"A familiar Kind of New" - Mingi x Reader (PART 1)
Summary: You, the most popular girl at school, and Mingi, the school’s geek and punching bag, grow a friendship at the library after school as he tutors you. You beg him to come to prom but instead, he disappears. No texts, no goodbye, nothing. But after 10 years, he suddenly appears again. The quiet, nerdy boy who used to be bullied and ignored, is now a successful, confident and heartbreakingly handsome man. As time pass, you both open up about the past and maybe you realize that maybe he was never just your tutor. Maybe he was the one that got away.
Word count: 13.9K
Genre: Fluff, nerdy boy x popular girl, slow burn, old friends to lovers, "the one that got away"-type love (smut in part 2... WOOOH you’re not ready for that)
warnings: Nerdy Mingi with fem reader (fem pronouns). Mingi gets bullied and it gets really personal, lmk if I missed anything!
This is all for fun and is not meant to represent Mingi in any way.
10 YEARS AGO
The lunch table was loud like always. You sat between two of your friends, half-tuned into the conversation and half-dreaming about being anywhere else. The courtyard buzzed with voices, clinking soda cans, and the occasional distant squeal from the freshman corner. Same chaos, different day.
One of the guys from your friendgroup slammed his hand on the table, gesturing toward his phone with a dramatic flair. “Fuck off, I paid so much for that shit.”
Jae raised a perfectly sculpted brow, scoffing. “And yet it still looks like a car my grandma drove.”
Your friend snorted into her water bottle. You just kept picking at your fries, already bored.
The guy friend didn’t miss a beat. “You’re just jealous.”
You drifted out of the conversation entirely, letting their bickering fade into white noise. Your eyes scanned the courtyard, just faces and backpacks and half-eaten lunch trays - until something made you pause.
There, at a table tucked under a tree, sat a boy. Alone.
He had headphones half on, half off his ears, scribbling intensely into a notebook while eating what looked like a PB&J and carrot sticks. A plastic Rubik’s Cube sat beside him, like some weird emotional support item. His backpack was covered in patches (some science stuff, a few anime ones) and his dark hair flopped messily across his forehead every time he looked down.
You had no idea what class he was working on, but he looked… focused. Like nothing else existed in the world except that notebook and his sandwich.
It was kind of cute.
He looked up, maybe sensing your stare, and your eyes met. It was only for a second, but it made your stomach flutter.
Then a heavy arm dropped around your shoulders, pulling you out of your thoughts.
“Hey,” Jae said, voice a little too smug, a little too loud. “What about you?”
You blinked and turned back to him, forcing a smile. “What about me?”
He leaned in like he was letting you in on a secret. “Can I take you out for a ride soon? I promise my car doesn’t smell like grandma like his does.”
Your friend rolled his eyes across the table, muttering something under his breath.
You gave a small laugh, brushing Jae’s hand off gently. “I’m not really into just… driving around.”
Jae wasn’t fazed. “Okay, fine. How about a movie at my place? My parents are gone this weekend. I’ll even let you pick.”
You tilted your head, keeping your voice light. “Tempting. I’ll check my schedule.”
He grinned, satisfied with your vague answer even though you knew you weren’t interested in the offer.
The bell rang, saving you from another round of cocky persuasion. Everyone groaned, collecting trays and backpacks in slow motion. You let the crowd carry you forward through the halls, moving like a wave of too much energy and too little interest.
Later you saw him again.
Same boy from under the tree.
He was by his locker, arms full of books he was clearly trying to juggle while still managing to read something tucked inside his physics textbook. Big glasses. His shoelace was untied. He nearly dropped his water bottle twice.
You watched as someone bumped into him without apologizing. He didn’t even flinch, just gave a soft “sorry” and stepped aside like he was used to being invisible. And yet, something about him stood out to you. You weren’t sure what it was. Maybe the fact that he didn’t care about being cool. Or that he was so unapologetically himself. You couldn’t tell if he was clueless or just didn’t give a shit.
You paused at your locker, still watching as he walked down the hall, nose buried in a notebook again, nearly walking straight into a trash can.
You smiled to yourself. A little too long.
Yeah. He was definitely kind of cute.
***
You're sitting on your bed, staring at the three red-inked math tests in a row, your heart pounding with the quiet dread of what your parents said at dinner: “If your grades don’t improve, you’re not going to prom.”
Prom.
It’s not even that you care about the glitz and glitter of it. You’re not the type who dreams about the perfect dress or slow dances. But everyone’s going. Your friends. Your whole group.
“I’ll talk to the school and ask them to find you a tutor.” You dad had said across the table.
“A tutor?” you repeated, eyebrows raised.
“Yes.” He looked you straight in the eye. “If you want to go to prom, you need to be better, honey.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but the words stuck.
***
Mingi liked the library because no one paid attention to him there.
It was quiet, predictable. No one tripped over his backpack or called him weird for using five different highlighters. In here, he was just another student. Nameless, invisible. Safe.
He sat at his usual table in the back corner, notes already spread out with machine-like precision. Calculators, rulers, extra pens, even a printed cheat sheet he’d made for you. He wasn’t sure if you’d use it, but it made him feel prepared.
You were late. Two minutes and seventeen seconds late, to be exact. Not that he was keeping track.
He’d never talked to you before. Not really. He knew who you were, of course, everyone did. You weren’t the type to be cruel like Jae and the rest of the friendgroup, but you were still part of that world. A world that didn’t include people like him.
Which is why it didn’t make sense when the teacher told him he’d be tutoring you. It made even less sense when you walked in like you actually wanted to be there.
“Hi!” you called out, your voice carrying gently through the quiet room. “You’re Mingi, right?”
He looked up. You were smiling like it was the most natural thing in the world to greet him like that.
“Yeah,” he said, sitting up straighter. “Um, that’s me.”
You pulled the chair across from him and sat down, tossing your bag under the table and immediately unzipping it. “Sorry I’m late. I swear, my backpack eats everything. Took me forever to find a pen.”
“That’s okay,” he said, watching as you dumped out a mess of notebooks, lip balm, crumpled gum wrappers, and a sparkly pink pen. “You… found one.”
You looked up and grinned. “Yep. Lucky for you. Otherwise, this would’ve just been me staring at you and pretending to learn.”
He blinked, catching his breath between your excited energy. “Uh. I made you this.” He slid a little folded sheet across the table. “It’s just… a summary of what we’re starting with. Kinda like a cheat sheet. I mean, not cheating.. like, just helpful stuff. In case you wanted a-”
You picked it up and unfolded it, eyes scanning over his precise, tidy handwriting. “Mingi, this is so nice. Did you make this just for me?”
He shrugged, ears turning pink. “Yeah. I mean. I do it for myself anyway. So I figured…”
You smiled again, softer this time. “That’s really thoughtful. Thank you.”
He didn’t know what to say. Most people didn’t even notice when he held the door open for them, let alone thanked him for… being prepared.
You looked at the paper again, then back up at him. “So, how long have you been good at math?”
Mingi blinked. “Huh?”
“I’m just curious. Like, were you the kid who knew how to divide in kindergarten?”
He laughed. Awkward, but genuine. “I guess? I liked numbers more than people back then.”
You tilted your head. “Still true?”
He panicked for a moment, unsure if it was a joke or if he was supposed to say something cool.
“I mean… I like people too. Sometimes.”
You laughed again, and he swore it echoed through his ribs.
“I like you already, Mingi,” you said, flipping to a clean page in your notebook. “Okay, let’s do this. Teach me something.”
He tried not to show how much that sentence meant. I like you already. You said it like it was obvious. Like you’d known him forever. Like he wasn’t just some nerdy guy you were forced to study with.
And the thing was.. you meant it.
You didn’t pull out your phone. You didn’t sigh dramatically when he started explaining linear equations. You actually listened. Asked questions. Made jokes. Doodled tiny hearts and cats in the margins of your notes.
You were just adding tiny whiskers and a bow around its neck when you felt it, that unmistakable feeling of someone watching. You glanced up and caught Mingi staring. His head was tilted slightly, his chin resting in his hand, and his big round glasses framed the warmest, softest eyes you’d ever seen. They looked like melted tapioca pearls, dark, kind, a little surprised at being caught.
“I’m sorry,” you said with a breathless little laugh, quickly sitting up straighter. “I have a hard time focusing.”
Mingi blinked, then smiled, braces and all. “It’s alright. If it makes you learn better, then draw all you want.”
You blinked at him, surprised by the softness in his voice. There wasn’t even a hint of judgment. Just… kindness. He meant it. And it made something flutter gently in your chest.
"Thanks," you suddenly didn't know how to continue the conversation nor the drawing.
"You draw a lot?" He asks softly, eyes still on the cat on your paper.
"Yeah," you couldn't hide your excitement. "I wanna go to art school at some point, hopefully get better." you send him a smile. "I'll invite you to see my art if I ever get that far."
That threw him off. You saw it. You met his eyes and despite looking into yours, they flickered like they tried to escape. You invited him to something? He knew it was a thing probably far into the future, but the fact that you included him in something, anything, made him both feel nervous and... excited.
“Do you like to draw?” you asked, changing the subject slightly, your eyes flicking to the closed notebook next to his elbow, worn at the edges, covered in tiny graphite smudges.
“Do you like to draw?” you asked, eyes flicking to the closed notebook next to his elbow, worn at the edges, covered in tiny graphite smudges.
He followed your gaze, then nudged the book slightly away with his fingertips. “No, not really,” he mumbled. “I’m just… practicing formulas.”
“For fun?” Your tone was curious, not mocking. You genuinely couldn’t imagine anyone doing math equations in their free time, especially not by choice.
He gave a small, nervous shrug. “Yeah…”
The silence that followed was awkward for half a second, like he was bracing for you to laugh or roll your eyes.
Instead, you smiled, soft and sincere. “Really? That’s so cool.”
Mingi looked up. Blinking. As if he wasn’t sure he heard you right.
Cool. You just called him cool.
And when he realized you meant it, his whole face changed. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, quiet and shy, but unmistakably there.
The study session went on like that, filled with light jokes, quiet scribbles, and your occasional groans of despair every time a new formula appeared. You treated him like an actual person. Not a tutor. Not a ghost in the back of the classroom. Just… Mingi. And Mingi realized something, sitting across from you, listening to you hum while you copied down a graph.
Maybe he wasn’t completely invisible.
Not to you.
***
You’re two hours into your third study session that week, and your brain feels like it’s leaking out of your ears.
“I swear this is actual gibberish,” you mumble, poking the page like it personally offended you. “Who even decided this was important? What am I ever gonna do with the pH of a mystery liquid? What if I never drink liquid again?”
Across the table, Mingi chuckles. He’s got his chin in his hand, watching you with a kind of quiet amusement.
“You don’t have to drink the acid,” he says gently. “Just understand it.”
You groan, dramatically collapsing over your notebook. “I don’t understand it.”
“You will.” His voice is so steady, so sure of you, it makes you pause.
You peek up at him from under your arm. He’s still smiling, soft and patient and maybe a little bit too good at this.
“You have a weird amount of faith in me,” you say, straightening up.
He shrugs one shoulder. “You’re trying. That’s what matters. And you’re smart. You just learn differently.”
You blink. That’s not something you’ve heard before. People usually go with “you’re not applying yourself” or “why can’t you focus for once?”
Mingi’s just watching you like the answer is obvious. Like he means it.
Something tugs at your chest.
You look back at the page, determined to make the equations make some kind of sense. Mingi leans in, pointing to a part of the problem, walking you through it again. Slower this time, with smaller steps and silly metaphors that make you laugh in between frustrated sighs.
And then.. somewhere between the third eye-roll and the tenth doodle in the margins. It clicks.
“Wait-wait.” You sit up straight, pointing to the next step. “Is it because the hydrogen ion count doubles in this one?”
Mingi’s eyes go wide. “Yes! Exactly! Because it’s a strong acid, so the dissociation is complete!”
You gasp. “Oh my god, I got it? Like, actually got it?”
“You got it,” he says, grinning like you just solved world peace. “Good job.”
And before you can stop yourself, you grab his hand and squeeze it. “Mingi! I did it!”
His breath catches. You don’t notice.
You’re beaming, still buzzing with the thrill of understanding, and he’s just sitting there, frozen with your hand in his, heart hammering way too fast.
And that’s when it happens.
That shift.
It’s not your smile. Not the way you threw your head back when you laughed. It’s this. This moment where you were so ready to give up, and you kept going anyway. And when it finally made sense, you didn’t just celebrate. You shared it. With him.
Something in Mingi’s chest tightens.
He’s always thought you were pretty. That was easy. But this? This fierce little light in you?
He didn’t expect this.
You finally notice you’re still holding his hand and let go quickly, not awkward, just distracted. Still glowing from your little academic victory.
“Okay,” you say, eyes determined. “Teach me another one.”
He smiles, softer this time. “Anything you want.”
***
The cafeteria is loud today. Louder than usual, maybe because finals are creeping up and everyone’s either high on stress or already spiraling. The last few days has been fully booked with school and studying with Mingi afterwards. You’re trying your best not to seem too excited about having an excuse not to hang out with your “friend group” after school. The study sessions with Mingi has saved you from a bunch of meaningless conversations with the people you hang out with because they just happen to be in your closest circle.
But you actually enjoy your time with Mingi. It’s… Different.
You’re halfway through your tray of rice and whatever protein today’s lunch is pretending to be when you spot Mingi. He’s alone, like always. Sitting at the edge of a seat, his head bent over a book, the straps of his backpack still over his shoulders like he’s planning his escape.
You don’t say anything right away. You just watch him. Long fingers flipping a page, the crease between his brows when he reads something too fast, the way his foot taps like it’s keeping tempo with a song only he can hear. It’s weird. You’ve started noticing things like that.
Then Jae slides into the seat beside you, tray clattering. “Babe,” he says, though you’ve told him a hundred times not to call you that. “You look like you’re trying to solve world hunger over there.”
You force a smile. “Just spaced out.”
Jae follows your gaze, then scoffs when he sees Mingi.
“You know that guy probably sleeps with his calculator,” he says, loud enough for people around to snicker. “Like, deadass. Bet he dreams in equations.”
Your stomach twists. You’re not prepared for Jae suddenly standing up and taking a few steps closer to Mingi’s table.
“Hey, Mingi!” Jae calls, and your eyes snap to him in horror.
Mingi looks up slowly, already bracing himself.
Jae grins. “You ever kiss a girl, or are you still waiting for the quadratic formula to do it for you?”
People laugh. Not everyone, but enough to make it echo. Mingi flushes, adjusting his glasses with shaky hands. He doesn’t say anything. He never does.
You look down at your tray. The rice is cold now.
You should say something. You want to. But your voice catches in your throat, and instead you just press your lips together and pretend to be really focused on your fork. Jae’s attention drifts after a moment. Someone calls his name from another table, and he struts off like he didn’t just pour gasoline on someone’s self-esteem for sport.
Mingi gets up a minute later. Doesn’t look at you. Just packs his book away and slips out of the cafeteria like he was never there.
And you?
You feel like shit.
You catch up with him after third period, rushing down the hallway as he’s stuffing his books into his bag like he’s trying to disappear.
“Mingi!”
He turns, startled, like he wasn’t expecting anyone to speak to him for the rest of the day.
You slow to a stop in front of him, breath caught in your chest. “Hey. Um. I just-” You scratch the back of your neck. “We still on for our study date later?”
He blinks. A beat passes. Then he gives you a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Of course.”
You nod, heart heavy. You’re not brave today. But you will be.
***
You spotted Mingi at your usual library table before he spotted you. His nose was in a book again, shoulders slightly hunched, and his pen tapped anxiously against the edge of the page. You swore you could hear the awkward silence already forming between you. You made your way over and dropped your bag into the chair with a dramatic thud.
“Hey,” you said cheerily, sliding into the seat across from him.
Mingi looked up, surprised, his pen pausing mid-tap. “Oh, hey.”
You hesitated for half a second before blurting, “I just wanted to say sorry. About earlier.”
Mingi shook his head before you could go on. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
You hated that.
“But you didn’t deserve that,” you said. “You were just sitting there, being your smart self, reading your big-brain-book about DNA or genomes or whatever, and Jae had to make it a thing.”
You waited, watching him. A short silence. His mouth twitched into a hidden smile.
“‘Big-brain-book’?” he asked quietly.
You grinned. “Yeah. I’m not the one tutoring someone in math and biology, so don’t expect fancy words from me.”
That earned you a small laugh, and it lit you up like a light switch.
Success.
“I just…” You leaned in on your elbows. “I think it’s cool, you know? That you read that stuff because you want to. I have to reread the same sentence like ten times. And even then, I’m still confused.”
“That’s relatable.”
“See? We’re not so different,” you said with a playful smile. “You read about chromosomes for fun, and I.. well, I memorize the school vending machine schedule. Both important things.”
He was smiling now. “Critical survival skills.”
“Exactly,” you said. “Now, are you ready to witness the academic disaster that is me trying to solve basic equations?”
“I’m ready,” he said, already flipping to a fresh page in his notebook.
And as he began explaining the first problem, you couldn’t help but sneak a glance at him. How his hands moved carefully across the page, how his voice grew more confident the more he talked. He was still the quiet guy in the corner, the one nobody really paid attention to.
But somehow, you were starting to notice everything
1 month later
The library feels different lately.
It might be the way the late spring sunlight filters through the dusty windows, warm and golden, casting long shadows across the tables. Or maybe it’s just him. The way he smiles more now. The way he teases you gently when you get a question right on the first try. The way he sits a little closer than he used to.
He’s tucked into your usual corner as you enter the library. You set a cup down in front of him, condensation beading along the plastic.
Mingi blinks. “What’s this?”
“A vanilla-sea-salt-olive-oil-milkshake,” you say, smug. “You said it’s your favorite.”
His ears go red instantly. “..I didn’t think you remembered that.”
You nudge the cup toward him. “Of course I remembered. It’s literally the weirdest milkshake combo I’ve ever heard of, but I respect it.”
He laughs, full and soft and a little shy. “It’s good, okay? Don’t knock it until you try it.”
You grin, sipping your own drink. “One day.”
The moment lingers, a gentle quiet settling between you. Pages flip. Pencils scribble. Your foot taps against his without thinking, and this time, he doesn’t pull away.
“So…” you say, casually flipping your pen in your fingers. “Prom’s coming up.”
Mingi freezes mid-sip. “Ugh,” he mutters, setting the cup down. “That.”
You raise a brow. “What? You’re not going?”
He shakes his head. “No. Definitely not.”
“Why not?”
He shrugs like it’s obvious. “Because prom is for… Popular people. The ones who actually get invited to things and, like, exist in other people’s minds.”
You frown. “Mingi…”
“It’s not a big deal,” he says quickly, avoiding your eyes. “I mean, even if I wanted to go, who would I go with? No one even knows I’m here most of the time.”
Your chest tightens. Because it’s not self-pity. He says it like it’s just a fact, like rain or gravity. “But I know you’re here,” you say, quiet but firm.
He glances at you, eyes flicking up from his notebook.
Your gaze holds his. “I know that you bite your pen when you’re thinking too hard. I know you get weirdly happy when you talk about physics. I know you pretend not to laugh when I mess up, but you totally do.” You smile, just a little. “And I know you deserve to be there. Just like anyone else.”
Mingi swallows. “Even if I’d spend the whole night standing in a corner?”
“I’ll stand in that corner with you,” you say, bumping his foot under the table. “We can be anti-prom together. In the middle of prom.”
He laughs, but there’s something wistful in it. Like part of him wants to believe you.
You don’t press him. Not yet. But the look in his eyes when he sips his milkshake again is softer. Lingered. Like maybe - for the first time - he’s imagining himself there.
2 months later
You practically crash into the library door, breathless and beaming. Your backpack thuds against the floor, and you don’t even care that people turn to stare. You spot him immediately. Mingi, already seated at your usual table, scribbling quietly into a notebook, glasses slipping down his nose.
“MINGI,” you shout-whisper, rushing toward him.
He looks up, startled, but when he sees your face, his whole expression softens.
“What’s going on?”
“I PASSED!” you whisper-scream, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Like actually passed! No - aced! Bio? A-minus. Chem? B-plus! Mat? B-plus! I DID IT.”
His mouth drops open. “No way.”
You nod furiously, hands flapping like you don’t know what to do with all your excitement. “YES way. My parents were so shocked they actually hugged me. Hugged me, Mingi. That’s how you know it’s real.”
He laughs, wide and full and so proud. “Y/N, that’s amazing.”
“You helped me so much,” you say, grabbing his hands before he even knows what’s happening. “Like, I literally would’ve failed without you. You are a godsend. A genius. An angel. A cute science wizard.”
Mingi turns bright red. “O-okay, let’s dial it back-”
You’re glowing. Practically vibrating. “And you know what this means?” you say, eyes wide. “I get to go to prom. I get to go to prom!”
He grins, but it’s a little quieter now. A little more contained. “Yeah,” he says, squeezing your hands once before letting go. “You’re going.” To a world he still doesn’t feel like he belongs in.
“So,” you breathe, eyes shining, “are you coming?”
Mingi blinks. “To prom?”
“Yeah!” you say, sliding into the seat beside him, your knee bumping his. “You should come! You’re, like, half the reason I’m allowed to go. I need my study buddy there.”
He laughs under his breath. “Y/N…”
“Come on,” you nudge him, teasing. “It’s just one night. Who cares if it’s lame? We can make fun of people’s outfits. Drink gross punch. Hide in a corner and complain about music.”
“You already have a date,” he says softly.
You pause. The other day, Jae asked you to be his date in the middle of the cafeteria and you agreed. You couldn’t explain why you say yes, honestly. Your excuse was that it felt “safe”?
“Yeah,” you admit. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be there. You’re my friend, Mingi. I want you there.”
He looks at you. Really looks at you. And for a second, you think he might say yes. But then he smiles, a little sad. A little distant.
“I’ll think about it.”
And you don’t know why that answer makes your chest feel weird.
But it does.
***
The music pulsed from inside the building, muffled by the heavy doors and the hum of chatter echoing under the lights. But you weren’t listening. You stood just outside the prom entrance, your hands wrapped tightly around your phone like it was going to deliver you something. Anything. A text. A call. A simple “I’m here.”
But the screen stayed stubbornly dark.
Your blue dress sparkled under the string lights lining the school entrance. You looked like you belonged at prom. You looked like you were having the night of your life. But your eyes kept scanning the parking lot instead of walking through the doors.
Where was he?
You checked your phone again.
Nothing.
A part of you told yourself to stop. That maybe he got nervous. That maybe he changed his mind. That maybe he was late and you'd feel stupid for worrying. But your stomach twisted anyway.
You paced a little, heels clicking softly against the pavement as couples and groups passed you by, laughing, already inside. You ignored them all. You were too busy searching each new arrival’s face, hoping to see that familiar mop of dark hair, those glasses, that slightly awkward stance.
Still nothing.
“Y/N!”
You turned to see Jae walking toward you, his tux sharp and pressed, but his smirk even sharper. The rest of the friend group trailed behind him.
“There you are,” Jae said, eyeing you up and down. “Took you long enough.”
“I was waiting,” you said, before you could stop yourself.
Jae raised a brow. “For who?”
You didn’t answer, just glanced down at your phone again. All you could hear was the pounding bass inside, the quiet buzz of your phone still not lighting up in your hand. Then one of your friends appeared at your side, tugging your arm. “Come on! We’re gonna miss the pictures!”
You hesitated. Just one more look at the parking lot, just one more second.
Still nothing.
With a deep breath, you turned away and let yourself be pulled through the entrance. The lights are too bright. The music is too loud. The fake smiles, the crowded dance floor, the punch that tastes like sugar and cheap vodka.
You keep looking. Every time the door opens, every time someone tall walks by, your heart jumps. Just for a second. But it’s never him.
Not Mingi.
Not the person who got you here.
“He’s not coming,” Jae said beside you.
You flinched. You didn’t even hear him approach.
“What?”
“That loser. Mingi. You’re still looking for him?”
You didn’t answer. Just tried to keep your face neutral, even though your pulse jumped.
Jae huffed a laugh and leaned in closer. “You seriously thought he’d show? C’mon. Guys like him don’t come to prom. They stay home jerking off to anime or some shit.”
“Jae-”
“Let me guess. You told him the theme was ‘under the stars’ and he took that literally and went home to read a book about astronomy?”
You rolled your eyes and moved to walk away, but he followed.
“I mean, sure, he’s helping you with school, but let’s be real.. He’s just using that as an excuse to hang out with you. He’s probably obsessed with you. Guys like that always are. You smile at them once and they think they’ve got a chance-”
And that’s when the drink left your hand.
Red punch, sticky and cold, splashed across Jae’s face and tux in one glorious arc. He froze mid-sentence, blinking as drops clung to his lashes and dripped from his nose. The room around you stilled, just for a second, as people turned to see what had just happened. You dropped the empty cup on the table.
“Say one more thing about him,” you said, voice low but steady, “and I swear to God, I’ll make sure the next thing that hits you isn’t a drink.”
Jae sputtered, wiping his face with the sleeve of his very expensive jacket. “Are you serious right now-”
But you were already walking away, heels clicking hard against the floor as you pushed through the crowd and out of the gym. The music was still playing, the lights still spinning, but none of it mattered. You stepped into the quiet of the hallway, heart pounding. You didn’t know where Mingi was. You didn’t know why he didn’t come. But what you did know was that Jae was wrong.
Mingi wasn’t the loser in this story.
Jae was.
And he wasn’t worth one more second of your night.
10 YEARS LATER
The Friday night rush had officially taken over.
You balanced a tray of drinks in one hand and menus in the other as the host called out another name behind you. The restaurant was buzzing, the clink of glasses, low conversation humming under the jazz overhead, the quiet pop of champagne bottles in the back.
You weave between tables with practiced grace, a tray balanced on your hand, smile plastered on like muscle memory. Your feet ache. Your shift is only halfway over. Someone just spilled red wine near table 6. Again.
You ducked behind the host stand to check the reservation list and refill your apron with pens and receipt slips.
“Y/N?”
You froze. Your fingers tightened around the pen you were holding, and slowly, confused, you looked up.
And then everything stopped.
Standing a few feet in front of you was someone tall, broad-shouldered, and terrifyingly good-looking. A sharp suit. Clean cut. Confident posture.
But his eyes… his eyes were the same.
“Mingi?” you said before you could stop yourself, and your hand knocked the plastic cup of pens off the counter with a loud clatter, sending pens bouncing in every direction like startled insects. You dropped down to gather them, cheeks burning, brain still scrambling to make sense of what you were seeing.
He crouched too, already reaching to help you.
“Here,” he said quietly, handing you a few.
You looked up at him, still crouched. His face was more angular now, more mature. His jawline sharp. Lips full. Hair perfectly styled. There was nothing nerdy left about him, except maybe the warm flicker in his eyes as he looked at you like he wasn’t quite sure he was seeing right either.
But before you could say anything else, a woman's voice cut in.
“Mingi,” she said flatly, bored already. “They’re waiting on us.”
You glanced up at her. Tall, flawless, designer from head to toe, clutching her purse like she hated touching public surfaces. She didn’t look at you. Not once.
Mingi stood slowly. “Right. Reservation under Song.”
“Of course,” you said, straightening quickly, stuffing the last pen back into your apron. Your voice sounded weird. Too high. Too unsure. “This way.” You led them in silence, your heart pounding in your ears.
He didn’t say anything. You didn’t either. Not because you didn’t want to, but because neither of you seemed to know what to say. And it wasn’t the time anyway. The restaurant demanded your attention. Tables to serve. Dishes to clear. Orders to double-check.
After delivering food for another table, you grabbed your notepad and made your way over to table seventeen, smoothing down your apron. You already knew this was going to be weird. Your old high school tutor, now looking like a literal GQ cover model, sitting in the corner booth with a woman who’d already made you feel like gum on her designer heels.
“Hi again,” you said, putting on your best server voice. “Can I take your drink orders?”
The woman didn’t look up, still scrolling through her phone. “Ugh, can you give me a minute? I haven’t even had a chance to look.”
You blinked. “Of course. Take your time.”
She sighed dramatically, tossed her phone into her bag, and finally glanced at the menu. “What’s the least sugary wine you have? I don’t want anything cheap or mass-produced. I only drink biodynamic wines from small family vineyards.”
You nodded. “We have a dry French Sauvignon Blanc that—”
“Is it vegan?” she interrupted.
You hesitated. “I can check with the bar.”
She rolled her eyes. “Unbelievable. Why don’t restaurants ever just know that?”
“I’ll double-check for you,” you said, voice still even.
“I guess I’ll just have sparkling water for now. No ice. Room temp. With a twist of lime. Not lemon. And not in the water. On the side.”
Mingi spoke up gently. “I’ll just have a ginger ale.”
Your eyes met his for a moment. You smiled tightly and moved on. “Are you ready to order food?”
“Give us a second, just bring the drinks.” She instructed and you sent her the most professional smile you could manage.
“I’ll be back.” You smiled before making your way up to the bar, order slip in hand, and dropped it dramatically on the counter like it weighed fifty pounds.
Wooyoung, the bartender, glanced at it, then glanced at you. “Table seventeen?”
You just nodded and exhaled.
He raised a brow, already filling a glass. “So what’s she allergic to? Joy? Basic manners?”
You snorted. “Room temp sparkling water. No ice. Lime on the side. Not in the glass. God forbid.”
Wooyoung grabbed a bottle from under the counter, muttering under his breath. “She sounds like the human version of a Terms and Conditions page.”
“I feel like I’m in a Yelp hostage situation.”
He slid the drinks onto a tray, leaned in, and whispered, “Why is there such a tension between you and that guy across from her.. You know him?”
You gave him a look. “He was my tutor, turned friend, and then he disappeared for 10 years. It’s awkward.”
Wooyoung smirked. “Mhm. He is looking at you a lot though.. He looks rich, go for it.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the tiny smile. “I don’t even know him anymore, it’s been 10 years. He looks… different.”
“Different how?”
“Like he eats confidence for breakfast.”
Wooyoung leaned on the bar, grinning. “And his date looks like she eats waitresses.”
“She almost did.”
He gave you a dramatic pat on the shoulder. “Godspeed, soldier.”
You sighed, picked up the tray, and turned toward the battlefield. “If I don’t come back… avenge me.”
Wooyoung called after you, “I’ll write your name on the tip jar!”
You let out a giggle as you returned to the infamous table seventeen. You placed their drinks in front of them and found your notepad once again. “Ready to order your food?”
The woman let out a groan, flipping the menu shut like it offended her. “What do you recommend for someone who’s gluten-free, dairy-free, low-carb, and doesn’t eat anything with a face?”
“…A salad?”
“Ugh, boring.. I guess I’ll have the risotto,” she said, not waiting for your answer. “But no onions, no garlic, no salt, no dairy, and absolutely no parsley. I hate garnish. It ruins the presentation.”
“Of course.”
Mingi glanced down at his menu like it was the only safe place to look. “I’ll have the steak. Medium rare. That’s all.”
You scribbled it down and just gave a nod. “I’ll get that in for you.”
The rest of the evening drags in flashes of passive-aggressive comments and high-pitched scoffs. She sends back a plate because it’s “too pretty to eat, but not in a good way.” You keep your smile steady through all of it, a crack in porcelain.
Mingi doesn’t say much.
But you notice the small things. How he flinches when she talks down to the staff. How he keeps sneaking glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking. How he starts saying “thank you” every time you come near the table, soft and almost guilty.
It’s not the boy you remember.
He’s older now. Quiet, but not like he used to be. He’s learned how to hide in plain sight. But his eyes still say what his mouth doesn’t.
It's finally time for the m to pay and she sighs dramatically. “God, finally. Maybe now we can get out of here.”
Mingi looks at you one last time as you hand over the receipt. “It was…really good to see you again.”
You nod, heart too full to respond.
Too shocked to see the man you’ve been dreaming about for 10 years.
***
Youre half-jogging across the street, clutching your sketchbook under one arm and your much-needed coffee in the other. Late… again. The crosswalk light blinks red, but you’re already halfway through when the black luxury car comes speeding around the corner.
You jump back with a gasp, stumbling on the curb, and your coffee goes flying, straight out of your hand, splattering down your coat and shoes.
And in your panic-fueled rage?
You hurl the empty cup at the hood of the car.
“Watch where you’re going, asshole!” you yell, breath caught in your throat as the car screeches to a stop. It just sat there, glossy and silent, like it was too expensive to care. Your dignity abandoned you immediately.
Mortified, heart pounding, you turned on your heel and marched away before the tinted windows rolled down and revealed some ultra-rich devil ready to sue you for assault via paper cup. You storm into the next coffee shop, head down, coat stained, pride bruised. You’re still muttering to yourself about dangerous drivers when someone says your name.
“Y/N?”
You turn and time slams to a halt.
There he is.
Mingi.
Tall, broad, dressed in a tailored black coat that probably cost more than your rent. His hair is tousled like it had been done on purpose, his jawline is sculpted like he’d been carved from rich-boy marble, and in his hand…
… is your empty coffee cup.
“I believe this belongs to you?” he said, lifting it slightly, a nervous smile playing on his lips.
You blink. Then blink again. “Wait. You were the guy in the car?!”
“…Yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I figured it was best not to mention it while you were still holding a hot beverage.”
Your soul left your body. “Oh my god,” you groaned. “Please, no, I didn’t mean to throw that at your car.”
He was grinning now. “It was a great shot though.”
“I thought you were some reckless douchebag,” you stammer, pushing hair behind your ears, already dying of embarrassment.
“I mean,” he shrug, “the driver was going a little fast.”
You stare at him. You can see he’s trying to find the right words. “My driver. He almost hit you, but don't worry, he’s now banned from Bluetooth arguments while driving.”
You gave a weak laugh. “Sorry for the cup.”
“I deserved it,” he says easily. “I’m buying you a new coffee, anything else?… a soul cleanser?”
“Coffee is fine.” You smile, before he orders a new coffee for you. You wait, still too flustered to do anything but trail after him like a starstruck ghost. While waiting in line, you manage to gather your senses enough to smalltalk.
“So… you’re in the area?” you ask, glancing up at him. How do you talk to a person who disappeared for 10 years and comes back looking like a GQ model with wealth spilling out of them? You don’t know. But you're trying.
"Temporarily. I’m just back in town because I’m investing in some properties around town and I need to close some deals before heading back.” he said.
“Investing in properties?” You ask, not knowing exactly what to ask about first.
“Yeah, those long hours studying math really came in handy,” He jokes, sending you a smile that reminds you too much of the person he was 10 years ago. “I was heading to a meeting, but I think almost murdering someone takes priority.”
You snort. “Well, lucky me.”
“What about you?” He looks down at you. You recall him being tall in High School but he was definitely even taller now.
“I’m on my way to art class,” you said, lifting your sketchbook as proof.
His gaze flicker down. “You still draw?”
“Still trying to,” you say, smiling softly.
“I remember you used to sketch during our study sessions,” he said with a smile, surprising you. “I would scold you for making doodles on the paper instead of taking notes.” His voice is warm. The barista hands you your new coffee before you have time to react. And before you could thank him again, Mingi say, “Let me give you a ride.”
You blink. “What?”
“I insist,” he say. “You’ve suffered enough for one morning.”
“I can walk-”
“Please.”
You hesitate, then nod. “…Okay.”
As the two of you walk out of the shop, you spot the black car parked out front. Same one from earlier. And leaning against it like he was in the middle of a Vogue shoot is a tall guy with dark hair and rolled-up sleeves. He spots you and straightens, removing his sunglasses.
“This is my driver, personal assistant and best friend, Yunho.” Mingi introduce Yunho as he take a step towards you.
“I’m really sorry for earlier. I swear he was yelling about some meeting and I missed the turn.” Yunho apologize.
You raise your coffee. “I threw a cup at your car, so I think we’re even.”
Yunho grins. “Deal.”
Mingi opens the car door for you like a gentleman, and you step into the kind of interior that smells like new leather and old money. As the car pulls away, your coffee warms your hands and your thoughts whirl faster than traffic. You sit with your coffee in your lap, legs crossed, trying not to overthink the fact that you are in a car with Mingi. Ten years ago, you were calling him cute in the back of a library. Now? Now he is next to you, suited up like he owns the building your class is in.
“So,” you say, casually glancing his way. “Your girlfriend from the other night… she was really… sweet.”
Mingi lets out a quiet sigh, then glances your way, deadpan. “That wasn’t my girlfriend.”
“Oh?” You raise a brow, pretending to sound surprised. “Could’ve fooled me. She seemed really into the water with no ice and emotionally terrorizing waitstaff.”
“It was a blind date a colleague of mine set up. He’s no longer allowed to do that. Ever again.”
You try to hide your smirk behind your coffee. “She seemed super chill. I loved when she asked if the truffle risotto was gluten-free, dairy-free, and joy-free.”
“She sent it back because it smelled too ‘mushroomy.’ It was truffle risotto.”
“And the water. Can’t forget the water.”
“I’m still emotionally recovering,” He rolls his eyes. “She also told me the candlelight was too aggressive.”
That made you laugh, hard enough you had to set your coffee down. You shake your head, laughing as you lean back against the seat. “So... no second date?”
“I blocked her halfway through dessert.”
“That bad?”
“She told me I had ‘beta energy’ because I helped you with the pens.”
Your eyebrows fly up. “Wait, what?”
“I don’t even know what that means,” he says, looking over at you with that same old sparkle in his eyes. “But I don’t think it was a compliment.”
You smile into your cup, feeling lighter than you expected.
Then, after a beat, Mingi glances over again. “What about you?” he asks. “Are you… still seeing Jae?”
You blink, caught off guard. “God, no.”
He arches a brow.
You shrug. “We were never really a thing. I think I convinced myself to consider it for like five minutes back in high school. But… yeah. He was kind of a dick.”
Mingi laughs softly. “Kind of?”
“I was trying to be polite.”
He smiles at the windshield. “I could’ve told you that.”
You turn to him, mock-offended. “And you didn’t!?”
Mingi tilts his head with a knowing look. “Do you remember how he was back then? I liked my teeth where they were.”
You grin but you know how Jae was to Mingi in high school. Not a doubt in your mind that Jae would’ve been even worse to Mingi if he ever did anything back. The car slows to a gentle stop. You look out the window and see your art building. You hadn’t even realized you were this close.
“Thanks for the ride.” you say, unbuckling your seatbelt.
“Thanks for not throwing your coffee at me this time.”
“No promises for next time.”
You both smile.
As you get out of the car, you make eye contact with Yunho in the front before saying, “And sorry again for the cup.”
“Fair trade,” Yunho says with a shrug. “I almost hit you. You assaulted my windshield. Balance.”
You laugh, stepping out into the sun. “Well.. Maybe I’ll see you around, Mingi.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “See you.”
***
You are halfway through balancing a tray of desserts when you spot him.
Tall. Broad. Too well-dressed for a Wednesday afternoon. He looks almost comically out of place beneath the dim chandeliers and overpriced floral centerpieces, like he walked into the wrong restaurant by accident and was just too polite to leave. Mingi stood by the host stand, hands in the pockets of a dark navy coat, glancing casually at the menu as if he hadn’t already made up his mind.
You smooth your apron and walk over. “Don’t tell me you’re here for another blind date.”
He looks up and smiles, just a small one. But you notice. “No blind dates today.”
“Thank God. I don’t think we have the emotional support risotto on the menu today.”
That earned a quiet laugh from him. “I came for lunch.”
Your brow arch. “You came to a place that serves foie gras in abstract geometric shapes for lunch?”
“I was… in the area.” He scratches the back of his neck, looking like he knew how unconvincing that sounded. “Is there a table for one?”
You bit back a grin. “As a matter of fact, there is.” You lead him towards a table by the window. Once seated, he looks up at you, eyes scanning your face like he hadn’t gotten the full view last time.
“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” He says while he’s looking up at you.
You raise a brow. “Pretty sure you’re the one who walked into my workplace.”
“Fair point.”
You hand him a menu and lean slightly on the back of the chair. “So, what’ll it be? More emotionally stale water? Or something new?”
He smiles again, barely. “Surprise me.”
You cross your arms. “I don’t think that’s how this restaurant works.”
“I trust your judgment.”
You give him a look. “You shouldn’t.”
But still, you turned towards the kitchen with a little smirk on your face, cheeks warmer than you liked. A few minutes later, you return with a plate of the daily special and a glass of iced tea, placing it down in front of him with a practiced hand. “I take it you’re not allergic to anything that grows in the dirt or has... feelings?”
He chuckles. “I’ll survive.”
You step back, folding your hands behind your back. “So, really. What brings you here, Mingi?”
He took a sip of the tea first, then shrug, avoiding your gaze. “I don’t know. I guess I was just curious if you'd be here.”
You blink. “That’s... weirdly honest.”
“I’m bad at lying.”
You smile despite yourself. “Well, congrats. I’m here. In all my apron-clad glory.”
“It suits you.”
You tilt your head. “The apron?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you like he was maybe starting to figure out how much he missed out on back in high school. You cleared your throat.
“Anyway. Let me know if you need anything. A fancy salt, perhaps? A spoon blessed by a Michelin chef?”
He gave you that same small laugh again, the kind that stayed low in his chest. “I’ll be fine.”
You leave him with his lunch and try your best not to look back too many times. The rest of the hour, Mingi would steal your attention more than you cared to admit. Your eyes would naturally travel to his corner like it was the most natural thing in the world. It weirded you out seeing the boy who used to sit alone at lunch now sit alone in one of the most expensive restaurants in the city. Just for lunch.
After he paid, you finished stacking a few menus when you notice Mingi still lingering by the host stand, hands in his coat pockets, eyes flicking toward you like he wasn’t quite ready to leave.
You step closer, raising an eyebrow. “Forgot something?”
He shrugs casually, but his voice betrays him, just a little tight, just a little hopeful. “Not really. Just thought… maybe I could get your number?”
You blink, surprised. “For?”
He scratches the back of his neck, gaze dropping for a second. “I don’t know. In case I stop by again and… you’re not here. Or if I need a drink recommendation. Or table suggestion. Or something.”
You smile, amused by how awkwardly he was trying to be casual about it. “Right. For professional purposes.”
“Exactly.” He nods, clearly relieved you didn’t make it weird.
You pull out a receipt and scribble your number on the back before handing it over. “Don’t use it to order food though. I don’t take reservations by text.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, folding the paper and slipping it into his wallet. “Got it. No food orders. Just emergencies.”
And with that, he gives you a small wave and turns to leave. You are still smiling when you turn back towards the bar and almost jump out of your skin when Wooyoung is suddenly right there, propping his elbows on the counter like he’d been waiting for the curtain to drop.
“So,” he says, loud enough to draw attention, “that wasn’t suspicious at all.”
You groan. “Please don’t.”
Wooyoung points dramatically towards the door. “Tall, mysterious, dressed like he owns a yacht, came in just to stare at you for an hour and left with your number.”
“He came in for food.”
Wooyoung leans in. “And stayed for dessert.”
You grab a towel and toss it at him. “You’re so annoying.”
“Annoyingly observant,” he says, dodging. “You better invite me to the wedding. I want the first toast and the first slice of cake.”
You roll your eyes but can’t help laughing. “It was just a number.”
Wooyoung smirk. “Numbers become dates. Dates become soulmates. I’ve seen the movies.”
You give him a look. “It’s not a movie.”
He wink. “Not yet.”
***
You’re curl up on the couch, blanket over your legs and a bowl of cereal in your lap even though it’s nowhere near breakfast time. The TV plays quietly in the background, something forgettable you put on just for noise. You’re halfway through mindlessly flipping through your sketchbook when your phone buzzes beside you.
Unknown:
Hey. Just checking if this is your actual number and not some cruel prank.
You blink, surprised to see a text from who you only imagine to be Mingi. It’s only been a few hours since he left the restaurant. You smirk to yourself and grab your phone.
You:Would a fake number reply to you this fast?
You immediately save his number and make him a new contact. You set your phone back down, returning to your cereal, only for it to buzz again seconds later.
Mingi:Bold of you to assume I haven’t had imaginary conversations with fake numbers before.
You huff a small laugh and sink deeper into the couch, spoon dangling from your mouth as you text back.
You:Sounds like something you should bring up in therapy.
Mingi:I did.
My therapist ghosted me.
You snort into your cereal, nearly dropping the spoon.
You:Tough crowd.
Mingi:Tell me about it.
Your phone goes quiet after that, but the little exchange leaves you with a faint smile. You close your sketchbook, set the empty cereal bowl on the coffee table, and let yourself relax a little more into the cushions.
***
You don’t expect to receive a text from Mingi the next day. But you do.
Mingi
So... do I have to schedule an appointment or can I bribe you with coffee to see your art?
You stare at the message, mouth twitching.
You
You wanna see my art?
Mingi
I wanna see what stole all of the attention while tutoring you
You
Wow. Emotional blackmail. Hot.
Mingi
You promised. And I am a man of follow-ups now.
You chuckle, feeling warmth bloom in your chest despite the gray clouds overhead. You meet him that evening outside your art school. It’s after-hours, but your professor gave you a key code. Perks of being one of the more “dedicated” students, aka “you’re here too much, go home sometimes.”
Mingi stands by the gate, dressed way too nicely for a quick art tour. Black trousers, a slate gray coat, a warm scarf that makes him look like he walked out of a drama set. He waves when he sees you, and the smile on his face is so familiar it kind of makes your heart trip.
“Ready to be wildly underwhelmed?” you say as you swipe your ID at the side entrance.
“Extremely.”
You lead him into the long hallway filled with student work. Some pieces hang proudly in frames; others are still drying on racks. There’s the smell of paint, turpentine, a little coffee, honestly, your comfort zone. Mingi walks slowly, taking everything in with surprising focus. When you stop in front of your section, you feel a flicker of nerves.
“This one’s mine,” you mumble, suddenly shy. “Well, this whole wall.”
He scans the canvases carefully. There’s a large abstract piece with messy strokes of crimson and gold, a smaller still life of a coffee cup you were once too broke to drink, and a half-finished portrait that still makes your heart ache when you look at it too long. Having been working on it for nearly two years, it’s one of those paintings you don’t think you’ll ever finish.
“You’re really good,” he says softly.
You shrug, trying not to make it a big deal. “I’m trying.”
“No,” he says, looking at you now. “You are.” There’s something in his voice. An honesty you remember from a long time ago. The same tone he used when he told you you’d pass your math final, even when you thought your brain was rotting.
You smile, a little flustered. “Thanks.” You continue slowly walking next to all the art in the room. A thought you’ve had the past few days blooms in your mind again and you get the urge to ask him. “So…” You start, trying to make your question natural and not open wounds that could possibly not be closed. “How long are you in town for?”
He looks at the ground. “Not sure yet, until the investment deals are closed, and then I’m heading back home.” There's a tug at your heart at the words “back home”. Just as you thought he was home he’s gonna leave again.
“Oh, of course…” You know exactly what you want to ask next, but once again scared that the question might scare him. That it might push him into something he wants to forget. You take a deep breath, keeping an eye on him and his reaction. “It's been 10 years since we graduated..” You glance at him. “You got the invite for the reunion?”
Last week, an invitation to the 10-year-high-school-reunion showed up in your mail. You already decided to be there, to get a feeling of where your past class-mates are in their lives. And maybe to see if there’s a chance you can convince the quiet boy who helped you through senior-year to come.
“Yeah.” He nods slowly. “I got the invite.”
“You going?”
A pause. A breath.
“I don’t know,” he finally says. “Feels like… walking into a movie I didn’t get cast in.”
You frown. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
He tilts his head. “You remember how people treated me, right? The only reason most of them knew my name was because they copied off my homework.”
“Well, they didn’t know what they had,” you mutter. “Still don’t.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh. You nudge him with your elbow. “I think you should come.”
“To be ignored by people who still think I'm invisible?”
You smile up at him. “No. To be acknowledged by people who don’t recognize you because now you look like a Calvin Klein ad and drive around in a car that almost committed homicide.”
He laughs, really laughs. That warm, breathless laugh that used to sneak out between tutoring sessions when you said something accidentally funny.
He shakes his head. “You really think I should go?”
“I think you should go,” you say firmly. “You skipped prom. Don’t skip this too.”
He looks at you for a long moment. Thoughtful. A little hesitant. “You’re going?” he asks.
“Of course,” you say. “My art is in the alumni showcase. And I look hot in formal wear. It’s a win-win.”
That earns another soft chuckle. “Okay,” he says eventually. “Maybe.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That’s what you said about prom.”
“And look how that turned out.”
You tilt your head. “Exactly. Don't ghost this one, Song Mingi.”
And as you stand beside him in the echo of the empty hallway, you can’t help but feel the past and the present stretching and folding between you. Two threads that never fully came undone, tying themselves back together in small, careful knots.
***
The Allen key slips from your fingers again, clinking against the hardwood floor with a sound that feels almost personal at this point. You sit back on your heels, sweating lightly from sheer frustration, surrounded by mismatched wooden panels, screws that don’t seem to belong anywhere, and a manual that may as well be in ancient hieroglyphics.
You stare at the chaos in front of you, defeated. The IKEA coffee table should have been a simple, 30-minute build. It’s been an hour and you’ve gotten as far as accidentally screwing one of the legs in backwards. You sigh and grab your phone from the couch, already knowing who you’re going to text. The one person you can count on to both show up and mock you the entire time.
You:
wooyoung pls help
ikea is winning and i’m not strong enough
You toss your phone beside you and grab the water bottle at your side, taking a sip while looking over the battlefield.
Wooyoung:
what is it this time? bookshelf? chair? a humble side table?
You snort and wipe your hands on your sweatpants before typing back.
You:
coffee table
i fear it might become firewood
Your phone buzzes again instantly.
Wooyoung: 😔 gone too soon
rip flatpack
You grin a little despite yourself, dragging the manual closer as if something might magically make sense if you stare at it hard enough.
You:
are you coming or not
He types back immediately, which is always a little suspicious.
Wooyoung:
i could…
OR
You raise a brow and lean against the couch cushion behind you.
You:
or what
Wooyoung:
OR you could text your new tall friend with the jawline and the tragic blind date taste
you know
mr. i-own-three-black-coats-and-a-personal-driver
You blink.
You:
no
Wooyoung:
come on
he clearly has strong forearms
he’d probably carry the table in one hand and read the manual with the other
You picture Mingi in that sleek coat, tall and effortlessly put together, showing up at your restaurant last week. You shake your head.
You:
he’s not a superhero
he’s just tall
Wooyoung:
tall and rich.
and he literally showed up to see you at work.
idk sounds like someone who would build a table for a girl he likes.
You pause, staring at the screen. Your heart does a weird little flip, but you immediately squash the feeling. That’s not what this is.
Right?
You chew your bottom lip, typing slowly.
You:
who said he likes me???
Wooyoung:
me. i said it.
and i’m rarely wrong
You groan into your hands, half-laughing and half-exasperated. This is what you get for asking Wooyoung for help.
You:
so you’re not coming?
Wooyoung:
no, i’m busy
watching netflix and doing absolutely nothing
ask him 😌
You let your phone fall to your lap and stare at the unfinished table. You could ask Mingi. He was nice. Surprisingly easy to talk to. And yeah, maybe you’d caught yourself looking at his hands more than once when he handed you his credit card.
Still…
You roll onto your back, hair splayed out against the rug, staring up at the ceiling. The idea of texting him makes your stomach flutter, but it’s just a table, right? You sigh. The coffee table creaks beside you, as if mocking your indecision.
It starts with a text.
you:
hey um… super random
but do you know how to build ikea furniture?
There’s a pause. Three dots appear, disappear, appear again.
Then:
mingi:
this feels like a trap
like if i say yes you’re gonna make me build a castle or something
You snort.
you:
not a castle
just a table
a large, heavy, emotionally threatening coffee table
mingi:
ah yes
the sadistic swedish puzzle box
you:
it’s been giving me death stares from the middle of my living room
i think it’s winning
mingi:
are you asking me to risk my life for you
you:
...yes?
This time the three dots hang for longer.
Then:
mingi:
text me your address
i’ll bring coffee
and emotional support
you:
you’re my hero
mingi:
don’t say that until we survive step 12: “insert screw B into slot F without crying”
You laugh to yourself, heart doing a weird little jump. You’ve only seen him a handful of times after his 10-years-disappearance, but even through a screen, Mingi’s the same blend of soft and sarcastic that he used to be. Just taller. Richer. Hotter. And still, somehow, kind of a lovable nerd. You send your address. A second later, another text buzzes through.
mingi:
just so we’re clear
if the instructions has more than 5 pages
we’re taking breaks every 40 minutes and i’m allowed to complain at least twice
you:
deal
Maybe this won’t be so bad. Or maybe it’ll be a total disaster.
But either way… you’re actually kind of excited to see him again. And maybe, just maybe, you hope the coffee table takes a little longer to build than it needs to. And the second you open the front door, you know you’re in for chaos. Mingi’s standing there with two iced coffees, a tote bag slung over one shoulder, and a wide grin like he’s about to conquer Everest.
“I brought backup,” he says, pulling an Allen wrench out of his pocket like it’s a weapon. “And caffeine.”
“You really came prepared.”
You lead him into the apartment, pointing toward the warzone that is your living room: an opened cardboard, Styrofoam, and that infamous IKEA manual laying in the center like a threat. You both kneel by the box, pulling out panels and screws, the floor quickly turning into an obstacle course of wood and tools. Mingi is meticulous from the start, lining up the screws by type, glancing at the instructions like they’re a sacred text.
He reads the manual like it’s a textbook, brows furrowed, lips pursed slightly. You watch the gears turn in his brain and you’re flooded with memories, study dates where he’d do this exact same expression while explaining calculus, the way he used to get adorably serious about things nobody else cared about.
You had forgotten how much you liked that about him.
“You’re very serious about this,” you note.
“This is my Olympics,” he replies solemnly. “I will not be defeated by a coffee table.”
You work together, slowly finding your rhythm. He reads the instructions while you screw the panels into place. He slides a hand over a finished piece to check its sturdiness, nodding like a proud architect. At one point, he misplaces a bracket and looks genuinely offended.
“I swear I just had it.”
“You probably buried it under your precision screw pile,” you say, lifting a handful of mismatched screws with zero organization.
He gasps. “Blasphemy. This is an advanced sorting system.”
You glance at Mingi, sweat dampening his forehead, glasses sliding down his nose from all the effort, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a proud, dorky smile tugging at his lips. He’s ridiculous. And kind of adorable. And very much still the same Mingi you remember.
You don’t say anything, but you feel it. That weird fluttering thing that happens when someone does nothing but be completely, unapologetically themselves… and you can’t help but fall just a little.
“Okay,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “What’s next?”
You sip your coffee, smiling to yourself. “Dinner, I think.”
“You cooking?”
“I built half a coffee table. I’m not lifting a spatula too.”
“Fair,” he says. “I’ll order.”
The takeout containers sit open between you on the floor, still steaming slightly. You and Mingi are cross-legged beside the newly built coffee table like it’s your proudest achievement, because, honestly, it kind of is. The soy sauce has already soaked through one napkin, but neither of you moves to clean it.
“I was such a mess in high school,” you admit. “But I always looked forward to those afternoons.”
He looks over, eyes softer now. “Same.”
The moment lingers, quiet but full. Outside, a car passes. Inside, something has shifted, like time folding in on itself, letting the past and present breathe in the same space.
You lift a dumpling toward him. “Peace offering. For stealing all your melon candy.”
***
It had become a little routine. The texts had turned into phone calls that stretched for hours, picking up where the messages had left off, weaving in laughter and conversations that seemed to flow effortlessly between you and Mingi. It didn’t matter what you were doing. Folding laundry, sketching out designs, or sometimes just lying in bed, he was there. You’d talk about anything and everything. There were no filters.
Tonight was no different. You’re half-listening to Mingi talk about a bizarre TikTok recipe he saw involving canned peaches and instant noodles when your laughter interrupts him mid-sentence.
“You’re kidding,” you say through a grin, pacing around your living room in socks. “That’s almost as cursed as your high school milkshake obsession.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the call. “Cursed? Excuse you.”
You can hear the mock offense in his voice, and it makes your cheeks ache from smiling.
“You’re not really about to defend that vanilla–sea salt–olive oil milkshake again, are you?”
He scoffs. “First of all, it wasn’t just olive oil. It was cold pressed, and second of all, it was a masterpiece. That place on the corner knew what they were doing.”
“You brought it to the long study sessions” you laugh, flopping onto your couch. “And it always looked like... salad dressing with ice cream.”
“You bought them for me sometimes!”
“I was being nice!” You couldn’t help but laugh at the thought. “You were making me pass classes, the least I could do was give you your weird milkshakes!” Both of your laughs died down, and a short silence follows, but it’s comfortable now. The kind that lingers between two people who’ve been talking too long to bother with filters.
“…You know,” he says suddenly, voice a little softer, “you could come over sometime. We could… I dunno, sit around and talk like this. Maybe get some of those awful milkshakes.”
You blink, caught off guard for a moment, but the warmth in his voice isn’t flirty. He’s not trying to make a move. It just sounds like Mingi. Familiar. Gentle.
You clear your throat. “You buying?”
“If that’s what I have to do to make you try it, then yes. I’m defending my honor, so you better bring the evidence.”
A few hours later, you’re in the elevator of a glass building downtown, holding a cardboard drink tray with two sweating milkshake cups. One of them is chocolate. The other… well, you can’t believe you actually paid for the olive oil one.
His apartment is high up, some penthouse suite he’s temporarily staying in for work. And now standing in the entryway of his penthouse, the actual penthouse, like floor-to-ceiling windows, a huge balcony and gadgets enough to make anyone a millionaire, you realize nothing about Mingi is really “no big deal” anymore.
Except he’s still barefoot in sweats, big glasses and an oversized hoodie. Still blushes a little when he sees you staring.
“Holy crap,” you murmur, stepping inside. “You live here?”
“Technically, yeah, just for now” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “It was a work thing… investment perk or whatever. It’s only temporarily while I’m in town as I’m investing in the property.”
“You live like a Bond villain.”
He shuts the door behind you. “Only on the outside. Inside I’m still the guy who alphabetizes his manga and cries over Studio Ghibli soundtracks.”
You hand him the tray. “Well, Bond villain or not, you’ve got your gross milkshake. Drink up, sir.” You walk further into the penthouse and it hits you in the head how far Mingi has come. But it still looks like his place. Stacks of books in the corner. A record player. A Gundam figure half-assembled on the counter. An old hoodie slung over the back of a leather chair. It's expensive in layout, but it feels like Mingi lives here. It feels like him.
You wander a little while he disappears into the kitchen. That’s when you see it.
Tucked into the bottom shelf, nearly hidden under old magazines: a dusty high school yearbook. You grin and crouch down to pull it out, fingers wiping across the cover. It’s old and familiar, instantly bringing back the scent of marker ink and locker sweat. When you flip it open, you’re already smiling, ready to find some awkward teenage photo of Mingi in braces or maybe a dramatic quote about science. But the sight in front of you makes your heart sink. All of the pages are blank.
No messages. No inside jokes. No “have a great summer!” or doodles of hearts. You pause, flipping through slower now. Every page is spotless. No one wrote anything.
Mingi comes back with the two milkshakes and sees you crouched there, frozen.
“Oh,” he says quietly. “You found that. I didn’t even realize I had that. Must’ve been in one of the boxes my mom dropped off. I didn’t mean to bring it.”
You look up. “Why didn’t anyone sign it?”
He shrugs, walking past you to place the shakes on the table. “No one noticed me back then. Kind of hard to sign a yearbook for someone you didn’t know existed.”
Your heart cracks a little. “That’s not true. I noticed you,” You notice his lips twitch, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged, still wearing that lopsided grin. “It’s not a big deal.”
You didn’t say anything.
“I mean, high school was… whatever,” he went on. “I kept my head down. Did my homework. Got gum thrown in my hair once in gym class, that was fun. And Jae, of course. His favorite game was grabbing my backpack and tossing it into random places. One time it ended up in a bathroom stall. Still don’t know how.” He laughed a little, like it was funny now. Like it hadn’t mattered.
But you remembered. You remembered the way he used to flinch when Jae walked by. How his shoulders stayed tense until you were sitting down to study. You remembered how he never met anyone’s eyes in the hallway. How sometimes, he’d show up to your sessions looking like he hadn’t slept at all. But a part of you didn’t realize how bad it really was. Maybe you were just to scared to realise it back then. And now you feel even worse about how you handled everything during high school. How you could’ve been there for him, supported him, stopped the bullying or at least tried.
So now you regret not doing more.
“I used to hide out under that tree by the math building during lunch,” he added casually, tapping his straw on the lid. “One time Jae and his friends poured soda into my backpack. Said they were giving it a drink.”
Your grip on the yearbook tightened.
“But I survived,” he said, flashing you a quick smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Could’ve been worse, right?”
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you closed the book and put it back carefully. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“You were always nice to me,” he said. “That helped more than you probably realized.”
You glanced over at him and he finally met your eyes. The façade cracked, just slightly. You could see the truth there. It had been bad. And it had stayed with him. “You didn’t deserve any of it,” you said softly. He gave you a small smile, but said nothing. “I should’ve written in your yearbook,” you murmur. “I would’ve written so much.”
He chuckles softly. “You probably would’ve drawn something ridiculous, too.”
“Probably.”
Silence stretches between you again, but it’s heavier now. Like time is waiting for either of you to add to the topic, but what is there to say? you don't feel like pushing him too hard, and he seems to brush it off, like he isn't comfortable enough to talk about how it really was back then. So you do the next best thing and reach your arm towards him and extend your hand. “Okay. Give me the sacred Mingi Special.”
His eyes widen. “You sure?”
“Nope. But I’m brave.”
He hands out the drink and you take a sip of the infamous vanilla-olive-oil-sea-salt milkshake, and then blink. The mix of sweet and salty, with a touch of olive-oil balances out the flavors perfectly. “Wait… that’s actually not bad.”
He looks smug. “Thank you. Finally, vindication.”
You roll your eyes jokingly. “Still not better than chocolate.”
“Debatable.”
***
The past few days had passed in a blur of double shifts, aching feet, and too much caffeine. You were running mostly on autopilot. Pour, serve, smile, repeat.
And tonight, work had been hectic. A weekend dinner shift meant nonstop tables, last-minute party reservations, and a manager who couldn’t seem to stop breathing down your neck. But Wooyoung, ever the life of the kitchen and bar, had kept your spirits up the whole night.
As you both step out into the cool night air, you are still breathless from laughing.
“If I ever have to make another espresso martini for a man in flip-flops who calls me ‘chief,’ I’m going to lose my job,” Wooyoung says, dragging a hand down his face dramatically.
“You handled it so well,” you say, still giggling. “You told him the machine was broken and then walked away mid-order.”
“Because it was broken, emotionally. Like me.”
You snort, and he bump his shoulder into yours. The cool night air wrap around you both as you walk slowly down the quiet sidewalk. The restaurant lights glow behind you, and the street ahead was dim and calm.
“Come on, I’ll drive you home,” Wooyoung says as he reached into his jacket pocket for his keys. “No offense, but you look like you’re gonna fall asleep standing up, so you’re stuck with my terrible driving.”
“You’re not that bad,” you say, smiling up at him. “I only screamed twice last time.”
“That’s an improvement.”
But just as you’re about to follow him towards the lot, you freeze. A familiar figure stood under the streetlamp ahead, half in shadow. Tall. Broad. His posture straight, but his shoulders slightly tense like he hadn’t meant to be seen, standing still like he wasn’t sure whether to move forward or vanish.
Your steps falter slowly. “Mingi?”
His head snaps up like he hadn’t expected to be seen. His eyes find yours immediately.
“Oh,” he says, almost too softly. “Hey.”
Wooyoung glance at you, then back at Mingi. “What a coincidence.”
You heard the teasing in Wooyoun’s words.
“I was just… going for a walk,” Mingi says.
Wooyoung grins, playful but not mean. “At midnight?”
You elbow him lightly, but Mingi gives a half-laugh. Not awkward, just small. Quiet. Like he was trying not to take up too much space. Mingi only shrugs like it made perfect sense. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“We just got off work,” you say quickly, stepping slightly forward. “It was… kind of a wild night.”
Mingi nods, eyes flickering to Wooyoung. “Right. That makes sense.” His gaze flickers between the two of you. You see it written all over his face, it was the same look he had back in High School when he talked to you in front of Jae. Like he felt like he interrupted, like he wanted to disappear..
Wooyoung shifts beside you, suddenly less talkative. You don’t miss the way Mingi’s eyes flickers to the keys in Wooyoung’s hand. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his shoulders tightens.
“Well,” Mingi says, already taking a step back. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t,” you say quickly. “We were just-“
But he is already backing away. “I’ll see you around, okay?” he says, trying to smile. “Have a good night.”
You stand there for a beat, stunned by how fast he vanishes, like the night had swallowed him up. Wooyoung lets out a low whistle and turns toward you slowly. “That boy thinks we’re dating.”
Your stomach does a weird twist. “Do you really think so?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, just gives you a long, considering look. “He showed up here. After midnight. Just happened to be outside the restaurant you work at. And now he’s walking away like he just watched the love of his life get proposed to.”
“Wooyoung-”
“He’s into you,” he says, tone softer now. “In that quiet, I-would-definitely-die-for-you kind of way. You see that, right?”
You look down at the pavement, chewing the inside of your cheek, hoping you didn't give the impression you just think you did.
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