. Got it.”
You finish assembling your sandwich and take it with you to the couch, plopping down with a content sigh as you sink into the cushions. Minho drops his backpack on the coffee table and unzips it with determination.
“What’s that?” you ask between bites.
“Props files,” he says, pulling out a stack of folders. “I swiped them from the office. Figured they might help us trace where they bought the mirror.”
You raise your eyebrows, impressed despite yourself. “You stole from the production office?”
Minho looks up and deadpans, “It’s not stealing if I’m just borrowing it... for a supernatural emergency.”
You snort and go back to chewing as Minho flips through the files, muttering under his breath and scanning each one. You watch him work while you finish your sandwich in slow, satisfying bites, the mirror quietly looming behind you both like it’s watching.
Two sandwiches later, you lie sprawled out on the sofa, legs hanging off one end, flipping lazily through a folder you’re holding above your face. The files are everywhere—on the floor, coffee table, couch cushions—like paper confetti from a very boring parade. Your eyes burn from the effort of trying to keep them open, skimming row after row of itemized props.
You groan and let the folder rest on your chest. “I’m so tired,” you mumble, the words muffled into the cushion beneath your cheek.
Minho, sitting cross-legged on the carpet with his hair messily pushed back and your hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, doesn’t even look up. “Keep looking,” he says, flipping a page with more intensity than necessary. “One of these has to be it.”
You roll over with a heavy sigh to lie on your stomach, dragging the folder with you. “Okay, but… let’s say we do find out where the mirror came from. Then what?”
Minho doesn’t hesitate. “Then we find out who made it, or where it’s been used before. Maybe there’s some sort of curse or enchantment or—hell, even a hidden switch or inscription somewhere. Whatever it is, we investigate it, and we figure out how to reverse whatever happened to us.”
You let out a soft “mmhmm” in response, your cheek now smushed into the armrest. His voice drones on behind you, low and steady and filled with just enough irritation to mean he’s in deep focus, but none of it really lands anymore.
Your lids grow heavier. Your limbs feel like lead. And before you can tell him you’ll take just a five-minute nap, your eyes fall shut.
Minho’s—your—voice keeps talking, but in your world, it’s already faded into a distant hum—like a lullaby, quiet and unintentional.
-
Minho continues sorting through the files, flipping each page with growing impatience. His voice fills the room, steady but tired as he lays out his plan. “Once we find the vendor, maybe we can trace who made the mirror, right? Maybe they know what kind of enchantment it has—if it’s cursed, or activated by something, or if there’s some weird ritual to reverse it…”
He exhales sharply, eyes scanning another line of paperwork. “God, I’m so tired,” he admits quietly. “But we have to figure this out. I need to get back to my body. Soon.”
He pauses as it gets so quiet all of a sudden—so much so that it draws his attention. He looks up and there you are, curled on the sofa, cheek resting on your hand, your breathing soft and even. He watches the way your—his—chest rises and falls slowly, how the tiniest hum of a sigh escapes your lips. You look peaceful. Too peaceful. As if today hadn’t completely knocked the life out of you.
Minho slumps against the end of the sofa and lets out a long sigh. “You’re exhausted,” he murmurs, softer now, more to himself than to you. “Of course you are. That jump today…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know it’s just you inside. I know that. But God, I hated seeing that look on my face. That fear. I’ve never seen that before—not like that.”
He lets the vulnerability bleed out of him in the privacy of the quiet room, watching you sleep. “I don’t know what I’m doing either,” he confesses, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m honestly just as scared as you.”
With a sigh, Minho rises from the carpet and walks toward your bedroom. He returns a moment later with your duvet in his arms and gently drapes it over you. His movements are careful, deliberate as if he's afraid that you'll wake up from the slightest of touch.
He stares at you for another beat, his features softening. Then he mutters to himself, “I guess we’ll try again tomorrow,” and grabs a pillow before settling on the floor nearby, finally allowing himself to rest.
-
The shrill ring of your phone splits the quiet of the morning like a blade, jolting Minho awake where he’s curled on the floor. His eyes barely open as he groans, his entire body stiff and sore from sleeping on the carpet. The ringtone is all too familiar now.
He doesn’t even need to look. “Assistant Director from Hell,” he mutters darkly, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Of course.”
From the sofa, your—his—voice muffles out from beneath the pillow. “Make it stop…”
Minho glares at the phone, fighting every urge to hurl it across the room and let it shatter into a hundred blessedly quiet pieces. But instead, he picks it up and answers with a deadpan, “Yeah?”
As expected, the AD starts yelling before Minho even finishes the word. “Where the hell are you?! You were supposed to sign off on the set design changes by now—do you think this movie’s gonna shoot itself?!”
Minho doesn’t even flinch. He stares blankly at the wall and replies flatly, “I’ll get on it,” and then hangs up.
A beat of silence. He glances down at your body sprawled out on the sofa, now cocooned in the duvet, your face still buried.
“Lucky me,” he mutters, hauling himself up from the floor like a man twice his age. “Time to be you again.”
His day hasn’t even started, and Minho already needs a nap. Even so, he drags himself up to his feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he trudges toward the bathroom. But before he disappears down the hallway, he turns and gives your foot a firm tug where it’s peeking out from under the duvet.
“Get up,” he says, voice still raspy with sleep. “You’ve got work to do too.”
You grumble in protest and curl tighter into the cocoon of blankets. “Mr. Kim told me to take a day off,” you mumble, your voice muffled by the pillow.
Minho stops in his tracks, confused. “What? Why?”
“Something about an appointment,” you say, yawning into the cushion. “Gave me the day off so I could go. Which reminds me—what appointment?”
There’s a pause. Too long of a pause. He stands there stiffly, his back to you, his hand half-lifted to push open the bathroom door. Then, quietly, “It’s nothing. You don’t have to go.”
You peek one eye open at him. “Nothing?”
“Yeah.” He turns just enough to glance at you, then looks away again too quickly. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”
You raise an eyebrow but let it go for now, too sleepy to pry. You shrug and flop back into the sofa, pulling the blanket over your head.
But Minho won’t let you stay buried for long. “Still,” he says, straightening up, “you should get up. While I’m out doing your job again, you can go through the rest of the files. Keep looking for anything about that damn mirror.”
You let out a long, dramatic groan as you push yourself upright, eyes still closed, your hair sticking out in every direction. You look like a very reluctant ghost of yourself in Minho’s body.
“Coffee,” you croak.
“You can make that after you start looking,” he replies dryly, already heading down the hall to get dressed. “No slacking off on your day off.”
And before you can argue, he leaves you grumbling and squinting around the living room at the scattered files that await you. Minho is only halfway to the bathroom when your voice rings out from behind him.
“Wait—!”
He stops, hand on the doorframe, and glances back at you with an eyebrow raised. “What now?”
“Are you gonna shower?” you ask, already sitting up straighter on the sofa, suddenly wide awake.
“Yes?” he answers slowly, suspicious of your tone.
“No!” you blurt, pointing at him. “You can’t! That means you’ll—you’ll see my body!”
Minho stares at you, deadpan. “You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m not,” you say with a scowl. “That’s my body.”
“And I’m in your body,” Minho replies, exasperated. “You’ve already seen mine.”
“Yeah, not by choice!” you shout, standing up in protest.
But then, something shifts in your expression—your eyes widen in alarm as you look down at yourself. Your voice shoots up in pitch. “Wait, wait, wait, wait—what the hell is that?!”
Minho turns around to see what you’re freaking out about, only to find you gaping in horror at the visible bulge under your sweatpants.
“Oh my God,” you whisper. “WHAT is happening to me?!”
Minho can’t help it. He bursts out laughing, grabbing the doorframe for support. “That, my friend, is called morning wood.”
You look up at him like he’s just told you you’ve grown a second head. “Why?! What do I do with it?!”
Still laughing, Minho makes an incredibly inappropriate hand gesture and winks. “You release it.”
“Ugh! God!” you groan in disgust, clutching your head in mortification. “I’m gonna be sick.”
Minho finally relents, waving a hand. “Okay, relax. No need to be dramatic. A cold shower will do the trick.”
You nod quickly, taking that piece of information like it’s gospel. “Okay. Cold shower. Right. Cool.”
With that, Minho shakes his head and turns into the bathroom, muttering under his breath. He shuts the door behind him, and as he reaches for the buttons on your blouse, he pauses. He sighs, remembering your earlier freak-out.
“Seriously,” he mutters to himself, eyes shut tight as he starts to undress.
-
You head to the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you start the coffee machine. The warm hum of it fills the quiet morning, and you lean on the counter, arms crossed, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. Your muscles ache slightly from yesterday’s stunt, and you groan quietly, muttering, “Never again.”
Minho’s phone—your phone now—buzzes on the counter. You glance down at the screen and see Mr. Kim’s name lighting it up.
Mr. Kim: Where are you?
You quickly type back, Staying at a friend’s place. Short, simple. Hopefully enough. The phone buzzes again almost immediately.
Mr. Kim: Don’t forget about your appointment today.
You frown, reading the message twice. That appointment again. It’s clearly important, judging from the way Mr. Kim keeps reminding him—almost like he’s worried. You hesitate, thumb hovering above the keyboard, about to ask what the appointment is for when you hear the bathroom door open.
Minho walks out in your bathrobe, hair damp and sticking to your forehead, steam still clinging to your skin. You narrow your eyes the second you see him, arms slowly uncrossing.
“Did you do something weird to my body in the shower?” you ask, suspicious and sharp.
Minho freezes mid-step as he gives you a sly glance and mutter. “I’m not a pervert!”
You squint at him, trying to gauge if he’s lying, but he waves you off in a huff and walks straight past you. “I literally showered with my eyes closed,” he calls over his shoulder, already heading toward the bedroom. “I’m traumatized enough, thanks.”
You watch him disappear into the room with a scowl before glancing down at the phone again. That appointment still lingers at the back of your mind. You chew your bottom lip and sigh, debating whether to ask him about it in person or—
The sound of the coffee machine beeping derail your train of thoughts. You quickly pour yourself a cup of coffee, the scent rich and comforting as it rises with the steam. This—this cup of coffee—is the one thing you’ve earned after surviving a rooftop stunt, hauling a cursed mirror across a film set, and waking up with an entirely different anatomy. You lift the mug toward your lips, practically sighing in anticipation.
“Hey! Come here for a second,” Minho calls from the bedroom.
You stop mid-sip, your brow twitching in irritation as you lower the mug and sigh heavily. “Ugh! What now?”
You walk to the bedroom and push the door open, only to freeze at the scene in front of you. Your eyes widen in absolute horror.
Minho—still in your bathrobe—is standing in front of your open dresser, rummaging through your underwear drawer like he’s looking for spare change. “What are you doing?!” you shriek, rushing in and trying to close the drawer, fumbling to push his hands away.
“I need to get dressed, don’t I?” he says with the exhausted calm of someone who’s already fought a dozen battles this morning. “Unless you want me to wear a towel to set?”
You open your mouth to argue—but nothing comes out. Because, fine. He’s not wrong. Muttering under your breath, you reluctantly let go and take a step back, rubbing your forehead in defeat. “Okay. Just—don’t go digging through my socks or anything.”
Minho grabs a bra from the drawer, holds it up like it’s a complicated puzzle, and asks, “Okay, how do I put this thing on?”
“Close your eyes first!” you bark instantly.
He obeys without question, raising his arms and squeezing his eyes shut. First, you part his bathrobe open until it falls around his waist. You gently take the bra from his hands and guide his arms through the straps, reaching around to clasp it at his back. It’s mechanical, awkward—but you manage.
“Can I open my eyes now?” he asks.
You hesitate. “...Yeah.”
He opens his eyes, looks down at your—his—body clad only in your underwear, and just stands there blinking. You watch him watching himself, and then something changes. You feel it. Biologically, something happens inside Minho’s body, and you realize with growing horror what’s going on.
“Nope. Nope,” you say quickly, backing away and holding up your hands. “I’m out.”
You rush out of the room without another word and return to your coffee. You take a small sip and then mutter, “I just wanted to drink my coffee in peace.”
-
You sit curled up on the couch, fingers wrapped around your mug as you finally get a decent sip of coffee. It’s warm, strong, and blessedly quiet for exactly two minutes.
Then Minho walks out of the bedroom, fully dressed in your clothes—somehow making them look sharper than they ever do on you—with your phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder. He’s muttering something to whoever’s on the other end, his tone clipped and on the edge of his patience. You bet it's the AD from hell and you don't know what he says to him, but it’s clearly your job and, honestly, it makes you feel a little bad. He’s doing your work, dealing with your chaos. Still, you don’t exactly envy him either.
The moment he hangs up, he levels a glare your way. “Don’t slack off,” he says. “Get to those files.”
You take a long, pointed sip of coffee. “I’ll get to it once I’ve had my coffee.”
Minho strides toward the kitchen, snatches the car keys off the counter, and tosses them into his palm with the same grace he uses for fight choreography. Just before he steps out the door, he throws another warning over his shoulder. “I mean it. Work on those files.”
You groan dramatically. “I said I’ll do it. You want me to concentrate or not? Stop talking.”
He narrows your eyes at you—his eyes, now—and then finally leaves.
The door clicks shut behind him, and for the first time this morning, you let out a heavy sigh of relief. You sink back into the cushions, holding your coffee like it’s sacred.
“God,” you mutter to yourself, “this better not be my whole week.”
You refill your coffee mug—because there's no way you’re getting through Minho’s cursed stack of files without being fully caffeinated—and settle on the floor where papers are still scattered from last night’s half-hearted search. But one look at the dense text, the endless tables, and supplier lists, and your brain starts to fog like a computer about to crash.
“Ugh, nope,” you mutter, pushing the papers away. “Shower first.”
You shuffle to the bathroom, tugging your clothes off with a resigned sigh, already dreading the experience. Showering in Minho’s body still feels deeply wrong. You keep your eyes fixed on the tiles the entire time, navigating like a blindfolded ninja. Soap, rinse, shampoo—speed run version.
Steam clings to the bathroom walls as you step out of the shower, towel slung low on your hips, hair damp and dripping. You do everything you can not to look down—not out of modesty but from sheer avoidance. It's still his body, after all. But as you stand in front of the sink, reaching for your toothbrush, your eyes betray you. You glance up.
And there he is—Minho—reflected back at you. Broad shoulders, strong arms, water glistening along defined muscles. A sculpted chest and abs that clearly didn’t come easy. He looks—you look—like someone who’s fought to keep this form, someone who’s worked for it.
Then you notice them. Faint scars—one along his ribs, another just above his knee. A small one on his shoulder blade. They’re not glaring or grotesque, just quiet marks of something endured. You run your fingers across one near the hipbone, wondering what stunt led to it, how bad it hurt, whether he told anyone.
You’ve seen him take hits on set before. Smiled through pain. Brushed it off like it was nothing. But now you know it wasn’t nothing.
And suddenly, standing there with your hand hovering over his skin, something shifts. You’ve always thought of him as the cocky, good-looking type. Too confident. A little too smug. But this—this body—isn’t just something to admire. It’s something he’s earned.
It’s strange, really, how much a little scar can say about someone. You pull the towel tighter around your waist and step away from the mirror, heart unexpectedly full of respect you never thought you’d feel.
Minho might be a pain in the ass—but damn. He’s tough.
“Yeah, okay,” you mutter to your reflection. “You’ve got a hot body. Big deal.”
You turn away before you start spiraling, muttering about how unfair genetics are and how you’re going to absolutely lecture him about humility when you’re back in your own body.
…Eventually. First, you really need to put on some clothes.
-
Minho’s day is already testing every last ounce of his patience. Your job, he’s learned, is a never-ending cycle of chasing people down, answering too many questions at once, and carrying clipboards that magically multiply every hour. By the time noon rolls around, he’s already sweaty, cranky, and dangerously close to quitting on your behalf.
He’s jogging across the set, trying to catch someone from the lighting team when he steps on a coil of cable lying across the floor. His foot catches and suddenly, everything tilts. His arms flail out—too late—and he braces for the hard, public humiliation of falling face-first in front of the crew when a strong pair of arms suddenly wrap around him.
“Whoa—careful there,” comes a soft, familiar voice.
Minho blinks, finding himself pressed against Felix’s chest, the younger man holding him steady by the waist. Felix is smiling, sunshine-soft and warm despite the startled tension in his brows.
“You okay?” Felix asks, concern flickering in his eyes.
Minho’s body—your body—nods stiffly. He can feel the flush rising to his cheeks, which makes it worse. “Yeah. Just—there was a cable. I wasn’t looking.”
“Don’t rush around so much,” Felix says gently. “You’ll trip over something worse next time and I won't be there.”
Minho opens his mouth to respond, but it’s hard to focus with Felix’s hands still lightly gripping his sides, grounding him. Felix doesn’t even seem to realize it—like it’s the most natural thing in the world to hold him this close.
“Right,” Minho mumbles. “Thanks.”
Felix’s eyes crinkle. “Anytime.”
And just like that, he lets go—too soon, and too slowly—and jogs off toward his own mark, leaving Minho standing there with his heart doing something it shouldn’t in your chest.
He clears his throat, straightens the clipboard in his hands, and mutters under his breath, “This body has too many feelings.”
As Minho continues half jogging across the movie set, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t even check the screen—he already knows it’s you. He answers with a curt, “What?”
“I found it,” you say, breathless. “The mirror. It’s from a thrift store not far from here. It was listed on a prop receipt under a generic ‘vintage décor’ tag, but I matched the item number to an archived invoice. I’m texting you the address.”
Minho’s grip tightens on the phone. “I’ll meet you there.”
He hangs up and spins on his heel, already halfway out when the assistant director steps directly into his path.
“Hey—where do you think you’re going?” the AD barks, waving a clipboard like some divine staff of authority. “You still haven’t checked in with the location team, and the equipment truck needs unloading, and—”
That's it. Minho’s had enough. He doesn’t even pretend to smile this time. “Do you ever do your job?” he snaps. “Because all week, I’ve been doing mine and yours—running around like a lunatic while you stand around barking orders and acting like you’re too important to say please or thank you.”
The AD's face tightens in disbelief, clearly not used to being confronted.
Minho steps closer, lowering his voice but not the bite. “If you keep pawning off your work on me and treating the crew like they’re beneath you, I’ll personally go to Flickerman and make sure he knows exactly what kind of a useless jackass you are. And I promise you, I’ll make it sound worse than it is.”
A few nearby crew members glance over, eyes wide. The AD falters. His mouth opens, then closes, face flushing deep red—less from anger, more from embarrassment.
Minho adjusts the strap of the walkie on his shoulder and says coolly, “I’m going on my lunch break and I'll only continue working when I get back, you understand?”
And without waiting for a response, he walks off the lot, phone in hand, already pulling up the map to the thrift store you texted.
-
Minho pulls into the cracked asphalt parking lot of the thrift store, the car rattling slightly as he parks. The store looks as old as its inventory—paint peeling off the signage, windows cluttered with mismatched furniture and vintage knickknacks. He kills the engine, takes a breath, and gets out.
Inside, the air smells faintly of old books and dust. The store is dim, lit by humming fluorescent lights, and he spots you almost immediately at the back of the shop. You’re standing by the counter, wringing your—his—hands as you speak to an older man with thick glasses and a skeptical look on his face.
Minho walks over, calm and composed. He catches the way your eyes immediately flit to him, anxious, as if silently pleading for help.
“Hi,” Minho says, smoothly stepping in. “We were hoping to get a bit more information about a mirror we found here.”
The owner pushes his glasses up his nose and shrugs. “You’re talking about that tall one with the weird brass frame? Look, I told your friend already, we don’t keep formal inventory on where every piece comes from. People drop off stuff, I price it, and that’s that.”
Minho bites the inside of his cheek. “No paperwork? No names? Nothing?”
The man shakes his head. “I don’t ask questions. Most folks just want to unload junk. That mirror’s been sitting in the back for months before it even sold. Could’ve been here for a year, maybe more.”
A dull throb pulses behind Minho’s eyes, but he doesn’t let his irritation show. Not yet.
“What about security footage?” he asks, nodding to a camera bolted near the front register. “Do you keep your recordings?”
“Three months, tops,” the owner says. “After that, the system wipes itself. That mirror was here way before then.”
Minho exhales slowly, disappointment settling in like heavy fog. Another dead end. He turns to look at you—and sure enough, you're fidgeting again, lower lip caught between your teeth, eyes darting around the room like you're bracing for something worse.
Minho runs a hand through his—your—hair, gaze dropping to the dusty linoleum floor. “Alright,” he says under his breath. “So this mirror really came from nowhere.”
The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the cracked parking lot as Minho walks beside you in silence. The thrift store sits behind you both like a monument to disappointment, the door swinging shut with a hollow clang that echoes louder than it should.
Your footsteps are too fast, too jittery, and Minho can tell from the corner of his eye that you’re unraveling again. You’ve been trying to hold it together all day, but he hears it in your voice when you ask, “So… what do we do now?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He’s still thinking—still trying to stay ahead of it all, to stay calm, to fix this before it slips too far. But then he hears you sniffle, a choked sound, and he stops walking.
When he turns to face you, your—his—eyes are red and wet. You’re crying.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he snaps, too sharp. He grips your arm, not gently. “You’re crying in my body!”
“What? I can’t even get upset now?!” you shout back, voice cracking as you stomp your foot against the hot asphalt. “I don’t even get that?!”
He freezes, mouth half open, and as much as he wants to scold you again, the words don’t come. Because he gets it. He feels it too.
Every hour in your body feels like falling—like standing at the edge of something deep and unknowable and wondering if this is it. If this will be forever. And worse—so much worse—is seeing his own face twisted in panic, lips trembling, tears clinging to lashes.
Minho swallows the lump in his throat and softens. He takes a careful step toward you, places both hands on your shoulders, grounding.
“Hey,” he says again, but this time it’s soft. Softer than he’s ever let himself sound. “We’ll figure this out. I promise.”
You stare at him for a long second. Then you nod quickly and swipe at your face, embarrassed. When your eyes finally meet his again, steadier now, you ask, quietly:
“…So what do we do now?”
Minho’s jaw clenches. He looks past you, toward the car. Toward the horizon. Then back at you. He lets out a slow breath, and answers, like it’s the only truth he has left—
“I don’t know yet,” he honestly admits. “But we’ll figure it out.”
And as Minho pulls out of the parking lot, he tells himself tomorrow, you and him will try a different angle. Find a new lead. Dig deeper. Because if the mirror really did this… then something out there has the answers.
And you and him are going to find it.
-
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A Call to the Children of the Global South: The System That Made My Father Disown Me
I didn’t write this living testimony for virality.
I wrote it because silence almost killed me.
Because truth, even when ignored by algorithms, remembers how to survive.
If this resonated with you — even quietly — share it with someone else who’s still trying to name their Fracture.
That’s how we outlive the system.
- Philmon John, May 2025
THE FRACTURE
Several months ago, when I, a South-Asian American man, turned 35, my father disowned me.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t cry. He simply stopped calling me his son.
My father is a Brown, MAGA-aligned conservative Christian pastor, born in Kerala, India, and now living in the United States. His rejection wasn’t provoked by any breach of trust or familial responsibility, but by my coming out as queer and bisexual — and by my deliberate move away from a version of Christianity shaped more by colonial rule than compassion.
I became blasphemy made flesh.
My mother and sister, equally immersed in religious conservatism, followed suit. Most of my extended family — conservative Indian Christians — responded with quiet complicity. I became an exile in my own lineage, cast out from a network that once celebrated me as the Mootha Makkan, the Malayalam term for “eldest son”.
This break didn’t occur in isolation. It was the culmination of years of internal questioning and ideological transformation.
I was raised with warmth and structure, but also under the weight of rigid theology. My parents cycled through different churches in pursuit of doctrinal purity. In that environment, my queerness had no safe harbor. It had to be hidden, managed, controlled — forced into secrecy.
Literal, cherry-popping closets.
Even my childhood discipline was carved straight from scripture — “spare the rod, spoil the child” was not metaphor but mandate. I was hit for defiance, for curiosity, for emotional honesty. Control was synonymous with love. The theology: obedience over empathy.
Is it sad I would rather now have had a beating from my father, than his silence?
I would’ve taken the rod — at least it acknowledged me.
Instead, Daddy looks through me.
THE INHERITANCE
And I obeyed. For a time, I rose through the ranks of the church. I led worship. I played guitar in the worship band. I wasn’t just a believer — I was a builder of belief, a conductor of chorus, a jester of jubilee and Sunday morning joy — all while masking a private ache I could not yet articulate.
In the last five years, I began methodically deconstructing the ideological scaffolding I had inherited. I examined the mechanisms of theology, patriarchy, and colonial imposition — and the specific burdens placed upon firstborn sons of immigrant families.
Who defines our roles?
Who benefits from our silence?
Why is this happening to me?
These questions consistently pointed toward the dominant global structure: wealthy white patriarchal supremacy. Rooted in European imperialism and sustained by centuries of religious and cultural colonization, this system fractures not only societies but the deeply intimate architecture of family.
What my family experienced is not unlike what the United States of America continues to experience — a slow, painful reckoning with a foundational ideology of white, heteronormative, Christian patriarchal dominance.
My family comes from Kerala, home to one of the oldest Christian communities in the world. But the Christianity I inherited was not indigenous. It was filtered through the moral codes of Portuguese priests and British missionaries and the discipline of Victorian culture. Christ was not presented as a radical Middle Eastern teacher but as a sanitized figure — pale, passive, and Western.
In this theology, Christ is symbolic. Paul is the system. Doctrine exists to reinforce patriarchy, to police desire, to ensure control. When I embraced a theology rooted in love, empathy, and justice — the ethics I believe Jesus actually lived — I was met not with discussion, but dismissal.
To my family, my identity wasn’t authenticity. It was apostasy.
THE RECKONING
In 2020, the ground shifted.
I turned the triple decade — 30 — as the COVID-19 pandemic erupted.
Remote work slowed life down, and I had space to think deeply.
That year, the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and countless others triggered a national and personal reckoning.
I turned to K-LOVE, the Christian radio station I grew up with, hoping to hear words of solidarity, truth, or even mourning. Instead, there was silence. No mention of racial justice. No prayers for the dead. Just songs about personal salvation, void of historical context or social responsibility.
As Geraldine Heng argues in The Invention of Race in the European Middle Ages, race was not merely a modern invention void of scientific basis — it was already taking shape in medieval Europe, where Christianity was used to sanctify, encode, and sell racial hierarchies as divine order and social technology.
As Ademọ́la, also known as Ogbeni Demola, once said: “The white man built his heaven on your land and pointed yours to the sky.”
That brain-powered perceptive clarity — distilled in a single line — stays with me every day.
With professional routines interrupted and spiritual ties frayed, I immersed myself in scholarship. I entered what I now see as a period of epistemic reconstruction. I read widely — revolutionaries, poets, sociologists, historians, mathematicians, theologians, cultural critics, and the unflinching truth-tellers who name what empire tries to erase.
I first turned to the voices who now live only in memory: Bhagat Singh, James Baldwin, Frantz Fanon, bell hooks, Octavia Butler, Gloria Anzaldúa, and Vine Deloria Jr. Each carried the weight of revolution, tenderness, and truth — from anti-colonial struggle to queer theory to Indigenous reclamation.
I then reached for the veteran thought leaders still shaping the world, starting with Noam Chomsky, Naomi Klein, Shashi Tharoor, Eduardo Bonilla-Silva, Susan Visvanathan, Geraldine Heng, George Gheverghese Joseph, J. Sakai, Vijay Prashad, Vilna Bashi Treitler, Claire Jean Kim, and Arundhati Roy — voices who dismantle the illusions of empire through history, mathematics, linguistics, and racial theory.
In the present, I absorbed insights from a new generation of public intellectuals and cultural critics: Ta-Nehisi Coates, Jared Yates Sexton, Cathy Park Hong, Ibram X. Kendi, Nikole Hannah-Jones, Heather McGhee, Mehdi Hasan, Adrienne Keene, Keri Leigh Merritt, Vincent Bevins, Sarah Kendzior, Ayesha A. Siddiqi, Wajahat Ali, W. Kamau Bell, Mary Trump, & John Oliver. Together, they form a constellation of clarity — thinkers who gave me language for grief, strategy for resistance, and above all, a framework for empathy rooted in history, not abstraction.
I also turned to the thinkers shaping today’s cultural and political discourse. I dreamt of the world blueprinted by Bhaskar Sunkara in his revolutionary The Socialist Manifesto and plunged into Jacobin’s blistering critiques of capitalism. The Atlantic’s longform journalism kept me tethered to a truth-seeking tradition. The Guardian stood out for its global scale and reach, offering progressive, longform storytelling that speaks to both local injustices and systemic inequalities across the world. And Roman Krznaric’s Empathy: Why It Matters, and How to Get It helped crystallize my core belief:
Be a good human. Practice empathy.
That’s the playbook, America. Practice empathy. Do that — and teach accurate, critically reflective history — and we have the chance to truly become the greatest democracy the world has ever seen.
And this empathy must extend to all — especially to trans people. In India, the Hijra community — trans and intersex folk who have existed visibly for thousands of years — embody a sacred third gender long before the West had language for it. But they are not alone. Across the colonized world, the empire erased a sacred third space: the Muxe of Zapotec culture, the Bakla of the Philippines, the Fa’afafine of Samoa, the Two-Spirit nations of Turtle Island, the Māhū of Hawaiʻi, the Sworn Virgins of the Balkans — each of these communities held space outside Western gender binaries, rooted in care, ceremony, and spirit. Some align with what we today call trans or intersex, while others exist entirely outside Western definitions.
Colonization reframed them as deviants.
And still, we must remember this: trans people are not new. Our respect for them must be as ancient as their existence.
THE RESISTANCE
As I examined the dynamics of coloniality, racial capitalism, and Western empire, I realized just how deeply imperial power had shaped my family, our values, and our spiritual language. The empire didn’t just occupy land — it rewrote moral codes. It restructured the family.
I learned how Irish, Italian, Greek, Hungarian, and Albanian immigrants were initially excluded from whiteness in America. Over time, many adopted and embraced whiteness as strategic economic and social protection — and in doing so, embraced anti-Blackness and patriarchal hierarchies to maintain their newfound status. Today, many European-hyphenated Americans defend systems that once excluded them.
And over time, some Asian-Americans have followed the very same racial template.
At 33 — the age Jesus is believed to have died — I laid my childhood faith to rest. In its place rose something rooted in clarity, not doctrine.
I didn’t walk away from religion into cynicism or nihilism. I stepped into a humanist, justice-centered worldview. A system grounded in reason, evidence, and above all, empathy. A belief in people over dogma. In community over conformity.
I didn’t lose faith. I redefined it.
I left the pasture of institutional faith, not for chaos, but for an ethical wilderness — a space lacking divine command but filled with moral clarity. A place built on personal responsibility and universal dignity.
This is where I stand today.
To those with similar histories: if your roots trace back to Africa, South Asia, Southeast Asia, Central Asia, East Asia, the Middle East, Latin America, the Caribbean, Oceania, or to Indigenous and marginalized communities within the Global North — you are a Child of the Global South.
Even in the Global North, your experience carries the weight of displaced geography, the quiet grief of colonial trauma, and a genealogy forged by the system of empire.
Your pain is political. Your silence is inherited. You are not invisible.
They buried you without a funeral. They mourned not your death, but your deviation from design. However, we are not dead. We are just no longer theirs.
White supremacy endures by fracturing us. It manufactures tensions between communities of color by design — placing Asian businesses in Black communities without infrastructure and opportunities for BIPOC folk to share and benefit from the economic engine. Central to this strategy is the model minority myth, crafted during the Cold War to present Asian-Americans as obedient, self-reliant, and successful — not to celebrate them, but to invalidate Black resistance and justify structural racism. It’s a myth that fosters anti-Blackness in Asian communities and xenophobia in Black ones, while shielding white supremacy from critique. These divisions are not cultural accidents; they’re colonial blueprints.
And these blueprints stretch across oceans and continents and time.
In colonial South Africa, Mohandas Gandhi — still shaped by British racial hierarchies — distanced Indians from Black Africans, calling them “kaffirs” and demanding separate facilities. In Uganda, the British installed South Asians as a merchant middle class between colonizers and native Africans, breeding distrust. When Idi Amin expelled 80,000 Asians in 1972, it was a violent backlash to a racial hierarchy seeded by empire. These fractures — between Black and Asian, colonized and sub-colonized — are the legacy of white patriarchal supremacy.
Divide, distract, and dominate.
We must resist being weaponized against each other.
Every Asian-American must read Minor Feelings by Cathy Park Hong. Every high schooler in America must read and discuss Jared Yates Sexton.
Study the systems. Name them. Disarm them.
Because unless we become and remain united, the status quo — one that serves wealthy cisgender, heterosexual, white Christian men — will remain intact.
This is A Call to the Children of the Global South.
And An Invitation to the Children of the Global North:
Stop the infighting. Study and interrogate the systems. Reject the design.
To those in media, publishing, and the arts: postcolonial narratives are not cultural sidebars. They are central to national healing. They preserve memory, restore dignity, and confront whitewashed histories.
If you want work that matters — support art that pushes past trauma into structural critique.
Greenlight truth. Platform memory. Choose courage over comfort.
Postcolonial stories should be the norm — not niche art.
Jordan Peele’s Get Out was a cinematic breakthrough — razor-sharp and genre-defying — in its exposure of white supremacy’s quiet machinery: liberal smiles, performative allyship, and the pacification of dissent through assimilation. The Sunken Place is not just a metaphor for silenced Black consciousness — it’s the empire’s preferred position for the marginalized: visible, exploited, but unheard.
A system that offers the illusion of inclusion, weaponizing identity as control.
Ken Levine’s BioShock Infinite exposed white supremacy through a dystopian, fictional but historically grounded lens - depicting the religious justification of Black enslavement, Indigenous erasure, and genocidal nationalism in a floating, evangelical empire.
David Simon’s The Wire exposed the institutional decay of law enforcement, education, and the legal system - revealing how systemic failure, not individual morality, drives urban collapse.
Jesse Armstrong’s Succession traced the architecture of empire through family - showing how media empires weaponize racism, propaganda, and manufactured outrage to generate profit and secure generational wealth.
Ava DuVernay's Origin unearths caste and race as twin blueprints of white supremacy - linking Dalit oppression in India to the subjugation of Black Americans. Adapted from Isabel Wilkerson's Caste, it dismantles the myth of isolated injustice, revealing a global system meticulously engineered to rank human worth - and the radical act of naming the system.
Ryan Coogler’s Sinners — a revelatory, critically and commercially successful film about Afro-Asian resistance in 1930s Mississippi — exposes the hunger for speculative narratives grounded in historical truth.
Across the Spider-Verse gave us Pavitr Prabhakar - a Brown superhero who wasn't nerdy or celibate, as Western media typically portrayed the South-Asian man, but cool, smart, athletic, with great hair, in love, and proudly anti-colonial. He called out the British for stealing and keeping Indian artifacts… in a Spider-Man movie. That moment was history reclaimed.
A glitch in the wealthy white patriarchal matrix.
Dev Patel’s Monkey Man is a visceral fable of vengeance and resistance, where the brutality of caste, corruption, and religious nationalism collide. Amid this chaos, the film uplifts the Hijra community who stand not only as victims, but as warriors against systemic violence. Their alliance reframes queerness not as deviance, but as defiance — ultimately confronting the machinery of empire with what it fears most: a system-breaking empathy it cannot contain.
The vitriolic backlash from white male gamers and fandoms isn’t about quality — it’s about losing default status in stories. Everyone else has had to empathize with majority white male protagonists for decades. Diverse representation in media isn’t a threat to art — it’s a threat to white supremacy. It’s not just a mirror held up to the globe — it’s a refusal to let one worldview define it.
Hollywood, gaming studios, and the gatekeepers of entertainment — if you want to reclaim artistic integrity and still make money doing it, we need art that remembers, resists, and reclaims — stories that name the machine and short-circuit its lies.
The world is ready. So am I.
Today, efforts like Project 2025, the Heritage Foundation, and the Federalist Society are not merely policy shops — they are ideological engines: built to roll back civil rights, impose authoritarian values, and erase uncomfortable truths. They represent a hyper-concentrated form of white supremacy, rooted in unresolved Civil War grievances and the failures of Reconstruction.
Miraculously, or perhaps, blessed with intellectual curiosity and natural empathy, through all of this, my wife — a compassionate, steadfast partner and a Christian woman — has remained by my side. She has witnessed my transformation with both love and complexity. While our bond is rooted in deep respect and shared values, our spiritual landscapes have diverged. Her faith brings her solace; mine has evolved into something more secular, grounded in justice and humanism. We’ve navigated that tension with care — proof that love can stretch across differing beliefs, even as the echoes of religious conditioning still ripple through our lives.
I am proud of her increasing intellectual curiosity and her willingness to accept me for who I am now, even if I wasn’t ready to accept myself when we met.
But our marriage has defied the splintering that white supremacy specifically creates: hyper-capitalist, hyper-individualistic, fractured families and societies.
As Children of the Global South — descendants of peoples who survived enslavement, colonization, and erasure — we carry within us the urgent need for stories that do not turn away from history, but confront it with unflinching truth.
In the pain of losing my family, I found a deeper purpose: to tell this story — and my own — any way I can.
A sudden rush of empathy, pity, and love struck me: My parents’ and sister’s rejection was not theirs alone — it was a lingering Fracture left by colonization and global exploitation, tearing apart families across generations.
As Children of the Global South, we still carry those wounds.
Make no mistake: white supremacy leaves wounds — because it is the system. And unless it is dismantled, both the Global South and North — and their collective Children — will remain trapped in a dance choreographed by empire — built to divide, exploit, and erase. Any vision of democracy, in America, will remain a fragile illusion — if not an outright mythology — built on a conceptually false foundation: white supremacy itself.
A cruel, heartbreaking legacy of erasure — passed down through empire — indoctrinating God-fearing Brown fathers to erase their godless, queer Brown sons. Preaching shame as scripture. Teaching silence as survival.
I reject that inheritance.
Empathy as praxis is how we reject that inheritance. In a world engineered to divide, it rebuilds connection, disarms supremacy, and charts a path forward.
If humanity is to survive — let alone heal — empathy must become our collective discipline.
And perhaps what cut even deeper for my father — beyond my queerness — was that I no longer validated his role as a pastor. In stepping away from the faith he had built his life upon, I wasn’t just rejecting a belief system. I was, in his eyes, nullifying his life’s work. For a man shaped by empire, ordained by colonial Christianity, and burdened with the role of moral gatekeeper, my departure from his manufactured worldview may have landed as personal failure. But it wasn’t. It was never about wanting to hurt him. I love my father. I love my mother. I love my sister. It was never about them — it was about the system that taught them love was conditional, acceptance required obedience, and dissent unforgivable. That kind of pain is real — but its source is systemic.
I still want to be Mootha Makkan — not by obedience, but by truth. By love without condition. Not through erasure, but by living fully in the open. Not in their image, but in mine.
Yet, and yes, I also carry the wound — but I also carry the will to heal it.
THE CALL
I believe in empathy. I believe in memory.
I believe the Children of the Global South are not broken. We are not rejected.
We are awakening.
Children of the Global North: join us.
We are not your enemies.
We are your present and future collaborators, business & creative partners, lovers, and kin.
We are building something new —
something ancient yet reawakened,
a pursuit of empathy,
and a reckoning with history
that refuses to forget.
If this story resonated with you, kindly share it, spread the word and please comment. I’d love to hear from you. Your voice, your memory, your Fracture — it matters here.
You are not alone. All are welcome.
Thank you so, so much for your time in reading my story.
You can also email me directly: vinesvenus at protonmail.com
I'll be writing more on Medium as well: https://medium.com/@vinesvenus/a-call-to-the-children-of-the-global-south-the-system-that-made-my-father-disown-me-fecad6c0b862
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