can i request a idol jungwon fic with gf who is doing uni!!!!!
Still Choosing Us ᭝ ᨳଓ Y.JW
pairing: idol!Jungwon x uni student! gf!reader
wc: ~ 3.2k
content: established relationship, dating scandal, angst to fluff
a/n: First, this is my first fic in around half a year, so of course it is a request. Also, the reason for my absence is actually schoolwork, so how ironic that this has reader in university! As an apology, this is a long one. Enjoy!!
taglist: @adriftingsnowflake @norihoyeon
The library was nearly empty at 11 PM, just how you liked it. Your laptop screen glowed in the dim light, reflecting off the pages of your anatomy textbook. Finals were in three days, and you'd been here since six.
Your phone buzzed. Again.
Jungwon ♡ [11:04 PM] i know you're studying but i miss you call me when you take a break?
You smiled despite your exhaustion, glancing at the stack of notes you still needed to review. The message sat there, waiting, like so many others over the past few months. You'd call him tomorrow. You always said tomorrow.
You [11:06 PM] miss you too. tomorrow? promise ♡
Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Jungwon ♡ [11:07 PM] okay good luck with studying i love you
The "I love you" made your chest tight. You whispered it back to the empty library, but your fingers were already reaching for your highlighter instead of your phone.
You'd known Jungwon since middle school—back when he was just the boy with the dimples who shared his lunch with you, who walked you home, who held your hand for the first time under the cherry blossoms near your school. You'd been there the day he told you about the audition, had held him when he cried the night before he left for training, had promised that nothing would change.
And for a while, nothing did.
But then ENHYPEN debuted. And Jungwon became a leader, a public figure, someone who belonged to millions of people who didn't even know you existed. The calls became shorter. The visits became rare. Your world was lectures and lab reports; his was music shows and world tours.
You were proud of him. God, you were so proud.
But lately, when you watched him on stage, smiling that perfect leader smile, you felt like you were looking at someone you used to know.
"You're coming tonight, right?"
You clutched your phone tighter, staring at the practice exam in front of you. Your professor had just announced a surprise review session—the night of ENHYPEN's comeback showcase.
"Won..." you started, already hating yourself.
The silence on the other end was deafening.
"You're not coming." His voice was flat, and somehow that was worse than if he'd been angry.
"I have this review session, and it's worth 10% of my grade, and the final is—"
"I know." He cut you off gently. "I know you have finals. I just thought... never mind."
"Jungwon, please—"
"It's okay. Really. I get it." But his voice said otherwise. "I have to go. Sound check."
"I love—"
The line went dead.
You sat there in your dorm room, staring at your phone, feeling something crack in your chest. This was the third thing you'd missed this month. His birthday vlive. His first variety show appearance. And now this.
When had you become the person who chose everything else over him?
Jungwon's POV - Backstage
"You good?" Heeseung asked, nudging his shoulder.
Jungwon forced a smile, the same one he wore for cameras. "Yeah, just nervous."
Lies. He was thinking about you. About how the front row seat he'd reserved—the one he'd fought with management to keep, the one he'd been looking forward to performing in front of—would be empty.
He understood. He really did. You had your own dreams, your own life. But understanding didn't make it hurt less.
"Five minutes!" A staff member called.
Jungwon took a breath and became the leader again. Dimples on. Worry off.
You almost didn't see it at first.
It was Tuesday morning, and you were rushing to your 8 AM class when your roommate grabbed your arm, her eyes wide.
"Please tell me this isn't you."
She shoved her phone in your face, and your blood ran cold.
The photo was blurry but unmistakable: you and Jungwon, from two weeks ago when he'd had a rare day off. You'd been careful, meeting at a quiet café in Hongdae, both wearing masks. But someone had caught you at just the wrong moment—or right moment, depending on perspective—when he'd pulled his mask down to kiss your forehead.
The caption read: ENHYPEN's Jungwon spotted on date with mystery girl—exclusive photos.
Your hands shook.
"I have to go," you mumbled, already backing away.
"Wait—is it really you? Are you dating Yang Jungwon?"
But you were already running.
Your phone was exploding. Text after text, call after call. You didn't recognize most of the numbers. Your social media, which you'd kept private and anonymous, had somehow been found. The requests were in the hundreds.
And then you saw his name.
Jungwon ♡ [8:23 AM] don't look at anything online i'm coming to you where are you?
You [8:24 AM] you can't come here people will see it'll make it worse
Jungwon ♡ [8:24 AM] i don't care where are you
You told him. And then you waited in your dorm room, curtains drawn, ignoring the knocks from curious hallmates who'd put two and two together.
He showed up an hour later, flanked by two managers who looked like they wanted to be anywhere else. Jungwon's face was hidden behind a mask and a cap, but you'd recognize those eyes anywhere.
The moment your door closed behind him, he pulled you into his arms.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered into your hair. "I'm so, so sorry."
"It's not your fault—"
"It is." He pulled back, and you saw the exhaustion in his face, the fear. "I should have been more careful. I should have protected you better."
One of the managers cleared his throat. "We need to discuss the situation."
The next hour was a nightmare. They talked about statements, denials, the impact on the group. They used words like "liability" and "career-ending" and "public image." They suggested—strongly—that you and Jungwon should "take a break" until this blew over.
"She could transfer universities," one manager suggested. "Study abroad, maybe? We could arrange—"
"No." Jungwon's voice was firm. "She's not going anywhere."
"Jungwon-ssi, you need to understand the gravity—"
"I understand perfectly." He stood, and you saw the leader emerge, the one who commanded stages and led his members. "But she's not leaving. She hasn't done anything wrong."
"The company's position—"
"I don't care about the company's position right now. I care about her."
You watched him argue with them, defend you, fight for you. And something shifted. When had you stopped fighting for this? For him?
After they left—still disapproving but temporarily silenced—Jungwon sat next to you on your small dorm bed, his head in his hands.
"Maybe they're right," he said quietly. "Maybe... maybe this is too hard. For both of us."
Your heart stopped. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I don't want you to live like this. Hiding. Being photographed. Having people judge you, hate you, just for being with me." He looked at you, and his eyes were wet. "You deserve better than this."
"Don't." Your voice came out sharp. "Don't make this decision for me."
"I'm trying to protect you—"
"I don't need protection!" You stood, anger and fear making your voice shake. "I need you to stop pulling away every time things get hard! You did it after I missed your showcase, you're doing it now—"
"You don't understand the pressure—"
"Then help me understand! Talk to me instead of deciding alone that we're not worth fighting for!"
"I never said—"
"You're saying it now!" Tears were streaming down your face. "You're standing in my room, telling me I deserve better, like I'm not capable of deciding what I want. Like I haven't been choosing you every day despite the distance and the schedules and barely seeing you—"
"You missed my comeback." The words came out broken, and you stopped. "You missed my birthday. You said you'd be there and you weren't, and I know you have school, I know you have your own life, but sometimes it feels like I'm the only one still fighting for us."
The truth of it hit you like a physical blow. He was right. You'd been so focused on your own struggles—the late nights, the pressure, the feeling of not fitting into his world—that you'd stopped seeing how hard he was trying to fit into yours.
"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I'm so sorry. I thought... I thought you were drifting away, that you didn't need me anymore—"
"Need you?" He laughed, a broken sound. "You're the only thing that keeps me grounded. When I'm on stage, pretending to be this perfect leader, you're the only person who knows all of me. The me before all this. The me who's still just a kid who misses his girlfriend and wants to hold her hand without the world ending."
You closed the distance between you, framing his face with your hands. "Then let's stop apologizing and start fighting. Together. Not against each other."
His forehead pressed against yours. "It's going to get worse before it gets better. The comments, the company, the fans—"
"I know."
"They're going to say terrible things about you—"
"I know."
"I might get in serious trouble—"
"I. Know." You kissed him, soft and sure. "And I'm choosing you anyway. But you have to choose me too. No more protecting me by pushing me away. No more making decisions alone."
His arms wrapped around you, tight enough that you could barely breathe. "I choose you. God, I choose you. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."
The next few days were brutal.
The photos had spread everywhere. Your name, your university, your major—somehow, everything was public. You stopped going to classes after someone followed you with a camera. Your Instagram, even after you deleted it, had been screenshotted and shared everywhere.
The comments were worse.
She's not even pretty Gold digger How could Jungwon choose her over us? I hope she leaves him alone
You tried not to read them. You failed every time.
Jungwon was in the dorm, restricted by management, but he called you every night.
"Don't read the comments," he'd say, like he knew.
"I'm not," you'd lie.
"Liar. I can hear it in your voice."
On the fourth day, ENHYPEN's company released a statement. Your hands shook as you read it:
BELIFT LAB has confirmed that ENHYPEN member Jungwon is in a relationship. We ask for your understanding and respect for both parties' privacy during this time. Jungwon will continue his activities as planned. We hope fans will continue to support ENHYPEN.
It was vague, diplomatic, and somehow still earth-shattering.
He'd told them no denials. No "taking a break" announcements. Just the truth.
Your phone rang.
"Did you see?" His voice was breathless.
"I saw."
"Are you okay?"
You laughed, slightly hysterical. "Are YOU okay? You just confirmed your relationship to millions of people—"
"I'm with you," he interrupted. "So yes. I'm okay."
Your final exam was in two days, and you'd barely studied. The stress of everything had left you scattered, unfocused. You were in the library again, the same spot as always, trying desperately to cram three weeks of material into your exhausted brain.
"You always scrunch your nose when you're concentrating."
"What are you doing here?" you hissed, looking around frantically. "Someone could see—"
"Let them see." He sat down across from you, sliding a coffee your way. "I missed your comeback showcase. You missed my birthday. We're not missing anymore, remember?"
"You're supposed to be at the dorm—"
"I told management I needed to be here. They weren't happy, but..." He shrugged, that small smile on his face. "I'm the leader. Sometimes I have to make executive decisions."
"You're insane."
"Probably." He opened his own textbook—he'd brought one, you noticed, slightly delirious. "Now, what are we studying? I might not know anatomy, but I'm good at making flashcards."
You stared at him—this boy who'd chosen you, who'd fought for you, who was risking being seen just to sit in a library and help you study.
"I love you," you said. "So much it's stupid."
His dimples deepened. "I know. Now tell me about the cardiovascular system. I want to understand what makes your heart beat."
"That was horrible."
"You love it."
And despite everything—the scandal, the comments, the uncertainty of what came next—you laughed. Really laughed.
Because he was here. And you were here. And that was enough.
Six months later
The comments never fully stopped, but they changed. Slowly, gradually, new content replaced the photos of you and Jungwon. New comebacks, new controversies, new couples.
The world moved on, like it always does.
You passed your finals (barely, but you passed). Jungwon's comeback was successful. You learned to exist in his world—carefully, privately, but together.
On your anniversary, he posted a photo on Instagram. Not of you—management would have had a heart attack—but of two coffee cups on a library table, one with your usual order written on it.
The caption: To the person who waits up for my calls and falls asleep during them. Who chooses me even when I'm halfway across the world. Who fits perfectly into my world because you ARE my world. Happy anniversary. 🤍
The comments were mixed, as always. But you didn't read them.
You were too busy reading the message he'd sent privately:
Jungwon ♡ [11:11 PM] look outside your window
You did.
He stood there, three stories below, masked and capped, but unmistakably him. In his hands: your favorite flowers and a ridiculous hand-made sign that read "Study break? 🥺"
You grabbed your jacket and ran.
The night air was cold, but you barely felt it as you burst through the lobby doors. Jungwon dropped the sign and caught you as you launched yourself at him, his arms wrapping around your waist and spinning you in a circle.
"You're going to get caught," you laughed breathlessly against his neck.
"Don't care." He set you down but didn't let go, one hand coming up to tuck your hair behind your ear. "I have something for you."
"The flowers weren't enough?"
"The flowers were just the opener." He pulled back, suddenly looking nervous in a way that made your heart flutter. From his jacket pocket, he produced a small box—not ring-sized, you noted with both relief and the tiniest hint of disappointment.
Inside was a delicate silver necklace with a small pendant: two tiny stars, one slightly larger than the other, connected by a thin line.
"It's us," he explained softly, fastening it around your neck with gentle fingers. "This bigger one is you—you've always been my guiding star, even before all this. And this smaller one is me, following you." His hands settled on your shoulders. "No matter how far apart we are, we're still connected. Still orbiting each other."
Your eyes burned with tears. "Jungwon..."
"There's an inscription on the back," he added quietly.
You flipped the pendant over. In tiny letters: Distance means nothing when you mean everything.
"You're going to make me cry in public," you whispered.
"Good thing I brought tissues." He grinned, dimples on full display as he dabbed at your cheeks with his sleeve instead. "Can't have my star getting puffy eyes. You have that study session tomorrow, remember?"
You laughed wetly. "You remembered?"
"I remember everything about you." His voice went soft, sincere. "Like how you drink exactly three cups of coffee when you're cramming. How you underline in green for important terms and yellow for concepts. How you always tie your hair up when you're really focused, but a piece always falls out and you tuck it behind your ear every two minutes."
"Stalker," you teased, but your heart was so full it hurt.
"Boyfriend," he corrected, stealing a quick kiss. "And speaking of which..." He glanced around conspiratorially before pulling you toward a small 24-hour convenience store on the corner. "I have our anniversary date all planned out. Hope you like convenience store ramyeon and terrible fluorescent lighting."
"Very romantic."
"I'm a broke idol whose girlfriend keeps him grounded," he said solemnly, grabbing a basket. "This is peak romance."
You watched him carefully select your favorite snacks, the ones he'd memorized from late-night video calls where you'd eat together across screens. He added a tiny cake with "Happy Anniversary" written in shaky hangul—clearly homemade by the store owner.
"Did you order this in advance?" you asked, incredulous.
He looked sheepish. "I may have called ahead. And I may have promised the ahjumma owner an autograph. She's an ENGENE."
"You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
And you did. God, you did.
You sat on the curb outside, shoulders pressed together, sharing ramyeon straight from the pot and feeding each other bites of cake. It was nothing like the fancy anniversary dates you saw in dramas, but it was perfect. It was yours.
"Hey," Jungwon said suddenly, his voice going soft. "I know this year was hard. Really hard. And I know there are going to be more hard times ahead."
You squeezed his hand.
"But I want you to know that I'd choose this—choose us—a thousand times over. Every single time." He looked at you, and in the harsh convenience store lighting, his eyes were so sincere it made your chest ache. "You're my best decision. Then, now, always."
You kissed him, tasting sugar and promises and home.
"Always," you echoed against his lips.
A camera flash went off somewhere in the distance—probably someone who'd recognized him—but neither of you moved. Let them take pictures. Let them talk.
This moment was yours, and no amount of comments or scrutiny could touch it.
"Come on," Jungwon said eventually, helping you up and lacing his fingers through yours. "Walk me back to my car? I have about twenty minutes before my manager starts blowing up my phone."
You walked slowly, stretching every second. At his car, he pulled you close one more time.
"Text me when you get back to your dorm?"
"You'll be asleep."
"I'll wake up to it. I like waking up to you."
"Sap," you accused.
You watched him drive away, your hand going to the necklace at your throat. Two stars, connected across any distance.
Your phone buzzed.
Jungwon ♡ [12:47 AM] already miss you thank you for choosing me even when the world made it hard you make everything worth it love you more than words 🤍
You smiled, typing back:
You [12:48 AM] love you more than sleep and i REALLY need sleep that's how you know it's real ♡
Jungwon ♡ [12:48 AM] go rest, my star dream of me 😌
You [12:49 AM] always do goodnight, leader-nim
Jungwon ♡ [12:49 AM] goodnight, my love
You walked back to your dorm, the necklace warm against your skin, and for the first time in months, you felt light. The world had tried to break you apart, had thrown every obstacle in your path.
But here you were. Still standing. Still together. Still choosing each other.
i am discovering your blog because of the sunoo fics which by the way, theyre so good! I love how you write love and devotion because it feels like im actually in the story and feeling all the fuzzy tingly feelings!!!
This response is SUPERRRRRRRR late but tysm!! more coming soon since the school year is winding down for me!
⪼ quarterback!mingi x fem!reader | PART ONE ~28k
⪼ you can’t fucking stand jung wooyoung, mingi really really wants kim minjeong. when wooyoung and winter end up together, you and mingi have no choice but to figure out how to win winter’s favor, to stab wooyoung in the back. mingi needs a favor, and you want revenge... do you dare?
⪼ fake dating au, college au, slow burn, lowk enemies to lovers, this is my very huge and massive installment for @sungbeam ‘s live alive collab ⋆˙⟡ thank you beamie duckie for putting this together! so happy to be in a collab beside so many other talented writers, be sure to check out the masterlist for other banger college fics :)
⪼ eventual smut minors dni 18+ | LOTS of cursing, insults, toxic til it's not. i don't want to spoil too much but they're in college so they drink and do college kid shit. i hope u enjoy this is my pride and joy in a fic i would eat this mingi as my last meal
“Fuck you.”
Jung Wooyoung has never promised you anything. In your four months of doing whatever the fuck this was, he’s never once lead you believe you’d be anything more than his bed warmer. At least not verbally, and honestly, you had to hand it to him, he’d repeat the same monologue over and over like it was his personal gospel: We’re too young to be in a serious relationship, don’t you think? We should be enjoying our youth, our freedom, doing whatever we want…
If you ever hear the words serious relationship, youth, or freedom ever again, you might actually fucking vomit. In the beginning, it was easy to believe him; you rarely spoke to him outside of the bedroom, yours, his, that one supply closet on campus, the bathroom of that stupid fucking dive bar he loves so much. When he began sleeping over, kissing you awake, leaving with promises of later just to do it all over again, you started feeling blasphemous. Questioning gospel, his words of wisdom, you started to think there was more than just sweat and saliva to your relationship– maybe he enjoyed spending time with you. Maybe he even likes you.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” leaning against the wall of his foyer, arms crossed over his chest, one ankle over the other, you didn’t even make it inside his apartment. The bare, beige walls seemed to laugh at you even if there were no pictures on them, no paintings, no decor.
Too good to be true, of course, since you caught him hand-in-hand with her, Kim Minjeong, Winter, that pretty little thing you’re positive you shared a class with at some point in your three years at ATZU. Your immediate reaction was defense, denial, naturally, because why on Earth would he need anyone but you? He’s told you plenty of times you’re not like anyone he’s met before, that your personality was unique, that you’re the best he’s ever had.
“You’re sorry?!” Your arms were flying around the space, you voice loud, harsh, angry. You didn’t care if his roommate was home, maybe you’d apologize to San if you saw him on campus somewhere. Maybe. Right now, your anger was behind the wheel, driving you to insanity, “Who’s next, Summer? Spring? Fall? You gonna fuck all four seasons, you asshole?”
He shakes his head, black hair falling around his face, the poster board for nonchalance. You wonder how many times he’s had this conversation, how many girls he’s done this to. Maybe you were the problem for thinking you were different, that he’d alter his Ten Commandments for you. He uncurls his arms, straightens out his legs, and motions for the door, voice frustratingly monotonous, “I think you should go.”
“Yeah, I should,” you bite, already turning towards the dark brown, wooden door, “I hope I never fucking see you again.”
“Should be easy,” he says through a much too casual breath, reaching around you to grab the worn, brassy knob, forcing you to step sideways so he can open it. You take a step through the threshold and he leans his lanky body into the frame, “Make sure you return the Chrome Hearts hoodie I left at your place, though, doll. Paid good money for it.”
Face morphing into sheer disbelief, the audacity, only your head turns to look at him, eye legitimately twitching, “You’ll be lucky if I don’t fucking burn it.”
A corner of his lips tug upward in a smile, “Now that would be a waste, wouldn’t it?”
“Just like the last four months?” Your brows raise, a faux smile creeping onto your lips, “Don’t text me ever again. Hope she fucks you like I do.”
He doesn’t answer– just stares as you stand there, waiting for an argument, for a rebuttal. Your jaw clenches when you realize you aren’t getting one. Turning on your heel, you stomp down his hallway, down the three fucking flights of steps you’ve climbed every other day for the past four months.
Fuck him. Fuck him.
Humiliation sinks in as you leave his building, anger crumbling into something small, something sad, pathetic. You should have seen this coming, you aren’t stupid, you’re definitely not naïve. You could blame his pretty smile, his cheekbones so sharp they could be considered blades, his beautiful bronzy skin you’d miss tasting, the way he filled you up so perfectly you wondered how you fucked anyone else. You could blame his touch, the grace he used with your body, how he cared for you after he split you open.
The only person to blame here is you. And you know it, deep in your gut, in the ache in your back from carrying the entire relationship you made up in your head, you know it’s your fucking fault you’re hurt. Your friends would tell you soon, too, that they knew this was coming, that they told you he’d do this, they advised you to not get involved with him.
Sighing, looking up at the sky, you squint at the overcast, the blue sky that was now a deep, sad grey. Great, even the fucking sun didn’t want you.
Song Mingi didn’t care about much outside of football. He didn’t have time to.
Almost every day, his schedule was the same: wake up at six, eat his breakfast that was the same every single morning: egg white omelet, two slices of whole-wheat toast, a cup of fresh fruit, sometimes he’ll have cranberry juice diluted by water, usually just plain water.
He’s at the gym by seven, following his training program, by nine he’s in the meeting room in the same building as the gym, he meets his team, his coach, going over the practice schedule, reviewing any changes made for the day or the week. By ten, he’s showered and on his way to class, where he fights to keep his brain turned on until two.
By three, he’s getting taped, at three-thirty he’s out on the field, practicing. By six, he’s back in the gym, then he’s eating dinner until seven, when he showers, fighting to stay awake for the academics squad that arrives specifically for the football team, helping them with homework, plain old studying, any projects they might be involved in.
He’s lucky if he’s finished by eight thirty, where he can finally go back home, to the house the entire fucking team lives in. In the beginning of the season, it’s usually quiet by nine, everyone so exhausted by the day they don’t have the energy to be rowdy– but that never lasts long, once everyone is comfortable in their routines, Mingi’s convinced they have endless pits of energy. Music, laughter, conversation, video games, it’s so fucking loud Mingi has to put on noise-cancelling headphones when he reaches his bedroom.
He doesn’t have the energy for anything outside of his schedule. His days are grid-locked, no room to pencil anything in, no time for partying, for socializing, for anything that would damage his D1-starting-quarterback reputation. He thinks he’s the only person in this whole fucking university that has a reputation, everywhere he goes, people watch. Everyone he speaks to, people listen. When he raises his hand in class, the whole fucking room turns their heads. It doesn’t help that he gets escorted to class. It’s unfortunate that his treatment comes with the gig.
It’s nauseating, the pressure of football was enough, there’s so much added bullshit that comes with it. On his good days, when his adrenaline is pumping, when he feels restless, when he’s really fucking tired of being Mr. Perfect, he makes time. He goes to the party the LAX house is throwing, he takes shots with his teammates, he even dances a little if Woozi’s mixing– if it’s Vernon DJing, he’s probably standing on the side, bobbing his head to whatever funky shit is playing while the nth girl of the night is in his ear.
The girls, the girls, that’s a whole other issue he tackles daily. Nightly. Literally. The cheerleading team, the dance team, the girls on campus he makes eyes at that quite literally fold. Well, he folds them, on the nights he doesn’t feel like releasing his pent up energy at a party, or when he needs to release his frustrations after an especially bad practice. There’s always girls, there’s an endless supply on a college campus, even more in his DMs, he’d assume half of his forty-three-thousand Instagram followers are women, at least that’s what it seems when he clicks his requests folder.
Mingi hasn’t really ever been denied in his life, not with women, not with his college applications, he was getting scouted by university after university in high school. Which is why he can’t wrap his mind around what happened to him last week, a typical crazy night at the LAX house, who throws weekly in their off-season, celebrating absolutely nothing but partying like it was everyone’s birthday.
Mingi was in his favorite outfit, short, dark hair slicked back, jewelry on his neck, his wrists, his fingers, he felt good. He felt lucky, even, when he eyed up the dark-haired beauty across the kitchen, standing alone, staring at her phone like she was waiting to be approached by him. He put on his pretty boy smile and crossed the room, running a hand through his hair, and approached her with every ounce of swagger he could conjure.
Winter. Such a pretty name for such a beautiful girl, Mingi was nearly drooling, her voice sweet like honey, her outfit screamed danger, he needed her. She didn’t smile when she looked at him, didn’t ask for his name, he didn’t think twice, Mingi just assumed she didn’t need to ask, everyone on campus knew his name.
“Do you know when Wooyoung will get here?”
He thinks his heart might have flatlined.
Mingi isn’t like his bitchless teammates, who jump at every opportunity to fuck just because they can. Mingi fucks, but it’s with purpose, every woman he approaches, every woman he hits on, it’s because they fit the criteria.
He coughed a little, brows furrowed, head tilted in confusion. He knew that name, he knew Wooyoung, he’s roommates with San who’s friends with Jongho, one of his teammates, on the starting offensive line.
“Wooyoung?” He found himself asking, choking on a laugh. “Like, the guy who got some girl pregnant last semester?”
She rolled her eyes, “That was a rumour, he didn’t get anyone pregnant.”
Then her phone lit up, and so did her entire fucking face. That smile, Mingi nearly groaned, she’s perfect, she’d look so good on his arm, flaunting her to the entire campus, to his teammates, his coach. He watched as she walked away, taking all of his hopes and dreams with her. His future, the mother of his unborn children, gone in a flash, off to find that leather-jacket-wearing fucking asshole that didn’t even have a career. Is she kidding? Mingi was on the brink of getting drafted to the fucking NFL, and she wanted Wooyoung? What did he fucking have that Mingi didn’t?
He stood there for at least another two minutes, stunned into silence, fingers slowly gripping his solo cup harder until he could hear the crackling of hard plastic bending in his palm. Then and there, Mingi decided she wasn’t worth it. How could she be worth his time, when she wants him? It showed a lot about her.
Mingi spent the night burying himself into whatever girl he could find that looked closest to her. For the week that followed, his mind was clouded by a dark vignette, the picture of her at the center. Winter. He didn’t even fucking like snow, that’s why he went to school somewhere warm.
Slowly, day after day, the rejection began to eat away at him, making him look inward, a practice he doesn’t have much experience in. What does Wooyoung have that he doesn’t? He came to the conclusion that there’s nothing. In every which way possible, Mingi’s better than Wooyoung, so why the fuck did she want him so bad when Mingi was standing right in front of her, in his favorite black party shirt, rings on his fingers, Aquaphor freshly applied on his lips?
She wouldn’t leave his mind. He replayed the rejection so many times, involuntarily and voluntarily, Mingi found himself attracted to the bored stare she gave him. Eyebrows straight, lips wet from liquor, shoulders slouched, not even a hint of a smile. She’s beautiful. She doesn’t care about him. She’s perfect for him.
He has to do something, has to commit some kind of crime, or somehow get Wooyoung kicked out of the school. He sat his teammates down in the dining room days later, the whiteboard they kept for discussing gameplay filled with scribbles and lines in red at the head of the table, in the center was a circled photo of her. His teammates called him crazy, down bad, but Mingi considers himself the next Albert fuckin’ Einstein.
All he has to do is prove to Winter that he’s better than Wooyoung. Easy.
“...I’m sorry you feel that way?” Your eyes, so wide they took over the entire upper half of your face as you all but screeched, “doll?!”
Yeosang and Jongho eyed each other from across the table, then redirected their gaze back onto you. The three of you at the most popular coffee shop on campus, Lucent, you didn’t even care to have this conversation somewhere private, all the ears who might listen should take it as a warning. You considered it a service to the ATZU campus.
Yeosang, green hair messily waved over his cheekbones, sighed, “I can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I know,” you bit back, eyes pointed, already prepared for that response. “But can you wait before saying I told you so and comfort me first?”
“Thank you,” you grumbled, “it’s just stupid. She’s not even prettier than me.”
Yeosang and Jongho shared another look, but it’s Jongho who spoke up this time, “I bet she’s not, probably just easy.”
“Exactly!” You screeched again, eyes wide, jumping out of your seat a little. After receiving looks from around the semi-crowded shop, you shrank in your seat again, cheeks heating up. In a quieter, but still sharp voice, you continued, “Because that’s what Wooyoung likes. He’s a no-good piece of shit who just wants to get his dick wet, it doesn’t matter who wets it.”
“I wish someone would have told you that before you jumped in bed with him,” quips Yeosang, a small grin playing on his lips. When you cursed him out with nothing but your eyes, his smile disappeared.
“Why are we blaming me?” Your fingers curled onto the table as your eyes danced between your two best friends, probably looking insane, but you didn’t care. “I’m the victim here. He played me.”
Jongho runs a hand through his hair, still half-damp from his training this morning, or maybe he actually showered after the gym this time. He sits back in the booth, eyeing you with a bored look, “Wooyoung plays everything. All he does is play, that’s who he is.”
“Well, forgive a girl for wanting to be different.”
Yeosang snorts, and the way your eyes pierce his soul makes his laugh die on his tongue. “What are you laughing at?” You scoff, “You can’t even look your girl in the eye publicly.”
Yeosang gasps, “Do not bring up my situation because you’re pissed about your own.”
“Well?” Your head shakes, arms flailing about in front of you to say What the fuck is the difference?
“Okay!” Jongho intervenes, his arm literally laying over the black table between you to cut the two of you off. “I’m sorry you’re upset, and I’m sorry he hurt you. But he seriously isn’t worth a shred of emotion, you aren’t losing anything by cutting him off.”
You bury your face in your palms, elbows holding you up. Muffled from the edges of your hands over your mouth, you mutter, “He’s so hot, and he’s so good at sex.”
Jongho chuckles, his head shaking, you could see it even with your hands over your eyes. “Is that why all the girls on campus flock to him? Because he’s a good fuck?”
You split four fingers down the middle to peek an eye out, “Yes. And he has this, like, magnetizing aura about him, I don’t know. He’s good at talking, at making you feel special, like wanting him was your idea all along.”
“Hm,” Yeosang’s head tilts, plopping back into the booth, arms crossed. “So he’s just… a manipulator?”
You whine, faking an annoying, high-pitched crying noise. “Yes, he’s really good at it.”
“Damn,” Jongho mutters under his breath, “he’s giving the whole campus problems. How long until he runs through everybody, you think?”
“Not long,” you grumble, “who else is he giving problems?”
“Mingi,” Jongho’s lips scrunch to one side, and a shiver runs down your spine. Mingi. “He wanted to bag this one girl and she dubbed him for Wooyoung. He’s torn up about it.”
“He should be torn up,” you snatch Yeosang’s coffee cup from in front of him and take a long sip. He makes a face like he’s disgusted you’re drinking from his cup, so you make the same one back, mocking him.
Yeosang turns to Jongho, “Mingi never gets dubbed. What is Wooyoung, like a sex god?”
“He’s the bad boy trope in every shitty coming-of-age movie you’ve ever seen,” you sip again until you hear the rattle of the last bits of liquid between ice cubes. Yeosang makes the same face when you slide the coffee cup back to him.
“Mingi is genuinely losing his fucking mind,” Jongho laughs a little, shaking his head like he didn’t even believe the words coming out of his mouth. “I don’t think the man has ever been told no in his life.”
“I wouldn’t tell him no, that’s for sure,” you say with the smallest laugh, and Jongho gives you a long stare, like he’s putting puzzle pieces together. You look on either side of you, then down at your shirt, then back up to him, “Do I have something on my face?”
Jongho shakes his head, eyes widening like he was about to shout eureka, “This could work.”
“What could work?” You ask, and within four seconds of him not responding, you ask again, “Ho, what could work?”
“Stop calling me Ho,” Jongho’s lip lifts in distaste, “Mingi’s trying to figure out a way to get revenge on Wooyoung, or prove that he’s better than Wooyoung, I guess, so he can steal the girl from him.”
“Just tell him to wait a month and she’ll be free again,” you shrug, “he doesn’t need an elaborate plan.”
Yeosang’s brows raise, bottom lip flipped over, shoulders slightly shrugging as if to say Yeah, true.
Jongho holds a finger up between you, “What if I set you up with Mingi?”
Your jaw drops, a disgusting sound leaving your lips that you’d die if anyone else heard. “Me? And Mingi? Are you stupid?”
“No, no, no,” he shakes his finger back and forth, “hear me out. Wouldn’t Wooyoung be pissed off if you bounced back with the star QB mere days after he cut you off?”
You, still sitting in anxious disbelief, plant your palms against the black table, shaking your head rapidly. “Even if he is–”
“Hear me out,” Jongho says a little stronger, and your lips smack back together. “Wooyoung will be so enraged that he cuts the girl off and gets back with you, maybe he’ll even be so mad he realizes his feelings for you were stronger than he thought–”
Yeosang cuts him off, “Hold on a second–”
“–Mingi gets the girl, and then you can break Wooyoung’s heart to get back at him.”
You sit back in the booth, arms crossing, face scrunching together in thought because it actually doesn’t sound like that bad of an idea. Jongho is grinning like he’d just solved one of the seven wonders of the world, and Yeosang is looking back and forth between you like he’s never heard anything so fucking stupid.
“There’s no way in hell you’re actually considering this,” Yeosang’s voice is shaky, drenched in disbelief, “have you ever watched To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before?”
“This is different,” you’re quick to answer, “I’m not Lara Jean, there are no letters, there’s just an Wooyoung who needs to learn what it feels like to be on the opposite end of the knife.”
“And Mingi won’t shut up until he sinks his claws into that girl, I think it’s a pretty even exchange,” Jongho adds, both of you two peas in an optimistic pod while Yeosang just stares, dumbfounded.
He blinks once, twice, before his lips part to speak, sucking in a breath. They close, and his face twists in confusion, “Let me get this straight, you’re suggesting fake dating Song Mingi, like, football player Song Mingi. And you think he’ll agree?”
You turn to Jongho who just shrugs. “Why not?”
“I don’t know how to say this without insulting you, girl,” Yeosang’s bottom lip is tugged down to expose his bottom row of teeth, a nervous but apologetic look. “But his taste is… refined. Of snotty girls and like, barbie dolls. Plus, you’re opposites.”
“Fuck you Yeosang, I’m hot!” You immediately bark out, then turn to Jongho, “I’m hot, aren’t I?”
“Yeah Yeo, she’s hot,” Jongho nodded, saying Yeosang’s name like it was an insult, then immediately cringing because those words feel gross on his tongue, “Mingi will be into it, trust me. And if he’s not, I’ll just remind him of the bigger picture, it’s not like he has to kiss her or anything.”
You make a face that is nowhere near pleased, lips thinning, brows flattening. “You guys have known me too long, you’re too comfortable insulting me to my face.”
Yeosang barely gives you a glance, “She doesn’t party anymore, she doesn’t socialize with anyone outside her study group and us. They’re opposites, even if she’s–” he cringes, “–hot.”
“Her study group goes out!” Jongho argues, also not sparing you a glance, “Jia and Riyo are always at the LAX house, she can just tag along with them or with Mingi or whatever. I don’t know, once I get him to agree, it’s out of our hands.”
Your jaw drops again. “Out of your hands? Hello? I’m right here, first of all, second, this is your idea, Ho.”
The flex in Jongho’s jaw is his way of saying stop it with the fucking nickname. Deadpanning, he responds, “It’s just an idea, you and Mingi can figure out the details.”
“Stop acting like he said yes already,” Yeosang argues, amusement in his voice now, “you’ll get her hopes up of fucking a football guy.”
You can’t react to the response, because fucking Song Mingi would be a dream— not that the football part has anything to do with it. Your face reflects the thought.
“He’ll say yes,” Jongho nods, “trust me.”
“Fuck no. Are you stupid?”
Maybe Jongho should have waited until they got to the gym, or at least until after Mingi had consumed four bites of his breakfast. Maybe waking him up a minute before his alarm went off at a mere six in the morning wasn’t the best idea, but his anxiety wouldn’t leave him alone.
“Come on,” Jongho whines, legitimately whines, because if Mingi didn’t say yes he’d have to hear about it for weeks to come, and he can’t bear to hear another complaint from the older man’s mouth. “She said yes already, it’s the perfect plan. Girls are jealous like that, they want what they can’t have.”
Dark hair, a little oily and piecey on his head, shooting out in every which way, he was shirtless under the navy blue comforter, sheets crumpled at the foot of his bed. Jongho can’t remember the last time Mingi used the washing machine in the basement of the football house.
Mingi sits up a little, yawning, before looking up to Jongho with an uninterested look, “Is she hot?”
Jongho can’t help the face he makes. Head craning back and forth, almost touching each shoulder as a high pitched, unconvincing, “Yeah,” slides from his lips.
Mingi smacks his lips, laying back in his bed and turning away, pulling the comforter over his shoulders as he utters, “Waking me up before my alarm for some bullshit, Jongho.”
Jongho tries defending himself, “I’ve known her since she was fourteen, she’s like a sister. If you’re talking about, like, conventionally attractive then I guess, yes—”
“I don’t even know what conventionally means,” Mingi huffs, “get out of my room.”
“Mingi, Wooyoung just broke her heart, she wants revenge, and you want the girl. It's an even exchange, no strings. You have nothing to lose.”
Mingi’s grumble slowly grows in volume as he turns back over, eyes still closed. “What about my pride? Making some elaborate scheme just to get a girl who I shouldn’t even care about.”
Jongho’s lips thin— not the pity party, again. He can’t listen to it another time or else he might explode. They’ve already hidden the whiteboard.
He bends at the knees, arms folding over the empty space at the edge of Mingi’s mattress, “Listen, bro, it’ll stay between me, you and her—” and Yeosang, “—it’s the perfect plan. You don’t even have to learn her last name, just stand next to her for a little while until your dream girl’s interest is piqued. Easy peasy.”
One of Mingi’s eyes opened, “It’ll work?”
Jongho nods.
“And she’s hot?”
Jongho’s lips thin again, but he nods.
“Fine,” Mingi huffs, “tell her to come over or something so I can get a good look before I agree to this.”
If it was any other circumstance, your fingertips would be buzzing at your sides, heart pounding in your chest with having a man so beautiful in front of you. Plump lips, dark hair still a little damp laying over his sculpted cheekbones, strong shoulders on display in his sleeveless tank. He sat sunken into the couch, one leg folded over the other with his ankle kissing his knee, arms crossed over his chest. Gorgeous. His skin looks so soft you want to touch it— maybe lick it.
But he did not look pleased. On top of ruining the fantasy, you’re disappointed that men like him still exist.
Standing before him across the living room, a hip popped with your arms crossed, the only thing Jongho said to you before walking inside the football house was that Mingi wanted to meet you. Not that you’d be put on display for him to judge your appearance before he agreed to being your fake fucking boyfriend.
“This is misogynistic in ways my mind can’t even comprehend right now,” you huffed the words to Jongho, your best friend of nearly a decade, not even looking at Mingi. As far as you’re concerned, he’s not in the room anymore. He no longer fucking exists.
There was an apology in his deep brown eyes, his features softened, lips tightened. But he didn’t answer. Mingi’s thick eyebrows were furrowed, top lip curled, but his eyes didn’t read distaste even if his body language portrayed it. With the rage simmering within you right now, he should thank whatever god he prayed to that you weren’t at the boiling point yet.
“I don’t know what that means,” Mingi shakes his head a little, voice lazy, “this will do, though. I guess.”
“You guess?” Your entire face jerks forward, “You fucking guess? I’m a human, you know. Standing right in front of you.”
“No shit,” Mingi sighs, head leaning back into the couch cushion, chin tipped up, face reading utter boredom. “You’ll get me the girl, though? You’re sure she’ll want me if I pretend I’m… dating you?”
He said the words like you casted a fucking curse on him.
Your eye twitched as you glance at Jongho. Meeting his apprehensive stare you uncurled your arms from your chest, legs moving for the front door, “Fuck no, I’m not doing this. Absolutely not, plan is cancelled.”
“Wait!” Jongho stands, eyes wide, palms pressing into your shoulders to stop you from walking straight out the front door. “He’s tired, we had a hard practice today. He’s not usually this bad, I swear, I swear.”
“What do you mean?” Mingi sits up a little, turning halfway to see the two of you, “What do you mean ‘this bad’? I’m being normal.”
“See?” Your arm flies in his direction, “he’s being normal. You never told me he’s a fucking asshole, Ho.”
“An asshole!?” Mingi stands up straight, arms at his side, jaw dropped. “I have to tell every single person in my life I’m dating you, and I’m an asshole for wanting to make sure it’s fitting?”
“What are you so worried about?” You raise your voice, “you’re twenty-one years old, it’s college, it’s not like you have a reputation to uphold, no one cares. You play football, big fuckin’ deal.”
Mingi gasps, insulted, “Big deal? Big deal? It’s my entire future, thank you very much.”
“You won’t have a future if you treat women like they’re your little playthings,” you snap, voice bitter, “is the NFL gonna draft a misogynist?” You smack your lips, eyes meeting the floor, regretting the words as soon as you said them. The NFL would in fact draft a misogynist. Plenty of them, actually.
“Why do you even care? We just have to show face a few times,” Mingi responds, voice bored yet again, “you don’t have to like me, I don’t have to like you. I just want her.”
Rage bubbles up inside you again as Wooyoung crosses your mind. It would feel really, really good to hurt him after he hurt you. And Mingi’s right, you guess, you don’t have to get to know him, or speak to him ever again after this. You could look past the flaws you were sure ran deep if it was just temporary. Situational.
You look up, brows flat, mumbling the reiteration, “A few times.”
Jongho is nodding, smile growing as his eyes bounce between you, whispering, “Yes, friendly, this is good, this is good.”
You face Mingi from across the couch, holding up a flat hand, curling a finger into your palm with each rule, “We don’t speak to each other outside of pre-scheduled meetings, we only act like a couple when there’s people watching, and do not fucking touch me.”
“Don’t touch you?” Mingi pops a brow, “people won’t believe we’re a couple. How am I gonna prove to her I’m boyfriend-worthy if I can’t show off my boyfriend skills?”
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, looking away, “you’re right. Wooyoung won’t be jealous if you don’t make him jealous.”
“Exactly,” Mingi’s brows raise, pleased, dimples out to play as his lips thin in a tight smile. “I don’t want to touch you as much as you don’t want to touch me, trust.”
Your head snaps up to shoot him another pointed stare, grumbling under your breath, “Asshole.”
Mingi’s smile morphs into a nasty little smirk, “Your asshole now, baby.” You give him an unimpressed, blank stare and his smirk falters as what he said sinks in. Sheepishly, he mumbles, “Sounded better in my head.”
“Like you actually think before you speak,” you snap, rolling your eyes, bringing your attention back to Jongho who looks like if he breathes wrong his entire plan will go in the shitter. “I’ll figure out where Woo will be next, you can tell Mingi and plan out when we’re meeting and where, whatever. Keeping this very much so in your hands, Ho.”
“Good,” you nod, then glance back at Mingi, “don’t embarrass me by saying stupid shit around people, ‘kay?”
Mingi cocks his head to the side wearing the biggest smile, “Don’t embarrass me by wearing that outfit in public again, ‘kay?”
FIRST OUTING: SOFT LAUNCH, THE LAX HOUSE. 11:20 PM.
“How the hell did you get Song Mingi to be your boyfriend?” Riyo is on your hip, bright red hair in a single braid down her back, denim booty-shorts hugging her hips, a cropped, tight bandeau top covering her chest. You suppose for where you went to school that was the uniform, something you quickly realized weeks into your freshman year, clothes were optional here.
You scoff, walking in-step with her, grass from the lawn of the LAX house sneaking around the edges of your flip-flop covered feet. “What’s that supposed to mean, huh?”
She giggles, a step ahead of you as she walks up the front stairs, “It’s weird, you have no correlation to the football team. Where did you even meet him?”
“On campus,” your voice is high-pitched, certainly not convincing. You clear your throat, “I mean, I applied to be a part of the football team’s academics unit, I just got in, like, a month ago.”
Riyo pauses at the door, a hand on her hip, eyebrows furrowed, “The fuck? And you just didn’t tell me that you,” she counts on her fingers, “applied, got accepted, and started?”
“It’s not a big deal,” you shrug, nervously laughing to cover up the so fucking obvious lie, “I’m just helping them study, Mingi and I.. clicked.”
God, the words feel sour. So unconvincing you could vomit– and he’s inside, waiting for you, you could really fucking empty your guts on the LAX house’s porch. It’s already cluttered with lacrosse sticks, solo cups, backpacks, containers of white balls you can only assume are used in the game, your vomit would probably go unnoticed. Or washed away by beer, maybe your tears by the end of the night.
You don’t know why you agreed to this, it was a moment of weakness. Of rage. Wanting revenge. Because behind the stained, scratched white door, was the entire lacrosse team, the entire football team, God knows who the fuck else if Riyo’s here. You could hear the music bleeding through the walls, something with heavy bass, something rap, something you might know if you opened the door.
Jongho texted you yesterday that Mingi asked for you to make your first appearance here, he said it was the perfect spot, that Wooyoung and Winter might even be here. As much as you were regretting your decision, you hoped he was here. You want to see the look on his face when he spots you at Mingi’s side, when word spreads that you’re dating him, you want to watch his face morph into confusion, into regret, hopefully something lustful that you could use to your advantage.
“That’s gotta go in, like, the top five most insane things to ever happen on this campus,” Riyo wears a supportive smile, yet her head still shakes in disbelief, “I’m happy for you, though. Actually, I think you kinda suit each other.”
You fight the cringe, that was an insult. You smile instead, already hating the words about to come out of your mouth, “Let’s go inside, I wanna see him.”
You’ve been here before, you frequented the LAX house plenty freshman year, a lot less sophomore year after your fling with Kim Mingyu, you haven’t been here once yet this year. It hasn’t changed, medium-sized house, open floor plan, giant kitchen, silver appliances. The furniture was dull, broken in, old, thrifted. It’s nostalgic, being here, these people, you barely see the lacrosse team on campus, you know a few of them from your times here as a freshman, mornings escaping after a night with Mingyu, you don’t know anyone well enough to be considered a friend.
Riyo is immediately squealing upon walking inside, hugging girls you only know the first names of, you smile in greeting from behind her. Jia, another girl from your study group that you’re close with, approaches with the same squeal Riyo had unleashed on the room, her dark hair styled in waves behind her back, deep, golden-olive skin glowing beneath the barely-there lights in the room.
Her eyes nearly bulge out of her head when she sees you, “Hello? Shut the fuck up?”
“Hey baby,” your tongue sneaks out between your teeth and she squeals again, throwing her arms over your shoulders in a tight hug. Swaying you side to side, she’s a giggling mess, sandal-covered feet tapping against the floor.
“I haven’t seen you here since last year!” She yells, grin spread wide, showing her dazzling white teeth you couldn’t believe shone so bright in a room this dark.
You shrug, smiling, “I have good reason.”
“She’s seeing her boyfriend,” Riyo teases, nudging you with her shoulder, smiling like a fucking crazy person. Leaning in close to Jia, her voice is still loud, even if she was trying to be secretive, “Song Mingi.”
Jia looks like nothing in the world makes sense, and she’s been transported to another dimension. “I saw you two nights ago, babe, and there was not one mention of a boyfriend, most certainly not a word about Song Mingi.”
“We’re not being, like, super public about it,” you shake your head, cheeks burning, “it’s chill guys, seriously, don’t make a huge deal about it, he’s not a celebrity.”
“Closest we’ll ever get to one, plus, last I heard you were still fucking Wooyoung,” the look on Jia’s face hasn’t left, and God you wish you thought out a better plan with Mingi before you left the football house the other day, you’re scrambling for a story.
“Ew, why are you talking about him?”
Speak of the fucking devil– a shiver racks down your now rigid spine, you fix your eyes that involuntarily widened. Jia and Riyo watch with dropped jaws as Mingi slides an arm over your shoulder, an easygoing smile on his face, looking at you so fucking fondly it makes your heart skip a beat. Fuck him for being so damn beautiful.
Dark shirt clinging to his torso, showing off every fucking muscle that was etched into his skin beneath it, his hair was styled, purposely messy how it hung over the sides of his head where it was shorter, faded into his skin. Baggy jeans on his legs, low enough to show the Calvins under them, he wore a skinny, silver chain around his neck, one to match on his wrist, with pretty, bulky rings on his fingers.
This is so fucking unfortunate– he’s beautiful and he sucks, you hate him, his personality, the misogyny he so easily wields as a weapon, it makes you sick. He doesn’t deserve a perfect face and an even more perfect body. Fuck him.
“We were talking about you,” you force a smile on your lips, turning back to Jia and Riyo as your stiff body leans into Mingi’s huge one, so stiff and broad and muscled you tried to not pay too much attention to it. “Of course you missed it.”
“Start again,” his smile is cheesy, so fucking cheesy you want to slap it off his face. “I wanna hear all the cute things my baby said about me.”
Spit lodges in your throat that constricts around nothing, you choke. Coughing, you pull away from his grip, turning around, smacking your chest with a fist, eyes tearing– he did not just call you baby unironically.
He leans in close, feigning concern, “Are you okay?”
Your other hand flies up, back still facing him, “Fine– fuck.”
Gathering yourself, you turn back around, plastering a smile onto your face. Bidding a wave to the two girls, through gritted teeth, you ask him in a false, sweet voice, “Don’t you have people to introduce me to?”
He quirks a brow, but nods, slinging his arm over your shoulder again as he guides you away from your group of friends. Voice low, keeping himself tight to your ear, he asks, “What the fuck was that?”
“Do not ever call me baby again,” you keep your smile, but your voice is venomous, “that was fucking disgusting.”
“You think I enjoyed it?” He whispers back, voice pitched sharply, “It’s kinda part of boyfriendism, no? Pet names and shit?”
You’re wading through the crowd, Mingi shooting smiles and dapping up tens of people you don’t know, mainly men, all beefy and drunk and eyes dilated like they just railed lines in the kitchen. You shift your shoulders under his heavy ass arm, “Jesus, Mingi, I’m not a fucking ledge for you to put your whole weight on, big ass.”
He grins as he looks down at you, wiggling his brows, “You think my ass is big?”
You roll your eyes, “I don’t think I’m gonna survive you.”
“You won’t believe how many times I’ve heard that line,” his grin is proud, he’s not even looking at you as he says it, eyes focused on the people in front of him, in the hallway where a large table is set up, holding a messy game of beer pong. Water beneath the table, a shallow film on top of the painted surface, swirls of brown covering your school’s logo shittily lined in black, gross.
You don’t have time to scoff– you know these guys, Jeno, Chris, Kai, Haechan, Soobin, Changbin. All on the football team, all huge, you’re already vibrating, body stiffening under Mingi’s arm that’s so casually thrown over your shoulders, heavy and thick. Suffocating.
You wish you could be meeting them under different circumstances. You’re tainted now, if they even cared about boy-code, which they might not usually, but you wondered if Mingi pulled rank with them, or if girlfriends were off limits compared to casual lays. Your answer is quickly delivered to you on a silver platter as Jeno eyes you from across the table, hip to hip with Chris who does the same, eyes sliding down your body and back up like they were sizing you up, waiting to pounce.
Your posture changes, subtle, but your arms uncurl from in front of you, back arching slightly, eyes drooping into that pretty, low stare that did Wooyoung in when you first met him. A small smile on your lips, you tilt your head away from Mingi while he introduces you– as his girlfriend. Right. You lock back in, blinking into focus, smiling and nodding to each man that introduces himself like you didn’t already know all of their names and their positions.
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Changbin has one palm planted on the painted table, clearly he didn’t care about the murky water, one of his hands palms a can of beer close to his chest, “you were crying over what’s-her-face two minutes ago.”
Mingi makes a face, head nodding towards you with his eyebrows raised like he was silently telling Changbin to shut the fuck up, like you weren’t supposed to hear that, as if you didn’t know already. He’s playing it up, smart.
“Nice to meet you,” Chris grins from the other side of the table, his voice warm, smile pretty, it makes you feel fuzzy inside. You can’t wait to fake-break-up with Mingi. “Your boyfriend didn’t get you a drink yet?”
“Was waiting for one of you to do it for me,” Mingi juts his chin out in Kai’s direction and he nods, eyes wide as he receives the order, and he scrambles. Like, literally scrambles. Nonchalantly you nudge your elbow into Mingi’s ribs, silently telling him to stop being an asshole.
Hiding his hiss in a forced laugh, he steals his arm back from around your shoulders, hiding his formerly exposed ribs, “You should have one hand-delivered to you, ba– sweetheart.”
God, you can feel the bile churning in your gut. You fix your face before it morphs into full disgust.
“How did you two meet?” Haechan asks, his voice whiney– you were not expecting that from his bulky build, broad and toned, so hot. His cherry-red hair is a mess of curls atop his head, skin bronzy under the far light dimming the hallway, allowing them to see the game, you presume.
“The library.”
“On campus.”
You and Mingi respond at the same time, then look at each other, eyes panic-stricken at the fumble. You couldn’t repeat your lie from earlier, they would know you aren't a part of their study team, all you could think was on campus, a generic answer.
You stutter, “The– The library.”
“The one that’s on campus,” Mingi nods, assured.
“Why the fuck were you at the library?” Soobin asks, leaned up against the wall of the hallway, dark brows furrowed, two hands around his can of beer. Valid question, your heart picks up speed in your chest, you weren’t expecting them to pry.
“Studying,” Mingi responds nonchalantly, his voice high, shoulders shrugging.
“Extra tutoring,” you add, “on top of what you guys have, yeah. One of the girls on your academics team told me Mingi needed extra help and volunteered me because our schedules lined up.”
“Exactly,” Mingi nods, lips pursed in an attempt to be more convincing, “love at first sight type shit.”
You tuck your lips between your teeth to hide your smile, smothering the snort that fights to climb to the surface, redirecting your gaze to the floor beneath you. You can’t wait to make fun of him for that line later.
“Right,” Changbin’s brows are tied together, dark hair sprawled across his forehead, almost hiding his skepticism. He redirects his attention to Jeno, the silver-haired hunk of a man beside him, Chris splitting the three. Tilting his chin up, he asks, “Keep playing?”
Mingi’s lips tighten, turning to you again, “Should we go find where Kai is?”
“Sure,” you sigh, flipping your hair off your now slightly sticky shoulders, “I could use a drink.” One of his hands slides to your lower back, guiding you away, and you realize then that he doesn’t have a drink– moving in-step towards the kitchen, you ask, “You’re not drinking?”
“No, not tonight,” his voice is monotonous, he doesn’t look down, keeps his eyes ahead. “Need a clear mind if I’m gonna lie to a hundred people.”
“It’s hot in here,” you complain, face crunching to cringe, it’s humid for November, even for where you live.
“I can tell, you’re sweating all over me, bro,” he responds, voice dripping in boredom, pressing his hand to your back a little harder instead of removing it from your body altogether. “Gross.”
“Then take your hand off me, bro,” you huff, turning the corner, the kitchen coming into view. Surprising high ceilings, white cabinets, silver appliances, marble countertops, probably the nicest room in the whole house, you wondered if there was still a hole in the back door from that one night Hoshi got a little too drunk. You sneer, “You probably smell like a wet dog after practice.”
You spot a few members of the lacrosse team in the corner, standing in front of the back door, a black mesh screen severing the house from the backyard, letting cool air from outside in. Joshua, Wonwoo, Seungkwan, a joint lit in Seungkwan’s mouth, the youngest of the three, a sophomore. Guess they really chilled out during their off-season, no worries about a drug test in their future. Good for them.
“I smell like a beautiful woman after practice,” Mingi scoffs, guiding you in front of him with his palm, hands gliding up to sit on your shoulders, pushing you through people that parted at the sight of him. You keep a tight-lipped smile on your face, giving a small nod each time you make eye contact with someone new. He leans down into your ear, “You’d probably like it, you’re the gross one. Pheremone-lover.”
“Keep your androstenone away from me,” you answer with disgust in your voice, without changing your face an inch, “you probably don’t even know what that is.”
“Guilty as charged, smart girl,” he catches Kai’s head of blonde hair over the crowd, the two men probably the tallest in the entire kitchen. “Huening!” Mingi yells, stealing Kai’s attention, he wears a wide, excited grin, holding two cans of beer over his head like he’d discovered the One Piece.
“I got beer!” He yells across the kitchen, immediately wading through people to get to you and Mingi. A freshman, you think, also on the offensive line, Jongho’s told you about him– a smart kid with great instincts for football, uses his build to his advantage. Innocent, ignorant like a child, a little stupid, he’s cute. Chubby cheeks, a kind smile, your already heated skin rises in temperature as he approaches, opening your can for you.
You introduce yourself properly, thanking him for the beer, “How’s your first year on the team?”
Mingi’s head snaps down to look at you, brows tied together in surprise.
Kai grins, blushing immediately, running a hand through his blonde hair, “Great, thanks for asking, the guys are really cool, Coach is terrifying lowkey, but he’s cool, too.”
You giggle, head tilting, “I’ve heard that, he’s famous though, right? Coach Suh?”
“Yeah, he’s like, renowned in the football world,” Kai babbles on, the two of you erupting into easy conversation, all while Mingi’s head bobs back and forth, watching, listening, his confusion growing with each new word that falls from your lips.
He can’t help but interject, “Since when do you know so much about the team?”
Your giggle slows to a stop, smile faltering, “What do you mean? I’ve always known, this is a D1 school, silly.”
Silly is synonymous with stupid fuck, he can feel it in how your pointed eyes stare into him.
“She couldn’t be your girlfriend if she didn’t know football, Song,” Kai adds, so innocent, so easygoing, oh my God you love him.
Mingi nods like he was the one who reminded himself you were his girlfriend, not Kai, forcing a laugh out, more punched and nervous than anything. “Right, yeah, yeah.”
Your blood runs cold as you catch a head of recognizable black hair around Kai’s ridiculously huge bicep, bronzy skin, a cloud of smoke surrounding him like it was his brand, his aura. Your eyes widen, head swerving around Kai’s arm to get a better look, taking in his leather jacket, the rings on his fingers, the cigarette dangling between his teeth as he smiles, Corona in one of his hands.
“Nice meeting you, Kai,” you don’t even look at the boy, grabbing onto Mingi’s arm, dragging him sideways, away from Kai’s earshot. “He’s here, he’s here, he’s here.”
“Who? Who?”
“Who do you think, dumbass?” You spit, chin pointing in Wooyoung’s direction, “The only man who’s more of an asshole than you.”
“Oh my God, she’s with him,” a hand comes up to cover Mingi’s mouth, his brown eyes wide, excitement gleaming in chocolate, drawing them hazel. Beside Wooyoung is Winter, long, dark hair pinned up halfway, a short, black skirt on her hips, halter top tugging her upper half just right. He lowers his voice, “Fuck, she’s so hot.”
“Pause,” you turn to him as the realization sinks in– he wants Winter? Winter is the girl you’re helping him get? Kim Minjeong? “You want Winter?!”
“Yes,” he groans out, head tilting back, a whine to his voice like he was four years old and you just took away his favorite toy. “She’s perfect, dude. Like, perfection in a human, I love her, I think.”
“What the fuck?” Completely baffled, you shake your head in disbelief at how perfect this is lined up. You don’t know how you didn’t put it together sooner, you didn’t once think about who Mingi wants, who the girl might be. You didn’t really care. “This is good, this works in our favor, this is perfect, actually,” you’re rambling as you turn around, watching Wooyoung and Winter across the room, how Wooyoung introduces her to the lacrosse trio at the backdoor, how he pulls his cigarette from his lips to press them to her cheek in a short kiss.
“Ew, he’s touching her, that’s my wife,” Mingi props his forearm on your shoulder, you immediately shake yourself out of his grip, eyes never leaving them, laser-focused. He whines, “Comfort me, I’m heartbroken. He’s touching her, bro.”
“They’re together, what do you expect?” You whisper-yell, twisting around to get him out of your personal space. “How can we get their attention? We need them to see us together, being coupled up and shit.”
“I’m boys with Shua and Wonwoo, we can go over there,” Mingi suggests, finally looking at you, and the excited gleam in his eye was now dulled down to desperation, a sadness only caused by yearning. If he wasn’t such an asshole, you might feel bad for him.
You nod, “Good idea, let’s do it. Let’s go, come on, football boy.”
With his hands on your shoulders again, you guzzle the beer in your hands as you cross the kitchen, eyes screwing shut as the spicy carbonation burns your throat. Beer is so fucking gross, at least it’s cold, it gets the job done– you burp before you approach them, a closed fist covering your mouth in an attempt to hide the noise.
“Ew!” Mingi gasps from behind you, “Did you just burp? You’re disgusting, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Shut up,” you spit, “I couldn’t help it, and they’ll hear you, go back to boyfriendism and make it believable.”
“You want me to put on a show?” You can hear the amusement in his voice, the wiggle of his stupid thick brows.
“I do, actually,” you answer with a defeated sigh, “do your worst.”
Approaching the lacrosse trio, Wooyoung and Winter, Mingi throws his arms fully around your front, tucking your back into his chest, his chin sitting on the top of your head. In an obnoxious yell, he makes his presence known, “Hey guys, how we doin’ tonight?”
Ew. One of your hands wraps around his forearm glued to your chest, a wide grin on your cheeks, your head leaned up against one of his biceps that boxes you into his hold, “Hey guys.”
“Song!” Joshua yells, smile widening, lighting up his whole face, “I was hoping you’d show tonight.”
Wooyoung’s smile drops when he sees you, you meet his eyes immediately, your fake grin turning real. Yes, be mad, be so angry you flip the fuck out.
“Of course I’d show,” there’s so much confidence in Mingi’s voice it’s nauseating, “had to introduce my girl to all my people, do you guys know her?”
With a coy smile, you introduce yourself as Mingi’s girlfriend, head leaning into his chest impossibly further, forcing a stupid, lovestruck look on your face, you prayed it was believable.
Joshua nods, as does Wonwoo, both recognizing you from all the times you’ve been here, probably also your fling with Mingyu. The two lacrosse boys greet you kindly, where Seungkwan introduces himself, newer to the team, to those who party in their house.
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Wonwoo’s brows furrowed, “the campus isn’t burned down, I’m confused.”
You and Mingi both laugh, but Mingi says, “I don’t think word has spread yet, don’t worry, expect the heat soon.”
“It’s hot enough,” you add, rolling your eyes, “your fangirls will be just fine, there won’t be a fire.”
“You have no idea,” Joshua snorts, “I remember one girl having to deactivate her Instagram account because word got out you were sleeping with her, remember that, Min?”
“Let’s not talk about the past in front of my girlfriend,” Mingi’s voice slips into something strict, “it’s disrespectful, Shua.”
You stiffen in his arms, that’s oddly kind, it makes your situation more believable. You briefly wonder how Mingi is with his girlfriends, if there’s any form of chivalry in his cold, chauvinist heart.
Joshua snorts, shaking his head, “‘m sorry, you’re right, my bad.” His pretty brown eyes fall to meet yours and you melt into Mingi all over again, “Blame the weed, sweetheart, my social awareness has depleted to zero.”
“It’s okay,” you smile softly, liking the word as it falls from Joshua’s plump, wet lips, eyes wandering back over to Wooyoung who’s still staring, lips slightly parted, the cherry on his cigarette so long it’d fall soon. You avert your eyes to it, cocky amusement in your tone, “Planning to start the fire yourself?”
His eyes find his cigarette and he jumps into action, twisting around to flick it in the ashtray behind him, sitting full on the corner of the kitchen island. Your eyes find Winter who’s eyes are staring up at Mingi, looking at him the same way Wooyoung was looking at you.
Your smile turns devious– it’s fucking working. You knew it would, but it’s still surprising, how stupid could these two be? Maybe they deserve each other. You remind yourself that Mingi’s stupid, too– maybe they could explore polyamory together.
“Preseason start yet?” Mingi asks, either unaware of Winter’s eyes or he’s playing his cards right, the three lacrosse boys erupt into conversation, complaining about their coach, their training, the program they go through in the fall season to ensure they’re in shape come Spring.
Wooyoung leans into Winter, a hand around her waist, pulling her into him to whisper something in her ear. It’s like she’s forced back into reality, how her hand lays over his chest, giggling at whatever he said. Gross. You could probably bet money on what nasty shit he just whispered in her ear, dirty talk so smooth it used to make you go weak in the knees, clinging to him like a moth to a flame, how she arched into him you assumed he probably asked to pull her into the bathroom. A move you’d fallen victim to plenty of times yourself.
Jealousy stems in your gut, anger pushing blood through your veins, you look up to Mingi, batting your lashes. You could do it, too. His eyes meet yours and blink into focus, into realization, you watch as his brows ever so slightly knit together, so slight it could go unnoticed, you’re sure you wouldn’t have if you weren’t so close.
A smirk creeps onto his cheeks, voice velvety and smooth, “I know what you want.” Thank God. “Excuse us,” Mingi winks at the lacrosse boys who start snickering upon the words leaving his mouth, “what the princess wants, she gets.”
You catch Wooyoung’s eye, his head whipping around Winter’s, a flicker of surprise. Winter turns too, eyes on Mingi’s biceps around your head, sinking down his build, you hope she’s thinking about fucking him. You hope Wooyoung’s thinking about all the things you’re about to fake-do to Mingi.
You wave as Mingi turns you around, voice light, “Nice to meet you, Seungkwan.”
A few steps away, his biceps flex around your head to get your attention, “Nice move, smart girl.”
You giggle to yourself in victory, bringing your beer up to your lips, “I do have to pee, though, we have to actually go to the bathroom.”
“There’s one at the end of the hallway,” he pulls his arms from around your head to sink down to your hips, his fingers curling through the loops of your denim shorts, guiding you where to go like you’ve never been here before.
Does he think you’re a LAX house newb? You run a hand through your hair, “And there’s two upstairs, one connected to Mingyu and Cheol’s room, another between Dino and Hoshi’s rooms.”
“Look at you, flexing how many bathrooms you’ve gotten laid in.”
“Only the one connected to Mingyu’s room, he’s huge, you can’t blame me.”
“Disrespectful,” he snickers, smacking his teeth, winking at his teammates he passes by in the hallway, you give them all a feigned, bashful smile. “Telling your boyfriend who you’ve slept with.”
“You don’t want to know who I’ve slept with,” you stop in front of the bathroom door, twisting the knob carefully, and thankfully, it opens. You rush inside and Mingi follows, closing the door behind him, locking it. You stare at him with furrowed brows, “What the hell are you doing?”
“We’re supposed to be fucking, remember?” His brows raise, hands landing on his hips, his face falling into the usual disgust. You didn’t have to pretend in here.
You groan, head tipping back, “I have to pee.”
“Then pee!” A hand flies out from his side, five fingers pointing to the toilet, “I’m not stopping you, there’s a toilet right there.”
“What are you gonna do, watch?”
“Are you offering?”
“Fuck you, you’re disgusting,” you spit, a revolted chill making you shiver, he laughs like it’s funny. The weight in your bladder is clear, you whine, shoving your beer into his chest, “I can’t pee if you’re in here, I’m pee-shy.”
“Do you want me to sing? Do a little dance for you?”
You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, “Actually, yeah.”
His amused smile drops, “Deadass?”
“You offered,” you shrug, “turn around, do a lil’ dance for me, football boy.”
His face morphs into regret, but he turns around, facing the shower, he takes a sip of your beer before he clears his throat, spreading his legs for comfort, his other hand finding his front pocket.
“...Seventeen-thirty-eight… Ay… I’m like hey, whatsup, hello…”
You burst out laughing, hand covering your mouth, the weight in your bladder growing excruciatingly heavy, “Fuck, I’m gonna piss my pants.”
Flipping the lid, you shove your shorts down, squatting over the gross toilet, Mingi keeps fucking singing. You’re laughing as you pee, snorting, holding onto the bathroom counter for dear life until tears cloud your vision, he’s purposely singing badly, sounding insane, he has no shame. You suppose neither do you, peeing in the same room as Song Mingi, for a second you forget who he is.
Starting quarterback for your university’s football team, he’s a known figure, important. The face of sports for your school, everyone knows his name, everyone wants him– and he’s with you, singing fucking Trap Queen in the LAX house bathroom so you can successfully empty your bladder.
Wiping, flushing, he turns around as you finish buttoning your shorts again, his voice filled with amusement. “How was that? Should I switch careers, or what?”
“Stick to football,” you mutter, then snort again as you side-step to the sink, turning the water on to wash your hands. “Also, love at first sight? We need to work on your lying skills, and your vocabulary.”
“I thought it was cute!” He defends himself, setting your beer down beside you on the countertop, “People ask too many questions, I wasn’t expecting to make up a full-fledged story every time I opened my mouth tonight.”
“You forget who you are,” you eye him through the mirror, “I wasn’t prepared, either. But enough people know now, word will spread on its own. When can we stop? Like, break up?”
“Damn, one night with me and you already want to break up?” He clutches his heart in hurt, then grins, the tip of his back leaning up against the wall, hips blocking the pole that holds the hand-towels. “Soon, though. Did you see how she was looking at me?”
You turn around, shaking your hands out on either side of you to air-dry since he’s unknowingly hiding the damn towels, clutching the countertop to haul your ass onto it, beside the sink. “Of course I saw, I also saw how you didn’t even spare her a glance.”
He smirks, wiggling his brows, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or whatever the fuck.”
Your face morphs into confusion, “I don’t think you can use that saying here.”
“Whatever,” he scoffs, “you know what I mean. Jongho told me girls want what they can’t have, so I’m trying to make myself look very unavailable. It seemed to be working, right?”
“Yeah, she seemed into it,” you shrug, “you think Wooyoung looked pissed?”
“I don’t think he puffed that disgusting cigarette once,” Mingi gives you an impressed look, “his jaw was too busy mopping the floor.”
You giggle at that, legs swaying back and forth where they hung off the counter. Tilting your head, you wonder out loud, “I think three-ish weeks max should be enough, what do you think? If they’re showing interest now, it shouldn’t take much longer.”
He groans, “I have to endure you for three more weeks?”
“Don’t act like you aren’t having fun,” you bite back, “I’m the one who has to endure you.”
“You weren’t complaining when I was holding onto you, smushing your cheeks with my arms, girls would fight to be in your position. Your back was probably getting my shirt wet, you know, sweaty ass.”
Your jaw drops, offended, “It’s fucking hot!” Throwing yourself off the counter, feet hitting the floor with a smack, your hand flies for the doorknob, “I’ve had enough of you, actually. We’ve done plenty of damage for one night, the rest should fall in place.”
“I got it,” he turns off the bathroom light, closing the door behind him, his hand immediately going for your lower back.
“There’s no one in the hallway,” you reach back to shove his hand off you, “don’t touch me, pervert.”
“I just fucked you, and now I can’t put my hand on your sweaty ass back?”
“You didn’t even make me cum, so no.”
He laughs, a genuine belly laugh, straight from his gut, “Don’t talk shit when you have no fucking idea the things I can do.”
Under other circumstances, in another life, if he wasn’t Song Mingi, you’d love to find out. You don’t answer, cheeks flaming, ears tipping with heat, you’re forgetting yourself, a few days without consistent sex and now your stomach is dropping from words said by him? Out of all people?
You walk a little faster, aiming for your escape. At the end of the hallway, you turn your head halfway, “I’m leaving.”
He pauses in the archway, brows furrowed, voice clearly disappointed, “So soon?”
Swallowing, you nod, “I have class early tomorrow, I’ll let Jongho know what the next outing is, kay?”
SECOND OUTING: LUCENT, TWO DAYS LATER. 12:24 PM
xxx-xxx-xxxx: come to lucent
xxx-xxx-xxxx: they’re here
you: the fuck
you: who is this
xxx-xxx-xxxx: arent u the smart one bro
xxx-xxx-xxxx: its mingi
you: lose my number
xxx-xxx-xxxx: bruh
xxx-xxx-xxxx: wooyoung and winter are here can u come
you: oh
you: i get out of class in 15
xxx-xxx-xxxx: i cant be here long
xxx-xxx-xxxx: theyll start to ask questions
you: mad ominous. who is they
you: ill leave early tho
The air is thick, humidity wrapping around your body like a blanket, so hot you tug your sweatshirt off your body upon leaving the lecture hall, leaving you in a thin-strapped tank, shorts on your legs, backpack slung over one shoulder. Headphones in your ears, the trek to Lucent is quick even if by the time you make it to the glass double-doors you’re sweating like a whore in church.
It’s air-conditioned, at least, battling the floor to ceiling windows that begged to let the heat inside, bright, white light invading the room, a perpetrator. It helped you find Mingi easy enough, not that you had to search, eight men squished into one booth had you snorting at the entrance.
Approaching the table, you put on your best girlfriend-smile before you even spotted Mingi. At the edge of the booth, dressed casually, much like how he looked the day you met him, he wore sweatpants and a cut-off tee, dark hair messy and sprawled across his face like he didn’t bother styling it. Heaving a breath from rushing over, you tucked your hair behind your ear, “Hey, sorry I’m late.”
He looked you up and down before meeting your eye, a smile spreading across his cheeks, “Hey, princess.”
Your nostrils flared, lips tightening in a fight to not morph into disgust, you guess that was the nickname that stuck. Searching the rest of the table, you find seven men smiling back at you, Jaemin, Taehyun, Sunghoon, Heeseung, Seungmin, Beomgyu and… Jongho. Your eyes widen, smile dropping, hands falling to your sides, words rushing from your lips, “I didn’t know you were here.”
The others turn to Jongho, who looks scared, eyes wide and lips pursed like he didn’t know what the fuck to do. He forces a smile, a nervous chuckle, “I didn’t know I’d be coming here.” His eyes cross the room, leading you to the back corner of the establishment, where Wooyoung sat on one of the comfy chairs, legs stretched out to rest on the small table in front of him, Winter perched on his lap.
You swallow, ice prickling at your scalp. You never went anywhere public with him, even at fucking Eonian, his favorite stupid dive bar, the only time you interacted was either in the bathroom, or if he was drunk enough to address you in front of other people. Your jaw clenches for a split second, fists forming at your sides before you remember where you are, who’s watching.
“Do you want anything to drink?” It’s Mingi who pulls you back up to earth, half your body already in the depths of hell from what you were mentally planning to do to Jung Wooyoung.
Plastering that same, stupid fake-smile back on your lips, you realize you’re still standing, and the booth is clearly full. The boys are nearly on top of each other, large bodies pressed together by their shoulders and thighs, you refuse his question, instead asking, “Should I pull up a chair?”
Mingi’s lips warp into a small smirk as he leans back in the booth, two hands sliding down his thighs before he slaps them twice, “Here’s your chair.”
Your smile tightens, lips flat, eyes scrunched to hide the twitch. “Of course,” there’s nothing but sarcasm in your tone, enough for Mingi to notice, more than enough for Jongho to notice, but hopefully not the others.
Pulling your backpack from your shoulder, you set it on the floor beside the booth, resting your headphones and hoodie on top. Carefully, slowly, hesitantly, you slide a leg between Mingi’s body and the table splitting the seats, trying not to cringe as you sit on the edge of his thigh. In the back of his throat he makes a strained, tight noise, one low enough for only you to hear, it makes your head snap to look at him, eyes pointed and lips thinned.
He’s just smiling, fully amused by your reaction. You wish you could speak telepathically, call him a fucking asshole for pretending you’re heavy when he lifts six days a fucking week.
His arms wrap around you, settling on your thighs, you’re too aware of the silence at the table as he shifts you farther back, in a more comfortable position– if a comfortable position actually exists on Song Mingi’s lap.
“Are you guys between classes?” You turn to the table, smile back on your cheeks, hands in your lap, “I never see you here.”
“Why are we here?” Taehyun leaned forward, dark brows that matched his hair furrowed, plump lips scrunched in question. He’s a DB, if your memory serves, on the smaller side but fucking strong.
Heeseung, from across the table, replies simply, “Mingi wanted to come.”
The table’s eyes lead to the six-foot moron behind you. You can feel him shrug, voice casual like he didn’t care that this is clearly weird, “Was feeling coffee.”
“We’ve never been here before,” Jaemin comments, or argues, you think. He sips his water bottle, no coffee on the table before him, lean build with a wide upper body, he’s fucking gorgeous. He catches your eye, flashing you a smile held in his eyes, you have to look down at the table to stop yourself from asking for his number.
“We come here all the time,” Jongho adds, your head picks up to see something playful in his eyes, lips upcurved slightly, “probably wanted to see your girlfriend’s hangout spot, right, Min?”
It’s then that you realize Jongho arranged this, Jongho knew Wooyoung was here, but why wasn’t Jongho the one to text you? Your eye twitches remembering Mingi now has your number.
He’s having too much fun chuckling from behind you, knees bouncing, making your whole body shift. His voice is coated in rock-hard candy, “Of course I wanted to see the coffee shop my girlfriend loves so much.”
Your lips tighten again, embarrassed. You’re embarrassed. He’s embarrassing you right now, and it’s on purpose.
“You’re so sweet,” you turn your head halfway, shoulders lifted into your cheeks, forcing a cheeriness to your voice that makes Jongho snort from across the table, “I’m so lucky.”
It renders Mingi’s face flat, unimpressed, he reaches forward and grabs the half-filled plastic cup filled with what looks like watered down shit, bringing it up to take a sip. Your brow pops, “Are you drinking espresso water?”
The table erupts in laughter and your head turns, brows fully furrowing at the commotion, “What?”
“Have you ever heard of an americano, du–” Mingi stops himself mid-insult, lips snapping shut.
Your top lip curls, but instead of reacting your head turns to the table again, seven fucking football players staring at you like you’re an alien, “What the fuck is an americano?”
They all laugh again, slapping each other’s chests like it was the funniest thing they’ve ever heard and unfortunately it makes you laugh with them, a nervous-confused combination of a breathy giggle, their laughter too contagious for you to not join.
Mingi holds the cup up to your mouth, making you flinch as the straw approaches your lips. He smacks his teeth, “It’s espresso diluted by water, try it, it’s good.”
Your eyes flicker up to his, and he’s not laughing, not smiling. His brows are lifted with the offer, lips slightly pouted, he looks genuine. Reluctantly you lean forward, lips wrapping around the straw, taking a sip– and it tastes exactly how it looks.
Face scrunching up in disgust, you shake your head twice, “This is why god created cream and sugar.”
That makes him laugh, a smile curving his lips, he takes another sip right after you. An indirect kiss, the immature part of your brain realizes, you wonder how many women on your campus would kill to have exactly that with Song Mingi. How many women would die to sit exactly where you sat; to feel the sheer strength of his thighs beneath them, arms brushing his chest with each movement, his biceps stretched out on either side of them.
The thought is fleeting as you hear the table laugh again, this time it startles you, jumping slightly on Mingi’s lap out of surprise. His other arm wraps around you a little tighter, your movement startling him, you quickly mumble, “My bad.”
“You’re funny,” Seungmin notes from across the booth, as you look at him you realize he’s talking to you. He’s cute, mousy face, maybe more like a hamster, or a puppy– his eyes are soft and his smile is kind, it takes the edge off his attention on you. His eyes slide to Mingi behind you, “How did you guys meet again?”
“We met here,” Mingi responds casually and your lips tighten again, the lie spins once more. He keeps going, completely theatric, “She bought me coffee because she tripped me outside the cafe.”
You gasp, brows furrowing, head twisting behind you to scold him, “That did not happen!”
His eyes are playful, smile menacing, “Oh, yes it did, we cannot have this argument again, princess.”
Your tongue pokes your cheek, following now. Fine, let’s play. Straightening your back, you respond, “It’s not my fault you tripped over your feet, I just happened to be there. You blamed it on me and threatened to call campus security if I didn’t buy you a coffee.”
Mingi shrugs, “It got me a free coffee and a girlfriend, didn’t it? Well-played, if you ask me.”
Your smile grows, shaking your head in disbelief, at the story he created, how smooth he’s playing it. Fuck him. “You’re such an asshole,” you mutter with a small laugh, “I guess it did.”
Turning to the table, they all seem so locked in you almost forget you told five or six of his other teammates a completely different story. You suppose D1 football players won’t be gossiping about where you and Mingi met.
Catching Jongho’s eye in your scan, he looks surprised, almost. Maybe disbelief, how he was blinking at the two of you, his jaw dropped, lips slightly curved. You thin your eyes at him, “You know this story Ho, don’t look so surprised.”
His face quickly morphs to irritation as the table sings a chorus of laughter once more, all six of them adding the nickname to their arsenals upon it gracing their ears. You smile, proud of the work you’ve done, Jongho can do nothing but scowl.
“If any of you call me Ho I’m putting dog shit in the vents of your bedrooms,” he looks around the table, voice threatening, eyes cold.
The laughter dies down but humor dances in the air, Beomgyu is the only one still verbally giggling with his whole chest, “I don’t even care, that is so fucking funny, I’m calling you that forever.”
Jongho redirects his scowl to you, exasperated, “Look at what you did.”
“And I’d do it again,” you’re giggling too, cocky, feeling big-dicked that Jongho’s teammates find you so funny.
The feeling of being watched strikes alarm bells in your head, you turn your head to scan the room, landing on where Wooyoung sits, his lap now empty. He eyes you from across the room and you can’t read his expression, mostly boredom, but the more you look, the more the clench in jaw is visible. Elbow on the armrest, forearm bent upward, fist clenching and unclenching, he’s analyzing.
You sink further into Mingi which he accepts easily, hand lazily thrown over your thigh, you looked like a real, proper couple getting coffee between classes. The smell of cedar beckons your attention, warm and woodsy, a little spicy, it makes it easier to forget who’s beneath you, who’s body you’re so easily and openly and publicly attached to.
Two taps to your thigh grabs your attention, you pull your gaze back to the table, to the dark-headed fuck behind you, “Hm?”
“Park asked you a question, princess,” Mingi tips his chin in Sunghoon’s direction, his voice light but direct, it has your head turning to follow his motion in an instant.
“Is this your first time dating a D1 athlete?” He asks the question with innocence, expression curious, “It has to be different than dating someone who isn’t an athlete.”
You resist the urge to say first time dating, because you’ve certainly slept with a few. Instead you nod politely, humming your answer, “Definitely my first time dating someone as high-profile as Mingi.”
Sunghoon snorts, body leaning back in the booth, his build leaner than the others, strong all the same. Pretty face, structured, timeless features, you briefly wonder what he’s doing on the football team and not on a stage somewhere.
“Not gonna lie, we never thought Song would date,” Heeseung leans forward again, eyeing you from the other side of the booth, a smile playing on his lips, but there’s more truth to his words than humor.
“Not again,” Taehyun quips, “we always assumed he was too focused on his diet and his training program to actually put effort into another human.”
Mingi stiffens beneath you– a slight movement, one you can feel too easily while perched on his lap. There’s still laughter in the air, the comments read light-hearted, but you wonder if it feels that way to Mingi.
Jaemin cackles, “What the hell do you guys mean? He’s never alone.”
“Did you have him tested before you fucked him?” Seungmin wears a smirk, brows raised in your direction, “Because if you haven’t, I think you both probably should at this point.”
Mingi’s chest leans into your back, his chin popping over your shoulder, “Alright, enough.”
You can feel every single muscle pressed to your back, the plush of his broad pecs against your shoulderblades, his fucking washboard of an abdomen against your spine, you can’t even register the tension consuming the table, how everyone quiets down on Mingi’s command, holy shit. You need to get laid.
Your eyes find Wooyoung, too aware of his presence, his eyes that are still fucking on you. Dark clothes, boots crossed over one another, he held up his caseless phone like he wanted you to check yours. Blinking into focus, you reach between you and Mingi to your back pocket, pulling out your phone, clicking it on to look at your home screen.
wooyo: can we talk
wooyo: outside
You pick your head up to look at Jongho, heart picking up speed in your chest, drowning out the sounds of the men around you in another conversation. He meets your eye, furrowing his brows for a split second and fuck you wish you could speak out loud.
“I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” you say quietly to Mingi, barely turning your head to see his face.
His hand lifts from your thigh, “I have to leave soon.”
“That’s fine,” your voice is low, “wait until I get back so I can say goodbye.”
Don’t catch me outside talking to Wooyoung with half of your team in tow.
The restrooms are beside the exit, your escape is easy. On the far side of the building, you ignore how foul your heart feels in your chest, the pounding bass feeling like nerves instead of excitement.
It’s still putrid, hot, humid, disgusting outside, it only adds to the feeling of wrongness. It feels like an eternity before you hear the scrape of his boots against concrete, the smell of cigarette smoke circling where you stood.
“Hey,” his voice is low, casual, rough around the edges like that was his umpteenth cigarette of the day. His black tee is fitted, jeans baggy, one of his pantlegs tucked into a boot. He looked like danger personified but his skin still gleamed summer, bronzy and sparkling, pink dusting his cheeks.
“Why did you want to talk?” Your voice is sharp, no room for it to be taken any other way than rude.
Wooyoung chuckles a little, lips scrunching to blow smoke up into the air, above your bodies. He leaves room between you, enough for you to feel comfortable, but you’re sure there was a purpose. With him, there’s always a purpose.
He flicks the butt, ashing on the concrete below, eyes trained on his own movements before they slowly trail up your body to meet your gaze, making a show of checking you out, it makes you sick. Kind of.
“You’re really dating him?” It’s between a statement and a question, two of his fingers bringing the cigarette back up to his lips.
Your brows furrow, arms crossing tighter over your chest, “Yes?”
“We broke up a week ago, baby,” he chuckles, smoke escaping his mouth with each burst of breath, “that’s a little quick, don’t you think?”
“You’re one to talk,” your jaw clenches, standing straighter, “where’s your arm candy? Or did you cheat on her already?”
“She’s in there,” his voice is too light, so unbothered it genuinely pisses you off how fast your heart is beating. You wished you had a fraction of his nonchalance. “And I didn’t cheat on you, doll, we were never together in the first place.”
“Right,” you blow disbelief through your nose, rolling your eyes, body turning away from him, facing the parking lot that looked deserted even if it was packed with college kids inside. Turning your head only, you ask, “Why are you out here, Wooyoung? What do you want?”
“I still haven’t gotten my hoodie back,” his eyes are low, catching a honey bronze color in the sunlight, you hate how they steal your attention.
You crack a nasty grin, “I burned that ugly fucking hoodie.”
Inside the cafe, Mingi has caught on easily. He watched Wooyoung stand about forty-five seconds after you left for the bathroom, he doesn’t need to look to understand what’s going on, where you are. For such a shitty plan, he can’t believe it’s working so well, it’s as if Wooyoung and Winter were falling into Mingi’s palms without him having to lift a finger.
He doesn’t mind having you around, it doesn’t feel like work. You’re funny, quick-witted and smart, so smart he wonders what your major is. He wonders a lot about you, your relationship with Jongho, what you do in your free time, what the hell you were doing sleeping with Wooyoung, of all people. In the small amount of time he’s spent with you, he already knows you deserve better than a fucking asshole like him, you deserve someone who will meet you on your level.
Mingi wonders if there’s anyone on the team he can set you up with after the two of you break up. Looking around the table, there doesn’t seem to be any winners, maybe Seungmin could keep up with your banter, but Mingi thinks you might destroy him. Jaemin’s funny, but he’s stupid, he can't keep up with your smarts, he thinks Jaemin will irritate you before he entertains you. Maybe Chris, he’s smart, he’s a lot like Mingi, but he’s not one to date.
You don’t need another fuckboy asshole taking advantage of you.
It doesn’t matter, anyhow, maybe after your talk with Wooyoung the scheme will be cut short and everything will go back to normal. He won’t have to see you ever again, he’ll have Winter at his side and he can forget this ever happened, forget about you fully. Training, academics, practice, games. Playoffs are coming up– he hopes he’ll have Winter by then, cheering for him in the stands, wearing his jersey.
“Hi.”
Eyes flickering upward to a voice he recognizes, he sits a little straighter when he sees the dark-haired beauty standing at the head of the table, holding two coffee cups, wearing the prettiest, shy smile.
Winter. He could see his future like it was his past.
“Hey,” Mingi keeps his voice steady, only letting his lips curve ever so slightly. “You need something?”
She shakes her head, pink kissing her round cheeks, she looks down at her shoes, toes knocking together. “Just wanted to wish you luck with playoffs. I know your conference game is next weekend, you must be stressed.”
Mingi swallows down his giddiness, she knows who he is? She’s standing here, at the table, in front of a quarter of his team, talking to him? Wishing him luck?
“Thanks,” Mingi nods, smile growing, “no stress, we’ve got it in the bag. You’ll be there?”
She nods, “Definitely, wouldn’t miss it.” Finally looking at the rest of the table, her eyes land on each one of his teammates, and he’s loving the way each man looks like they want to devour her. Little do they know, she’s his. Her voice coy and soft, she says, “Good luck to you guys, too.”
She made it clear she was only here for Mingi.
He’d kiss her right now if he could.
She winks at Mingi as she walks away, long lashes fluttering as she makes her way back toward where she was sitting with Wooyoung before, setting the plastic coffee cups down on the table. Straight posture, dainty fingers, hair shiny and long, cascading down her back, fuck, she’s perfect.
“Your luck is crazy, Mingi,” Jaemin comments when she’s out of ear-shot, “Winter approaching when your girl goes to the bathroom? You’re one of God’s favorites.”
“Huh?” Mingi pops a brow before you pop into his mind again. “Oh, yeah,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “I really lucked out.”
“What are you gonna do?” Taehyun asks, “She wants you.”
Mingi scrunches his lips to one side, catching Jongho’s eye from across the table. Playing with the coffee cup on the table, spinning it in a circle between his fingers, he’s reminded who you are to Jongho. He can’t be openly disrespectful.
Mingi answers plainly, “Nothing, I have a girlfriend.”
They all snort, table erupting in laughter like that was the most stupid thing that could have left his mouth. And Mingi guesses it is, Jongho knows who he is, that this is all a plan, a ploy, for the sole purpose of Mingi dating Winter. It doesn’t matter how it all unfolds.
You startle him by barreling back to the table, barely sparing Mingi a glance as you grab your hoodie, your backpack, your headphones. Your eyes find Jongho across the table, flaring something panicked before looking back at Mingi, “I have to go.”
You don’t sound happy. Your jaw is clenched, your chest is flushed, your eyes seem glossy, Mingi finds himself concerned, internally questioning what the fuck happened outside.
“You okay?” He asks, body turning sideways, knees poking out from below the table.
Wooyoung walks by behind you, not even looking as he leisurely strolls past, the smell of cigarette smoke following him like he was purposely leaving a trail behind.
“I’m fine,” you mumble, chest rising and falling in quick succession, “but I gotta go.”
Mingi, apparently out of his fucking mind, stands abruptly, stepping toward you with furrowed brows, “I’ll come.”
“No,” you answer harshly, then lick your lips, mouth tightening like you wished you could reel the word back in. “I’m sorry, I– I’ll text you, ‘kay?”
Your eyes find the table behind Mingi, everyone staring up at you, some with furrowed brows, some acting like they didn’t hear anything at all. You reach up to put your hands on Mingi’s shoulders, standing on your tippy toes to plant a small kiss on his cheek, then whisper, “Bye.”
Mingi’s dumbfounded as you haul ass out of Lucent. Backpack bouncing behind you, you rip the door open and leave the place like an intruder had just told everyone to put their hands up. His fingers find his cheek, though, confused as he is, he turns back to the table, all of his boys already staring up at him.
“You’re fucked,” Seungmin says plainly, “she definitely saw Winter at the table, she’s pissed.”
Mingi sits back in the booth, eyes sliding to where Winter sits, meeting Wooyoung’s already-there stare. He’s smirking, eyes trained on Mingi while Winter is speaking to him, a hand on his shoulder, it makes Mingi’s top lip lift in distaste, he’s such a fucking asshole it makes him sick.
xxx-xxx-xxxx: next sunday
xxx-xxx-xxxx: four highest ranked teams get a first round bye for playoffs
you: so youre planning to be top 4 i assume
xxx-xxx-xxxx: im planning to be top 1 fym
you: hmmmm
xxx-xxx-xxxx: idk how much time ill have between now and then tho
xxx-xxx-xxxx: we might not be able to flex our fake relationship as hard
you: absence makes the heart grow fonder
you: winter will be at the game tho
you: think shell kiss you if you win???
xxx-xxx-xxxx: stop dont make me delusional bro
xxx-xxx-xxxx: and dont steal my line
you: acting like you made it up is crazy
you: saying been around for decades and here you go
you: claiming it as your own
You’re smiling at your phone, not realizing you’re giggling while Jongho and Yeosang stare at you with pointed eyes from across the living room, the two sitting comfortably on Yeosang’s couch, laptops on their laps. You came over to catch up on schoolwork after Jongho left practice, not wanting to do it at your own apartment, plus, you had to catch them up on the newest development in the Wooyoung saga.
Since you ended things, you haven’t really had time to process what happened. Quickly shoved into the fake dating scheme, you were focused on something shiny and new, you forgot to pay attention to the small part inside you that ached. Four months is a solid chunk of time, especially when most of it was over the summer where most of the campus wasn’t in attendance, the only thing on your agenda was your part-time job and Wooyoung.
Despite having something shiny and new to focus on, the loss of him still hurts. Sleeping alone, not having anyone to touch, to kiss, to tell your work drama and have them fuck it better, despite being an avoidant asshole, Wooyoung filled a gap for you the entire four months you were ‘together’.
He spoke to you the other day like you meant nothing to him. Which you knew, but to have further confirmation in such a setting, standing outside your favorite coffee shop where the other woman sat just inside, it hurt. By the end of the conversation all your pent-up, repressed feelings rose to the surface, you needed to get the fuck out of there before you sobbed all over Mingi’s americano.
Mingi. Fuck him, his pretty hair and strong body, fuck him for looking at you like he cared about your feelings. It’s all bullshit and it’s not what you need right now, you should be focused on doubling your pain and passing it straight back to Wooyoung. School should really be top priority, your weekly study group, your shifts on the weekend, your top priority should be your degree and making sure you’re stable. You didn’t think this plan would come with so much added shit.
“Who are you texting?” Yeosang asks, green and black hair straight, tucked behind his ears, showing his piercings. He wore a dark sweater, ripped at the collar bone, jeans painted onto his legs, his pink bunny socks tucked beneath his body completely ruining the bad boy vibe.
Yeosang’s never been a bad boy, he doesn’t have it in him. A soft lover boy, one that cares, one that sees what others don’t see, that’s who Yeosang is.
Mindlessly, eyes still glued to your screen, you mumble, “Mingi.”
Jongho and Yeosang share a look. Jongho, face flat, looks over his laptop screen to you, “I still can’t get over seeing you two together.”
You look up, popping a brow, “Why?”
“You look too comfortable,” a very physical shiver runs through Jongho, ruffling his fitted white tee, gray sweats a contrast to the black couch, “it’s weird.”
“Are they friendly?” Yeosang asks Jongho, the two once again acting like you’re not in the room. You roll your eyes.
“Very,” Jongho nods, then turns to look at you, “what’d I miss at that party?”
“What do you mean?” Your face morphs into confusion, small shakes of your head enforcing your bewilderment, “It’s weird because we aren’t ripping each other’s faces off? Can’t really do that in front of people who think we’re dating.”
Jongho’s face stays flat, eyes knowing, “How about the fake ass story of where you met? That was bullshit, you were bickering like you’ve known him as long as you’ve known us.”
You giggle again upon remembering, “Wait, that was funny because half his team thinks we met at the library, it’s like an ongoing bit–”
Jongho cuts you off, looking at Yeosang, “Do you see what I mean?”
Yeosang narrows his eyes, “Are you into him?”
“Do you think I’m a moron?”
“Yes,” they answer simultaneously.
You scoff, “I don’t know why I hang out with you just to get verbally degraded.”
Looking down at your phone, you notice three more messages from the number you still refuse to save.
xxx-xxx-xxxx: shut up who even are u
xxx-xxx-xxxx: are u coming to the game? if shes there wooyoung will be too
xxx-xxx-xxxx: ill give u my jersey to wear lmfao
“Do football players do this?” You ask, brows furrowing, showing Jongho and Yeosang your phone screen. Holding it over the coffee table splitting where you sat on the floor and the couch they occupied, you sat up on your knees as they bent over their laptop screens, squinting to read.
“Give their jerseys out?” Jongho asks, still mid-read.
You snatch your phone away when he starts to scroll, “Yes, fucker, is that normal?”
“Girl,” Yeosang makes a disappointed face, sitting back on the couch, “that’s standard.”
Your repulsion is physical, “Do you think he washes it?”
“It gets washed for him,” Jongho responds, “I’m surprised the staff doesn’t do all his laundry for him. If it weren’t for them, it wouldn’t get washed.”
“Do the staff really do that much?”
“He doesn’t really have to think,” Jongho continues, “he’s the star, the prized possession, vital to the football team, to the school’s popularity and income. They’d do anything he asked.”
“Shit,” you mumble under your breath, processing each word out of his mouth, “there’s really a whole world out there I don’t know shit about.”
The two men laugh, Jongo harder than Yeosang, the younger man’s giggles high-pitched and shameless, “Have you not paid attention my entire football career?”
“No,” your answer is short, plain, “why would I?”
“Because there was a time we both played football and you were glued to us,” Yeosang answers, “there are some things you should probably know already.”
“Neither of you have had a girlfriend during the season!” Your voice is high-pitched, defensive, you bring your attention back to your phone. “You’re riding me for what right now, all of this will be over in like, two weeks, anyway.”
you: whatever football boy
you: ya im coming
xxx-xxx-xxxx: cool
xxx-xxx-xxxx: are u actually gonna wear my jersey
you: do i have to
xxx-xxx-xxxx: kinda
you: man
you: whatever
xxx-xxx-xxxx: wow
xxx-xxx-xxxx: i can feel ur excitement through the phone
“Are you bringing him to my gig?” You look up from your phone to see Yeosang already looking at you, “It’s at Eonian, so Wooyoung will definitely be there.”
You groan, throwing your phone to the side, stretching your body out as you lay down on the rug, whining. “Your shows are our time, Yeo.”
Bass player for his band, Yeosang playing shows on and off campus was a frequent event. Always somewhere lowkey, somewhere fun, you always went with Jongho, Jia or Riyo. Bringing a man, especially Mingi, would debase the entire meaning of Yeosang’s shows. You go to support him, not to keep tabs on Wooyoung all night or feel uncomfortable with Mingi attached to your hip.
“All that shit just happened with Wooyoung, though,” Jongho says matter-of-factly, “it’s smart to show up with Mingi on your arm. Where Wooyoung goes, Winter follows.”
You pick only your head up, squinting at him over the table, “Yeosang’s shows are off limits. I need to be able to scream my excitement freely, Mingi’s presence will hinder my enjoyment.”
“Whatever,” Yeosang sings, “it’s just one show, but okay.”
You whine, head banging against the floor beneath the rug as you lay it back down, “He’s busy, anyways. He just told me he won’t have time to hang before the conference game.”
“Yet here I am,” Jongho argues, “and at that show, I will be.”
You mumble a curse, “Whatever.”
Picking up your phone again, a notification from Instagram sticks out on your home screen, a message request.
blondenbeautiful: Heard you’re dating Song Mingi?
blondenbeautiful: Biggest joke i’ve ever heard LMFAO
blondenbeautiful: Lying for attention is pathetic, I hope he sues you for defamation
You sit up abruptly, eyes wide as you stare at the screen, “What the fuck?!”
Seeing the fear in your eyes, hearing the shock in your voice, Jongho and Yeosang hop up from their spots, throwing their laptops to the side, racing around the coffee table to look at your phone screen.
“Ew,” Yeosang huffs, “no way this is happening already.”
“What do you mean already?” You look at your green haired friend, shocked and confused.
“Turn off your DM requests,” Jongho adds, “fuck that, dude, fuck no.”
“I’m not turning them off,” you scoff, “that’s pussy shit. Her username is blonde n’ beautiful, Ho.”
You click on her profile, scroll through her feed, watch her story, she lives across the fucking country. You think this is what Yeosang meant when he said Mingi had refined taste; barbie dolls, rich bitch attitude, this was his typical.
“Who cares about pussy shit?” Jongho’s brows are tied together, his eyes pleading, “That’s not the point. He has a fanbase of Warrior Barbies, have you even looked at his Instagram?”
Scrolling out of your requests and opening up the search bar, your eyes widen upon seeing his profile. You followed him already, probably from your freshman year, but he definitely didn’t have near fifty thousand followers back then, or so many posts professionally photographed.
For some reason it’s this that opens your eyes, a chill racking down your spine. You knew how detrimental he was to the university, his level of popularity, but you didn’t think it was outside of your campus, too. He was popular, known, and it spread wider than you ever thought was possible for a guy who sings Trap Queen in sports house bathrooms.
Voice shaky, you whisper, “I feel like I’m in a who the fuck did I marry subreddit.”
Yeosang can’t help the laugh that escapes him, head dipping down with an amused breath, he snaps back to deadpanning in a second’s time. “You should turn off your requests before it gets worse.”
“I’m not even dating him for realsies,” you argue, “the insults are empty. None of them are true, so they don’t count.”
Jongho sits beside you, flopping down on the rug from where he was crouched, “I just don’t want them to get to you. The whole Wooyoung thing upset you enough, you don’t need social media harassment to put the cherry on top.”
“I’ll be fine,” you lock your phone, tossing it to the floor beside you, “that shit won’t bother me. I’m strong.”
“Yeah, alright,” sarcasm swims in Yeosang’s voice, “is it a crime to listen to us every once in a while?”
You sneer, “Yes.”
you: btw yeosang is playing a show friday at 10
you: at eonian on 4th ave
you: woo and winter will be there
xxx-xxx-xxxx: just told u i dont have time
you: why are you acting like i want you there
xxx-xxx-xxxx: ill be there
THIRD OUTING: EONIAN, FRIDAY. 9:42 PM
“Did you hire a personal stylist or something?”
You scoff, standing in your doorway, looking down at your own outfit. You supposed it was different for you, more stylish than you’d normally shoot for when going anywhere, let alone the dinky dive bar you’ve gone to a thousand times. The doormen have seen you in sweatpants, chain-smoking cigarettes because you had too much to drink, the bartenders have seen you in stained overalls, making out with a random person in the corner because you had too much to drink, you don’t know why you chose today, of all days, to put in an effort when everyone there has seen you at your worst.
Looking at Mingi, he seemed to have the same idea. Although he always looked put together in a way, even if he was in sweats and a cutoff tank, it never looked necessarily bad. All black, leather jacket, boots, his hair styled away from his face, messily but purposeful, he looked good. Really good. It pissed you off.
“Did your staff pick out that outfit for you?” You sneer, “I’m not used to seeing you without sweatpants on.”
“Insulting the man who came all the way here to pick you up,” he nods, bottom lip folded over in the most attitude-stricken look he’s ever given you, “smart.”
“Shut up,” you grumble, heels clicking against the floor as you step through the threshold of your apartment. “Let’s just go.”
Mingi’s car is ridiculous. Ever since seeing his stupid Instagram page, there seems to be a constant reminder everywhere of who he is, what he has. It still smelled new inside, black leather interior, red detail, gear shift looking untouched, pristine. Not a spec of dust on the dash or in the backseat that held only one black duffel bag unzipped, your instincts told you it could hold a lot more.
“Have you been to Eonian?” You ask, turning your head to face him after he pulled out of your complex’s parking lot.
Pressure forces you back into your seat as he picks up speed, knees shifting below the steering wheel, palm wrapped around the gearstick, his face goes unchanged. He leans his head toward you but doesn’t turn it, “Maybe once, why?”
“Just wondering,” your voice is pitched, shaky, eyes widened while you swallow down your heart that shot up so high you could taste it. Your fingers curl into your jeans, thanking god seatbelts exist in your head, you turn your head to the window so you could close your eyes in peace without being caught as a wimp.
You hear him laugh after a second, a small, snarky giggle. The car slows and you can feel it in your chest, body sinking into leather, free to move as you please, your fingers uncurl from your pantlegs, shoulders slouching in relief.
“My bad, should have warned you.”
“I want to survive,” you don’t let him hear the shakiness in your voice, keeping it laced with clear irritation, “if I died beside you I’d have to resurrect myself just to walk ten feet away and die there instead.”
“You’re really sweet, y’know that?” Sarcasm evident, he continues, “I can’t understand why Wooyoung would cheat on such a nice, kind girl.”
Your neck twists to eye him, gaze harsh enough to cut. What the fuck? “We weren’t even together, he didn’t cheat.”
“Oh!” His laughter is punched, eyes condescending, lips half surprised and half amused, “Excuse me, he didn’t cheat, right. He didn’t want to date you at all.”
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you mumble, head turning to face the window again. It rained earlier, there’s still droplets of water sprinkled on the glass, the gloomy evening looking like the pit in your gut, soggy, heavy, dark. “That’s why Winter rejected you.”
“Well she wants me now,” he adds and you can hear the stupid smirk in his voice.
You snap your head toward him again, “Where did that even come from?”
“Did I strike a nerve?”
Your jaw clenches, facing the window again, mumbling, “This isn’t even worth it anymore.”
He turns the music up, letting it fill the cabin of the car, you can barely feel the road beneath you, his car drives so smoothly. You can hear him switch gears, the roar of the engine picking up, the feel of force in your chest as his speed increases, your hair moving when he slows again, it’s torture.
It’s worse when you step out to go inside the bar, the ground bendy beneath you, feet unsteady on pavement. Your stomach feels icky, your chest heavy and weird, and to top it off, the cigarette-smoking-stupid-fucking-asshole is standing right outside the front door, talking to the bouncer, doused in leather and silver. You suck in a deep breath, straightening your back, part of you forgetting Mingi’s there as you start for the door. Maybe you just wish he wasn’t with you at all.
Mingi calls your name, you don’t stop. A little firmer, a little louder, “Hey.” Jaw clenched, you stop in your tracks, the fur on your jacket whipping as you turn around. Lazily he strolls toward you, holding out a hand, to which you don’t grab.
“Hold my hand,” he wiggles his palm a little, voice edged with annoyance, “come on.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Is it what I said in the car?” He lowers his palm, head tilting, “I’m sorry if I went too far, I won’t do it again. Now please hold my hand so we can go inside together, they’ll be watching.”
Shooting daggers at him, your hand peeks out from your sleeve, reluctantly reaching forward; he spreads out his fingers with a satisfied grin, tangling them with yours, palms pressed together. There’s a certain intimacy to holding someone’s hand, not something you do often, not something you’ve done in a very long time; yet there’s no warmth that spreads through you at the contact, no electricity that stems in the tip of your spine. Strictly business.
Taking a step forward, he comments, “Your hand is clammy.”
“Wonder why,” you roll your eyes, “you have calluses, it’s gross, like sandpaper. Or cat tongue.”
Mingi smacks his lips together, walking in-step with you now, his head dipping down to hide how your words made him laugh. “You’re seriously deranged.”
It makes a smile claw at your lips, turning your head away so he can’t see the grin that fights its way to the surface. He squeezes your hand once like he can see through your wall of hair, snickering from beside you, by the time you get to the front door you’re both fighting to crack a smile like a pair of stubborn idiots.
Tall and buff, a head of light brown, curly hair hidden beneath a snapback, the bouncer eyes you over your ID, then looks at Mingi, deadpanning, “Make sure she doesn’t get near a pack of Marlboro Reds tonight.”
Wooyoung is behind him now, smiling as smoke pours from the corner of his mouth, losing its opacity as it melts into the humid air around him. He’s quiet, but he watches as your face falls, then makes it clear he’s inspecting every article of clothing on your body.
“I’m not even a smoker, Minho.”
“Minho?” Mingi questions, head bobbing in surprise and confusion. He looks at you with a dumbfounded face, “Marlboro Reds?”
“Can we just go inside?” You tug on Mingi’s hand, he takes your ID back from Minho before following you inside Eonian, his brows still furrowed.
“I thought you said you don’t really come here,” Mingi sounds lost as you pull him inside the door, the smell of humid air and alcohol meeting your nose upon entrance.
You do a quick scan of the bar, mindlessly answering, “I’ve been here a few times with Wooyoung.”
“You’re on a first-name basis with the bouncer,” he hisses his argument, standing close to you now, leaning down just enough to whisper-yell it into your ear.
Spotting Jongho in the far corner, just beside the stage at a table, your grin is finally real and takes over your entire face. “Yeah, well, he fucked my friend,” you pull him in Jongho’s direction, “I found Ho, come on.”
It takes longer than you thought it would to get across the crowded bar, you stopped three different times for Mingi to dap up strangers you’ve maybe seen before, all people who tucked Mingi into a quick hug with grins so bright it was as if they were meeting God. Antagonizing, remembering how many people love him, not that you showed your distaste as Mingi introduced you to every single person as his girlfriend, in which they all drank up your figure and complimented Mingi on how well he did scoring you.
It almost made up for what happened in the car. Almost.
Dick two inches bigger, you had more swag in your step as you dragged him to Jongho’s table, where he stood around the high-top wooden surface with two others beside him. Lee Minho, Lee Felix, tight-end, kicker. Felix, bright, blonde and bushy-tailed, stood a little shorter than Minho, who was everything dark and brooding, at least on the outside. Light seemed to return to his eyes when you approached the table, a small smile on your face, already in-character.
Jongho looked less wary as you approached this time, a pink hue to his cheeks, shoulders slightly slouched, a tall beer on the table before him. It looks appealing, even for a beer, at this point you think you’d take a swig of whiskey just to ease the lingering weight in your chest.
He notices your eyes lingering on his beer, he tugs it toward him, eyes pointed, “No.”
It makes a small laugh pass through your lips before you greet the table. Felix’s warm brown eyes seem brighter after Mingi introduces you, his freckled cheeks pink at the apples, “I’ve been waiting to meet you.”
“Me?” You’re still smiling, one brow popped, “Why?”
“The girl who tamed Song Mingi,” Minho is quick to answer as if that was now a title of sorts.
Your head tilts, confusion spreading, Mingi’s hand slides to the small of your back, his pinky lining the hem of your jeans. The girl who tamed Song Mingi, your initial reaction is to laugh through the confusion, it comes out staggered, airy, uneasy.
Felix is beaming, grin spread wide like excitement was oozing from his pores, “The whole team has been talking about you, they say you’re funny, and hot, which is clearly true.”
Now heat is spreading through you, smile shifting to something of a smirk, he’s pretty. Like a girl, in a way, blonde hair straight past his shoulders, you can tell there’s a lean, disciplined body beneath the oversized clothes on his body. Backwards hat, lips plump and rosy like he’d been kissing someone for hours, you wonder how hot he thinks you are.
“Is your jacket from Anthro? I’ve been looking at it online, waiting for it to go on sale,” his eyes are on the faux fur on your shoulders, the jacket you thrifted ages ago for ten bucks, you have no idea what brand is on the tag.
Gaydar going off, you ask, “No idea, wanna check?”
His eyes flare brighter, you don’t wait for his answer as you break away from Mingi’s heavy hand, walking around the table. You feel soft fingers moving your hair out of the way as your eyes lead to Jongho, “When does Yeo go on?”
“I think in twenty minutes or so,” he shrugs, bringing his beer up to his lips.
You shiver when you feel the warmth of Felix’s fingertips at the base of your neck, “They’re late?”
Head down to allow Felix access to your tag, your eyes slide to look at the stage, lights on and empty. You got here right before ten, he should be going on any minute now.
“Technical difficulties,” Minho comments in a sing-song tone, reminding you he’s also at the table. Taller than you, beefier than Felix, his elbows sit on the table, biceps straining the sleeves of his fitted tee. Dark hair, eyes feline, lips small and pouty, shit, he’s hot, too.
You hum, storing the info for later, “I hope they play soon.”
“This is Anthro,” Felix gasps, “so cute, I want one.”
“I thrifted it a long time ago, if you ever want to borrow it, ask Mingi for my number,” you offer as you turn around, hands grabbing the hem of it to pull it forward, fixing where it sank backward.
Felix’s head turns to Mingi across the table, feigning a pout, “I like this one, can I keep her?”
In-character, Mingi shakes his head, a smooth, proud chuckle tumbling from his lips. “Sorry to break it to you, Lix, but that one’s mine.”
Mine.
Hand holding didn’t get a reaction out of you, but a singular word makes your stomach curl. You barely remember the last time you were considered someone’s partner, significant other, girlfriend, you don’t know if you ever have been; you’ve been a fuck-buddy, a situationship, a friends with benefits, everything under the fucking sun besides owned. At least five, maybe six years it’s been since someone used the word mine to describe what you are to them, and back then it was purely adolescent, puppy-love at fifteen that made you feel lovesick instead of violently nauseous.
“I need a drink,” you blurt, “from the bar.”
Mingi’s brows furrow, “Where else would you get one, princess?”
That fucking nickname. Your nose crinkles with disgust, you don’t even care about forcing a smile on your face or putting on a show, your irritation returns tenfold. Giving him a long, blank stare, you turn and beeline for the bar.
Deep, shiny oak littered with splotches of wetness, signed receipts soaked, smudged and clinging to the surface, loose, skinny black straws thrown about the bar like some drunk idiot threw a handful in the air, it was a typical Friday night here. Elbows on the bar, you push yourself up by the ledge attached to the base, you keep your chest pressed above your folded arms so the sexy bartender would help you first.
“What’s wrong?”
You smack your lips again, but you don’t turn around. Just his voice is getting on your last nerve.
“Tell me what’s wrong, you’re acting bitchier than usual.”
You can feel the words in your spine. You snap your neck to the side, “Is that why it’s so understandable for me to get cheated on? Because I’m bitchy?”
“You’re still mad about that?” Mingi asks, sounding genuine. You hear him sigh before he forces himself between you and the guy standing beside you at the bar, someone shorter than him, smaller. “Do you want me to apologize again?”
“I don’t want anything from you,” you say quietly, voice laced with venom, keeping your eyes on the tall bartender juggling bottles like they’re toys, his movements fluid. You attempt to telepathize with him, maybe he’ll hear your calls of his name in his mind.
“I thought we moved past that already,” he sighs, “you’re not even gonna look at me? I’m trying–”
“Why do you give a fuck?” You finally look at him and his brows are upturned, lips pouty, but that arrogance that’s embedded in him is so fucking clear you regret looking. “You don’t like me, I don’t like you. I’m here for Yeosang, you’re here to impress Winter, wherever the fuck she is. You should go find her.”
“Hey, baby,” you turn to find the bartender finally answering your calls, “he bothering you?”
“Yes,” you smile back, giddiness forming in the pit of your stomach. Slit through his eyebrow, buzz-cut bleached a sandy blonde color, he wears a mesh tank that sits loose on his skin, flowing with each movement. “But he’s paying, so I can’t escape him just yet. Wanna do a shot with me on his tab?”
You lean in closer, eyes low, smile playful. He chuckles, eyes sliding to Mingi and then back to you, “A shot with my favorite girl? Of course. Is he doing one too?”
You shrug, “Ask him, not me.”
You both look at Mingi whose brows are in his hairline, lips parted and slightly curled in a small sneer. It takes him a second to process Hyunjin’s staring at him with a question, he shakes his head slightly before reaching into his pocket, muttering, “Nah, I’m good.”
Hyunjin pours you your favorite drink before placing two plastic shot-cups on the bar, messily pouring liquor that spills onto the grated surface below, “Cheers, to Yeosangie.”
“To Yeosangie,” your grin spreads wide, clinking plastic before smacking them on the bar and shooting them back. “Thanks, Jinnie.”
“Anything for my favorite girl,” his voice is warm, almost as warm as his pretty brown eyes when he looks at you, it makes your insides feel fuzzy. He turns to Mingi who passes him his credit card with that same confused-annoyed look, but he stays quiet. Good.
When Hyunjin walks away, he speaks, and you groan upon the first word leaving his lips. “You’re such a liar, you lied to me.”
“Whatever,” you huff, bringing the straw up to your lips. Fruity, bitter, strong, necessary. “You don’t need to know the truth all the time.”
Mingi’s shaking his head, an annoyed chuckle falling past his lips, “Is there anyone else here you’ve slept with that your boyfriend should know about?”
You shrug as he gets his card back, signing the receipt. You eye it to make sure he left Hyunjin a nice tip, which he does without a word from you. “I’ll let you know if any more show up, if you’re really that curious.”
“I’m sorry for what I said in the car,” he tries again, voice sounding strained, “I’m exhausted, the coaches are working me to the fucking bone with playoffs so close, and I’m here for you.”
Mine.
“You are not here for me,” you bite back, “you meant what you said in the car, don’t go back on it now because it pissed me off. You’re here for Winter and that’s it, Mingi. Like I said earlier, go find her.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No!”
“Fine!” You huff, “Then leave! I didn’t want you here to begin with.”
“You invited me!” He argues back, eyes blowing wide, “I came because you invited me. I picked you up after a three-hour practice. I skipped the second half of studying with exams soon to be here.”
Mine. Your chest constricts.
“You shouldn’t skip studying,” you mutter, “you can’t afford to, moron.”
“Yet I did,” his arms raising on either side of him, defeated. You look at him, really look at him, and you don’t know how you didn’t notice the bags beneath his eyes earlier, he hasn’t had that energetic, snarky-spark since he picked you up.
The lights dim around the stage, music playing through the speakers silencing, the TouchTunes turned off. Mingi sighs, “Can we just watch the show? Wooyoung saw us, which means Winter's here somewhere. They’ll see us at some point.”
“Sorry for being a bitch,” you mumble, voice small, cheeks burning.
A smile tugs at his lips, “I’m sorry for being a bitch, too.” He throws an arm around your shoulders, “Come on, it’s time to pretend you like me again.”
There’s a smile on your face when you groan, body falling beneath his arm, he walks you up towards the table again, through the crowd that parts for him as if he’s a celebrity, standing beside Jongho like he knows it’s where you’d be most comfortable.
He pushes you in front of him as people start closing in, hands sliding down, hooking into your belt loops as Yeosang’s band walks out onstage. Excitement blooming, a grin breaks out across your face, head tipping back with a hand curled around your mouth to release a sharp, pitched whistle.
Mingi echoes the noise, leaning forward to cheer for Yeosang, the back of your head touching his chest. Your head follows his body as he stands straight again, leaning on him with a smile etched into your skin, holding the plastic cup between your hands as the band takes their positions.
Yeosang’s eyes scan the crowd, you follow where his gaze gets stuck, in the back corner, sitting at one of the high-top tables. She’s here, your eyes widen ever so slightly at the sight, warmth filling your chest, a semblance of pride. Good.
“Who’s that?” Mingi leans down to ask in your ear.
“Yeosang’s kind-of girlfriend,” you tear your eyes away from her to tilt your head up, looking at him. “Their relationship is weird.”
“Hm,” Mingi’s head tilts, “doesn’t look like Yeo’s type.”
“She’s exactly his type,” you giggle, “you should know that.”
A smile forms as he looks down at you, “I guess you’re right, don’t know why I assumed everything changed after he quit playing football.”
“Running-back-gone-stoner still likes his cheerleaders,” you sing, bringing your attention back to the stage, taking a sip from your drink. “He seems happier now that he doesn’t play anymore.”
“This is the most confident I’ve ever seen him and he hasn’t played a single chord yet,” Mingi adds, nodding his agreement.
“He’s good,” there’s pride in your voice, “you’ll like their music.”
As if they could hear you, Jay strums his guitar, a striking chord that pulls the attention of the entire room. You squeal, turning your head to see Jongho who’s looking at the stage with the same amount of fondness and pride in his eyes that you wore, the same feeling you have every time you see Yeosang on stage.
Their opening song is one original out of three, the rest covers. You know every word, singing along with Jay, their lead singer and guitarist, head bopping to the beat.
Mingi doesn’t know where to look. Yeosang, who was once his good friend, onstage, or you, smiling, giggling and dancing between his arms. It’s only the third time you’ve been out in public together, but with all the texting, the updates you send each other throughout the day, the constant banter, there’s a feeling in Mingi’s chest he can’t really explain.
He’s not into you. But there’s an urge in his consciousness somewhere, to keep you close, to protect you, it makes him fucking cringe every time the thoughts cross his mind. You’re not friends, you won’t stay in contact after your alignment fulfills its purpose, it’s something he reminds himself after he thinks about you for just a little too long.
He’s tired. His bones ache, his eyes feel heavy, there’s a slouch in his shoulders he doesn’t have the strength to straighten. Your energy bleeds into him, he’s found himself going along with you the entire time you’ve been associated, as if he’s a horse you’re leading to water. So he keeps his mindless grin, a hand steady on your hip since you jumped his fingers out of your belt loops, he holds your drink with the other, keeping his palm blanketed over the open top.
He’s never seen you so happy.
He’s seen you angry, irritated, maybe he’s made you laugh once or twice now, but it’s nothing compared to the joy on your face now, how your body moves out of excitement. It’s not the liquor, it’s Yeosang onstage, who plays so well and looks so fucking cool Mingi finds himself a little jealous, a feeling he pretends isn’t there as soon as he recognizes it. The way you care for him, for Jongho, it adds to the list of things he keeps learning about you, like layers of a fucking onion.
You come to Eonian. Often. You know the bouncer, the bartender, Mingi can’t figure out why you lied. He wonders what else you’ve lied about– what more he can learn about you just by sharing space. He wonders about Wooyoung, what he said to you outside of Lucent, what made you so nervous and eager to leave. He wonders why you wanted to fake-date in the first place, if Wooyoung has done worse than cheat, if that’s why you want revenge so deeply.
The way your eyes wander across the room, finding Wooyoung and Winter, his arms thrown over her shoulders, keeping her close. How they sway together, Winter’s fingers holding onto his forearms, a small smile on her face, cheeks pink. It makes your movements smaller, the bubble of excitement surrounding your being dwindles to a flicker, you turn around and ask Mingi for your drink.
“No,” Mingi shakes his head.
Your face contorts, “What do you mean, ‘No’?”
“You don’t need to drink because you’re upset,” he keeps his voice low, “liquor isn’t going to help.”
“I’m not upset,” you sound defensive, which only confirms what Mingi’s thinking is true. “I’m at a bar watching my best friend kill it onstage, why would I be upset?”
Your brows are furrowed, lips pouty, the gloss you wore faded by now, leaving a pinkish stain behind. There’s heat in your cheeks, a pretty flush, he hates the realization that determination in your features is kind of cute.
“Come here,” Mingi offers, placing your drink on the table behind him before twisting you back around by your hips, throwing his own arms over your shoulders, tucking you into him.
You squirm, making a whiney noise, shifting your shoulders and looking down to untuck your hair where it got trapped against Mingi’s body. “You’re fucking huge,” you mumble, soft fingers coming up to hook around his forearms, Mingi can’t tell if it’s a compliment, but it’s definitely not an insult.
“You have no idea,” he smirks to himself.
You groan, “Stop saying shit like that to me.”
“Why?” Smiling, his tone comes out playful, “Curious?”
Your head tilts back to look up at him, eyes pointed, lips bent in a frown. “No.”
“Liar,” Mingi smacks his teeth, “all you’ve done tonight is lie.”
“Like I said,” you bring your attention back to the stage, “you don’t always need to know the truth.”
“So you admit you’re curious.”
“No!”
Mingi chuckles, squeezing you with his arms clamped around your front. You stay there for the rest of the show, in Mingi’s hold, head pressed to his chest, your eyes don’t wander again. They stay locked on Yeosang onstage, singing along to each song. At one point you and Mingi started swaying together when he recognized one of the covers they performed, singing along with you.
“You two are so fucking cute,” Felix comments when Yeosang’s band runs off the stage after bowing to the crowd. Mingi finally let you go at that point, where you attached to your iced-down drink like a moth to a flame.
“Yeah?” Mingi smiles at Felix before jumping into action when you bring the straw to your lips. “Don’t drink that, I didn’t have eyes on it. I’ll get you another.”
You pout, but you let him pull the straw away from your lips, “Boo.”
“What’d you think of the show?” Jongho asks, a little drunk now, Mingi thinks, as he smacks a hand on his shoulder.
Mingi’s grinning again, nodding his head, “They’re good, Yeosang is really talented.”
You squeal again, stealing his attention, “Isn’t he? He’s so fucking talented, he makes me so jealous. I wish I could play an instrument.”
Cute. He doesn’t think before reaching up to ruffle your hair, “You’re talented at lots of stuff, princess.” He doesn’t know why he said it, he doesn’t even know what you do in your free time. He blames it on it feeling right. He’s tired.
You quickly fix your hair, mumbling, “Motherfucker.”
It makes Mingi’s grin spread wider. Weird, how your insults are starting to feel like compliments.
“Are you coming to the conference game?” Minho asks, and your brows perk up at the attention, that smooth smile appearing on your cheeks, the one you use when you look at any one of his teammates. Anyone you find attractive, actually, he’s noticed.
You nod, “I’ll be there, supporting Jongho.”
“Not your boyfriend?” Minho asks, popping a brow.
“Oh shit, yeah, Mingi too,” you nod, “duh.”
He has to fight his laugh, lips tying together. You meet his eye, the look of him biting back his laugh, and crack a stupid smile at the sight. “You ready to go?” You ask, brows lifted.
Mingi’s neck cranes in confusion, “You don’t wanna wait for Yeo?”
“He has people to see,” you say casually, but Mingi knows who. “Plus, you’re tired, and you need to study before bed.”
Hesitantly, seeing the honesty in your eyes, no disappointment evident, Mingi nods. “You’re right.”
“The girl who tamed Song Mingi,” Minho sing-songs, and Mingi’s neck snaps to glare. He hates that nickname, the way they use it in the house, in practice, how it rolls off his teammates tongues with a sneer. Minho’s smile is devilish, daring; he’s one of Mingi’s only teammates that doesn’t suck-up to him completely. It’s not the right time or place to berate him for it.
You say your goodbyes politely and grab Mingi by his hand, pulling him towards the crowd, in the direction of the exit. Mingi ignores everyone who tries to steal him for a chat, giving small smiles, nods, waves of acknowledgement, but he lets you drag him all the way to the exit, where you give the bouncer, Minho, a small wave goodbye.
A little colder now, enough to rack a chill down Mingi’s spine, you stop in your tracks when you open the exit door. Winter is pressed against the wall of the building, Wooyoung’s hand over her head, forehead touching hers. He plants his lips against hers once before realizing he has company.
“Leaving so soon?” He’s smirking as he tucks his arm back into himself, standing straight, turning to face the two of you. “Yeosang played a good show.”
Winter’s eyes locked on Mingi, widened, pupils dilated like she didn’t want to be caught where Mingi had indeed caught her. She swallows, licking her lips, fixing the baggy denim on her legs as she stands straighter, moving slightly behind Wooyoung as if it’d put her out of Mingi’s eyesight.
“He always does,” your voice is cold, venomous. No warmth at all.
Wooyoung’s eyes find Mingi, taking a second to look him up and down. “Nice outfit, different for you.”
Mingi pops a brow, “Because I’m not in a jersey?”
“Sure,” Wooyoung nods, then moves his eyes to you. “Same goes for you, doll. Find my hoodie yet?”
Your fingers flex at your side, fist clenching, “I told you I burned it.”
Wooyoung chuckles, arm lifting for Winter to tuck herself into his side, it makes Mingi grimace. Gross. He’s slimey, the energy he gives off, Mingi can’t understand what the fuck girls see in him in the first place.
“Did you see Hyunjin inside?” Wooyoung asks, “He asked me about you, said your little plaything was bothering you.” Wooyoung looks at Mingi again, “I take it that’s you? But you’re her boyfriend, right?”
Mingi’s brows furrow, but you speak up before he can open his mouth. “Don’t speak to Hyunjin about me or Mingi. The only plaything you have to worry about is the one under your arm.”
Winter straightens, brows furrowing, “I’m the plaything? Me?”
“What do you think he’s gonna do with you when he’s bored?” You laugh a little, eyes so piercing it renders Mingi silent, all he can do is stare. “Toss you to the side, just like he did with me. There’s another one, you know, it’s never just you.”
Wooyoung tucks her closer, his features devoid of all amusement, back going rigid. “Lying, huh? Just ‘cus you’re butthurt? Always leads to lies, you haven’t changed one bit.”
“You’ll never change,” you whisper, but the chilly air is quiet enough that it hits its mark. “When she calls, you’ll run back to her, it doesn’t matter who’s occupying your boredom at the time.” Your eyes find Winter, “You’ll see. I feel bad for you.”
Mingi, confused, watches Winter’s face fall, the slow realization that there’s not a lick of jealousy in your voice, just sheer honesty. His head bobs back and forth between the two of you, but he grabs your wrist when steam starts pouring from your ears. “Time to go, baby. Come on.”
You pull your wrist away from him, tucking it into your chest, keeping your eyes steady on Wooyoung who doesn’t falter for a moment. A staring contest of sorts, it makes Mingi feel nervous, uncomfortable at the least.
“Time to go,” Mingi reiterates, voice heavier, hands on your waist now. “It’s not worth it. I’ll take you home, c’mon.”
It takes you a second to turn your head away from Wooyoung as Mingi starts pulling you away, but once you’re out of eyesight, in front of Mingi’s build that engulfs you whole, the shakes begin. Your fingertips, your shoulders, your teeth chatter in your fucking skull.
“In the car,” he’s whispering, encouraging, ushering you into his passenger seat. “There you go,” he closes it behind you, making sure you’re tucked inside.
When he’s behind the wheel, engine roaring to life, he takes a second to gather his bearings. He turns to you slowly, only his head, and you’re staring into nothing, body still shaking. It makes him swallow, nerves etching into his vision.
“Are you okay?” He asks, because it’s the only thing he can think of. He doesn’t know how to comfort you. You hum an agreement, a slight nod of your head, it does nothing to ease the discomfort in his chest. His lips tighten, teeth grazing his bottom lip, “What just happened?”
You shake your head, still staring into space. Voice small, battered and broken, you whisper, “I don’t know.”
Mingi feels something swirling in his gut, something foul. Like before a big game, when he isn’t positive he’s going to win. Voice low, he asks, “What actually happened between you?”
“He didn’t just cheat on me with Winter,” you finally look down at your lap, “there’s another girl. I don’t know who she is, what she looks like, I just know she exists. She’s like, the girl version of him, she made him like that.”
Mingi’s brows furrow, but you keep talking after a deep, shaky breath. “He called me a liar, I am a liar.” You shake your head, staring at your lap. “I lied to everyone when I was with him. I lied to him, I lied to myself, not to mention Jongho and Yeosang.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s easier that way,” you finally look at Mingi, eyes glassy, pupils dilated, “if I told the truth, I couldn’t be held accountable for my own actions.” When you notice his confusion, you laugh, a short, disbelieving chuckle. “I knew about her the whole fucking time, the nature of their relationship, I even tried competing with her at one point.”
When Mingi asks why again, you sigh. “I think because I knew I’d never win. Him and I would never be real no matter how hard I tried, and that was safety to me, in a way.”
“I don’t understand,” Mingi sinks into his seat, carefully peeling back another layer.
You shake your head again, silent for a moment. “Have you ever wanted something so bad that it terrifies you?”
“All the time.”
“This is gonna sound self-deprecating, don’t make fun of me or else I’ll fucking kill you,” you start, and Mingi’s lips curve at the corners, but he nods. “That’s how I feel about relationships, or being loved, I guess. I want it, but do I deserve it?”
Mingi’s brows furrow again, “Do you deserve it?” You blink at him, and he shakes his head in confusion, “Who cares? You want it, don’t you?”
Mingi swears your eyes get rounder, your lips plumper. He’s never seen you look so… delicate. Small, vulnerable, like your walls have crumbled away and left what’s at your core bare for him to see.
“I do,” you whisper, staring at him, into him, he feels just as bare as you. He feels the moonlight pouring into the cabin, he hears the light hum of his idling car, and he realizes he hasn’t been in this position in a long, long time.
His relationship with women has been strict since… her. Transactional, never more, never less. Give and take. He doesn’t make friends, he doesn’t form bonds, he does nothing more than fuck– when’s the last time he had a real fucking conversation with a woman? When’s the last time his chest has felt so twisted from emotion?
He stares back, eyes dropping to your lips for a millisecond. Glossy, from the spit you swiped over them with your tongue moments prior, plump and opaque with color. This is the longest you’ve gone without arguing since the moment you met. This is the first time he’s looking at you so clearly, seeing you as more than a means to an end. He swears he can feel his heartbeat in his throat.
“Take what you want,” Mingi whispers back, “who gives a fuck about being worthy of it?”
There’s a ghost of a smile on your lips, “That’s easy for you to say, you get whatever you want.”
“Not everything,” he shifts in his seat, sinking down, stretching out his legs as much as he can. “Not even a lot, actually.”
When your brows furrow, he makes a face like he doesn’t want to keep going, but he does anyway. “I don’t have control over anything in my life. What I eat, how I train, how much I sleep, what I do in my free time, that’s all coordinated by someone else. Dating you is the most freedom I’ve had in years.”
“They don’t do whatever you say?”
“I do whatever they say,” he corrects you, lips flattening. “I don’t have to think if I don’t want to, and I fucking hate it. I’m a twenty-one year old man that doesn’t do anything for myself, it’s suffocating. Like I’m a puppet.”
Your lips are tucked between your teeth, swept to the side, head tilted. “I thought it was the other way around. Are they mad you’re… dating me?”
Mingi laughs a little, “More than mad. Consequences-mad.”
You gasp, leaning forward, palm planted on the center console. “Then why are you still doing it?”
“Because I want to,” he’s looking at you now, “for once, I’m doing something I want, and I’m having fun.”
“You’re having fun with me?” Your smile makes Mingi feel like he’s just handed you a thousand dollars. “For realsies?”
Chuckling, nodding, Mingi nods, “For realsies, princess.”
You sit back in the passenger seat, body deflating dramatically, head sinking to the side, silly smile still on your lips. Looking up at him through your brows, you say, “I’m having fun with you, too.”
Mingi doesn’t understand why the sentence fills his stomach with… butterflies, like you’d just said the words he’s been waiting the whole night to hear. He pushes the feeling down, shifting himself upward, finally plugging his phone into the car’s speaker system. “You ready?”
“Yes,” you nod, sitting up, pulling the seatbelt over your torso. “Drive nicely though, please, or else I might throw up.”
FOURTH OUTING: CONFERENCE GAME, SUNDAY. 7:02 PM.
Bass pumps through the stadium, so deep and booming you can feel it in your heels that touch the concrete beneath you, it vibrates through the navy blue, plastic chair you sat on. Only in a mini-skirt, your thighs sat bare against the cool, hard chair, a relief in contrast to the humid air that rudely asks you to put your hair up.
In the tenth row, just above the fifty-yard line, your view was immaculate. Just above where the players stood on the field, you could see the field, the players clearer than you ever have, Jongho always gifted you and Yeosang nosebleeds. A routine, up in the stands, guzzling beers because what else was there to do if you couldn’t see? You’d trust the commentator with a tall-boy of Miller and pretend you were enjoying it until you got drunk enough to not care, and to you, that was the true college football experience.
But here, almost eye-level with Mingi who lines up directly under center to take the snap, this was different. Dark hair covered by his kelly-green helmet, the only reason you knew it was him was because of his last name and the number eighty-eight on his back.
It mirrored the one on your back, the kelly-green jersey that offset his white one, it hung more than oversized in your body, off one shoulder, tucked into your skirt. You haven’t seen Mingi in a week, and when Yeosang delivered it to you this morning the pang of disappointment in your chest was so uncomfortable you pretended you didn’t feel it.
“Mingi gave it to Jongho who gave it to me to give to you.”
Yeosang threw the jersey onto your couch, oversized and… green. So green you looked down at the jersey then back up to Yeosang’s head of hair, a smirk crawled onto your cheeks. Yeosang squinted, “Don’t.”
“Oh, you can make fun of me, but I can’t make fun of you?” A hand on your hip, one knee bent, you exuded nothing but attitude. You took a step forward to pick the jersey off your couch, held it up in the air in front of you by the shoulders, “Can dish it out but can’t take it, huh?”
The mini-skirt in your closet you haven’t been able to face since sometime last year popped into your brain, a tall pair of boots you already started mentally picturing with the outfit. It looked good enough in the mirror, his jersey hung off your shoulder, you did a little twirl in the mirror to see how it swayed with your movement.
A smile was stamped onto your cheeks when you glanced at your back in the mirror, reading a very clear Song written above the number 88. After noticing the grin, you forced your lips flat, arms straightening at your sides. You turned back around, lips tucked in as you ran your palms over the jersey, blowing a sharp breath through curved lips, then left your bedroom once more.
You kind of missed him, which was a strange pit-in-your-stomach feeling you didn’t let yourself think too much about. You haven’t seen him in a week, not since your explosion on Wooyoung at Eonian, he’s been too busy with this game approaching, strategizing, practicing, training. Not seeing him after sharing something vulnerable with him, something you haven’t even shared with the green-headed-motherfucker in the room just to get something vulnerable in return, you felt strangely closer to him. Like maybe you two could actually be friends.
Silly thought. Silly you.
He stands crouched on the field, your chest still heaves from cheering when his name was announced throughout the stadium, excitement vibrating through you as much as when bass bled through your skin. The stadium looks bigger from down here, more open, yet there was less air to fill your lungs, to ease the discomfort in your chest.
There were messages in your DMs, more messages now than when you entered the parking lot to tailgate. You read the first ones upon your first step through the wired, silver gates, not telling Yeosang who was already slurring his words because it didn’t matter. The messages have never grown too personal, nowhere close to a threat, until today.
Don’t go to the game today.
His minions, the army assembled of Mingi-lovers who haunted your requests folder, you wonder what they’d think if they knew you weren’t really together. If they knew Mingi only looked at you affectionately in public. You wondered what they’d think if they looked at your text thread, if they saw the slew of insults you threw at each other on a daily basis, between the updates with time stamps because Mingi said it’s proof he’s busy.
Now, there were more.
Thought we told you not to go
We saw you tailgating.
Should we expose you for cheating on him?
In his jersey too, you must be fucking stupid
Drinking beer, so trashy
Don’t you think you eat enough?
A tall-boy in the cupholder across from you, a cup of cheese fries split between you and Yeosang, a fucking hotdog in your hand. This was normal, this is what you always did, what you always fucking ate when you came to these games. You looked behind you, the crowd was busy talking to each other, laughing, drinking, eating, there were no eyes on you. You couldn’t figure out who was looking at you. Who was waiting.
Unsettling isn’t the word for how uncomfortable being seen was, when you didn’t want to be.
The game begins and you attempt to force yourself into focusing. Yeosang, drunk and belligerent beside you, luckily didn’t notice your discomfort, you don’t think he’d notice if you dropped a fucking brick on his head right now. You pull out your phone when focusing proves impossible, rereading your last text thread with Mingi again, the only thing keeping you from grabbing Yeosang by the scruff and dragging him out of the stadium.
xxx-xxx-xxxx: come down to the field when games over
xxx-xxx-xxxx: go down the stairs inside, tell security ur name. they should let u through
you: okay
you: play good or else ill cheer for jongho
xxx-xxx-xxxx: come on now
xxx-xxx-xxxx: whos name is on ur back
you: some guy
you: streets are calling me mrs. song
xxx-xxx-xxxx: wait that has a nice ring to it
xxx-xxx-xxxx: if u see winter let her know what her future looks like
you: i hate you
you: break a leg
xxx-xxx-xxxx: i dont think u say that for football
you: no like i hope you break your leg
xxx-xxx-xxxx: oh bro fuck u
xxx-xxx-xxxx: dont say that before a game
xxx-xxx-xxxx: asshole
you: go stretch or something stop texting me
You haven’t seen Winter, you haven’t seen Wooyoung. You didn’t see them in the parking lot, either, where you tailgated with not only Jia and Riyo, but Mingyu, Seokmin, Hoshi, Dino and Seungkwan. Nine of you taking up two parking spots, drinking beside Mingyu’s ninety-six Ford pickup, playing pong with the table he brought in the truck bed, sitting in folding chairs, watching from the roof panel.
Riyo claims they’re the only people she could convince to tailgate. You think they’re the first and only people she tried convincing, especially since she’s hooking up with Seokmin on the DL, but you’d believe there’s some truth to it just because Mingyu’s the easiest person to convince of anything on the planet. You can remember convincing him chocolate milk comes from brown cows and strawberry milk comes from pink cows– he was elated to find out photoshop-generated pink cows exist in real life.
Tall, buff, bronzy and handsome, he was the first one to refer to you as Mrs. Song with a slippery smirk and a wiggle of his brows. For the entire two hours you tailgated, you don’t think you heard your name once; like parrots, once one of them says something, the rest follow.
It was nice to be friendly with him, even if you eyed him up with a smirk of your own two or twenty times, advances only understood by him, and each time you remembered whose name and number was painted on your back and forced your face to fall.
Boring.
“That pass was,” Yeosang hiccups, “disgusting.”
You lock your phone, picking your head up, “I missed it, what happened? Disgusting good, or disgusting bad?”
“Good,” Yeosang nods, watching the game with a different, analytical eye, “Mingi’s so fucking good.”
“Do you ever miss playing?” You ask, tucking your phone into your pocket, picking up your beer to take a sip. Cringing, you wish you’d drank more at the tailgate.
“Of course,” he says like that’s the stupidest question you’ve ever asked, “but I don’t regret quitting. Everything is better now.”
You can hear the liquor in his voice, it makes you crack a smile. Taking advantage of the situation, you lean in a little closer, “Do you miss her cheering you on?”
With his feet propped up on the empty chair in front of him, body lazily strewn in his own chair like it was deadweight, it might be, the way he only turns his head to look at you. “You don’t think she cheers for me anywhere else?”
Your top lip curls, leaning backward, putting space between you. “I don’t know if I should take that in a sexual way or not.”
Yeosang snorts loudly, head dipping back like he didn’t have the strength to hold it up anymore, “You saw her at my show last week. She was cheering me on like she didn’t give a fuck who saw, it was awesome.”
“Good,” you nod, turning back to the field, eyes closing in on the pretty cheerleader dressed in little to nothing, green and white pompoms in her hands. Whispering, watching her, you nod again, “Good.”
Checking your phone again, you see more DMs, but you don’t open them. Ignorance is bliss, you tell yourself as you sit rigid up until halftime, where the cheers and boos from the crowd went right over your head the entire time. Twenty minutes to pee, buy another beer and more cheese fries because you should’ve eaten before you fucking came and you didn’t.
On edge, speed-walking through the crowds in the concourse, your eyes worked a mile-a-minute to scan every face you saw, to analyze if anyone was looking at you a certain way. It’s terrifying, knowing someone is watching, not knowing who, or from where. You stared above you, through the cracks in the stall doors while you peed, you kept an eye on your surroundings while you bought another beer, more cheese fries.
Maybe you should turn off your requests, you think as you sit back down in your seat, Yeosang leaned sideways with his head in his fist, eyes half-open.
“Are you alive?” You ask with a laugh as you sit down, handing him another tall-boy can, “Here, got you another beer.”
He resurrects like the second coming of Jesus, eyes wide and brows lifted like you’d woken him from hibernation. Back straightening, he grabs the can from your hand, sucking in a breath, “You’re my best friend.”
You laugh as you sit back in your seat, tucking your skirt beneath your thighs, the game had already begun again while you were up in the concourse. Peeking up at the scoreboard, seeing nine-zero clear as day, your head snaps to Yeosang, “When the fuck did that happen?”
“Mostly in the first quarter,” his voice is heavy with carbonation, he closes a fist over his mouth in an attempt to silently burp into it, a failed attempt.
You snicker at the sound, giggling through your words, “Who?”
“Haechan, Jaemin.”
“Jaemin’s a kicker?”
“Him and Felix.”
“Ah,” you nod, taking a sip of your own beer. Turning to him again, you ask, “Haechan’s the whiney one with the red hair?”
“Wide receiver,” Yeosang nods, “and a good one. Mingi’s passes are perfect, though, can’t give Hyuck all the credit.”
“Hyuck?”
“Haechan.”
“Oh,” you mumble, searching the field again. Mingi looks so much bigger with all the padding on, bulkier, you can see his chest heaving despite the layers, his run turning to a slowed drag of his legs as he walks towards the edge of the field.
Arms flexing as he pulls his helmet off his head, he shakes his hair back, running a gloved hand through the sweaty strands, away from his face. It’s like slow motion, his shoulders pushed back, lips parted, jaw clean and angular, teeth poking out from beneath his top lip.
“Shit,” you mumble under your breath, he looks hot. Fuck him.
That clean smirk lifting his lips on one side as he shakes hands with another one of his teammates, you don’t care to figure out which one, you can’t take your eyes off him. He tilts his chin up, keeping that same cocky smirk as he says something too far for your ears to catch, his eyebrows twitching upward. Shit.
Your stomach rumbles something unwelcome, a feeling of interest, sweat prickling at the back of your neck that isn’t from the humidity in the air. You know he’s hot, you knew he was hot before you started fake-dating him, you quickly remind yourself who he is. A narcissistic asshole, a misogynist, a lonely twenty-one year old that doesn’t have the freedom to make decisions for himself. One that likes spending his free time with you, one that laughs at your jokes, one that throws his arm around your shoulders, tucking you into his side like there’s no other place he’d want you.
Mine.
You shake your head, turning to Yeosang again, “You know how I said I got those DMs the other day?”
Yeosang blinks in half-focus, “Kinda, why?”
“Nevermind,” you shake your head, sighing. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Can I have a fry?” He asks, giving you puppy eyes, you hand him the cup of cheese fries without looking at him.
By the grace of God, as if you fucking summoned her with damning thoughts, walking into the row before yours, sitting in the seat directly in front of Yeosang, is Winter.
Where the fuck is Wooyoung?
Yeosang stiffens, a cheese fry halfway in his mouth, he pulls his feet back down to the concrete, mumbling apologies through his already-full mouth. Winter is everything polite, she gives him a warm smile, tucking her skirt beneath her as she sits into the seat. Slowly she drags her hair to one side as she relaxes in the plastic, body not hitting the backrest, giving you a full, front-seat view of Song and 88 on her back.
Your lips part, eyes widening as you read it, you blink once, twice, six fucking times and the name and number doesn’t change. It’s a jersey bought from the school store, not official like the one on your back, but she’s fucking here, in front of you, with your boyfriend’s name and number on her fucking back.
“Excuse me,” you lean forward, heart beating out of your chest, brain spewing words onto your tongue and not one of them is nice.
She turns like she’s surprised, brows lifted, “Hm?”
“Your jersey?” You tilt your chin, what the fuck else would you be asking about?
“Oh,” she grins, cheeks pink, a hand coming up to cover her mouth like she’s fucking bashful. “I’m just a huge fan.”
“Right,” you say slowly, eyes thinned to shoot daggers, nodding like this shit does not add up.
Yeosang rests a heavy hand on your back, you turn your head to look at him still shooting missiles from your eyes and his face is twisted up to say what the fuck are you doing?!
Your face snaps back into reality, quickly straightening in your seat, pupils shaking beneath your lids and lips pursed hard enough to bruise, an embarrassing heat turns your body to lava. You see nothing, you hear nothing, you feel nothing but the mortifying pulse of your own heartbeat, what are you doing? What the fuck was that? This is the whole point.
You’re going insane, that’s the only answer, the only reason for what you just did. The DMs, sitting in seats he got you because they’re the best view, having eyes on you somewhere in the crowd, remembering how he looked at you from the driver’s seat of his car, telling you to go get what you want just because you fucking want it. It's all going to your head.
You need to break up. Now.
You don’t see the rest of the game. You don’t hear the music, the sirens of triumph, the roars of the crowd, you don’t even process that they won until you’re standing up, clapping, staring out at the field with your face utterly blank. This is fear. This is real, genuine, raw fucking fear.
“Let’s go,” Yeosang is tugging on your arm and your gaze is elsewhere, confused, your mind somewhere along with it.
You tug your arm back, “Go where?”
“Down to the field?” Yeosang furrows his brows, “Are you okay?”
“Oh,” you give him a weak smile, “yeah, ‘m fine.”
You’re gliding up the stairs into the concourse, fuzzy finding the staircase to lead you back down, you’re shaking your head, trying to snap yourself out of it before you reach the bottom platform. There’s a man shuffling around like he was waiting for bodies to approach, earpiece connecting to a small black box clipped onto his slacks, a black polo to match, his face reading focus, professionalism. You mumble yours and Yeosang’s names and he lets you through with a stretch of his arm, you heave another breath when the LED lights come into view at the end of the tunnel.
The field is vast, it’s warmer down here, the air is wet. Bodies seem to cover every inch of sideline, cameras, lights, people with clipboards and hats on their head with your university’s logo, you’re too aware of your fingers at your sides.
You spot him and he’s smiling, laughing as he talks to an interviewer, already standing before a camera, it makes your heart drop to your asshole. You shuffle closer to Yeosang who’s already on the hunt for Jongho, you’re sure he doesn’t want to be caught down here by his old coach or any of the staff, if they’d even recognize his bright green hair.
“You’re down here?” Jongho finds you before you find him, brows furrowed, hair sweaty and chest heaving, he wears confused brows and a winded smile.
Chest puffed from padding, sweat dribbling down his forearms that aren’t covered by nylon, you actually feel a semblance of relief when you see him. “Mingi invited me, I wasn’t coming without Yeo.”
“Oh,” his smile spreads, “how was it?”
Yeosang claps his hand, throwing another on his shoulder, “You’re a fucking boulder, wish I was down here with you.”
Jongho looks confused, “Are you drunk?”
Your eyes travel, landing on Mingi, who catches you just as you look over. You see him brighten, smile widening, a sparkle in his eyes that makes your stomach do flips. Fuck.
You watch him mouth the words excuse me, nodding his head before escaping the press, running over to you with that stupid fucking smile you might have seen in your dream last night.
“You came!” He yells when he gets close enough to pull you into his chest, acting as if his sweat didn’t soak through his padding. Huge, massive, he swallows you, it makes your knees weak.
You verbally cringe, muttering a noise of disgust before pulling away, “I was right, you smell like wet dog.”
“Beautiful woman,” he corrects, face reading amusement, “like you in my jersey, green looks good on you, princess.”
Your eyes meet the turf beneath your boots, “You don’t have to say that, no one can hear you, Mingi.”
“Damn, no insulting rebuttal?” The more he looks at you the more his smile falters. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
You look up at him through your brows, surprise written on your face as you take in the concern on his. He can tell? You shake your head, plastering a fake smile on your cheeks, “I’m great, I’m fine, I’m good. Did you hear me cheering?”
“For me?” He’s cheesing, excited like a little kid.
You laugh a little, tucking your hair behind your ear, “Duh, you told me I had to since I’m wearing your jersey.”
“Let me see,” he pulls his arm from where it laid over your shoulder back to his side, “do a little twirl for me, smart girl.”
The heat on your cheeks is molten, you roll your eyes as you make a ponytail in your fist, twirling to give him full access of him on your back.
He cheers, woo-ing loud and shameless, his smile takes over his entire face. “Wow, look at you, like a real-life WAG.”
“What’s a WAG?”
He shakes his head, “Means you’re mine.”
Mine.
You panic, words spilling from your lips, “Guess who else is in your jersey.”
His smile falls, body going still with knowing disbelief, “No.”
You force a tight-lipped smile, nodding, “Yup.”
“Oh my god!” Yeosang cuts you off, loud and obnoxious. Now he chooses to get rowdy? “I almost forgot, you guys should take pictures.”
In boyfriend mode again, Mingi’s gloved palm finds the small of your back, coming to your side when you twist around to look at Yeosang, face screaming no. Yeosang giggles, a nasty little smirk on his lips that tells you he’s playing the game, too, maybe better than you are at this point.
He pulls his phone from his back pocket, “Come on, pose.”
You look at Mingi, uneasy. He shrugs, unbothered. Hand tighter around your waist, he leans into you, smiling. You try to force light into your eyes, doing your best to grin like a proud girlfriend, not that these pictures would ever see the light of day.
“Cute,” Yeosang crouches, “move over, the lighting is weird.”
You huff, but move in the direction Yeosang’s pointed palm is ushering you in, Mingi following, the both of you quiet. Too aware of where you are, eyes, cameras, lights— it’s overstimulating just having his fucking hand on you, his body pressed to yours.
Yeosang eyes you over the top of his phone screen, flashing something mischievous, “Now kiss.”
“What?” There’s barely a moment between his order and your reaction. Mingi stiffens beside you, you think you’ve gone cold, you think you might drop dead on the turf.
“Kiss!” Yeosang nearly whines, “Come on, what are you, children? One kiss for a picture, you’ll thank me for it later.”
Your jaw drops. Blinking at him, stuttering a rebuttal, head shaking and a hand moving to wave in front of you out of denial, Mingi speaks before you do.
“Okay.”
“Huh?!” You look at him like he’s insane.
He shoots daggers, eyes bouncing back and forth between you and Yeosang as if to say don’t blow our cover. Little does he know, Yeosang was present when the plan was fucking formed.
“No,” the shake of your head is final, “absolutely not.”
“One kiss,” Mingi argues, “it would be a cute picture.”
You whisper, “Why are you encouraging this?”
He shrugs, his smile effortlessly stupid, “It’s just one kiss.”
Your eyes lower to his lips for a split second. Round, plump, pink, wet with spit from his tongue that glides over them seamlessly, there’s an anxious pit in your stomach, your fight or flight kicks in.
He uses the angle in which you turned, one hand sliding to your waist, the other on your jaw, tilting your head upward. Warm, his touch delicate, you feel your heart in your throat as he leans in, kissing you with a softness no one has ever kissed you with.
You’ve been someone’s situationship, friends with benefits, fuckbuddy— all things that require a disconnection to function, a wall you were far too good at putting up, keeping stable. You’ve been kissed with haste, with fervor, just to add a touch of romanticism because the rest that followed lacked respect in its purest form.
This was different. It wasn’t a peck, your lips parted for him, your body melted into him, his hand on your jaw was guiding, grounding, his gloved thumb swiped along your skin like he fucking meant it. He tasted clean, like he just drank a gallon of water, still fresh on his plump lips that tucked yours in like they belonged there. It's not right, it’s not right but it’s working and you’re fucking terrified.
He pulls away just as softly as he leaned in, a dopey smile stretching his lips wide. Keeping himself close, he hums, “See? Just a kiss.”
You don’t realize your fingers wrapped around his forearm, or that your spine bent towards him. Breath shaky, grip iron, your eyes flicker upward and even the way he’s looking at you is different.
You swallow down your discombobulation just enough to utter, “We need to break up. Now.”
Hai i just wanna say that the sun is mine is one of my fave sunoo fics🥹 aside from the writing and plot being so beautiful, for me, you were able to capture how vampire sunoo would be 🫶🏻 requesting more vampire sunoo fics juseyo:3
Midnight Covenant `✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ K.SN
pairing: vampire! barista!sunoo x burnt-out writer!reader
The grandfather clock in your apartment strikes midnight with the solemnity of a funeral bell, each chime reverberating through the silence like a death knell for your creativity. Before you lies a manuscript as barren as winter's first grave, cursor blinking with the persistence of a heartbeat that refuses to still.
Three months. Three months since the words fled from you like spirits at dawn, leaving behind only the hollow ache of empty pages. Your editor's letters grow increasingly terse, your bank account dwindles with the inevitability of autumn leaves, and still the stories remain locked away in some unreachable corner of your soul.
The city beyond your window breathes with nocturnal life—a different creature entirely from its daylight self. It whispers promises of inspiration to those brave enough to walk its shadowed streets, and tonight, desperate as a drowning woman reaching for driftwood, you answer its call.
The flyer had appeared beneath your door like an omen, heavy crimson paper that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the hallway's fluorescent light. Nocturne Café, it proclaimed in script that flowed like spilled wine. Where night dwellers find sustenance for body and soul.
You dress in layers against the October chill, wrapping yourself in wool and leather like armor against the dark. The streets stretch before you, gleaming with recent rain that reflects the streetlamps in pools of amber light. Your footsteps echo against old brick and modern concrete, a percussion that seems to announce your passage to unseen watchers.
The neighborhood transforms as you venture deeper into its heart. Familiar shops appear different in the darkness—their windows black and watching, their signs taking on ominous new meanings. You pass beneath iron lamp posts that cast more shadow than light, their fixtures wrought in shapes that seem almost organic, like flowering vines frozen in metal.
Then you see it, and your breath catches in your throat.
Nocturne Café sits tucked between a vintage bookstore and what appears to be an antique shop that's definitely seen better decades. Light spills from its tall windows in shades of gold and amber, but it's a light that seems almost alive, flickering with the rhythm of a pulse. The glass is old—genuinely old—with that slight waviness that speaks of another century, another lifetime entirely.
Above the door hangs a sign painted in deep burgundy and black, the café's name written in letters that seem to shift when you're not looking directly at them. Ivy climbs the building's brick facade with unnatural persistence, its leaves too green for the season, too lush for the city's gray embrace.
The bell above the door doesn't chime when you enter—it sighs, a sound like wind through cemetery trees. The interior unfolds before you like a scene from a fever dream, all velvet shadows and candlelight that dances without any discernible breeze. The walls are lined with books whose spines bear no titles, and portraits of people with eyes that seem to track your movement hang in frames black as midnight.
But it's the scent that truly captures you. Coffee, yes, but underneath lies something else—iron and roses, like a garden built atop ancient battlefields. It's intoxicating and unsettling in equal measure, making your pulse quicken with an excitement you can't quite name.
The other patrons sit in pools of shadow, their conversations carried on in whispers that stop just short of silence. A woman in the corner booth cradles a glass of what looks like wine but moves too slowly, too thickly. Her skin is pale as parchment, her dress a shade of midnight blue that seems to swallow light. She hasn't touched the delicate pastries on her plate, hasn't even glanced at them, but she watches everything else with eyes sharp as winter stars.
Near the window, two young men lean across their table in urgent conference, their voices too low to catch but their gestures speaking of secrets and conspiracies. One's fingers drum against his coffee cup with nervous energy, while the other remains preternaturally still—so still you begin to wonder if he's breathing at all.
But all of this registers only dimly, because behind the mahogany counter stands the most beautiful man you've ever seen, and beautiful is too small a word for what he is.
He moves with liquid grace, every gesture economical and precise, as if he's choreographed each motion across decades of practice. His hair catches the candlelight like spun gold, and when he looks up at you, his smile is warm enough to chase away the October chill that clings to your bones.
"Welcome," he says, and his voice carries the music of distant thunder, "to Nocturne."
You approach the counter on unsteady legs, clutching your laptop bag like a talisman against whatever spell this place has begun weaving around you. Up close, his beauty takes on an almost painful quality—the kind of perfection that speaks of marble statues and renaissance paintings, of things too lovely for the mortal world.
"I'm looking for..." you begin, then pause, unsure how to explain the desperate hunger that's driven you into the night.
"Something to wake up your brain?" he suggests, and his smile is understanding. "You've got that look. Like you've been staring at a blank page for way too long."
It's not a question. Somehow, impossibly, he just knows.
"Is it that obvious?"
"You carry stories in your eyes," he says simply. "But they're all tangled up. Writer's block is like that—everything's there, but you can't reach it."
His choice of words makes you shiver, but not with cold. "Something like that."
"I'm Sunoo," he offers, extending a hand across the counter. His skin is cool as marble against yours, and his grip lingers a moment longer than strictly necessary. "And you are someone in need of the right blend."
He doesn't ask for your name, and you don't offer it. At this hour, in this place, it doesn't seem to matter.
"I've got something that might help," Sunoo continues, his fingers already moving between bottles and containers arranged behind him with careful precision. "A special blend I make for people who need to unlock things. Hidden thoughts. Forgotten memories. Stories that have been hiding."
You watch him work with the fascination of someone witnessing ancient ritual. Steam rises from the espresso machine like incense, and he moves between ingredients with the confidence of a practiced alchemist. The coffee he's building is darker than midnight, and when he adds what looks like cream, it swirls through the liquid like smoke through water.
"Just so you know," he says, sliding the cup across the counter, "this particular blend can be... intense. Some people say it helps them see things differently. Think more clearly."
The porcelain is bone white, delicate as eggshell, and the liquid within seems to absorb the candlelight rather than reflect it. Your fingers close around the cup, and the ceramic is warm against your palm, warmer than it should be. The scent rises to meet you—coffee, yes, but underneath something else. Something wild and ancient and utterly intoxicating.
"What's in it?" you ask, though you're already raising it to your lips.
Sunoo's smile grows mysterious, and in the candlelight, his teeth catch the light strangely. "Trade secrets. But I think you'll find what you're looking for."
The first sip sends fire racing through your veins, and for a moment, the world tilts on its axis. Colors become more vivid, shadows deeper, and you can swear you hear whispers in languages you don't recognize threading through the café's ambient music. Your mind, sluggish and empty for months, suddenly blazes to life with possibilities.
"Oh," you breathe, and Sunoo's laugh is genuinely pleased.
"Good?" he asks, and something in his tone makes you look at him more closely.
You find an empty table near the back, laptop open, fingers flying across keys that sing with each strike. The words pour from you like water from a broken dam, stories you didn't know you carried, characters who speak with voices clear as crystal. Hours pass like minutes, and you're dimly aware of the café's other patrons coming and going like shadows at the edge of your vision.
But always, you feel Sunoo watching you from behind the counter, his gaze warm as candlelight on your skin.
When you finally surface from your creative trance, the sky outside has begun to lighten with the first hints of dawn. The café, you realize, has been growing steadily emptier, until now only you and a handful of others remain. The woman with the untouched pastries has vanished, as have the whispering young men, leaving behind only coffee cups and wine glasses that gleam like rubies in the dying candlelight.
You've written fifteen pages. Fifteen pages of the best work you've done in years, maybe ever. Your fingers ache pleasantly, and your mind buzzes with the satisfaction of creation fulfilled.
"Good night?" Sunoo appears at your elbow, moving with that same fluid grace you'd noticed earlier. Up close, you can see that his skin has an almost luminous quality, like he's lit from within.
"Amazing," you admit, looking up at him. "I haven't written like that in months. What was in that coffee?"
"Inspiration," he says simply, beginning to clear empty cups from nearby tables. "And perhaps a touch of magic."
You laugh, but the sound feels strange in the hushed atmosphere of the café. "Magic?"
"This is a special place," Sunoo explains, his voice soft as velvet. "It draws certain people—artists, dreamers, those who feel more alive in the darkness than in the day. The coffee is good, but the real magic comes from finding where you belong."
Something in his words makes your heart skip, though you can't quite say why. "And where do I belong?"
He pauses in his clearing, fixing you with a look that seems to see straight through to your soul. "That remains to be seen, doesn't it?"
The sky outside has grown definitely lighter now, painting the windows with shades of gray and gold. You realize, with something approaching panic, that the café will likely close soon, and the thought of returning to your empty apartment and lifeless manuscript fills you with dread.
"When do you open again?" you ask, already knowing you'll be back.
"Sunset," Sunoo replies, his smile warming like sunrise itself. "We'll be here."
We'll be here. The words follow you home through the brightening streets, echoing in your mind as you fall into the first peaceful sleep you've had in months. And when you dream, it's of golden eyes and silver laughter, of coffee that tastes like starlight and shadows that dance with lives of their own.
You don't yet know that you've taken the first step into a world where the impossible brushes shoulders with the everyday, where beauty and danger wear the same face, and where a café that exists only in the darkest hours of night will become the center of everything that matters.
But Sunoo knows. Behind his warm smile and gentle words, he recognizes what you are—what you could become. And as he watches you disappear into the dawn, he allows himself a moment of something that might be hope, or might be hunger.
In the Blood Moon Café, the two have always been remarkably similar.
You return the next night like a moth to flame, telling yourself it's purely practical. The coffee worked, didn't it? Fifteen pages of your best writing in months—surely that's worth investigating further. The fact that golden eyes and a voice like velvet thunder have haunted your dreams all day is entirely coincidental.
The café appears exactly as you remember it, though somehow the ivy seems to have grown overnight, its tendrils reaching further up the brick facade with an enthusiasm that defies the approaching winter. The same warm light spills from the windows, the same mysterious energy pulses from within like a heartbeat made of shadow and flame.
This time, you notice things you missed before. The way the other patrons' reflections seem slightly delayed in the antique mirrors lining the walls. How the candles burn without ever growing shorter, their flames dancing to music you can't quite hear. The books on the shelves—when you try to focus on their spines, the titles seem to shift and blur, as if written in a language your eyes refuse to process.
Sunoo greets you with the same warm smile, but tonight there's something different in his gaze—a recognition that makes your pulse quicken.
"The writer returns," he says, and his voice holds a note of genuine pleasure. "I wondered if you would."
"The coffee," you say, then pause, realizing how inadequate that sounds. "It was... remarkable."
"Was it the coffee, though?" He begins preparing something without asking what you want, his movements carrying that same hypnotic precision. "Or was it finding a place where you could finally breathe?"
The question catches you off guard with its accuracy. That's exactly what it felt like—breathing after months of holding your breath, existing after merely surviving.
"Both, maybe," you admit, settling at the same table as before. It's been left empty, you notice, despite the café being busier tonight. "How did you know I'd want the same thing?"
"Call it intuition," Sunoo replies, bringing over the same bone-white cup filled with liquid darkness. "Some people are creatures of habit. Others are creatures of instinct. You strike me as the latter."
The coffee tastes even better than you remember, if that's possible. With the first sip, that electric clarity floods your system again, but tonight you're more aware of its effects. Your senses sharpen until you can hear conversations from across the room, smell the rain that's still hours from falling, feel the subtle vibrations of the city's underground railway system through the floorboards.
"What exactly is in this?" you ask again, studying the liquid with new suspicion.
Sunoo's smile grows mysterious. "Would you believe me if I told you?"
"Try me."
He leans against your table, close enough that you can see the way candlelight plays across his features, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the almost luminous quality of his skin. "Coffee beans grown in soil blessed by moonlight. Water drawn from springs that have never seen sun. And perhaps a drop or two of something that doesn't appear in any cookbook."
You should laugh. It's clearly some kind of marketing nonsense, the sort of mystical babble designed to make pretentious coffee shops seem more interesting. But looking into his eyes, you find yourself believing every word.
"And the something else?" you press.
"That," he says, straightening with fluid grace, "is a secret I reserve for very special customers."
The way he says special sends heat spiraling through your chest, and you have to look away before you do something embarrassing like blush visibly. Instead, you focus on your laptop screen, letting the words flow as they did the night before.
But tonight, you're more aware of the café's other inhabitants. The pale woman from yesterday hasn't returned, but her place has been taken by a man in an expensive suit who conducts what appears to be a business meeting entirely in whispers. His companion never speaks, only nods, and you could swear his shadow moves independently of his body.
Near the window, a couple shares what looks like wine but pours too slowly, too thickly. They don't drink so much as taste, lifting the glasses to their lips with reverent care. Their conversation, what little you can hear, seems to span decades—references to events that should be historical, people who should be long dead, places that might not exist anymore.
As the hours pass, you begin to notice patterns. Customers arrive individually but seem to know each other, acknowledging familiar faces with subtle nods and meaningful glances. They order from Sunoo's mysterious special menu, receiving drinks in cut crystal glasses that never seem to empty. And gradually, as dawn approaches, they simply... disappear. Not leaving through the door, exactly, but fading like mist until suddenly they're no longer there.
"Interesting crowd," you comment when Sunoo stops by to check on you around four in the morning.
"The night draws particular people," he agrees, sliding into the seat across from you uninvited. This close, you can see that his beauty has an almost ethereal quality—too perfect, too symmetrical, like looking at a painting of an angel. "Those who find daylight... limiting."
"Are you one of them?"
Something flickers across his expression—surprise, perhaps, or approval. "What do you think?"
You study him more carefully. His skin has that luminous quality you noticed before, but now you realize it's not makeup or good genes. He literally glows, a subtle radiance that seems to come from within. His hair catches light that isn't there, and his eyes hold depths that speak of centuries rather than decades.
"I think," you say slowly, "that this place isn't exactly what it appears to be."
"And what do you think it appears to be?"
"A café." You pause, choosing your words carefully. "But cafés don't usually have customers who don't eat food, or baristas who look like they stepped out of Renaissance paintings, or coffee that makes you feel like you can hear colors and see music."
Sunoo's laugh is genuinely delighted, and when he smiles, you catch a glimpse of something sharp and white. Fangs, your mind supplies helpfully, though the rational part of you immediately rebels against the thought.
"You're very observant," he says.
"I'm a writer. Observation is my job." You lean back in your chair, studying his face in the candlelight. "So what are you really?"
"What do you want me to be?"
The question hangs between you like a challenge, and you realize that he's giving you a choice. You could laugh it off, dismiss the strangeness as elaborate theater, finish your coffee and never return. Go back to your safe, mundane life of writer's block and ordinary problems.
Or you could step through the door he's opening, into whatever strange and wonderful world exists in the spaces between reality and dream.
"I want you to be exactly what you are," you say finally. "Whatever that is."
His smile softens, becoming something warmer and more genuine. "Dangerous words."
"I'm a writer," you repeat. "Danger is my specialty."
The third night, you arrive with questions burning on your tongue and find the café transformed. The lighting is dimmer, all candleflame and shadow, and the usual jazz has been replaced by something older—music that sounds like it belongs in centuries past, all strings and haunting melodies that seem to bypass your ears and speak directly to your soul.
The clientele is different too. Where before you saw business meetings and quiet couples, tonight the café hosts what can only be described as a gathering. Beautiful people in clothing that spans decades—some in modern dress, others in styles that look like they stepped out of history books—fill nearly every table. Their conversations flow in multiple languages, some of which you're sure died out long ago.
And they're all looking at you.
Not obviously, not all at once, but you can feel their attention like weight against your skin. Curious glances, whispered comments, the sense of being evaluated by standards you don't understand.
Sunoo appears at your side before you can fully process the change in atmosphere.
"You came back," he says, and there's something almost vulnerable in his voice.
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
"I hoped you would. But hope and expectation are very different things." He guides you to a table that's been set apart from the others, positioned so you can observe the room while maintaining some privacy. "Tonight is... special. A monthly gathering of sorts."
"Gathering of what?"
But before he can answer, a woman approaches your table. She's stunning in that ageless way that speaks of good genes and better skincare, her dark hair swept into an elegant chignon, her dress a shade of midnight blue that seems to absorb light. When she smiles, you catch a glimpse of the same sharp canines you thought you saw in Sunoo's mouth.
"So this is our little writer," she says, her voice carrying an accent you can't place. "How fascinating. It's been so long since someone new joined our circle."
"Heeseung," Sunoo says, and there's a warning in his voice.
"Oh, don't fret, darling. I'm not going to frighten her away." Heeseung—though she looks nothing like any Heeseung you've ever imagined—slides into the empty chair beside you with liquid grace. "Though I am curious. What do you see when you look at us?"
The question feels loaded, important in ways you don't fully grasp. Around the room, conversations have quieted, and you realize that everyone is waiting for your answer.
"I see beautiful people having coffee in an extraordinary place," you say carefully.
"And?"
You look around the room again, taking in details that have been nagging at the edges of your consciousness. The way shadows seem to cling to certain customers like living things. How some people's reflections in the antique mirrors are slightly out of sync with their movements. The fact that in three nights, you've never seen anyone actually eat the food they order.
"And I see people who aren't entirely people," you say quietly.
A collective sigh seems to ripple through the room, though it might just be the wind outside. Heeseung's smile grows wider, revealing teeth that are definitely sharper than they should be.
"Clever girl," she murmurs. "No wonder Sunoo is so taken with you."
Heat floods your cheeks at the implication, but before you can respond, Sunoo returns with your usual coffee and something else—a small glass filled with liquid so dark it seems to absorb light.
"A choice," he says simply, setting both vessels before you. "Coffee, and the life you knew before. Or..." He gestures to the darker liquid. "Truth, and everything that comes with it."
Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the glass. The liquid inside moves like it's heavier than wine, heavier than water, and when you lift it to your nose, the scent is metallic and rich and utterly intoxicating.
"What is it?" you whisper.
"Life," Sunoo says simply. "In its purest form."
Blood, your mind supplies, and this time you don't push the thought away. The rational part of your brain is screaming warnings, telling you to grab your things and run, to get as far away from this impossible place and these impossible people as quickly as possible.
But the writer in you, the part that has always been hungry for stories and experiences and truths that exist beyond the mundane world, is fascinated. This is the kind of moment that changes everything—the kind of choice that divides life into before and after.
"If I drink this," you say, still holding the glass, "what happens?"
"You'll see us as we truly are," Heeseung says. "And we'll see if you can handle the truth."
"And if I can't?"
Sunoo's expression grows pained. "Then I'll make sure you forget. All of this, all of us. You'll go back to your life exactly as it was, and we'll become nothing more than a half-remembered dream."
The thought of forgetting him, of losing this strange and wonderful place that's brought your creativity roaring back to life, fills you with something approaching panic. Whatever these people are, whatever this place truly is, it's become more important to you than your rational mind wants to admit.
"And if I can handle it?"
"Then you become part of something extraordinary," Sunoo says softly. "Part of a world that exists in the shadows of the one you know, full of beauty and danger and possibilities you've never imagined."
You look around the room one more time, taking in the expectant faces, the otherworldly beauty, the sense of standing at the threshold between the mundane and the magical. Then you lift the glass to your lips and drink.
The taste explodes across your tongue—copper and iron and something indefinably wild. It's horrible and wonderful and utterly addictive, and as it slides down your throat, the world around you shifts and changes.
Colors become more vivid, shadows gain depth and texture, and suddenly you can see them all for what they truly are. The elegant customers with their ageless beauty and sharp smiles, their eyes that reflect light like cats' eyes, their movements that carry the predatory grace of apex predators.
Vampires. The café is full of vampires, and you've just drunk blood, and somehow this feels less like a revelation than a confirmation of something you already knew in your bones.
"Well?" Heeseung asks, her voice now carrying harmonics that seem to resonate in your chest. "How do you feel?"
"Alive," you say, and realize it's truer than you've ever been. "More alive than I've felt in years."
Sunoo's smile is radiant, and when he reaches across the table to take your hand, his skin feels exactly right against yours—cool and smooth and perfect.
"Welcome," he says, "to the Blood Moon Café. Now let me tell you what we really are."
The story he tells you spans centuries, a hidden history of creatures who chose to live alongside humanity rather than prey upon it. The Blood Moon Café serves as a sanctuary, a place where vampires can gather safely, where those who feed on donated blood rather than unwilling victims can find community and purpose.
"We're not what the stories make us out to be," Sunoo explains as the night deepens around you. The other patrons have gradually dispersed, leaving you alone with him in the flickering candlelight. "Most of us, anyway. We don't kill, we don't turn humans against their will, we don't skulk around in cemeteries wearing dramatic capes."
"Some of us look quite good in dramatic capes," Heeseung calls from behind the counter, where she's taken over the evening's cleaning duties.
"We live ordinary lives during the day—well, evening," Sunoo continues with an amused glance at his friend. "We have jobs and homes and relationships. We've just learned to find sustenance without causing harm."
"The coffee," you realize. "It's not actually coffee, is it?"
"Oh, it's coffee too," he assures you. "But enhanced with blood from willing donors. Humans who know what we are and choose to help us. It's not as... nutritionally complete as feeding directly, but it sustains us."
You think of the electric energy that's flooded your system each night, the way your creativity has exploded back to life, the sharpened senses and heightened awareness. "And what does it do to humans?"
"Enhances natural abilities," Sunoo says carefully. "Makes you more yourself, in a way. Writers become more creative, artists more inspired, athletes stronger and faster. It's temporary, mostly harmless, and utterly addictive."
"Addictive?"
"Why do you think you kept coming back?" His smile is gentle but knowing. "The coffee was remarkable, yes, but what you were really craving was the way it made you feel. Alive. Powerful. Connected to something larger than yourself."
He's right, and the knowledge should disturb you more than it does. Instead, you find yourself fascinated by the implications.
"So this whole place is basically a front for supernatural creatures to exist in the modern world?"
"More than that," Heeseung interjects, appearing at your table with inhuman speed. "It's a bridge. A place where two worlds can coexist safely. Some of our human customers know exactly what we are. Others, like you were until tonight, simply know that something here is special."
"And which am I now?" you ask.
Sunoo's expression grows serious. "That depends entirely on what you want to be."
The question hangs between you, heavy with implication. You understand now that this is about more than just knowing their secret. This is about choosing whether to remain on the periphery of their world or step fully into it.
"What would stepping fully into it mean?"
"It would mean accepting that your life has just become infinitely more complicated and infinitely more interesting," Sunoo says. "It would mean learning to exist in both worlds—the mundane human one and the hidden supernatural one. It would mean danger, because not all vampires share our philosophy, and not all humans would understand our choices."
He pauses, his golden eyes searching your face in the candlelight.
"And it would mean spending a great deal more time with me, if that's something you'd want."
The way he says it—tentative, almost vulnerable—makes your heart skip. "And is that something you'd want?"
"I've been wondering that since the first night you walked in here," he admits. "You're not like other humans. You see things others miss, accept impossibilities others would reject. You're curious rather than fearful, excited rather than disturbed by the unknown."
"Maybe I'm just a really good writer," you suggest, though your pulse is racing.
"Maybe," he agrees. "Or maybe you're someone who was always meant to exist between worlds. Someone who understands that the most interesting stories happen in the spaces where reality blurs at the edges."
You look around the café—your café now, you realize, because leaving it behind is no longer an option you can seriously consider. The candlelit atmosphere, the sense of secrets and possibilities, the feeling of belonging somewhere extraordinary rather than ordinary.
"If I say yes," you ask, "what happens next?"
Sunoo's smile is radiant. "Next, we see where this story goes. Together."
Three months later, you've settled into a rhythm that would have seemed impossible in your old life. Days are for sleeping and editing, evenings are for writing in your apartment, and nights—nights are for the Blood Moon Café and the strange, wonderful community you've somehow become part of.
Your latest manuscript, a urban fantasy novel about supernatural creatures hiding in plain sight, sold to a publisher within a week of submission. Your editor called it "remarkably authentic" and "deeply atmospheric," praising your ability to make the impossible feel utterly believable. If only she knew.
But the real changes are smaller, more personal. The way Sunoo saves your favorite table every night, how he's learned to read your moods in the set of your shoulders and the particular way you chew your pen when stuck on a difficult scene. How he brings you coffee enhanced with just enough blood to sharpen your creativity without overwhelming your human system, a careful balance he's perfected through weeks of observation and adjustment.
How, somewhere along the way, friendship has deepened into something warmer, more complex. The careful touches that linger longer than necessary, conversations that stretch until dawn, the way he looks at you like you're the most fascinating creature he's encountered in his very long life.
Tonight finds you in your usual spot, laptop open, working on a scene that's been giving you trouble for days. The café is quieter than usual—a Tuesday in late January, when even vampires prefer to stay home—and Sunoo has abandoned the pretense of working to sit across from you, reading a book that's definitely older than your great-grandmother.
"Stuck?" he asks, looking up as you sigh in frustration.
"My protagonist needs to have a revelation about love, but I can't figure out how to make it feel authentic rather than contrived."
Sunoo sets down his book—something in what looks like Latin—and leans forward slightly. "What kind of revelation?"
"That love isn't always the big, dramatic, world-stopping moment fiction makes it out to be. Sometimes it's quiet. Sometimes it creeps up on you so gradually that by the time you recognize it, it's already become part of who you are."
"Ah," he says softly, and something in his tone makes you look up from your screen. "That kind of love."
He's watching you with an expression you've never seen before—tender and vulnerable and full of something that makes your breath catch.
"Sunoo?"
"I think," he says carefully, "your protagonist might realize that love is like finding the perfect café. You can search for it desperately, try to force it, visit a dozen places that almost work but don't quite fit. And then one night, when you're not even looking, you stumble across exactly what you need. And suddenly you can't imagine how you ever lived without it."
Your fingers freeze over the keyboard as the implications of his words sink in. "Is that... are you saying..."
"I'm saying that somewhere between that first night and now, you stopped being just an interesting human who wandered into my world." His voice is soft, almost hesitant. "You became the person I look forward to seeing every evening. The one whose creativity and curiosity and courage constantly amazes me. The one who looked at a room full of vampires and felt excitement instead of fear."
He reaches across the table, fingertips brushing against yours.
"I'm saying I love you," he continues, "in that quiet, creeping way that happens so gradually you don't notice until one day you realize that person has become part of your story. Part of who you are."
For a moment, you can't speak. The words you've been struggling to write for your fictional protagonist suddenly seem laughably simple compared to the reality of hearing them from Sunoo.
"I love you too," you say finally, and watch his face light up like sunrise. "Though I have to say, falling in love with a vampire wasn't exactly in my five-year plan."
His laugh is pure joy. "The best stories rarely go according to plan."
"No," you agree, closing your laptop and leaning across the table to kiss him properly for the first time. His lips are soft and cool and taste like coffee and possibilities. "They really don't."
Later, as dawn approaches and the café prepares to close, you help Sunoo with the cleaning routine you've gradually become part of. It's domestic and ordinary and perfect—this life you've stumbled into, this love you've found in the most unlikely place.
"So," you say as he locks the front door behind the last customer, "what happens in our story next?"
Sunoo pulls you into his arms, spinning you once in the empty café before setting you down among the flickering candles and velvet shadows.
"Whatever we want," he says, and kisses you again under the watchful eyes of painted portraits and the gentle glow of lights that burn without ever dimming.
Outside, the city prepares for another ordinary day, full of ordinary people living ordinary lives. But inside the Blood Moon Café, surrounded by magic and mystery and the kind of love that exists in the spaces between reality and dream, you know that your story is just beginning.
haii im the one who requested the prague fic!! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR WRITING ITS BEAUTIFUL and its so long u literally gave me an advance xmas gift thank u thank u:) the lack of sunoo fics is making me go crazy
lol you're welcome and as for the lack of sunoo fics, I am atoning for enhablr's sins by working on another sunoo req rn!!!
https://x.com/enhypenweverse/status/1961444972621861064?s=46 haiii can i request a sunoo fic of him and reader on vacation or reader just coming along to the europe tour based on these pics, he looks so bf coded here🥹
Golden Hours and Gelato ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ K.SN
Pairing: vacationing!sunoo x reader
wc: 4.49k
Content: established relationship, vacation au, europe travel, domestic fluff, soft boyfriend sunoo, shenanigans
a/n: so, hi... It's been almost a month since i got this req and i have neverrr been this late finishing a req or even took this long to post another fic.. I have just been busy with schoolwork and (writing enough as is) haven't had the time (or energy) to write anything.. this one's long to compensate, hope you enjoy anon !!!! (also, i made the header myself :P)
"Sun, slow down!" you called out, laughing as Sunoo practically bounced down the cobblestone streets of Prague's Old Town. He had his film camera slung around his neck, the strap bouncing with each excited step, and that radiant smile that made your chest warm every single time.
"But look at this light!" he exclaimed, stopping abruptly to gesture at the way the late afternoon sun was hitting the pastel buildings. "It's golden hour, and we're in Prague, and everything looks like a movie set."
You caught up to him, slightly out of breath but endlessly fond. "You've said that about every city we've visited this week."
"Because it's been true every single time," he said matter-of-factly, already raising his camera to capture the way shadows danced across the medieval architecture. "Paris had that incredible morning mist, Amsterdam had those dreamy canals, Berlin had all that amazing street art, and now Prague has these fairy tale buildings. Europe is just... magical."
"Very poetic for someone who claims they're not good with words."
"I express myself through photography," he said, snapping a few shots before turning the camera toward you. "Speaking of which, stay right there. The way the sunlight is catching your hair is incredible."
"Sunoo, no, I look awful after wandering around all day—"
"You look radiant," he said simply, and the sincerity in his voice made your protests die in your throat. He took the photo, then immediately checked the back of the camera with a satisfied grin. "Absolutely perfect."
This had been your routine for the past week. ENHYPEN's European tour had concluded three days ago, and instead of flying straight back to Korea, Sunoo had asked if you wanted to extend the trip and explore together. Just the two of you, no rigid schedules or managers or coordinated stage outfits. Just Sunoo in his cozy oversized sweaters and worn vintage jeans, hair getting tousled in the wind, photographing everything that caught his attention (which was essentially everything).
"Where to next, my personal tour guide?" you asked, linking your arm through his as he studied the map on his phone with intense concentration.
"The castle! But first..." He glanced around with that focused expression he wore when plotting something. "Ice cream. I spotted a gelato place a few blocks back that looked absolutely divine."
"It's barely past 4 PM."
"It's vacation," he said, as if that explained everything perfectly. "Regular meal schedules don't exist when you're on vacation. That's like, rule number one of traveling."
Twenty minutes later, you found yourselves perched on the edge of an ornate fountain in the town square, sharing a cup of stracciatella gelato while Sunoo documented every charming detail of your surroundings. But not before making a detour to a traditional Czech bakery that had caught his eye.
"We have to try the trdelník," he had insisted, pointing at the spiral pastries rotating slowly over open flames. "When will we ever be in Prague again?"
Now you were juggling both gelato and the warm, cinnamon-sugar coated pastry, laughing as Sunoo tried to photograph the scene without dropping anything.
"This is impossible," you said, attempting to take a bite of the trdelník while balancing the gelato cup.
"Wait, wait, let me get a shot of this chaos," Sunoo said, snapping photos of your struggle. "This is peak European tourist experience right here."
The trdelník was impossibly sweet and perfectly crispy, the kind of indulgent treat that only made sense on vacation. Sunoo managed to capture the moment you finally succeeded in taking a proper bite, your expression of pure delight as the flavors hit.
"Good?" he asked, though your face clearly gave away the answer.
"Incredible. Here, try some." You held it out to him, watching as he carefully bit off a piece, his eyes closing in appreciation.
"Okay, we're definitely getting more of these before we leave Prague," he declared, then went back to photographing the astronomical clock, the street musicians playing classical pieces, three different adorable dogs, and a pigeon that had landed with remarkable grace on a baroque statue.
"You're going to exhaust all your film at this pace," you pointed out, accepting the spoon he offered you with a gentle smile.
"I brought twelve rolls," he announced proudly. "Plus we can always buy more. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience! Well, hopefully not actually once-in-a-lifetime. I want to return here with you when we're elderly and wise."
The casual way he discussed your future together always caught you off guard, even after two years of dating. Like it was simply a foregone conclusion that you'd be together for decades, traveling the world and capturing memories and sharing gelato when you were eighty.
"Elderly and wise, hmm?"
"Absolutely." He was adjusting his camera settings, not quite meeting your eyes, but you could see the faint blush creeping across his cheeks. "We'll be one of those adorable elderly couples who still hold hands and debate about which restaurant to try."
"We already debate about restaurants."
"Exactly. We're just getting a head start on our old-married-couple routine."
You laughed, bumping his shoulder affectionately with yours. "So what's the agenda for tomorrow? More wandering around and getting completely lost?"
"We didn't get lost yesterday!"
"Sunoo, we accidentally ended up in three different countries."
"That was an adventure," he corrected with mock indignation. "And technically we were never truly lost because I always knew approximately where we were... generally speaking."
"Generally speaking."
"Within a reasonable fifty-kilometer radius."
You shook your head fondly, but couldn't suppress your grin. Honestly, getting lost with Sunoo was half the charm of traveling with him. He approached everything with such genuine curiosity and unbridled excitement that even when you ended up on the wrong train or walking in circles for an hour, it never felt like wasted time.
"Actually," he said suddenly, looking unexpectedly shy, "I was thinking maybe tomorrow we could just... stay in? Order room service, binge some movies, sleep until noon without any alarms?"
"Kim Sunoo wants to stay indoors? Are you feeling alright?" you teased, reaching over to dramatically feel his forehead.
He caught your hand and pressed a tender kiss to your palm, such a natural gesture that it made your heart skip. "I just want to spend some uninterrupted time with you without having to share you with every gorgeous building in Europe."
"You're not sharing me with architecture."
"Yesterday you spent twenty minutes having an in-depth conversation with that statue of some medieval king."
"I was reading the historical plaque!"
"You were conducting a full dialogue. I have photographic evidence."
He did, actually. Your phone's camera roll was filled with candid shots he'd captured throughout the week—you laughing at a street performer's antics, concentrating intently on museum exhibits, befriending a stray cat in Amsterdam. Looking at them, you could see yourself through his eyes: carefree, joyful, radiant in ways you never quite believed until you saw his photographs.
"Fine," you conceded with theatrical resignation. "Tomorrow we'll be completely lazy. But only if you promise to photograph our room service breakfast spread."
"Deal," he agreed immediately, eyes lighting up. "I've been wanting to experiment with some food photography anyway."
The sun was beginning to set in earnest now, casting everything in that warm, honeyed light that transformed Prague into something from a storybook. Sunoo noticed the change immediately, of course, jumping to his feet and pulling you up with him.
"Come on, we need to reach the castle before we lose this incredible lighting."
"Sunoo, it's like a twenty-minute uphill climb."
"Then we'd better hurry."
You let him guide you through the winding cobblestone streets, past clusters of tourists and locals heading home from work, up the steep, winding path toward Prague Castle. Sunoo kept pausing to capture shots—of the city spreading out majestically below you, of the way golden light filtered through ancient trees, of you pretending to be exasperated but secretly cherishing every moment.
By the time you reached the castle grounds, you were both slightly breathless and the sun was hovering low on the horizon, painting everything in brilliant shades of amber and rose.
"Oh," Sunoo breathed, immediately reaching for his camera. "This is absolutely spectacular."
He spent the next forty-five minutes in what you'd learned to recognize as his complete photographer mode—utterly focused, moving fluidly to find optimal angles, occasionally murmuring to himself about composition and lighting techniques. You were perfectly content to sit on a weathered stone bench and observe him work, noting the way his entire face illuminated when he captured a shot he was particularly pleased with.
"Okay," he said eventually, settling beside you with a deeply satisfied sigh. "I think I got it."
"Got what exactly?"
"The shot. The one that's going to make everyone back home desperately envious of our European adventure."
You gazed out at the breathtaking vista—the city sprawling elegantly below you, the river meandering through it like liquid silver, the sun setting behind rolling distant hills. It was undeniably magnificent, but honestly, you'd been too absorbed in watching Sunoo to pay much attention to the scenery.
"It's breathtaking," you agreed softly.
"Just breathtaking?" he repeated, shaking his head with amusement. "Now you sound like me describing Amsterdam's canals."
"I was focused on other things."
"Such as?"
"Such as you," you said, turning to face him completely. "Like how absolutely radiant you look when you're behind the camera. Like how you get this tiny furrow between your eyebrows when you're concentrating intensely. Like how you've been glowing with happiness for basically seven straight days."
Sunoo's cheeks flushed pink, and he ducked his head, suddenly bashful. "I love traveling with you."
"Just traveling?"
"I love everything with you," he admitted quietly. "But especially this. Just us, no obligations, nowhere we absolutely have to be. I could live like this forever."
"What, sitting on ancient benches in European capitals?"
"Being with you," he corrected, looking at you with those warm brown eyes that never failed to make you melt. "Anywhere at all."
The sun had nearly disappeared now, the sky transitioning from gold to deep indigo, and the first stars were beginning to twinkle overhead. In the distance, you could hear Prague coming alive for the evening—restaurants filling with diners, street musicians tuning their instruments, the gentle hum of urban life continuing around you.
"We should probably head back," you said eventually. "Find somewhere for dinner before everything gets crowded."
"In just a moment," Sunoo murmured, and then he was kissing you, soft and sweet and tasting faintly like gelato. When you separated, he rested his forehead against yours, both of you sharing the same breath in the gathering twilight.
"I love you," he whispered.
"I love you too."
"Even when I drag you uphill for thirty minutes?"
"Especially then."
He chuckled, pressing another quick kiss to your lips before standing and offering his hand. "Come on, let's go discover the most touristy restaurant in Prague and document our questionable dining choices."
"Now you're speaking my language."
As you made your way back down the hillside, Sunoo's hand secure in yours and his camera bouncing gently against his chest, you found yourself thinking about his words regarding forever. Maybe you really would—maybe in ten years, twenty years, you'd still be wandering foreign cities together, still photographing everything that caught your eye, still discovering new places and sharing gelato and getting wonderfully lost together.
It sounded absolutely perfect.
"Hey," Sunoo said suddenly, stopping beneath a vintage street lamp to look at you with that expression he wore when he was about to say something meaningful.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For joining me on this adventure. For always being enthusiastic about spontaneous plans. For letting me take approximately a million photographs of you without complaining excessively." He squeezed your hand gently. "For being exactly who you are."
You rose on your tiptoes to kiss him again, right there under the glowing street lamp in a foreign city, surrounded by the sounds of Prague at night and the promise of countless adventures yet to come.
"Thank you for bringing me along," you murmured against his lips. "Now come on, I'm absolutely starving, and you promised me questionable tourist cuisine."
"The most questionable tourist food," he agreed, grinning widely. "With extensive photographic documentation."
"I wouldn't want it any other way."
The next morning arrived gray and drizzly, with rain pattering against the tall windows of your hotel room. You woke up slowly, gradually becoming aware of Sunoo's arm draped around your waist and his face buried in your neck, breath warm against your skin.
"Mmm," he mumbled when you shifted slightly. "What time is it?"
"Almost eleven," you said, checking your phone. "Looks like we successfully achieved sleeping until noon."
"Close enough." He pulled you closer, clearly having no intention of leaving the warmth of the bed. "Is it raining?"
"Pouring, actually. Perfect day for staying in."
"Excellent." His voice was still rough with sleep, and when he finally lifted his head to look at you, his hair was sticking up at impossible angles. "Room service breakfast?"
"Definitely room service breakfast."
Sunoo stretched dramatically before reaching for the hotel phone, and you couldn't help but smile at how effortlessly domestic this felt. He ordered an absurd amount of food—pastries, fresh fruit, eggs, coffee, orange juice, and what sounded like half the breakfast menu—while you padded around the room in his oversized hoodie, gathering the scattered clothes from yesterday's adventure.
"Okay, they said thirty minutes," he announced, flopping back onto the bed. "What should we do while we wait?"
"You could show me all the photos you took yesterday."
His entire face lit up. "Really? You want to see them?"
"Of course I do. You've been so secretive about what you've been capturing."
Sunoo scrambled to retrieve his camera, settling back against the headboard and patting the space beside him. You curled up next to him, watching as he carefully scrolled through yesterday's shots.
"This one's my favorite from the square," he said, showing you a photo of the astronomical clock with perfect lighting. "And this is that street musician we listened to for like twenty minutes. Oh, and look—" He clicked to the next image, grinning widely. "This is you trying to eat gelato and trdelník at the same time. You look absolutely blissful despite the obvious logistical challenges."
You laughed at the photo—you did look ridiculously happy, if slightly overwhelmed by the amount of food you were attempting to manage.
"I still can't believe how good those pastries were," you said. "My mouth is watering just thinking about them."
"We're definitely going back to that bakery before we leave," Sunoo promised. "I want to try those chocolate-filled ones the baker was making. And maybe we can bring some back to the hotel for a midnight snack."
Each photograph was stunning, capturing not just the visual beauty of Prague but somehow the feeling of being there. The way light fell across ancient stones, the expression of wonder on a child's face watching the clock chime, the intricate details of architecture you'd walked past without noticing.
"Sunoo, these are incredible," you breathed. "You have such an amazing eye for this."
"You think so?" He looked genuinely pleased. "Photography has always been more of a hobby, but being here, having the time to really focus on it... I don't know, it feels different."
"Maybe you should consider doing more with it when we get back home."
"Maybe," he said softly, then grinned. "But for now, I'm just enjoying documenting our European escapade."
A knock at the door interrupted the moment—room service arriving with what appeared to be enough food for six people. But before the server could leave, Sunoo called out to stop him.
"Actually, could you recommend a good local bakery? Somewhere we could get traditional pastries?"
The server's face lit up. "Ah, you must try Lokál Pastry on Národní Street. They have the best koláče in Prague—traditional Czech pastries with poppy seeds, sweet cheese, or fruit preserves. And their chocolate rugelach is exceptional."
"Perfect, thank you so much," Sunoo said, already making mental notes.
After the server left, Sunoo insisted on arranging everything on the small table by the window, adjusting plates and cups until the composition satisfied his artistic sensibilities, but you could see his mind was already planning your pastry expedition.
"Okay, now I need to photograph this spread," he said seriously, retrieving his camera once more.
"You're ridiculous," you laughed, but posed obligingly with a croissant while he documented your feast.
Breakfast stretched into early afternoon, both of you taking your time, talking about everything and nothing while rain continued drumming against the windows. Sunoo told you about the places he wanted to visit next—maybe Greece in the spring, or Japan during cherry blossom season—and you found yourself making mental notes, already planning future adventures together.
"What do you want to do now?" he asked eventually, after you'd demolished most of the food and were both slightly sugar-drunk from too many pastries.
"We should probably venture out to that bakery the room service guy recommended before it gets too late," you suggested. "Plus I could use a walk after all this food."
Sunoo's eyes immediately lit up. "Yes! And we can grab those chocolate pastries for later tonight. Perfect rainy day activity—pastry hunting."
Within twenty minutes, you were both bundled up in jackets and armed with an umbrella, making your way through Prague's drizzly streets toward Národní Street. The rain had softened to a gentle mist, making the city look even more ethereal and romantic.
Lokál Pastry turned out to be a tiny, warm haven filled with the most incredible aromas. The display cases were packed with traditional Czech pastries, French croissants, and what looked like every chocolate creation imaginable.
"Oh my god," Sunoo breathed, immediately pulling out his camera. "This place is a photographer's dream."
The elderly baker behind the counter smiled indulgently as Sunoo captured shot after shot of the pastries, clearly used to tourists being overwhelmed by the selection.
"First time in Prague?" she asked in accented English.
"Yes, and we're completely in love with everything," you replied. "Especially the food."
"Ah, you have good taste. Try this," she said, offering you both small samples of what looked like a chocolate-filled pastry dusted with powdered sugar. "Švestkové knedlíky—plum dumplings with chocolate and sweet cream."
The first bite was transcendent. The pastry was light and pillowy, the plum sweet and tart, and the chocolate rich without being overwhelming.
"We'll take six of those," Sunoo said immediately. "And what are those?" He pointed to some golden, braided pastries in the next case.
"Vánočka—Christmas bread, but we make it year-round. Very popular with chocolate chips."
You ended up leaving the bakery with enough pastries to feed a small army, Sunoo insisting that you needed to try everything at least once. The walk back to the hotel was punctuated by both of you sneaking tastes from the carefully wrapped boxes.
"I think I'm in a carb coma," you said as you finally made it back to your room, setting the pastry boxes on the dresser like precious cargo.
"Worth it though," Sunoo said, already unwrapping one of the chocolate rugelach. "Want to save these for movie time, or should we have a proper tasting session now?"
"Movie time," you decided. "But maybe we could try just one more of those plum dumplings..."
"Just one more," he agreed solemnly, though you both knew you'd end up eating at least three each before settling down to watch something.
You scrolled through the hotel's movie selection while Sunoo tidied the breakfast dishes, finally settling on something light and romantic that seemed appropriate for a rainy afternoon in Prague. By the time he joined you back on the bed, you'd arranged the pillows into a comfortable nest.
"Good choice," he said approvingly, reading the movie description over your shoulder. "Very fitting for the mood."
"Come here," you said, opening your arms.
He settled against you immediately, head on your chest, one arm wrapped around your waist. You started the movie, but found yourself paying more attention to the weight of him against you, the way he absently traced patterns on your hip with his fingers, how perfectly you seemed to fit together.
"This is nice," he murmured about halfway through the film, tilting his head to look up at you. "I love the adventures and sightseeing, but this... this is my favorite part."
"What, being lazy in bed?"
"Being close to you without any distractions. Just us." He shifted slightly, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. "Sometimes when we're home, it feels like we're always rushing around, always busy with something. I miss just... existing together."
You ran your fingers through his hair, noting how it had gotten longer during the tour, how the European sun had brought out golden highlights you'd never noticed before. "We should do this more often when we get back. Have lazy days where we don't do anything productive."
"I'd like that," he said, already sounding drowsy again. "Maybe we could make it a weekly tradition. Sundays are for sleeping in and watching movies and ordering too much food."
"Sundays are for being disgustingly domestic?"
"Exactly." He grinned sleepily. "We can be that couple that other people find either adorable or nauseating."
"I vote for adorable."
"Adorable it is."
You both turned your attention back to the movie, but Sunoo kept fidgeting, clearly struggling to find a comfortable position. Eventually, he gave up on trying to watch the screen and just buried his face in your neck, arm tightening around your waist.
"Sleepy?" you asked softly.
"Mmm. Jet lag is finally catching up with me, I think. Plus all that walking yesterday." He yawned against your skin. "Is it okay if I just rest my eyes for a few minutes?"
"Of course. Sleep as long as you want."
Within minutes, his breathing had evened out, and you could feel the tension leaving his body as he fully relaxed against you. You continued watching the movie with one hand stroking his hair, perfectly content to serve as his personal pillow for as long as he needed.
The rain continued falling steadily outside, creating a cozy cocoon around your hotel room. Every so often, Sunoo would shift slightly in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and you'd smooth his hair back from his forehead until he settled again.
This was what you'd miss most when you returned to real life, you realized. Not the famous landmarks or Instagram-worthy photos, but these quiet moments of intimacy. The way Sunoo looked completely peaceful in sleep, the way he unconsciously sought your touch even when unconscious, the simple pleasure of having nowhere to be except exactly where you were.
When he finally stirred, the movie had ended and the afternoon light was beginning to fade.
"How long was I out?" he asked, voice husky from sleep.
"Couple of hours. Feeling better?"
"Much." He stretched languidly, reminding you of a cat. "Sorry for using you as a pillow."
"Anytime. You're very cuddly when you're sleeping."
"Only when I'm sleeping?" He raised an eyebrow playfully.
"Well, you're pretty cuddly when you're awake too," you admitted, laughing when he immediately proved your point by nuzzling closer.
"Good. I'd hate to think I was only affectionate while unconscious." He glanced toward the window, noting the dimming light. "What time is it?"
"Almost six. Are you getting hungry again?"
"Always. Want to venture out for dinner, or should we order in again?"
You considered the options—going out meant getting dressed properly, navigating Prague's evening crowds, making decisions about where to eat. Staying in meant more time like this, wrapped up together without any external pressures.
"Let's stay in," you decided. "We can explore more tomorrow when the weather's better."
"Perfect answer." He reached for his phone to browse room service options again. "What are you in the mood for?"
"Surprise me. But maybe something that doesn't require extensive photographic documentation?"
Sunoo gasped in mock offense. "Are you saying you don't appreciate my artistic vision?"
"I'm saying I appreciate being able to eat while the food is still warm."
"Fair point. I promise to limit myself to only a few shots."
He kept his word, taking just a couple of quick photos when dinner arrived before settling in to actually eat with you. The conversation flowed easily as always, jumping from plans for tomorrow to memories from the tour to completely random observations about European hotel decor.
"I have a confession," Sunoo said as you were finishing dessert—some elaborate chocolate creation that was definitely too rich but absolutely delicious.
"Oh?"
"I may have already booked us another trip."
You nearly choked on your wine. "What? When? Where?"
"This morning while you were in the shower," he said, looking slightly sheepish. "Just a long weekend in Barcelona next month. I know we should have discussed it first, but the flights were on sale, and I got excited, and—"
"Sunoo."
"—I can cancel it if you don't want to go, I just thought it would be amazing to see Barcelona together, and the weather should be perfect in—"
"Sunoo."
"Yeah?"
"I love that you booked us another trip."
His anxious expression melted into relief, then pure joy. "Really?"
"Really. Though next time, maybe we could plan it together? I might have some input on where I'd like to be kidnapped to."
"Deal. But for the record, I have excellent taste in destinations."
"You do," you agreed, leaning over to kiss him softly. "Barcelona sounds perfect."
As the evening wound down, you found yourselves back in bed, not quite ready for sleep but content to lie together in the comfortable darkness. Sunoo had pulled you close, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing absent patterns along your arm.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"For what this time?"
"For saying yes to extending the trip. For being spontaneous and adventurous. For letting me drag you all over Europe taking pictures of everything." His voice was soft, thoughtful. "For making this the best vacation I've ever had."
"It's been pretty perfect," you agreed. "Even when we got lost. Especially when we got lost."
"I love getting lost with you."
"I love everything with you."
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you could feel his smile against your hair. "Sweet dreams. Tomorrow we'll explore more of Prague."
"Tomorrow," you agreed, already drifting toward sleep. "But right now, this is exactly where I want to be."
Outside, Prague continued its ancient existence, centuries of history contained within its winding streets and Gothic spires. But inside your hotel room, there was only this—Sunoo's heartbeat under your ear, his arm secure around you, and the promise of countless more adventures to come. Whether you were wandering foreign cities or curled up in bed on rainy afternoons, as long as you were together, you were home.
https://x.com/enhypenweverse/status/1961444972621861064?s=46 haiii can i request a sunoo fic of him and reader on vacation or reader just coming along to the europe tour based on these pics, he looks so bf coded here🥹
Golden Hours and Gelato ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ K.SN
Pairing: vacationing!sunoo x reader
wc: 4.49k
Content: established relationship, vacation au, europe travel, domestic fluff, soft boyfriend sunoo, shenanigans
a/n: so, hi... It's been almost a month since i got this req and i have neverrr been this late finishing a req or even took this long to post another fic.. I have just been busy with schoolwork and (writing enough as is) haven't had the time (or energy) to write anything.. this one's long to compensate, hope you enjoy anon !!!! (also, i made the header myself :P)
"Sun, slow down!" you called out, laughing as Sunoo practically bounced down the cobblestone streets of Prague's Old Town. He had his film camera slung around his neck, the strap bouncing with each excited step, and that radiant smile that made your chest warm every single time.
"But look at this light!" he exclaimed, stopping abruptly to gesture at the way the late afternoon sun was hitting the pastel buildings. "It's golden hour, and we're in Prague, and everything looks like a movie set."
You caught up to him, slightly out of breath but endlessly fond. "You've said that about every city we've visited this week."
"Because it's been true every single time," he said matter-of-factly, already raising his camera to capture the way shadows danced across the medieval architecture. "Paris had that incredible morning mist, Amsterdam had those dreamy canals, Berlin had all that amazing street art, and now Prague has these fairy tale buildings. Europe is just... magical."
"Very poetic for someone who claims they're not good with words."
"I express myself through photography," he said, snapping a few shots before turning the camera toward you. "Speaking of which, stay right there. The way the sunlight is catching your hair is incredible."
"Sunoo, no, I look awful after wandering around all day—"
"You look radiant," he said simply, and the sincerity in his voice made your protests die in your throat. He took the photo, then immediately checked the back of the camera with a satisfied grin. "Absolutely perfect."
This had been your routine for the past week. ENHYPEN's European tour had concluded three days ago, and instead of flying straight back to Korea, Sunoo had asked if you wanted to extend the trip and explore together. Just the two of you, no rigid schedules or managers or coordinated stage outfits. Just Sunoo in his cozy oversized sweaters and worn vintage jeans, hair getting tousled in the wind, photographing everything that caught his attention (which was essentially everything).
"Where to next, my personal tour guide?" you asked, linking your arm through his as he studied the map on his phone with intense concentration.
"The castle! But first..." He glanced around with that focused expression he wore when plotting something. "Ice cream. I spotted a gelato place a few blocks back that looked absolutely divine."
"It's barely past 4 PM."
"It's vacation," he said, as if that explained everything perfectly. "Regular meal schedules don't exist when you're on vacation. That's like, rule number one of traveling."
Twenty minutes later, you found yourselves perched on the edge of an ornate fountain in the town square, sharing a cup of stracciatella gelato while Sunoo documented every charming detail of your surroundings. But not before making a detour to a traditional Czech bakery that had caught his eye.
"We have to try the trdelník," he had insisted, pointing at the spiral pastries rotating slowly over open flames. "When will we ever be in Prague again?"
Now you were juggling both gelato and the warm, cinnamon-sugar coated pastry, laughing as Sunoo tried to photograph the scene without dropping anything.
"This is impossible," you said, attempting to take a bite of the trdelník while balancing the gelato cup.
"Wait, wait, let me get a shot of this chaos," Sunoo said, snapping photos of your struggle. "This is peak European tourist experience right here."
The trdelník was impossibly sweet and perfectly crispy, the kind of indulgent treat that only made sense on vacation. Sunoo managed to capture the moment you finally succeeded in taking a proper bite, your expression of pure delight as the flavors hit.
"Good?" he asked, though your face clearly gave away the answer.
"Incredible. Here, try some." You held it out to him, watching as he carefully bit off a piece, his eyes closing in appreciation.
"Okay, we're definitely getting more of these before we leave Prague," he declared, then went back to photographing the astronomical clock, the street musicians playing classical pieces, three different adorable dogs, and a pigeon that had landed with remarkable grace on a baroque statue.
"You're going to exhaust all your film at this pace," you pointed out, accepting the spoon he offered you with a gentle smile.
"I brought twelve rolls," he announced proudly. "Plus we can always buy more. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience! Well, hopefully not actually once-in-a-lifetime. I want to return here with you when we're elderly and wise."
The casual way he discussed your future together always caught you off guard, even after two years of dating. Like it was simply a foregone conclusion that you'd be together for decades, traveling the world and capturing memories and sharing gelato when you were eighty.
"Elderly and wise, hmm?"
"Absolutely." He was adjusting his camera settings, not quite meeting your eyes, but you could see the faint blush creeping across his cheeks. "We'll be one of those adorable elderly couples who still hold hands and debate about which restaurant to try."
"We already debate about restaurants."
"Exactly. We're just getting a head start on our old-married-couple routine."
You laughed, bumping his shoulder affectionately with yours. "So what's the agenda for tomorrow? More wandering around and getting completely lost?"
"We didn't get lost yesterday!"
"Sunoo, we accidentally ended up in three different countries."
"That was an adventure," he corrected with mock indignation. "And technically we were never truly lost because I always knew approximately where we were... generally speaking."
"Generally speaking."
"Within a reasonable fifty-kilometer radius."
You shook your head fondly, but couldn't suppress your grin. Honestly, getting lost with Sunoo was half the charm of traveling with him. He approached everything with such genuine curiosity and unbridled excitement that even when you ended up on the wrong train or walking in circles for an hour, it never felt like wasted time.
"Actually," he said suddenly, looking unexpectedly shy, "I was thinking maybe tomorrow we could just... stay in? Order room service, binge some movies, sleep until noon without any alarms?"
"Kim Sunoo wants to stay indoors? Are you feeling alright?" you teased, reaching over to dramatically feel his forehead.
He caught your hand and pressed a tender kiss to your palm, such a natural gesture that it made your heart skip. "I just want to spend some uninterrupted time with you without having to share you with every gorgeous building in Europe."
"You're not sharing me with architecture."
"Yesterday you spent twenty minutes having an in-depth conversation with that statue of some medieval king."
"I was reading the historical plaque!"
"You were conducting a full dialogue. I have photographic evidence."
He did, actually. Your phone's camera roll was filled with candid shots he'd captured throughout the week—you laughing at a street performer's antics, concentrating intently on museum exhibits, befriending a stray cat in Amsterdam. Looking at them, you could see yourself through his eyes: carefree, joyful, radiant in ways you never quite believed until you saw his photographs.
"Fine," you conceded with theatrical resignation. "Tomorrow we'll be completely lazy. But only if you promise to photograph our room service breakfast spread."
"Deal," he agreed immediately, eyes lighting up. "I've been wanting to experiment with some food photography anyway."
The sun was beginning to set in earnest now, casting everything in that warm, honeyed light that transformed Prague into something from a storybook. Sunoo noticed the change immediately, of course, jumping to his feet and pulling you up with him.
"Come on, we need to reach the castle before we lose this incredible lighting."
"Sunoo, it's like a twenty-minute uphill climb."
"Then we'd better hurry."
You let him guide you through the winding cobblestone streets, past clusters of tourists and locals heading home from work, up the steep, winding path toward Prague Castle. Sunoo kept pausing to capture shots—of the city spreading out majestically below you, of the way golden light filtered through ancient trees, of you pretending to be exasperated but secretly cherishing every moment.
By the time you reached the castle grounds, you were both slightly breathless and the sun was hovering low on the horizon, painting everything in brilliant shades of amber and rose.
"Oh," Sunoo breathed, immediately reaching for his camera. "This is absolutely spectacular."
He spent the next forty-five minutes in what you'd learned to recognize as his complete photographer mode—utterly focused, moving fluidly to find optimal angles, occasionally murmuring to himself about composition and lighting techniques. You were perfectly content to sit on a weathered stone bench and observe him work, noting the way his entire face illuminated when he captured a shot he was particularly pleased with.
"Okay," he said eventually, settling beside you with a deeply satisfied sigh. "I think I got it."
"Got what exactly?"
"The shot. The one that's going to make everyone back home desperately envious of our European adventure."
You gazed out at the breathtaking vista—the city sprawling elegantly below you, the river meandering through it like liquid silver, the sun setting behind rolling distant hills. It was undeniably magnificent, but honestly, you'd been too absorbed in watching Sunoo to pay much attention to the scenery.
"It's breathtaking," you agreed softly.
"Just breathtaking?" he repeated, shaking his head with amusement. "Now you sound like me describing Amsterdam's canals."
"I was focused on other things."
"Such as?"
"Such as you," you said, turning to face him completely. "Like how absolutely radiant you look when you're behind the camera. Like how you get this tiny furrow between your eyebrows when you're concentrating intensely. Like how you've been glowing with happiness for basically seven straight days."
Sunoo's cheeks flushed pink, and he ducked his head, suddenly bashful. "I love traveling with you."
"Just traveling?"
"I love everything with you," he admitted quietly. "But especially this. Just us, no obligations, nowhere we absolutely have to be. I could live like this forever."
"What, sitting on ancient benches in European capitals?"
"Being with you," he corrected, looking at you with those warm brown eyes that never failed to make you melt. "Anywhere at all."
The sun had nearly disappeared now, the sky transitioning from gold to deep indigo, and the first stars were beginning to twinkle overhead. In the distance, you could hear Prague coming alive for the evening—restaurants filling with diners, street musicians tuning their instruments, the gentle hum of urban life continuing around you.
"We should probably head back," you said eventually. "Find somewhere for dinner before everything gets crowded."
"In just a moment," Sunoo murmured, and then he was kissing you, soft and sweet and tasting faintly like gelato. When you separated, he rested his forehead against yours, both of you sharing the same breath in the gathering twilight.
"I love you," he whispered.
"I love you too."
"Even when I drag you uphill for thirty minutes?"
"Especially then."
He chuckled, pressing another quick kiss to your lips before standing and offering his hand. "Come on, let's go discover the most touristy restaurant in Prague and document our questionable dining choices."
"Now you're speaking my language."
As you made your way back down the hillside, Sunoo's hand secure in yours and his camera bouncing gently against his chest, you found yourself thinking about his words regarding forever. Maybe you really would—maybe in ten years, twenty years, you'd still be wandering foreign cities together, still photographing everything that caught your eye, still discovering new places and sharing gelato and getting wonderfully lost together.
It sounded absolutely perfect.
"Hey," Sunoo said suddenly, stopping beneath a vintage street lamp to look at you with that expression he wore when he was about to say something meaningful.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For joining me on this adventure. For always being enthusiastic about spontaneous plans. For letting me take approximately a million photographs of you without complaining excessively." He squeezed your hand gently. "For being exactly who you are."
You rose on your tiptoes to kiss him again, right there under the glowing street lamp in a foreign city, surrounded by the sounds of Prague at night and the promise of countless adventures yet to come.
"Thank you for bringing me along," you murmured against his lips. "Now come on, I'm absolutely starving, and you promised me questionable tourist cuisine."
"The most questionable tourist food," he agreed, grinning widely. "With extensive photographic documentation."
"I wouldn't want it any other way."
The next morning arrived gray and drizzly, with rain pattering against the tall windows of your hotel room. You woke up slowly, gradually becoming aware of Sunoo's arm draped around your waist and his face buried in your neck, breath warm against your skin.
"Mmm," he mumbled when you shifted slightly. "What time is it?"
"Almost eleven," you said, checking your phone. "Looks like we successfully achieved sleeping until noon."
"Close enough." He pulled you closer, clearly having no intention of leaving the warmth of the bed. "Is it raining?"
"Pouring, actually. Perfect day for staying in."
"Excellent." His voice was still rough with sleep, and when he finally lifted his head to look at you, his hair was sticking up at impossible angles. "Room service breakfast?"
"Definitely room service breakfast."
Sunoo stretched dramatically before reaching for the hotel phone, and you couldn't help but smile at how effortlessly domestic this felt. He ordered an absurd amount of food—pastries, fresh fruit, eggs, coffee, orange juice, and what sounded like half the breakfast menu—while you padded around the room in his oversized hoodie, gathering the scattered clothes from yesterday's adventure.
"Okay, they said thirty minutes," he announced, flopping back onto the bed. "What should we do while we wait?"
"You could show me all the photos you took yesterday."
His entire face lit up. "Really? You want to see them?"
"Of course I do. You've been so secretive about what you've been capturing."
Sunoo scrambled to retrieve his camera, settling back against the headboard and patting the space beside him. You curled up next to him, watching as he carefully scrolled through yesterday's shots.
"This one's my favorite from the square," he said, showing you a photo of the astronomical clock with perfect lighting. "And this is that street musician we listened to for like twenty minutes. Oh, and look—" He clicked to the next image, grinning widely. "This is you trying to eat gelato and trdelník at the same time. You look absolutely blissful despite the obvious logistical challenges."
You laughed at the photo—you did look ridiculously happy, if slightly overwhelmed by the amount of food you were attempting to manage.
"I still can't believe how good those pastries were," you said. "My mouth is watering just thinking about them."
"We're definitely going back to that bakery before we leave," Sunoo promised. "I want to try those chocolate-filled ones the baker was making. And maybe we can bring some back to the hotel for a midnight snack."
Each photograph was stunning, capturing not just the visual beauty of Prague but somehow the feeling of being there. The way light fell across ancient stones, the expression of wonder on a child's face watching the clock chime, the intricate details of architecture you'd walked past without noticing.
"Sunoo, these are incredible," you breathed. "You have such an amazing eye for this."
"You think so?" He looked genuinely pleased. "Photography has always been more of a hobby, but being here, having the time to really focus on it... I don't know, it feels different."
"Maybe you should consider doing more with it when we get back home."
"Maybe," he said softly, then grinned. "But for now, I'm just enjoying documenting our European escapade."
A knock at the door interrupted the moment—room service arriving with what appeared to be enough food for six people. But before the server could leave, Sunoo called out to stop him.
"Actually, could you recommend a good local bakery? Somewhere we could get traditional pastries?"
The server's face lit up. "Ah, you must try Lokál Pastry on Národní Street. They have the best koláče in Prague—traditional Czech pastries with poppy seeds, sweet cheese, or fruit preserves. And their chocolate rugelach is exceptional."
"Perfect, thank you so much," Sunoo said, already making mental notes.
After the server left, Sunoo insisted on arranging everything on the small table by the window, adjusting plates and cups until the composition satisfied his artistic sensibilities, but you could see his mind was already planning your pastry expedition.
"Okay, now I need to photograph this spread," he said seriously, retrieving his camera once more.
"You're ridiculous," you laughed, but posed obligingly with a croissant while he documented your feast.
Breakfast stretched into early afternoon, both of you taking your time, talking about everything and nothing while rain continued drumming against the windows. Sunoo told you about the places he wanted to visit next—maybe Greece in the spring, or Japan during cherry blossom season—and you found yourself making mental notes, already planning future adventures together.
"What do you want to do now?" he asked eventually, after you'd demolished most of the food and were both slightly sugar-drunk from too many pastries.
"We should probably venture out to that bakery the room service guy recommended before it gets too late," you suggested. "Plus I could use a walk after all this food."
Sunoo's eyes immediately lit up. "Yes! And we can grab those chocolate pastries for later tonight. Perfect rainy day activity—pastry hunting."
Within twenty minutes, you were both bundled up in jackets and armed with an umbrella, making your way through Prague's drizzly streets toward Národní Street. The rain had softened to a gentle mist, making the city look even more ethereal and romantic.
Lokál Pastry turned out to be a tiny, warm haven filled with the most incredible aromas. The display cases were packed with traditional Czech pastries, French croissants, and what looked like every chocolate creation imaginable.
"Oh my god," Sunoo breathed, immediately pulling out his camera. "This place is a photographer's dream."
The elderly baker behind the counter smiled indulgently as Sunoo captured shot after shot of the pastries, clearly used to tourists being overwhelmed by the selection.
"First time in Prague?" she asked in accented English.
"Yes, and we're completely in love with everything," you replied. "Especially the food."
"Ah, you have good taste. Try this," she said, offering you both small samples of what looked like a chocolate-filled pastry dusted with powdered sugar. "Švestkové knedlíky—plum dumplings with chocolate and sweet cream."
The first bite was transcendent. The pastry was light and pillowy, the plum sweet and tart, and the chocolate rich without being overwhelming.
"We'll take six of those," Sunoo said immediately. "And what are those?" He pointed to some golden, braided pastries in the next case.
"Vánočka—Christmas bread, but we make it year-round. Very popular with chocolate chips."
You ended up leaving the bakery with enough pastries to feed a small army, Sunoo insisting that you needed to try everything at least once. The walk back to the hotel was punctuated by both of you sneaking tastes from the carefully wrapped boxes.
"I think I'm in a carb coma," you said as you finally made it back to your room, setting the pastry boxes on the dresser like precious cargo.
"Worth it though," Sunoo said, already unwrapping one of the chocolate rugelach. "Want to save these for movie time, or should we have a proper tasting session now?"
"Movie time," you decided. "But maybe we could try just one more of those plum dumplings..."
"Just one more," he agreed solemnly, though you both knew you'd end up eating at least three each before settling down to watch something.
You scrolled through the hotel's movie selection while Sunoo tidied the breakfast dishes, finally settling on something light and romantic that seemed appropriate for a rainy afternoon in Prague. By the time he joined you back on the bed, you'd arranged the pillows into a comfortable nest.
"Good choice," he said approvingly, reading the movie description over your shoulder. "Very fitting for the mood."
"Come here," you said, opening your arms.
He settled against you immediately, head on your chest, one arm wrapped around your waist. You started the movie, but found yourself paying more attention to the weight of him against you, the way he absently traced patterns on your hip with his fingers, how perfectly you seemed to fit together.
"This is nice," he murmured about halfway through the film, tilting his head to look up at you. "I love the adventures and sightseeing, but this... this is my favorite part."
"What, being lazy in bed?"
"Being close to you without any distractions. Just us." He shifted slightly, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. "Sometimes when we're home, it feels like we're always rushing around, always busy with something. I miss just... existing together."
You ran your fingers through his hair, noting how it had gotten longer during the tour, how the European sun had brought out golden highlights you'd never noticed before. "We should do this more often when we get back. Have lazy days where we don't do anything productive."
"I'd like that," he said, already sounding drowsy again. "Maybe we could make it a weekly tradition. Sundays are for sleeping in and watching movies and ordering too much food."
"Sundays are for being disgustingly domestic?"
"Exactly." He grinned sleepily. "We can be that couple that other people find either adorable or nauseating."
"I vote for adorable."
"Adorable it is."
You both turned your attention back to the movie, but Sunoo kept fidgeting, clearly struggling to find a comfortable position. Eventually, he gave up on trying to watch the screen and just buried his face in your neck, arm tightening around your waist.
"Sleepy?" you asked softly.
"Mmm. Jet lag is finally catching up with me, I think. Plus all that walking yesterday." He yawned against your skin. "Is it okay if I just rest my eyes for a few minutes?"
"Of course. Sleep as long as you want."
Within minutes, his breathing had evened out, and you could feel the tension leaving his body as he fully relaxed against you. You continued watching the movie with one hand stroking his hair, perfectly content to serve as his personal pillow for as long as he needed.
The rain continued falling steadily outside, creating a cozy cocoon around your hotel room. Every so often, Sunoo would shift slightly in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and you'd smooth his hair back from his forehead until he settled again.
This was what you'd miss most when you returned to real life, you realized. Not the famous landmarks or Instagram-worthy photos, but these quiet moments of intimacy. The way Sunoo looked completely peaceful in sleep, the way he unconsciously sought your touch even when unconscious, the simple pleasure of having nowhere to be except exactly where you were.
When he finally stirred, the movie had ended and the afternoon light was beginning to fade.
"How long was I out?" he asked, voice husky from sleep.
"Couple of hours. Feeling better?"
"Much." He stretched languidly, reminding you of a cat. "Sorry for using you as a pillow."
"Anytime. You're very cuddly when you're sleeping."
"Only when I'm sleeping?" He raised an eyebrow playfully.
"Well, you're pretty cuddly when you're awake too," you admitted, laughing when he immediately proved your point by nuzzling closer.
"Good. I'd hate to think I was only affectionate while unconscious." He glanced toward the window, noting the dimming light. "What time is it?"
"Almost six. Are you getting hungry again?"
"Always. Want to venture out for dinner, or should we order in again?"
You considered the options—going out meant getting dressed properly, navigating Prague's evening crowds, making decisions about where to eat. Staying in meant more time like this, wrapped up together without any external pressures.
"Let's stay in," you decided. "We can explore more tomorrow when the weather's better."
"Perfect answer." He reached for his phone to browse room service options again. "What are you in the mood for?"
"Surprise me. But maybe something that doesn't require extensive photographic documentation?"
Sunoo gasped in mock offense. "Are you saying you don't appreciate my artistic vision?"
"I'm saying I appreciate being able to eat while the food is still warm."
"Fair point. I promise to limit myself to only a few shots."
He kept his word, taking just a couple of quick photos when dinner arrived before settling in to actually eat with you. The conversation flowed easily as always, jumping from plans for tomorrow to memories from the tour to completely random observations about European hotel decor.
"I have a confession," Sunoo said as you were finishing dessert—some elaborate chocolate creation that was definitely too rich but absolutely delicious.
"Oh?"
"I may have already booked us another trip."
You nearly choked on your wine. "What? When? Where?"
"This morning while you were in the shower," he said, looking slightly sheepish. "Just a long weekend in Barcelona next month. I know we should have discussed it first, but the flights were on sale, and I got excited, and—"
"Sunoo."
"—I can cancel it if you don't want to go, I just thought it would be amazing to see Barcelona together, and the weather should be perfect in—"
"Sunoo."
"Yeah?"
"I love that you booked us another trip."
His anxious expression melted into relief, then pure joy. "Really?"
"Really. Though next time, maybe we could plan it together? I might have some input on where I'd like to be kidnapped to."
"Deal. But for the record, I have excellent taste in destinations."
"You do," you agreed, leaning over to kiss him softly. "Barcelona sounds perfect."
As the evening wound down, you found yourselves back in bed, not quite ready for sleep but content to lie together in the comfortable darkness. Sunoo had pulled you close, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing absent patterns along your arm.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"For what this time?"
"For saying yes to extending the trip. For being spontaneous and adventurous. For letting me drag you all over Europe taking pictures of everything." His voice was soft, thoughtful. "For making this the best vacation I've ever had."
"It's been pretty perfect," you agreed. "Even when we got lost. Especially when we got lost."
"I love getting lost with you."
"I love everything with you."
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you could feel his smile against your hair. "Sweet dreams. Tomorrow we'll explore more of Prague."
"Tomorrow," you agreed, already drifting toward sleep. "But right now, this is exactly where I want to be."
Outside, Prague continued its ancient existence, centuries of history contained within its winding streets and Gothic spires. But inside your hotel room, there was only this—Sunoo's heartbeat under your ear, his arm secure around you, and the promise of countless more adventures to come. Whether you were wandering foreign cities or curled up in bed on rainy afternoons, as long as you were together, you were home.
content: Established relationship, vampire au, fluff, romance, mentions of vampiric nature, sunrise watching, poetic love
a/n: Sunoo has been bias wrecking me like crazy
taglist: @adriftingsnowflake @norihoyeon
The vintage photograph trembles slightly in Sunoo's pale fingers as he holds it up to the lamplight, studying it with the same reverence others might reserve for religious artifacts. It's a Polaroid from 1987—the seller had assured him of the date—showing a sunrise over what looks like the Grand Canyon, all golden light and painted sky.
"This one's beautiful," you murmur from your spot curled against his side on the velvet couch, watching him add it to the carefully organized album spread across the coffee table. "The way the light hits those rock formations..."
His eyes light up—ironic, really, for a creature who hasn't seen natural light in over a century. "Tell me what you think it felt like," he says, that familiar eager tone creeping into his voice. "The warmth on your skin, the way the colors shift..."
You've had this conversation dozens of times, but you never tire of it. Sunoo's fascination with sunlight is one of the most endearing things about him, this dangerous, immortal being who collects sunrise photographs and sunset paintings like other vampires collect vintage wines or rare books.
"It starts cool," you begin, settling more comfortably against him. "Just before sunrise, there's this crisp feeling in the air, like the world is holding its breath. Then the first rays appear, and it's gentle at first—like fingers trailing across your skin. As it rises higher, the warmth grows, sinking into your bones and making everything feel... possible."
Sunoo closes his eyes as you speak, as if he can somehow experience it through your words. His collection spans decades—daguerreotypes from the 1800s, faded film photographs from the mid-1900s, digital prints from the modern era. Each one represents his desperate desire to understand something he can never safely experience.
"You make it sound like magic," he whispers.
"It is magic," you reply softly. "Just not the kind you're used to."
When Sunoo first told you what he was six months ago, you'd expected many things. Bloodlust, maybe. Ancient wisdom. Supernatural powers. What you hadn't expected was this: a vampire who kept blackout curtains not just for protection, but because he'd wallpapered the room behind them with pictures of sunny days. A creature of the night who owned more books about solar physics than some college libraries.
"I have something for you," he says suddenly, reaching for a small wrapped package on the side table. "I know your birthday isn't for another week, but..."
Inside the tissue paper is a delicate gold necklace, the pendant shaped like a tiny sun with rays extending outward. But it's not just decorative—as you hold it up, you realize it's actually a compass, the needle pointing steadily toward what you assume is magnetic north.
"It's beautiful, Sunoo, but—"
"Look closer," he says, a small smile playing at his lips.
You examine the compass more carefully and gasp. The needle isn't pointing north at all—it's pointing east, toward where the sun rises each morning. Somehow, he's found or commissioned a compass that follows the sun's path across the sky.
"So you'll always know where to find it," he explains quietly. "Even when I can't be there to watch it with you."
The thoughtfulness of it makes your throat tight with emotion. "You know I don't need a compass to find the sun, right?"
"Maybe not," he agrees, fastening the chain around your neck with careful fingers. "But I need to know you have it. I need to know that part of what I love most about this world is always with you."
That's when it clicks—the real meaning behind his obsession. It's not just about the sun itself. It's about life, about warmth, about all the things his vampiric nature has taken from him. And somehow, in his mind, you've become connected to all of that light and life he craves.
"Is that why you started calling me sunshine?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.
His smile is soft, almost shy. "You're the closest I'll ever get to understanding what warmth feels like. When you laugh, when you're excited about something, when you look at me like I'm not a monster—it's like watching a sunrise through someone else's eyes."
You've been together for eight months now, but moments like this still take your breath away. Sunoo has a way of saying things that sound like poetry, of finding beauty in the impossible space between what he is and what he yearns for.
"You're not a monster," you tell him firmly, a conversation you've had before but one that bears repeating. "You're just someone who loves something you can't have."
"Can't I?" he asks, and there's something different in his voice, something that makes you look at him more carefully.
"Sunoo..."
He's already standing, moving toward the heavy curtains that cover the wall of windows in his apartment. "I've been thinking," he says, not quite meeting your eyes. "About what you said last week, about how sunrises are different every day. About how you can never really capture them properly in photographs."
"What are you saying?"
He turns to face you fully, and you can see the conflict in his expression—excitement warring with fear, desire battling with self-preservation. "I'm saying that maybe it's time I stopped experiencing the sun secondhand."
Your blood runs cold. "No. Absolutely not. Sunoo, you can't—"
"I can," he interrupts gently. "For a few minutes, at least. Maybe longer, if I'm careful."
"And maybe you'll burn to death!" You're on your feet now, crossing to him in quick strides. "I won't let you risk your life just because you're curious about—"
"It's not curiosity." His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. "It's love. I love you so much that I want to see the world the way you see it, just once. I want to understand why you smile differently when you talk about morning light versus afternoon sun. I want to know what it feels like to exist in the same moment you do, sharing the same warmth, seeing the same colors."
The passion in his voice makes your heart ache. This is so perfectly Sunoo—romantic and dramatic and willing to risk everything for a single moment of beauty.
"There has to be another way," you whisper.
"There isn't." His smile is sad but determined. "I've researched everything, tried every protection spell, every bit of folklore. The only way for me to experience sunrise is to experience it. And I can, for a little while, if I'm smart about it."
You want to argue, want to lock him in the apartment and never let him near a window during daylight hours. But you can see in his eyes that he's already made his decision. This isn't an impulsive whim—it's something he's been planning, probably for weeks.
"When?" you ask finally.
"Tomorrow. There's a place I've scouted, about an hour outside the city. A cliff overlooking the valley—the view is supposed to be incredible." He pauses, studying your face. "I want you there with me. I want you to see it too, so you can tell me if the photographs got it right."
The next twenty-four hours pass in a blur of preparation and anxiety. Sunoo moves through his nighttime routine like usual, but you can sense his excitement underneath the calm exterior. He's like a child on Christmas Eve, practically vibrating with anticipation.
You, on the other hand, spend the time researching vampire folklore, looking for any mention of sun exposure that might help keep him safe. Most of what you find is unhelpful—stories of vampires bursting into flames or crumbling to dust at the first ray of light. But there are a few accounts, rare ones, of vampires surviving brief exposure, usually at great cost.
"Stop worrying," Sunoo says as you drive through the pre-dawn darkness, his hand warm over yours on the gear shift. "I know my limits."
"Do you, though?" You can't keep the concern from your voice. "You've never actually tested them."
"I have," he admits quietly. "Small exposures, controlled situations. A finger in moonlight that turned to dawn, standing near a window as the sun came up with the curtains almost closed. I know how much I can take."
This is news to you, and it doesn't make you feel better. "Sunoo—"
"I'm not suicidal," he says firmly. "I don't have a death wish. I just... I need this. I need to give you something real, something that's not just stories and secondhand experiences."
The cliff he's chosen is perfect—a rocky outcrop that overlooks miles of rolling hills and distant mountains. You arrive with about twenty minutes to spare before sunrise, enough time to set up the thick blanket Sunoo brought and arrange the thermos of coffee you insisted on packing.
"It's beautiful," you murmur, looking out over the landscape. Even in the pre-dawn darkness, you can see the promise of the view to come.
Sunoo is standing near the edge, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, staring at the eastern horizon. "Are you scared?" you ask, moving to stand beside him.
"Terrified," he admits with a laugh that's not quite steady. "But also... I've never wanted anything more."
You slip your hand into his, interlacing your fingers. His skin is always cool, but now it seems almost cold, whether from fear or anticipation you can't tell.
"Tell me what happens," he says as the sky begins to lighten almost imperceptibly. "Tell me everything you see."
So you do. You describe the way the darkness slowly gives way to deep purple, then violet, then the faintest hint of pink. You tell him about the way the world seems to wake up gradually, how you can start to make out individual trees and rocks as the light grows stronger.
"There," you whisper, pointing to the horizon. "Do you see it?"
The first sliver of sun appears, just a bright line between the earth and sky, and Sunoo gasps. Even that small amount of light makes him take a step back instinctively, but he doesn't retreat further.
"It's so bright," he breathes, wonder clear in his voice.
"And it's just starting," you tell him, squeezing his hand. "Sunoo, if it gets to be too much—"
"Not yet," he says firmly, though you can see him starting to tense as the sun climbs higher. "Keep going. Tell me what you see."
You describe the way the light spreads, painting the clouds in shades of gold and orange and pink that no photograph could ever truly capture. You tell him about the way the hills seem to come alive, how shadows shift and change, how the whole world transforms from a monochrome sketch into a masterpiece of color and light.
And through it all, Sunoo watches with an expression of pure awe, even as you can see the strain beginning to show around his eyes. His skin doesn't burst into flames like the movies suggest, but there's a tension in his posture that tells you he's fighting against every instinct screaming at him to seek shelter.
"The warmth," he says suddenly, holding up his free hand toward the sun. "I can feel it."
You watch in amazement as he closes his eyes and turns his face toward the light, a smile spreading across his features that's unlike anything you've ever seen from him. For just a moment, he looks almost human—not the pale, ethereal creature of the night you fell in love with, but someone who could walk in the world of daylight and belong there.
But then his smile wavers, and you see his jaw clench with effort.
"Sunoo," you say carefully, "maybe we should—"
"Just a little longer," he whispers, eyes still closed. "Please. It's so beautiful."
The sun is fully above the horizon now, flooding the valley with golden light, and you have to admit he's right—it's one of the most beautiful sunrises you've ever seen. But your attention is focused entirely on him, on the way his breathing has become more labored, the way his hand has tightened in yours almost painfully.
"Okay," he says finally, reluctantly stepping back into the shadow cast by a large boulder. "Okay, that's enough."
The relief in his voice is palpable, and you can see him physically relax as he moves out of the direct sunlight. But his face is radiant with joy, his eyes bright with tears he's probably not even aware of.
"That was..." he starts, then shakes his head, apparently at a loss for words.
"Worth it?" you ask, though you're still not sure you agree.
"Beyond worth it." He turns to you, cupping your face in both hands. "Do you know what the best part was?"
"What?"
"Watching you watch the sunrise. Seeing your face in real sunlight, the way it brought out colors in your eyes I've never noticed before. Understanding, finally, why I started calling you sunshine." He presses his forehead against yours. "You are my sun. You're the light I can actually live with, the warmth that won't destroy me."
The poetry of it, the sheer romance of this gesture, hits you all at once. He risked everything—his safety, his life—not just to see a sunrise, but to share one with you. To understand what it means when you talk about morning light, to see you the way the rest of the world gets to see you.
"I love you," you whisper, because it's the only response that feels adequate.
"I love you too, sunshine," he replies, and kisses you there in the shadow of the boulder, with the sun painting the world golden around you and the smell of warming earth in the air.
Later, as you drive back to the city with Sunoo dozing in the passenger seat (the sun exposure having exhausted him more than he'd admitted), you think about the photos in his collection. All those sunrises and sunsets, captured by other people, experienced secondhand through their eyes.
Now he has his own. Not a photograph, but a memory—the two of you sharing something impossible, something that exists in the space between his world and yours. It's better than any picture could ever be, because it's real, and it's yours, and it's proof that love can make even the impossible feel like coming home.
The sun compass at your throat catches the light streaming through the windshield, casting tiny rainbows across the dashboard. You smile, understanding now why he needed you to have it.
It's not just about always knowing where to find the sun.
It's about always knowing where to find each other.
this is literally me while reading. for a second i got so scared i'll get hit with angst but this was sosososoososo beautiful to read. nature and romance just go so well together. hhhh. and he calls mc "sunshine" when he's literally the definition of brightness and warmth?!?!1 OOOOOOH i'm eating this up. i love Him.
♥ pairing: nishimura riki x fem. reader
♥ genre: fluff
♥ wc: 1.1k
♥ warnings: established relationship, mentions of skinship, ni-ki kisses reader on the neck once, reader has a sister with a daughter
♥ synopsis: when you agree to go babysit your niece with your boyfriend, you're expecting him to just kinda be closed off and avoid the little girl. but what really happens is something that you're not expecting in the slightest.
♥ livi's note: at last, i've officially posted a fic for each enhypen member! i hope you guys enjoy this one because it was super fun to write, and i've hopefully got at least one more draft coming later today!
♥ taglist: @simjaexy, @hazelira
“c’mon ni-ki!” you called for your boyfriend, trying to get him to hurry up and get out of your shared apartment before you were late. “my sister would really appreciate it if she could leave on time.”
“i’m working on it,” he grumbled in that deep voice of his as he stepped off the threshold of the little porch that you two had. perks of having a ground floor unit, you supposed. ni-ki twisted his key in the lock quickly, making sure that the door was closed and secured before joining you in the car, slipping into the passenger seat with little more than a groan.
normally on a day like this, the two of you would still be asleep in bed, curled into one another and breathing deeply off in dreamland. but today you two were certainly not doing that. as you’d put it when the plans had been made, it was a special day. as ni-ki had put it, it was a day of slaving away for no reason with no experience.
and this said slaving away was just watching your six-year-old niece for a couple of hours while your sister took a little break from parenting and went to see an art showcase that she’d been dying to see for years. she really deserved it. you knew from the scant text messages and the short phone calls that she was doing her best to pay the most attention to her daughter while her husband worked hard to support the family.
“looks like the passenger princess is taking the wheel this time,” ni-ki snickered, just as the car began to move with you driving.
you scoffed, finding his little comment amusing and irritating. “please. at least i can get out of the house and be somewhere on time.”
“yeah, but you’re stuck with me, so that’s never happening,” he smiled slyly at you, leaning over the center console to press a kiss to your neck.
this time his response pulled a little snort out of you. “yeah,” you chuckled. “guess we gotta say we have to leave earlier than we actually have to.”
“mhm,” he nodded, staring ahead as the scenery flew by as the car drove on.
thankfully the ride was short, your sister’s house only about fifteen minutes away from the apartment. soon enough, you were pulling up in the driveway alongside a very familiar place.
the car rolled to a stop and you put it in park, but you didn’t move to unbuckle your seatbelt or let ni-ki get out. he looked confused for a moment but didn’t continue to exit the car, so you decided that it was time for you to put in your two cents.
“before we go in, please just know that hana is only six and you need to at least try to be nice to her. i’m not saying that you have to go off and play with her for four hours, but at least try to talk to her a little bit.” much to your delight, ni-ki was listening and nodding along, so you felt good when he told you that he would. it was going to be fine.
the exact level of little kid excitement that you’d been expecting exuded from your niece, the young girl immediately running up to you as your sister squeezed by, saying goodbye to her daughter and getting out of there as fast as she could.
hana got over her mother’s departure quickly, mainly because she was more interested about who had come to babysit her with you.
“who’s he, auntie y/n?” she asked, cute eyes wide as she stared up at ni-ki.
before you could tell her, you were surprised by ni-ki crouching down to the little girl’s level and speaking in a soft tone with the answer to her question.
the little girl let out an excited gasp at what he’d just said. “finally! mama was complaining about how auntie y/n was going to be alone forever, but now i can tell her that uncle ni-ki is going to help her be not alone.”
that made the both of you laugh softly, giving each other a look that only said hana was so precious for her cute reaction. what she’d said had only just warmed your hearts even more.
soon enough, it was lunch time and hana was hungry and she made sure that you two knew it. ni-ki had whispered that he’d go play with her while you cooked, and he was dragged off to hana’s room, much to your amusement, only seconds later as you grabbed a few ingredients for a super simple pasta dish out of the pantry.
as you cooked, it was suspiciously quiet in the house, only the sounds of boiling water and bubbling sauce echoing softly around the space. something had to be happening in there with hana and ni-ki, but you’d just have to find out when lunch was on the table and you could go and look.
it wasn’t too much longer before you were pouring the pasta in a colander, letting all of the water drain out before spooning a medium sized portion on two plates and a smaller one on a third plate. after the sauce was poured on top, you set the plates one by one at the barstools on the kitchen island and finally headed to your niece’s room to figure out what she’d done with your boyfriend.
walking down the short hallway, you could begin to hear the sound of hana giggling and talking in her “fancy princess voice”. stopping in front of the doorway just confirmed your thoughts. ni-ki was sitting at her little tea table with a tiny little teacup in hand, equally small crown on his head as he pretended to have a tea party with hana.
“time for lunch your highnesses,” you said softly, voice shaking a little bit as you held back your laughter at what your boyfriend was doing. “you can finish your tea party later.”
“yay!” hana clapped her hands together in delight, springing up from where she was sitting on a little chair at her table and rushing over to grab ni-ki by the arm. “c’mon prince uncle ni-ki, we have to go have our luncheon with princess auntie y/n!”
how could the two of you say no to that? another glance was exchanged between you and ni-ki, and this time you could tell that he was already smitten with the little girl and her tea parties.
i was wondering whether i could get on your enha and txt taglist? i'm sorry if you have a separate post where i could join them. i was looking for it just in case, but didn't come across anything :((
i love your writing style and works sm!!! you're amazing <33
Thank you sm!! Actually, I don’t have a lot post to join my taglist, but I’ll make one soon! But I will add you to my taglist now.
content: fluff, pirate/maritime au, unspoken attraction, first kiss, mutual pining
taglist: @adriftingsnowflake @norihoyeon
The oil lamp flickers as another wave crashes against the hull. You squint at the torn seam running along the sleeve of what was once a fine officer's jacket, now reduced to another item in your endless pile of repairs. The fabric tells a story: blade cuts here, rope burn there, salt stains everywhere. You've become fluent in reading the violence etched into cloth.
Most of the crew treats you like furniture. Useful, occasionally necessary, but hardly worth acknowledging. They dump their damaged gear on your workbench and grunt something about needing it "soon as possible" before stomping back to their duties. After three years aboard this ship, you've accepted your role as the invisible keeper of their second skins.
But Yeosang has never treated you that way.
He appears in your doorway now, soundless as always, holding a pair of leather bracers. The binding along the edges has come undone, leaving dangerous gaps that could cost him his wrists in a fight. He sets them down with the same careful attention he gives everything, his fingertips resting on the worn leather for just a moment longer than necessary.
"Storm damage?" you ask, though you already know the answer. Last night's tempest had everyone scrambling to secure loose rigging.
He nods once, then reaches into his coat. This time it's a piece of polished amber with something dark suspended inside. A tiny leaf, perhaps, or an insect caught in ancient resin. He places it beside the bracers like an offering.
You've collected dozens of these gifts over the months. Not treasure in any conventional sense, but things that caught his eye during raids or shore leave. A button carved from mother-of-pearl. A fragment of blue pottery. A brass key that opens nothing you own but somehow feels important anyway.
"Thank you," you say, as you always do. He never responds with words, but his shoulders relax slightly, and you know he's pleased.
After he leaves, you examine the bracers more closely. The leather is high quality, probably taken from some merchant vessel, but it's been worked hard. Yeosang is careful with his equipment, methodical in a way that speaks of years surviving by small margins. For him to let these deteriorate to this point means he's been pushing himself harder than usual.
You've been watching him, though you'd never admit it. The way he moves through the ship like he's mapping every shadow, every possible escape route. How he positions himself during meal times to see all entrances. The careful distance he maintains from everyone except when duty demands otherwise.
And the way he gravitates toward your quarters when the nightmares get bad. He never comes inside on those nights, just stands in the corridor outside your door. You pretend to sleep and listen to his quiet breathing until it steadies and he moves away. You never mention these visits, and neither does he.
Tonight, as you work on reinforcing the bracer binding with fresh leather strips, you make a decision that feels both inevitable and terrifying.
His coat hangs on the peg where he left it two days ago, a tear in the shoulder seam that you've been putting off. Not because it's difficult, but because once you return it, you'll lose your excuse to keep something of his close by. The wool still smells like him: weapon oil and sea air and something else, something warm that makes your chest tight when you breathe it in.
You spread the coat across your workbench and examine the damaged area. A clean cut, probably from a blade that came too close during the last skirmish. Easy enough to mend, but as you thread your needle, you catch sight of the silk lining.
The golden thread sits in its small wooden box, salvaged from the remnants of a nobleman's waistcoat months ago. You'd kept it for something special, though you'd never defined what that might be. Now you know.
Your hands shake as you begin stitching along the inner seam, hidden where only he would find it. The words come slowly, each letter a small act of courage:
"I know you stand outside my door when sleep won't come. I know you leave me pieces of the world because you can't leave me pieces of yourself. I know you see me when others don't. I see you too."
You pause, needle suspended in mid-air. The confession feels too small, too careful. You add more:
"If you want to come inside next time, just knock. If you want to stop leaving gifts and start staying instead, I'll understand that language too."
The final knot takes forever to tie. Your fingers keep slipping, and you have to start over twice before it holds. When it's done, you sit back and stare at the coat as if it might sprout wings and fly away, carrying your secrets with it.
Morning comes with the sound of boots on deck and shouted orders. You haven't slept, too nervous about what daylight might bring. The coat hangs finished on its peg, innocent-looking except for the hammering of your heart every time you glance at it.
Yeosang appears just after the breakfast bell, moving through your doorway with his usual quiet grace. He's wearing the repaired bracers, you notice, and they look perfect against his forearms. Professional satisfaction wars with personal anxiety as he approaches the workbench.
You hand him the coat without meeting his eyes. "Shoulder seam's reinforced. Should hold better now."
He takes it, and you feel rather than see him examining your work. The silence stretches long enough that you risk looking up, and find him watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
"Good work," he says finally. His voice is rough from disuse, but there's something else there too. Something that makes your pulse skip.
He puts the coat on with deliberate slowness, settling it across his shoulders and smoothing the front panels. His hand comes to rest over his heart, fingers spread across the exact spot where your words lie hidden. His eyes never leave your face.
"Battle stations!"
The call echoes down from the deck, followed by the thunder of running feet. Enemy ship spotted, probably. You've heard this song before.
Yeosang moves toward the door, then stops. He turns back, and in three quick strides he's standing closer than he's ever been, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
"Tonight," he says simply. "After."
It's not a question, but you nod anyway, your throat too tight for words.
He starts to turn away again, then pauses. Before you can react, his hand cups the back of your neck and he leans down, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that tastes like promises and salt air. It's brief but thorough, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
"Something to mend me with, if I come back broken," he murmurs against your mouth.
Then he's gone, and you're left alone with the echo of cannons firing and the warmth of his lips still burning on yours.
You sit down heavily on your work stool and press your fingers to your mouth, grinning despite the battle raging overhead. Tonight, you think. Tonight he'll knock instead of standing in the corridor. Tonight you'll find out what it means to mend something that isn't torn, to stitch together two whole pieces into something stronger.
The ship shudders under enemy fire, but you're not afraid. You have work to do, preparations to make. After all, when Yeosang comes back, you'll want to be ready to help him out of that coat properly this time.
The golden thread gleams in the lamplight, and you smile as you begin sorting through your supplies. Some things, you've learned, are worth the careful patience required to get them right.
